For me, the cinema of our small town was not merely a building of concrete and glass, but a sacred sanctuary where dreams flickered to life in the darkness. I was always thinking of it, not in passing glances but in complete immersion—during math lessons when my pencil should have been scratching calculations, during the droning recitations of Chairman Mao’s quotations when my lips moved automatically with the collective chant, during the endless practice of abacus when my fingers slid beads mechanically up and down the wooden frame. The cinema existed in my dreams and meditations, at home when I stared at the ceiling above my narrow bed, and in the classroom where the world outside the window beckoned with infinite possibilities.

My mother could not give me money for tickets often. Yet the temptation of cinema was irresistible, a magnetic force that altered my path whenever I ventured near. Passing by the cinema, my body would seem to freeze, as if some supernatural power had reached out and halted my movement. My feet would root to the ground, and I would stand transfixed, eyes straining to glimpse any hint of the magical world inside.

I would press my face against the cool glass of the display cases where movie posters hung, drinking in the frozen moments of drama and adventure. When the doors opened briefly to admit a lucky ticket holder, I would inhale deeply, as if I could breathe in the very essence of the stories being told inside. Sometimes, when I could see nothing, I would simply stand there and listen to the music spilling out into the street—mysterious orchestral swells, triumphant marches, tender melodies—each note painting vivid pictures in my mind of what might be happening on the screen beyond those walls.

My desire to see movies burned with such intensity that it sometimes pushed me to actions that, in retrospect, bordered on desperation. Near the cinema’s toilet facilities ran a water ditch—a narrow, fetid channel that most people hurried past with wrinkled noses. For me, however, this ditch represented not disgust but opportunity. On days when my pockets were empty but my hunger for movies was overwhelming, I would wait for a moment when no one was watching, then drop to my hands and knees and crawl through that ditch into the cinema.

The stench was formidable—a noxious blend of sewage and suspicious liquids that were, beyond any reasonable doubt, urine. The darkness of the passage was complete, and sometimes my hands would slip on surfaces I preferred not to identify. Yet none of this deterred me. The physical discomfort was temporary, but the stories I would witness would stay with me forever, bright constellations in the universe of my mind.

Once inside, with my heart hammering against my ribs, I would locate a shadowy corner and settle there like a small nocturnal creature, eyes wide and hungry for the images that danced across the screen. Sometimes, the movie would capture me so completely that I would forget my precarious status as an intruder. In those moments of abandonment, I would drift forward, seeking a better view, forgetting that I had no ticket and no right to be there.

On such occasions, the cinema staff—sharp-eyed sentinels who seemed to possess a sixth sense for detecting ticketless children—would spot me. Their approach was always the same: a looming shadow falling across my enraptured face, a firm hand on my shoulder, a demand to produce a ticket I did not have. The inevitable ejection would follow, my protests dying in my throat as I was marched back into the harsh light of day, the magic spell broken.

Unfortunately, my secret tunnel eventually aroused suspicion. Perhaps too many children had discovered the same pathway to the imaginary world of movies, or perhaps the cinema management simply grew tired of finding mud-streaked youngsters materializing mysteriously in the cinema. Whatever the reason, I arrived one day to find the entrance to my secret passage blocked, filled with rough concrete that effectively sealed off my access to that world of wonder.

From that day forward, seeing movies required legitimate entry, and legitimate entry required money. This posed a significant challenge, as money was a resource in perpetually short supply in our household. Once, when a much-anticipated movie arrived in the town—a movie that had been the subject of excited whispers among my classmates for weeks—I approached my mother with what I hoped was a winning combination of charm and persistence.

“May I have money for the cinema?” I asked, trying to keep my voice casual, as if the answer didn’t matter terribly much, even though we both knew it did.

My mother’s face, already lined with the worries of making ends meet, creased further. She shook her head slowly, not in anger but with the weariness of someone who has had to say “no” too many times. “We don’t even have enough money to eat for the rest of the month,” she said, her voice soft but firm.

But the pull of the cinema was too strong, and I persisted, my desire overriding my better judgment. She looked at me then, really looked at me, and something in her expression shifted. “All right,” she said finally, “you go there if you want to, but I will not give you a cent.”

