Light from the sodium lamps casts an orange sheen over the features of Santa Monica Boulevard. The convenience store on the corner, the hotels of questionable virtue, the tiny coffee shop, the “rare and hard to find” movie shop, and the forest of flats in the distance all blend together in a black and orange grimy blur. It’s odd how that orange light manages to make everything look dirty, even if it isn’t.

I find a parking spot only a block and a half away from my destination, and I don’t even have to parallel park properly to get into it. My previous effort this evening was disappointing and mildly embarrassing, as I noticed there was someone in the car behind me as I parked. It was never clear why she was sitting in her car, but I wasn’t going to ask after making such a fool of myself getting my own car close enough to the curb. No one is around to see me glide smoothly into this spacious area on Sawtelle. It’s probably for the best. I glance back, looking for cars or cyclists before opening my door and stepping into the street.

The neighbo(u)rhood is quiet and dark. Light from Santa Monica and sound from its cars spills down the street and past me. It’s close enough to the sea that I can smell the salty air, but this is not a beach neighbourhood. It is unabashedly LA, densely populated with young, trendy people who can carry out their entire lives within a few city blocks. This is not Hollywood, neither the stereotype nor the reality of that desperately hip area. It’s West LA, and it doesn’t have to justify itself to anyone.

I walk to the Nuart, allegedly a “staple of the Los Angeles art house scene.” I’ve been here before more than once, each time for something I couldn’t find anywhere else. It’s that kind of place. Already, there are people queued up to the left of the box office waiting for the midnight show. Any passersby can tell these are regulars, people for whom the midnight show is their social life. It’s not just a film, it’s not just another shadowcast. It’s not even just Sins o’ the Flesh, as all those people are already inside preparing for the show. It’s a little piece of culture wrapped up in a few blocks of West LA centred on an old and deliberately obtuse cinema.

A few of them watch me as I walk to the end of the queue and lean against the next door shop window. They have labeled me a “Normal,” one of the few times I might be able to earn such a tag, though in this case to be a Normal is certainly to be out of place. Many people in the queue wear elaborately constructed costumes, most of the rest are merely dressed to the nines. I’ve seen club queues that displayed less attention to visual detail. I quietly thank myself for taking a moment to spruce up before leaving the house rather than venturing out in my usual state.

I catch bits and snatches of conversation to either side of me as the queue grows in length and breadth. Now and again “security” gently encourages the queue to look more like a queue and less like a mob. (I know they are security because they wear bandannas with “Security” on.) I listen as friends greet friends, small talk is made, and social groups coalesce. I even discuss the relative merits of different Wii party games with a fellow Normal. As we wait, cars pass on Santa Monica. The passengers gawk. One car has a video camera mounted to the door, and the passengers encourage us to acknowledge them.

Midnight comes and goes. We’re still standing outside the cinema, waiting for a showing of a movie we don’t actually want to see. The Nuart midnight showings with shadowcasts are less about cinema than they are about the people and activities involved: the callbacks, elaborate costumes, lovingly crafted props, and faithfully lip-synched lines. We will eventually make it into the cinema. I will see old friends and surprisingly familiar faces. These, not the offbeat film I will watch with only passing attention to the screen, are what will inspire a lingering smile as I walk alone back to my car later tonight.

Each time I go to the Nuart my experience is different. Each time, it is unique. It’s that kind of neighbo(u)rhood.