The theatre is demolished: Curtains hang upon quite flimsy, free-standing frames. The camera moves through each set, approaching it, gradually quicker, until the curtains open and reveal the next. Frame-by-frame we start to see more of the hands that pull the strings; painted, be-gloved, bejewelled. The curtains are green crushed velvet, white petals, studded wooden cabinet doors, billowing silk, a black book, an empty box, women’s dresses, helium balloons, umbrellas… until they are strings of beads that are cut to finally reveal a plain and empty screen. For the first time we hear a male voice, the boom and doom of Hollywood disaster. Without our noticing, it says, the screen itself has been moving slowly towards us. It is almost on top of us. It is. The building has collapsed. Chaos. A tonne of rubble. We try to clamber through and as we do so—stop!—somebody TOUCHES US. We reach the exit only to find that it is an entrance, an entrance to another entrance. - Ian White