When a Cinema’s Quiet Lights Went Out: Bedbugs, Panic and the Price of Public Trust
On a cool Parisian morning, the doors of the Cinémathèque Française stood open to a city that adores its cinemas like cathedrals. Then, almost overnight, the hush of projection bulbs was replaced by the low hum of vacuum cleaners, the metallic clank of dismantled seating and the clipped voices of technicians in protective suits. The institution announced a month-long closure of its screening halls after a series of bedbug sightings — including, strikingly, during a high-profile masterclass with actress Sigourney Weaver.
For many, it read like a modern urban fable: a venerable cultural palace interrupted by an insect that has been stalking human sleep for millennia. For those who were there, it felt much more immediate — itchy, unsettling and deeply intimate.
The moment it became real
“I felt something crawling along my ankle,” said Claire, 42, a regular at the Cinémathèque who traveled from Montreuil for the masterclass. “At first I thought it was a mosquito. Then someone across the row whispered that they had bites. We all started checking our clothes. It turned a glamorous night into something very small and very gross.”
Word spread fast. A few social media posts, a smattering of local reportage, and the art-house community found itself confronting a problem that refuses to be polished away by posterity or prestige.
“We had to act decisively,” said a Cinémathèque spokesperson in a statement announcing the closure. “All seats will be removed and treated; carpets and surfaces will undergo intensive cleaning and thermal treatment, and trained dogs will perform final sweeps.” The institution stressed that other parts of the building, including an ongoing Orson Welles exhibition, would remain accessible to visitors.
Why this matters beyond the itch
Bedbugs are not merely a nuisance. They are a public-health, economic and psychological problem that has come roaring back across cities worldwide over the past two decades. These flat, wingless insects — adult bedbugs are roughly the size of an apple seed — feed on human blood, typically at night, and are expert hiders. Mattresses, seams of upholstered seats, clothing hems, and the folds of luggage are their preferred refuges.
Exposure can lead to red welts, severe itching, and in some cases allergic reactions. The visible wounds are only part of the toll. “People report disrupted sleep, anxiety and a sense of contamination that can last long after the insects are gone,” explains Dr. Luc Moreau, an entomologist who studies urban pests. “The psychological overlay — shame, helplessness, hypervigilance — is often the most debilitating.”
Local authorities in France have acknowledged an uptick in infestations in recent years. In 2023, the government launched a coordinated effort to tackle bedbugs — a campaign that gained urgency as Paris prepared for the 2024 Olympics. Officials warned then that outbreaks had been reported on public transport, in communal housing and in some health facilities. The following year, authorities also said that disinformation on social platforms had amplified public alarm, spreading myths and fears that sometimes outpaced facts.
Cleaning by science and scent: how the Cinémathèque is responding
The remediation plan is methodical. Seats will be removed, disassembled and exposed to high-heat steam treatments repeatedly; carpets and fabrics will be similarly treated. Canine teams trained to detect bedbug scent will move through the halls for verification, a technique increasingly relied upon because humans and machines can miss tiny clusters hidden in crevices.
“Heat is our friend,” said Nadia Bertrand, a pest-management technician who has worked on infestations in heritage buildings before. “Bedbugs die at sustained temperatures above roughly 50°C. The dry steam they’re using is far hotter and, when applied correctly, will eradicate adults, nymphs and eggs.” She cautions, however, that the operation must be precise. “If you miss one seat or a seam in a carpet, it can repopulate.”
Beyond heat, integrated pest management calls for rigorous inspection, public education and sometimes chemical measures — used judiciously — to prevent recurring problems. The Cinémathèque’s choice to limit the closure to a month reflects both confidence in the treatment and a desire to balance public safety with cultural continuity.
Voices from the lobby
“I love discovering films here. It felt wrong to leave,” said Marco, 28, who had been at the masterclass. “But I also want the place to be safe. If that means closing and being thorough, so be it.”
Not everyone is convinced. “You tell people it’s fixed and then anxiety lingers,” said Aïcha, a Parisian who runs a small bookshop near the Bastille. “My aunt had an infestation once. She kept washing everything for months. It never really felt clean again.”
These reactions highlight a stubborn truth: pests are as much about perception as they are about biology. Public confidence in institutions — whether a transport authority, a hospital or a cinema — is fragile. And in an age of viral images and rapid rumor, managing a pest problem can be as much about communication as it is about extermination.
What this says about cities and modern life
Is there something specifically Parisian about this episode? Not really. Cities everywhere wrestle with the same paradox: dense human activity creates extraordinary cultural energy, and at the same time it creates perfect conditions for certain pests to thrive. Travelers and commuters move microbes, insects and myths across borders with equal ease.
Consider a few larger patterns:
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Urbanization concentrates people — and opportunities for pests to feed and hide.
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Global travel accelerates the spread of hitchhiking species; bedbugs often arrive in luggage.
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Stigma and shame delay reporting, which allows infestations to grow silently.
In this sense, the Cinémathèque closure is a small, vivid symptom of a global challenge. It is also a call to rethink the way public spaces are maintained — and how institutions communicate when something goes wrong.
Questions to sit with
How do we preserve the intimacy and communal pleasure of cinema while safeguarding public health? When a beloved institution falters, how should it regain trust? And how can communities confront pests without shame or panic?
Those are not easy questions. But they are important.
Final frames
When the Cinémathèque reopens, patrons will walk over freshly cleaned carpets and sit in seats that have been steamed, inspected and double-checked by dogs. The Orson Welles exhibit — an elegy to cinematic audacity — will still be there. The city will, as it always does, keep turning.
“We love films because they bring strangers together,” Claire said, summing up why she remains loyal. “If a few weeks of closure means the lights come back on for good, that’s worth it.”
And to you, dear reader: the next time you settle into a dim theater, let this be a reminder that the pleasures of public life require care — from the custodians sweeping the aisles to the institutions that must tell us, frankly and calmly, when something goes wrong.
