In a term which does not lend itself to social-interaction or self-indulgence, this column has been an ode to the on-screen comforts which make a life of libraries more enjoyable. Amidst the end-of-year joys, however, inevitably comes the pains of accepting that, soon, friends will be leaving and circumstances will be changing. And at some point – probably while nursing a hangover from the folds of a duvet – it might be necessary to turn to old film favourites. Cinema is a fixed medium. Whereas the mood of a play may change on any given night, film immortalises moments in time, refining the experience of a particular feeling.

Films, therefore, are perfectly suited to the requirements by the mopiest of hangovers; the artistic equivalent of comfort food. Cinemas are transportive in their familiarity; every time I sit in the plush darkness of a film screen, I feel the same shiver of anticipation that I got waiting to watch Disney movies in my local Picturehouse during washedout half-term holidays. There is a faux-grown-up joy in the recognition a film has shaped you. When I re-watch Mulan, I smile approvingly, knowing that my Disney indoctrination amounted to a stoic belief that I, too, could fight enormous Hun warriors, if only I put my mind to it.

Over Easter break, in a moment of self-pity, I tried to rediscover teen classic The Perks of Being a Wallflower, and the feeling of recognition my Year 9 self found in it. It has not aged well. In the lifespan of a teenager, four years is a long time: enough time realise that listening to alternative ‘80s soundtracks doesn’t make you cool, that Emma Watson is more convincing when fighting basilisks than contrived ‘inner demons’, and that lines such as “And in this moment, I swear we were infinite” need to be processed by a 15-yearold brain drunk on hormones in order to resemble the profound. Yet, I found the cringe oddly comforting. I had left my teen angst where it belonged: wedged against a SlushPuppy down the back of a scratchy cinema seat somewhere in Suffolk.

There is something critically worthy about re-watching films. Often, each repeated viewing adds perspective which complicates interpretation. Though films are fixed works of art, we are unstable. I recently watched Titanic for the hundredth-or-so time. My thoughts turned to the young, twinkly-eyed Leo, who did not know he’d still have to wait 20 years before getting his Oscar. Inspired by cheap Sainsbury’s wine and exam-free mania with friends, I probably thought something embarrassing about how nostalgia is great, but it’s generally a relief to be enjoying it from a position of distance and maturity. Probably, but I shan’t write it down – lest someone makes me read this back in four years time, and I vomit at my 19-year-old, Perks of Being a Pretentious Columnist ways