It wasn’t permission exactly, but it wasn’t prohibition, either. It was a statement of reality—a reality that included my obsession with movies and my family’s financial limitations. Armed with this ambiguous blessing, I set off for the cinema alone, my mind already constructing elaborate scenarios of how I might gain entry without a ticket.

When I arrived, the movie had already begun. I could hear the soundtrack leaking out into the street—dramatic music punctuated by dialogue I couldn’t quite make out. Frustration boiled up inside me, a hot wave that crashed against the dam of my self-control. Before I could think better of it, I was pounding on the door, my small fists making a surprisingly loud sound in the quiet street.

The door flew open, and a man emerged—not the kindly ticket-taker who sometimes winked at children as they entered, but a stern-faced employee whose expression suggested he had encountered disturbances before and had little patience for them. Before I could react, he had grabbed me by the arm and pulled me inside. But instead of leading me to the hall, he dragged me to a small, dark room that smelled of cigarette smoke and floor polish.

“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice rough with irritation. “Why did you pound on the door?”
 
I stood frozen, my earlier bravado evaporating under his glare. I shook my head and pressed my lips together, determined not to speak.

“If you don’t tell me your name,” he threatened, looming over me in the dim light, “I will put you here and then lock up the door.”

Fear shot through me like an electric current. The thought of being locked in this airless closet, surrounded by darkness and strange smells, was too terrible to contemplate. Tears sprang to my eyes, and words tumbled out. “My name is—” and I told him, my voice small and trembling.

“Who are your mother and father?” he pressed, and I answered this, too, pleading now for him to let me go.

“Will you do this again?” he asked, his voice stern but perhaps a fraction softer than before.

“No, I won’t,” I promised, willing to say anything to escape this situation.

“What if we catch you again?”

“I promise I won’t,” I repeated, the words catching in my throat.

“Next time I catch you, I will send you to the police,” he warned, and the threat hung in the air between us like a physical thing, dark and ominous.

 “No, please don’t do that,” I begged. “I won’t do that again.”

After what seemed an eternity, the man relented. He released my arm, which I now realized he had been gripping tightly the entire time, and gestured toward the door. I didn’t need to be told twice. I bolted from that room and out of the cinema, not stopping until I had put several blocks between myself and the building that had, just hours ago, been the object of my deepest desire.

When I finally reached home, my mother looked up from her sewing. “Did you see the movie?” she asked, her tone careful, neutral.

I couldn’t bring myself to answer. The shame of my encounter, the lingering fear of the man’s threat, and the crushing disappointment of missing the movie all combined into a knot in my throat that prevented speech. Instead, I went straight to bed, pulled the quilt over my head, and cried quietly, careful not to let my mother hear the sobs that shook my small frame.

If the indoor movies remained largely inaccessible to me, the outdoor movies offered a different kind of magic—one that was free and open to all. Nothing in my childhood could compare to the thrill of hearing that there would be an outdoor movie screening. The news would spread through our neighborhood like wildfire, passing from person to person with growing excitement. “Tonight,” someone would say in a conspiratorial whisper, “at the middle school playground,” and suddenly the ordinary evening ahead would transform into something extraordinary.

As soon as supper was over—bowls hastily emptied, chopsticks clattered onto the table with unusual haste—my brother and I would exchange glances laden with shared anticipation. Without a word, we would slip away from the table and out into the gathering dusk. The streets, usually quiet at this hour, hummed with unusual activity. People moved with purpose, all flowing in the same direction like tributaries joining a river.

Some carried chairs—rickety wooden ones with woven seats, metal folding chairs that squeaked with each step, makeshift seating cobbled together from crates and boards. Others carried only themselves, prepared to stand or sit on the ground for hours. All around us, conversations buzzed with speculation about what film might be shown, reminiscences of movies seen in the past, and expressions of gratitude for this unexpected treat on an ordinary weeknight.

The outdoor movies were typically shown at several locations throughout the town. The middle school playground was a popular venue, its expanse of packed dirt offering ample space for a large crowd. The lumber company yard was another option, with stacks of timber sometimes serving as improvised bleachers. My brother and I had no preference; we would have walked twice as far for the promise of a movie under the open sky.

