now showing at queen cinema!
Going to the movies.
It's one of the best old-school pleasures in life. And I mean real hardcore Going To The Picture House... not the viewing-in-your-laptop-or-humongous-TV movie watching sort. It's another kind of ritual, you know, starting with the absolute glee at knowing the picture you have been waiting for IS NOW SHOWING! Oh! That little skip your heart does and the involuntary smile your lips make--awesome! This is quickly followed by the mental calculation of the exact right day and time that you can freely see the film. (Personally, this beats going to the salon or the spa for me, both boring necessities as they are). But that's nothing compared to "D Day" though, when you finally get to hit the cinema; hold the crisp ticket between your fingers; hear the muffled thudding of action going on behind rows of closed studio doors while you gaze at the screaming, graphic movie posters promising more adventures; and smell that unique aroma of popcorn, hotdog, and coffee--affirming, if nothing else, that you
are
indeed
in
a
movie house!
Then you walk into the dark theater and get all-out lost in a wondrous parallel universe. A total dream palace.
I grew up next to a classic honest to goodness movie theater. When recalling specific places which shaped my love for stories, Queen Cinema is right up there with Bon Tin's (where my sister and I voraciously devoured komiks-for-rent day in and day out... but that's a story for another day!). It was grand, that wonderful old fleapit. It was easily the highest building in my sleepy hometown at that time, tall and imposing and holding a ceaseless fascination for imaginative little girls. In a small town where streets were not called by their names, we directed motorcab drivers to drop us in front of "that house near Queen (Theater)." I grew up doing that. Grew up picking up discarded film reels on our backyard. Wide-eyed, my sister and I would hold them up to the sun and trace stories in those framed negatives. Our parents were very strict (read: wise and careful) and forbade us to watch movies by ourselves. The rules were clear and unbending and must not be disobeyed on pain of belt-whacking to the bottom: the movie house is DANGEROUS for unaccompanied children. What if there was a stampede? (Always the threatening spectre.) What if a maniac ran amok with a machete? What if you got kidnapped? Child molesters were still in the shadows of the headlines at that time so it was not part of the List of Terrifying Consequences of Going to the Movies WITHOUT Parents. Once, I dared disobey and slipped into that magical place with my cousin. I got the worst belting in my entire life plus the obligatory kneeling (for what might have been hours) in front of the altar of the Sto. Niño. I now remember curling up later under the altar, sobbing pitiously in deliberation (and admittedly relishing the drama of being a movie martyr), and getting ignored by everyone except my sister. This girl had to learn her lesson.
So you understand how watching movies built up to be my most coveted forbidden treat--my true guilty pleasure.
Day after day, I'd hear the cinema hawker riding around town in a motorcab with his tinny loudspeakers announcing what's showing "sa inyong paboritong Queen Cinema" (in your favourite Queen Cinema!).
Day after day, I'd pass by the theater and linger around the display of still photographs from scenes of whatever movies were showing or coming soon. The cinemas no longer have them now. But when I was growing up, Queen Cinema had displays of 6x6 coloured movie-scene glossies to spark unseemly excitement in even the most frigid movie "unenthusiast".
Day after day, I'd hear all the enticing noise of stories unfolding--the muffled sounds of cars crashing, guns blasting, unseen beautiful actresses screaming--right from the
Next
Door
Building.
With gut-wrenching envy, I'd listen to the movie goers cheering wildly--those lucky grown up bastards!
And whenever the parents did take us to the movies, Nanay would announce it days before.
Oh.
The
agonising
anticipation!
Days, hours were counted. We always watched on evenings, so on the day of the Big Event, my mother would order us to sleep the whole afternoon. If not... ! She'd instruct us to go to the bathroom in advance. If not... ! Then she'd bundle us in jackets and hats and make us bring bottles of water, as if we were trekking in the jungles instead of sitting next door. All through this ceremonial preparation, I'd be all antsy what was taking so long and order my poor, bossed-around little sister up to ask the parents again and again and again:
"Aren't we leaving yet?"
"Are we really seeing that movie?"
"Are we ever going?"
