There is something eerily disconcerting about a stranger intruding on your personal space. Especially in a cinema. Especially during the deathly calm of Jonathan Glazer’s The Zone of Interest, a movie so sinister in its silence it packs ten times the punch of exploding buildings and Tom Cruise driving a motorbike off a cliff and on to a helicopter.

The personal space violation was as unwelcome as it was justified. I was, unbeknownst to myself, bouncing my knee incessantly. 

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