Upon arrival at the chosen location, the scene that greeted us was one of cheerful disorder. In front of the screen—a large white sheet stretched taut between poles—chairs of every imaginable variety had been arranged in haphazard rows. Their owners would arrive later, when darkness fell, to claim their spots for the evening’s entertainment.

Sometimes, if we arrived early enough, we could secure a prime position directly in front of the screen. More often, though, we were relegated to the periphery, or even to the area behind the screen where the image appeared in reverse. Everything was flipped—text ran backward, characters exited to the left when they should have gone right, and familiar landscapes appeared eerily transformed. Yet our enthusiasm remained undimmed by this technical inconvenience. The magic of the movies transcended such trivial concerns as correct orientation.

As darkness descended and the crowd swelled, anticipation built like a physical force. Then, without fanfare or announcement, the projector would sputter to life, casting its beam of light through the darkness. Before the main feature, there would invariably be documentaries—solemn affairs chronicling political movements or Chairman Mao’s meetings with foreign dignitaries.

These documentaries followed a predictable pattern: streets lined with citizens holding flowers, their arms raised in choreographed welcome as black sedans glided past; officials shaking hands and exchanging formal greetings; occasional performances by dancers or acrobats, their movements precise and rehearsed. For children impatient for the feature film to begin, these preliminaries might have been tedious, but I found them fascinating—glimpses into a world beyond the small town, hints of a larger national identity to which we all belonged.

When the feature film finally began, a hush would fall over the assembled crowd. Most of the movies were ones we had seen before—movies about revolutionary heroes, historical dramas set during the war against Japan, or occasionally lighter fare about the lives of ordinary workers and peasants. The limited selection meant that we viewed the same films repeatedly, yet each screening felt fresh and exciting.

“I know what happens next,” my brother would whisper, his breath warm against my ear, and I would nod in acknowledgement, both of us finding comfort in the familiar trajectory of stories we knew by heart.

At crucial moments in the narrative—when the hero faced seemingly insurmountable odds, when the villain revealed his treachery, when lovers were reunited after long separation—the audience would respond as one organism. Gasps of surprise, murmurs of appreciation, spontaneous applause, and sometimes shouted advice to characters who could not hear us—all these sounds blended into the ambient noise of communal storytelling.

The fragility of these outdoor screenings added an element of suspense entirely separate from the narrative on screen. Technical difficulties were common and expected. Sometimes the movie would stop abruptly, the screen going blank, plunging us into darkness more complete for the light that had just vanished. These interruptions were met not with anger but with patient acceptance; we knew from experience that more reels of film were likely en route from another screening location.

When the film courier arrived, breathless and carrying the precious cargo of celluloid stories, the crowd would erupt in cheers. But as soon as the projection resumed, silence would fall again, our collective attention recaptured by the images dancing across the makeshift screen.

False alarms were another hazard of outdoor movie nights. Occasionally, word would spread of a screening that never materialized. We would arrive at the designated location to find others already gathered, chairs arranged, expectant faces turned toward a screen that remained stubbornly blank. We waited anyway, hope persisting long after reason suggested abandonment. Something about the collective nature of the experience made us reluctant to be the first to leave, to acknowledge that tonight there would be no shared journey into the world of story.

My passion for cinema extended beyond the viewing experience itself. I coveted information about movies, actors, and the mysterious process by which stories were captured on celluloid. The magazine Popular Cinema represented the pinnacle of such knowledge—its pages filled with photographs of beautiful actresses and handsome actors, articles about upcoming releases, and behind-the-scenes glimpses of movie production.

My family couldn’t afford to subscribe to such a luxury, but one of my classmates enjoyed a privileged position—his father, a director of a small working unit, received the magazine regularly. To gain access to this treasure trove, I cultivated a friendship with this boy, performing small services and offering gifts that I hoped would secure his goodwill and, by extension, lending privileges for the precious magazine.

I volunteered to clean the classroom when it was his turn for duty, sweeping dust into neat piles and wiping chalkboards until they gleamed. I filched pickled peppers from my mother’s carefully rationed supply—knowing she would notice their absence but calculating that her disappointment was a price worth paying—because he loved spicy food. When he mentioned casually that he had run out of exercise books, I promptly offered him my own brand-new exercise book, its pages crisp and unmarked, ignoring the pang of loss as he accepted it without particular gratitude.