God! We were probably extremely irritating, but we were so excited we'd have peed in our pants if we hadn't been told to do it ahead! And when we'd finally leave the house--one child per parent, hand firmly gripped--it was all I could do not to skip--no, run--the very short distance from our gate to the cinema!
But being actually there was another ritual. First was the queueing to get the tickets from the intimidating woman behind the glass window with the little opening below where pink slips (for the balcony) and yellow ones (for the orchestra) magically slid out and granted you entry to a dreamworld. Then came the ceremonial handing of our always pink slips to the "tiketero" standing at the foot of the winding stairway to heaven. He'd always smile at us (we were neighbors after all, never mind if to me he was the sentinel to a magical mystery tour), get the tickets from my father, tear them, and drop them into a huge wooden box which, I had always imagined, was as tall as I was. And off we'd climb the high stairwells leading to the vast and dark cavern dominated by the awesomely gigantic wide, wide screen. Later, older, I'd pronounce the screens of today's mall cinemas smaller. It could just be my child's perspectives and proportions then but nothing ever compared to the grandness of my first ever movie theater. I'd sit--totally riveted to that screen. We were explicitly warned not to talk during the movie or ask questions (ask them after, parents said). To this day, I still hold to that and it annoys me no end when someone dares speak to me during a picture show. All very sacred, this. And even now as I write, I feel a pang of bittersweet kinship with that little girl who'd reluctantly leave her seat even after the credits had rolled; who'd keep turning her head to give the screen last looks even as her mom pulled at her to go down and go home.
This is not about regrets, though. This is about thankfulness.
By the time my old home town-turned-city saw its first home-grown President of the Republic take oath, it no longer boasted any movie house. My dream palace is now a functional warehouse. But so what? Whenever I pass by it, I still hear echoes of those muffled sounds of adventure, still feel a flash of the anticipation and thrill of long ago. I look back at those young years and acknowledge how the quaint experiences and the place itself created in me a true love for tales, a healthy curious wonder, and an appreciation for beautiful memories that shape a person.
Things that make life just a little bit lighter, just a little bit brighter.
And for that I am always grateful.
It's one of the best old-school pleasures in life. And I mean real hardcore Going To The Picture House... not the viewing-in-your-laptop-or-humongous-TV movie watching sort. It's another kind of ritual, you know, starting with the absolute glee at knowing the picture you have been waiting for IS NOW SHOWING! Oh! That little skip your heart does and the involuntary smile your lips make--awesome! This is quickly followed by the mental calculation of the exact right day and time that you can freely see the film. (Personally, this beats going to the salon or the spa for me, both boring necessities as they are). But that's nothing compared to "D Day" though, when you finally get to hit the cinema; hold the crisp ticket between your fingers; hear the muffled thudding of action going on behind rows of closed studio doors while you gaze at the screaming, graphic movie posters promising more adventures; and smell that unique aroma of popcorn, hotdog, and coffee--affirming, if nothing else, that you
are
indeed
in
a
movie house!
Then you walk into the dark theater and get all-out lost in a wondrous parallel universe. A total dream palace.
I grew up next to a classic honest to goodness movie theater. When recalling specific places which shaped my love for stories, Queen Cinema is right up there with Bon Tin's (where my sister and I voraciously devoured komiks-for-rent day in and day out... but that's a story for another day!). It was grand, that wonderful old fleapit. It was easily the highest building in my sleepy hometown at that time, tall and imposing and holding a ceaseless fascination for imaginative little girls. In a small town where streets were not called by their names, we directed motorcab drivers to drop us in front of "that house near Queen (Theater)." I grew up doing that. Grew up picking up discarded film reels on our backyard. Wide-eyed, my sister and I would hold them up to the sun and trace stories in those framed negatives. Our parents were very strict (read: wise and careful) and forbade us to watch movies by ourselves. The rules were clear and unbending and must not be disobeyed on pain of belt-whacking to the bottom: the movie house is DANGEROUS for unaccompanied children. What if there was a stampede? (Always the threatening spectre.) What if a maniac ran amok with a machete? What if you got kidnapped? Child molesters were still in the shadows of the headlines at that time so it was not part of the List of Terrifying Consequences of Going to the Movies WITHOUT Parents. Once, I dared disobey and slipped into that magical place with my cousin. I got the worst belting in my entire life plus the obligatory kneeling (for what might have been hours) in front of the altar of the Sto. Niño. I now remember curling up later under the altar, sobbing pitiously in deliberation (and admittedly relishing the drama of being a movie martyr), and getting ignored by everyone except my sister. This girl had to learn her lesson.
