The BFI National Film Theatre should be visited alone, be-spectacled, be-bereted, and be-swathed in this agnes b red dress, a vinatge Penguin from the riverside trestles folded in one hand and an espresso cradled in the other: left bank meets south bank, with a touch of condescending hateur.

I have been husbanding my eyebrows towards lanate luxuriance in anticipation of autumn’s Mexican Cinema Now season and the opportunity to rewatch Amores Perros on the big screen it deserves, but nothing could match last summer’s screening of Antonioni’s The Passenger. In one fell, visually fellating swoop my future aspirations were made magnificently, mournfully manifest: rootless, treacherous journalistic and emotional nomadism, tracing the desolate outposts of the earth to mask the desolation of the soul. Or, being in hot places, in hot clothes.

Too romantic? Woman, I don’t know that address.