As we step into the final days of December, the cities transform into a grand illusion. Giant pines adorn the squares, red and green wrappings spill out of shop windows, and that endless flood of lights wrap the streets. From the outside, it all seems to promise a collective joy, an unending celebration. But those tableaux of "mandatory happiness" scrolling through our social media feeds whisper a single demand: On New Year's Eve, you must be somewhere, with someone, having fun. Otherwise, you are incomplete. Yet, beneath this loud festivity, right under those blinding lights, lies a deep silence cast in shadow.
Perhaps this feeling of fading away amid the modern city's noise finds its most elegant and poignant reflection in Billy Wilder’s 1960 cult classic, "The Apartment." The film’s protagonist, C.C. Baxter, drifts through life among the skyscrapers of New York, working inside a colossal insurance company that employs thousands. Baxter is not physically alone. He is constantly surrounded by colleagues, ringing telephones, and the rhythm of the city. Yet, he embodies the very paradox we struggle with today. He is a man used by everyone, but truly "seen" by no one. The film's famous New Year's Eve party scenes hold up an eerie, early mirror to our modern social media displays. While champagne corks pop and forced smiles hide behind the confetti, the profound detachment on Baxter’s face becomes the very picture of desolation in a crowd. That night, everyone is "connected" to something, yet no one truly touches anyone.
C.C. Baxter’s sense of confinement, that forced intimacy with sounds bleeding through the walls, finds a darker, louder echo in J.G. Ballard’s "High-Rise." The naive urban melancholy Baxter experienced in the 1960s transforms, in Ballard’s world, into a much harsher "vertical loneliness" clad in concrete and steel. In "High-Rise," Ballard presents modern architecture not as a shelter, but as a machine designed to isolate us, slowly eroding the soul floor by floor. Much like Baxter in the film, the characters in the novel share the same building with hundreds of neighbors. They brush past one another in elevators and corridors but never truly make contact. The coldness of modern architecture becomes even more pronounced on special occasions like New Year's Eve. While the building's exterior is adorned with lights, every apartment inside turns into a luxurious cell where its owner becomes invisible.
The melancholic New Year's parties in "The Apartment" serve as a dress rehearsal for the chaotic and crowded gatherings thrown in Ballard’s high-rise. In both works, the "party" is not a means of celebration, but an escape where people try to fill their voids with noise. According to Ballard, modern humans experience the profoundest loneliness at their most crowded moments. The comfort and technology offered by the high-rise (or Baxter’s apartment) do not bridge the distance between individuals. On the contrary, they desensitize them to one another. When glasses are raised on New Year's Eve, everyone is there, yet no one truly sees anyone else. This is the architectural proof of that unique modern tragedy. Loneliness is no longer about being abandoned. It is about being unnoticed.
Through "High-Rise," Ballard holds up a frightening mirror to our faces. As cities grow and buildings climb higher, human visibility shrinks. The silent resignation in Baxter’s apartment evolves into a kind of existential crisis in Ballard’s characters. Today, as we step into the new year, the gated communities and glass towers we inhabit have become the living, breathing versions of these fictional nightmares. No matter how bright the lights are, if we are unaware of the existence and story of the neighbor in the next apartment, we are all trapped in our own high-rise, on our own floor. And perhaps what is truly terrifying is that this entrapment now feels "normal" to us.
Once, loneliness was a matter of geography. The hermit living miles from the village was the lonely one. But for the modern urban dweller, loneliness has shed its physical skin to become a state of pure "invisibility." As the crowds around us swell, the chance of being truly "seen" strangely withers away. Social media turns this wound into a spectacle. In this digital age, where lives are displayed like shop windows and New Year's celebrations become "proof of happiness," moments that are not "liked" or "shared" are treated as if they never happened. This is exactly the urban modern human's tragedy: feeling compelled to be seen to exist, and to perform constantly to be seen.
This state of "being unnoticed" is far heavier than being abandoned. Because in abandonment, there is at least the ghost of a memory, proof that you once existed, that you touched a life. There is a scar, which means there was once a wound. Being unnoticed is a silent non-existence. It is sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the subway, or standing in an elevator, while remaining as transparent as a ghost to the person next to you. This feeling becomes even sharper at times when collective fun is imposed, such as New Year's Eve. The loud joy outside makes the silence inside even more deafening. So, if you sit alone in your home tonight, do not see it as a failure. Perhaps you have simply chosen a silent resistance against the noisy showcase of the modern age.
As the calendar pages turn, we might realize that the glittering crowds surrounding us are nothing more than an illusion. Like the ambitious tenants in Ballard’s high-rise or the weary employees in Baxter’s office, we may all feel lost within this colossal machine from time to time. Yet, perhaps this new year is an opportunity to turn our gaze inward, rather than worrying about being invisible under those blinding external lights. If you are spending tonight alone, do not see it as a failure, but as a precious sanctuary from the noise of the modern world. For only when you set aside the anxiety of "being unnoticed" can you truly begin to feel your own existence. No matter how blinding the lights outside may be, the only thing that can truly banish the darkness within is the light you kindle yourself. To everyone entering the New Year not as an extra in someone else's movie, but as the protagonist of their own story: Happy solitude!
