Mia Lasic-Ellis

While my friends were raised by Disney princesses, I was raised by film snobs.

With the goal of “giving us attention spans” but, most importantly, maximizing his nap time, my dad would only let me and my twin watch classic musicals as children. As I grew older, musicals turned into Westerns into noirs. By nine years old, I was a full blown “film bro,” years before that word even entered the modern vernacular.

After the pandemic, I took my film bro expertise out of my house and into the streets, and then out of the streets and into Los Angeles revival theaters. The characters at such theaters were, to put it mildly, unique. Though my dad (my self-described “running buddy”) and I considered ourselves to be more sophisticated than this eclectic mix, I couldn’t help but begin to recognize specific faces.

One such face was David’s, a cinephile we met one Wednesday night while waiting in line for a double feature of “Sorcerer” and “Chinatown” at Quentin Tarantino’s New Beverly Theater. He was a greasy-haired millennial dressed in the questionable but respectably bold pairing of skinny jeans and crocodile boots; as my middle school self and baby boomer father had little in common with this fascinatingly dressed millennial, I was hesitant to engage in conversation with him. My dad, knowing we had 30 minutes to kill in line, had no such qualms; the two soon participated in the classic competition of naming increasingly niche films they had seen in theaters during years past. As David had never seen a movie made before the year 1970, my dad, of course, won.

These Wednesday jaunts to theaters had become a habit for me and for my dad by this point, and David wasn’t the only character my dad and I bonded with.

Take, for instance, Luke, a young man with near-waist-length blond hair who exclusively wore t-shirts advertising classic science fiction films, with a clear preference for, of course, “Star Wars.” Alongside Luke, always, was his poor, middle-aged mother, whom he dragged to as many movies as he could.

There was also the agoraphobe who, as a conventionally attractive man would hopefully have had better things to do on a Sunday afternoon than watch the entire five and half hours of “1900,” would move seats any time someone dared to sit in the same aisle as him.

Do not fear, though, for I didn’t just go to these theaters for the people. As obnoxious as it sounds, I was always at such hubs of cinephilia because of an ardent (some would say too ardent) love of film. Running the risk of sounding colloquial when I say this but finding no other way to express this sentiment, the experience of seeing a movie in a theater is magical.

For example, the movie “Apocalypse Now.” For years, my dad would not let me watch the movie until the “only good” version (not the director’s version, mind you) came to theaters. As the wait lasted a few too many years, my dad eventually caved during the pandemic.

However, one Saturday afternoon a few months ago, I noticed “Apocalypse Now” (the “good” version this time) was going to be played on 35mm at a theater near me. I bought tickets immediately, and as I settled into my prime middle row seat a few days after, I was transfixed. From just the first scene—the initial whirring of the helicopters and the beginning of “The End” by The Doors playing as napalm lit up the tree line with fire—I was in awe of the totality and ambition of the vision manifested on that screen. Here was a completely immersive experience, an indelible reminder of the power of film.

But I wasn’t the only person enthralled by this cinematic masterpiece: the entire audience was as well. It felt as if all of us sitting there were more than just viewers but a part of the actual film completely immersed in the image on the screen.

This joint experience never fails to remind me that though I may have tried to convince myself that I was somehow above this motley crew of movie nerds, I am decidedly not. My dad and I are part of these nerds (just hopefully a little better dressed), and they are one of us.

As the lights go down and the movie begins to play, we are all united by our fervent appreciation for the film on the screen in front of us. This unique experience can only be found when visiting an actual movie theater, an activity that has sadly waned in popularity far too much in recent years.

Too often, movies, even true cinematic masterpieces, are viewed from a 13-inch computer screen or, even worse, a tiny airplane TV screen (my sister once watched my favorite “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood” en route to New York just to piss me off). This diminishes not only the magic of film itself, but also the community that comes along with seeing that film with an entire audience. As nerdy as it may be, in this disconnected and increasingly isolated world, such community is more important now than ever.

And, hey, if you do decide to go to a theater, you may just meet your very own David.