Brigitte Bombshell is far from a movie star. She resides in a small town in the mountains, far from the grease-slicked streets of Hollywood. Her town has one movie house that shows a different classic movie every Thursday. Every Thursday she goes to swoon over James Dean's rebel, to giggle with Marilyn Monroe's upstairs girl, to try and outwit Robert Redford's grifter. The dress she wears, a gift from her artist aunt who saw it in a thrift store in the Village and immediately thought of her favorite niece, makes her feel a part of the movies. The beauty that is forever captured in celluloid and remains bright, glittering, hopeful, despite the pops and cracks in the film strip. Her hands caress the worn red velvet seats, fingers following the curve in the arm rest that has become so familiar to her. The smell of popcorn leaves the taste of salt and butter on her lips. Some would think she is unhappy with her sleepy, small town, her life spent working in a small convenience store, assisting people always "just passing through". But she is happy with the familiarity around her, the closeness of her neighbors, the dazzling clarity of the stars in the night sky. She can have the big city, the neon glow, and the drama on the screen. She has a whole host of real bright lights above her head.