I remember very clearly the first time I ever went to the cinema. I was five, and my parents decided to bring me and some other kids along to see the new “Pirates of the Caribbean” movie that had come out that year. It was showing in the cinema at the new mall in our city, so off we went — entering the huge dark room, sitting down in the front row with my slightly too-large 3D glasses in hand. And when mermaids that looked nothing like Disney’s Ariel leaped at me from the screen halfway through the movie, I vowed never to watch a horror movie ever again. 

But the time I truly fell in love with the movies was when I was 11 — my dad had asked me if I wanted to go to the midnight pre-screening of the new “Star Wars” with him and his two best friends, who happened to have a spare ticket. Partly because of the intrigue of a midnight viewing, and partly to have an excuse to skip school the next day, I eagerly agreed — spending the evening before we left painting my nails to spell out the name of the franchise. 

As we arrived at the cinema, I felt like the coolest kid ever — settling down with my large popcorn and soda, smack-dab in the middle of the theater (my dad had clearly developed better taste in seating choices by then) as the unforgettable opening sequence began to play. As if on cue, the theater erupted in cheers, loud singing along to the theme song and a sea of raised lightsabers, one of my dad’s friends clapping as loudly as humanly possible. 

That night, I left the theater completely overwhelmed. My prepubescent brain was only beginning to develop a love for the cinematic arts, but still, I could feel the shift in energy that burst out of Theater Three. To this day, I will defend the “Star Wars” sequels because of that feeling. 

Throughout the awards seasons of the past two years, the words on everybody’s lips have been the “movie theater.” Every filmmaker goes the extra mile to emphasize the power a movie goer has when taking the drive to their local AMC Entertainment, buying a ticket and actually sitting through whatever film they choose to give their attention to that evening. Sean Baker’s 2025 Best Director acceptance speech at the Academy Awards emphasized just that: “Where did we fall in love with the movies?” he asked his fellow nominees, “At the movie theater.” 

And while Netflix CEO Ted Sarandos and his crew of tech billionaires try to tell the world that it’s not “sacrilege for someone to watch a great movie on their phone,” I have to disagree. In December, I found myself arguing with my family about the fun and quality of the most recent addition to the “Knives Out” franchise. My father and aunt sat across the table from me as they described their personal dislike of the film and its cliché twists and turns. Somewhere in the middle of our conversation, it hit me — they hated the movie for the circumstances of where they saw it, on streaming, for the same reasons that I loved it after seeing it in a movie theater. The same realization came to me with every review I saw post the film’s Netflix release — with people nitpicking at things that didn’t even occur to me beneath the magic veil of a dark movie theater. 

Perhaps it’s due in part to my surroundings, but a part of me forever refuses to believe that Generation Z is against the movie theater so much that it’s impacting the way movies and shows are created in the 2020s. A small fragment of audiences know the answer to why Netflix has been producing such lukewarm films en masse, and it frustrates me to think that streaming executives lead with the immediate belief that every viewer will be so distracted by their phone for the duration of their movie of choice; that it has become the default when writing any kind of script. The death of the plot is real, and its only resuscitation is in going to the movies. 

Clearly, the yearn from the audience is still there — look at the “Barbenheimer” phenomena! It showcased to both creatives and executives alike just how much the audiences crave for the reclined seats, overpriced popcorn and most importantly, the sense of community the movies create. To watch a movie in a place that is specifically designed for group viewings allows the art and emotion of the film to permeate your skin cells, as you laugh, cry and gasp with the people that surround you — a feeling that can never be replicated outside of the theater. 

I recently moved into my new place which, as I discovered five months ago, is only a five-minute drive from one of the theaters downtown and it could not have been a better circumstance. I find myself parking in the same spot outside of the place every other week, itching to see another masterpiece on the big screen — sometimes alone, sometimes with friends. I keep feeling reinvented after every movie I see at the Glendale AMC, where I spend most of my time while my boyfriend works his shifts. No matter how crappy I think the film itself actually was, I consistently giggle my way through my recap of said crappy movie to the aforementioned boyfriend at dinner.

Even now, when I am three weeks away from my 20s, I still find myself yearning for the theater as much as I did when I was 11, eyes growing bigger with every cheer and reaction from the audience at that 2017 screening of “Star Wars,” when there was still so much cinema to discover. 

Sandra Vovk believes with all her heart that the Riviera Theatre has the best popcorn in town and will not apologize for the frequency at which the workers of said cinema see her face on Bargain Tuesday.