Old cinemas are dead as malls. Newspaper covers the windows – the paint curls like overgrown fingernails. Black mold. You could picture it decades ago all lit-up, but nostalgia is a disease. They’ll tear it down one day. Until then, the dead cinema you remember (or imagine, if you never lived near a closed-down cinema) still fires up the camera at night when nobody is awake. Inside, on the screen, Final Vision unfolds – the images are stark and chiaroscuro, cut-and-pasted together reels of unsympathetic urban smoke, thick sunless forests, and the blood-soaked thread that sews the two together. Both sides of this cassette roam at their own pace across ominous tape-crackling dark ambient over the razor’s edge into raw-skin-on-concrete wall noise, and then back: transitions like swapped reels of film. The mind renders a narrative without any light to guide it. This is frightening, evocative stuff.