From Taiwanese director Tsai Ming-Laing (What Time Is It There?) this uncommon and sweetly sad chronicle of the last day in the life of a once-thriving Taipei movie theater slowly follows its characters: a few remaining patrons, the cashier, the projectionist, and the looming empty presence of the theater itself. With tin pots strategically placed to catch leaks from the constant rain that collects on the floor and puddles in the lobby, the workers perform their tasks for the last time. The fitting closing feature for the once regal theatre is King Hu’s martial arts classic Dragon Inn, which graced the screen in better days decades past. One of the patrons on this last day has brought his young grandson to watch his grandfather from his glory days as a sword-wielding actor.

The film’s 81 minutes are filled with long takes of small, achingly recognizable moments. The handful of patrons in attendance for the final show in the cavernous old building include the young wide-eyed boy intently watching the screen, a pair of loud snackers getting a scowling look as their lip smacking echoes through the empty rows. An older man chooses a seat too close to a young tourist, another thrusts his bare feet over the seat back inches from his face, and all three have come looking for something other than watching the movie. They assemble and eye one another in a wordless meeting in the men’s room. Ming-Laing nimbly lingers on these tiny glimpses and draws us languidly into the experience.

The customerless and lame cashier with a crush on the projectionist limps about her rounds tidying the restrooms and tending the box office. When she pauses to watch the movie, the camera luminously captures the young woman dwarfed in a backlit doorway next to the giant face on the screen. In a rare moment of quick cutting, we see the cashier’s face in close-up and that of the sword-wielding hero on the screen. In an instant, Ming-Liang captures the essence of the mesmerizing power of a movie.

In a way, it’s a real-time version of that last picture show in Peter Bogdonovich’s film of that name, without the backstory. In its place is a rarefied, unsentimental, melancholy, and humorous mood that takes on an ethereal reverence. The last few hours in the life of the Hu Fo Grand is an unusual ode to cinema and recalled a day not many years back when I showed up at Chicago’s Fine Arts Theatre for the scheduled movie only to find that the majestic old theatre had unceremoniously screened its last the day before. The slow takes and plaintive flute allow us to feel as if we are present in the wings of the crumbling auditorium and to ponder its demise. This is about the death of a place once held dear and the end of an era. Anyone who has ever watched a favorite old theatre fall into disrepair or mourned its closing, will appreciate this bittersweet sliver of a story.