So you understand how watching movies built up to be my most coveted forbidden treat--my true guilty pleasure.
Day after day, I'd hear the cinema hawker riding around town in a motorcab with his tinny loudspeakers announcing what's showing "sa inyong paboritong Queen Cinema" (in your favourite Queen Cinema!).
Day after day, I'd pass by the theater and linger around the display of still photographs from scenes of whatever movies were showing or coming soon. The cinemas no longer have them now. But when I was growing up, Queen Cinema had displays of 6x6 coloured movie-scene glossies to spark unseemly excitement in even the most frigid movie "unenthusiast".
Day after day, I'd hear all the enticing noise of stories unfolding--the muffled sounds of cars crashing, guns blasting, unseen beautiful actresses screaming--right from the
Next
Door
Building.
With gut-wrenching envy, I'd listen to the movie goers cheering wildly--those lucky grown up bastards!
And whenever the parents did take us to the movies, Nanay would announce it days before.
Oh.
The
agonising
anticipation!
Days, hours were counted. We always watched on evenings, so on the day of the Big Event, my mother would order us to sleep the whole afternoon. If not... ! She'd instruct us to go to the bathroom in advance. If not... ! Then she'd bundle us in jackets and hats and make us bring bottles of water, as if we were trekking in the jungles instead of sitting next door. All through this ceremonial preparation, I'd be all antsy what was taking so long and order my poor, bossed-around little sister up to ask the parents again and again and again:
"Aren't we leaving yet?"
"Are we really seeing that movie?"
"Are we ever going?"
God! We were probably extremely irritating, but we were so excited we'd have peed in our pants if we hadn't been told to do it ahead! And when we'd finally leave the house--one child per parent, hand firmly gripped--it was all I could do not to skip--no, run--the very short distance from our gate to the cinema!
But being actually there was another ritual. First was the queueing to get the tickets from the intimidating woman behind the glass window with the little opening below where pink slips (for the balcony) and yellow ones (for the orchestra) magically slid out and granted you entry to a dreamworld. Then came the ceremonial handing of our always pink slips to the "tiketero" standing at the foot of the winding stairway to heaven. He'd always smile at us (we were neighbors after all, never mind if to me he was the sentinel to a magical mystery tour), get the tickets from my father, tear them, and drop them into a huge wooden box which, I had always imagined, was as tall as I was. And off we'd climb the high stairwells leading to the vast and dark cavern dominated by the awesomely gigantic wide, wide screen. Later, older, I'd pronounce the screens of today's mall cinemas smaller. It could just be my child's perspectives and proportions then but nothing ever compared to the grandness of my first ever movie theater. I'd sit--totally riveted to that screen. We were explicitly warned not to talk during the movie or ask questions (ask them after, parents said). To this day, I still hold to that and it annoys me no end when someone dares speak to me during a picture show. All very sacred, this. And even now as I write, I feel a pang of bittersweet kinship with that little girl who'd reluctantly leave her seat even after the credits had rolled; who'd keep turning her head to give the screen last looks even as her mom pulled at her to go down and go home.
This is not about regrets, though. This is about thankfulness.
By the time my old home town-turned-city saw its first home-grown President of the Republic take oath, it no longer boasted any movie house. My dream palace is now a functional warehouse. But so what? Whenever I pass by it, I still hear echoes of those muffled sounds of adventure, still feel a flash of the anticipation and thrill of long ago. I look back at those young years and acknowledge how the quaint experiences and the place itself created in me a true love for tales, a healthy curious wonder, and an appreciation for beautiful memories that shape a person.
Things that make life just a little bit lighter, just a little bit brighter.
And for that I am always grateful.
Comments
Post a Comment