These sacrifices eventually yielded results, and occasionally the coveted magazine would find its way into my eager hands. By the time it reached me, the publication had clearly passed through many others’ possessions. Its pages were dog-eared and tattered, its spine cracked from being folded back, its covers smudged with countless fingerprints. Yet to me, this well-worn condition only added to its value—physical evidence of the community of movie lovers who shared my passion.

I would pore over each issue, absorbing every detail about forthcoming films, memorizing the names of actors and directors, studying the still photographs as if they might yield secrets beyond what was visible to the casual observer. Through this magazine, I learned about movies long before they reached the town, so that by the time they arrived, I had constructed elaborate expectations based on the fragments of information gleaned from those precious pages.

The arrival of a new movie in the remote town was an event of considerable significance. For the first few days of its screening, long lines would snake from the box office, people waiting patiently for hours to secure tickets. When a particularly famous or anticipated movie made its appearance, the orderly lines would dissolve into chaotic crowds, people pushing and shoving, sometimes even coming to blows in their determination to be among the first to see the new movie.

Tickets for these premiers were virtually impossible to obtain, despite the cinema’s practice of continuous screenings from early morning until late at night. What could I do, a child with neither money nor influence? I could only wait patiently until the initial frenzy subsided, hoping that eventually I might find a way to see the movie that everyone was discussing.

I believe my love of movies was inherited from my parents, who shared this passion despite our limited means. Some of my most vivid childhood memories involve being woken in the middle of the night, my mother’s hand gentle on my shoulder, her voice a soft whisper: “Wake up. We’re going to see a movie.” The disorientation of being roused from deep sleep would quickly give way to excitement as I pulled on clothes over my pajamas and followed my parents into the night, the three of us moving through darkened streets toward the glowing promise of the cinema.

On other occasions, my mother would appear unexpectedly at school, her face composed into an expression of concern as she explained to my teacher that I needed to visit the hospital. No sooner were we out of sight of the school than her serious expression would dissolve into a conspiratorial grin, and I would realize that our destination was not a doctor’s office but the afternoon screening of a new movie.

These moments of shared transgression created bonds of complicity between us, secret pleasures that existed outside the realm of daily struggles and responsibilities. When the lights dimmed in the theater and the projector’s beam cut through the darkness, everything else receded—our worries about having enough to eat, enough to wear, enough of anything. The political movements that disrupted our lives with their relentless demands for participation and conformity faded into insignificance. The anxiety about what future awaited me—would I become a soldier, a worker, a peasant, a shop assistant? —temporarily lifted.

In the darkness of the cinema, surrounded by fellow dreamers, we entered a state of suspended animation. The world outside ceased to exist for those precious hours, replaced by the larger-than-life dramas and comedies that played out before us. The screen became a window into possibilities—some frightening, some thrilling, some tender—all reminding us that beyond the narrow confines of our daily existence lay an infinite variety of human experience.

As the credits rolled and the lights gradually brightened, reality would reassert itself, but something of the movie’s magic clung to us as we made our way home through familiar streets that somehow looked different, charged with potential, after our immersion in other worlds. The stories we had witnessed became part of our internal landscape, reference points in our understanding of life’s complexities, sources of phrases and images that would return to us at unexpected moments.

In those days of limited choices and constrained opportunities, the cinema offered something precious—a glimpse of horizons beyond our own, a reminder that the human spirit craves not just sustenance for the body but nourishment for the imagination. Those flickering images in the darkness shaped my understanding of the world and my place in it, teaching me that even the most ordinary life contains elements of drama, comedy, tragedy, and triumph. They showed me that stories matter, that they help us make sense of our experiences, that they connect us to one another across barriers of circumstance and time.

The outdoor movies, especially, with their communal nature and democratic accessibility, created momentary communities united by the simple pleasure of shared stories. Under the open sky, with stars appearing one by one above the flickering screen, we were bound together by invisible threads of attention and emotion, laughing and gasping in unison, collectively transported beyond the boundaries of our small town into realms of infinite possibility.