Showtime
By Angela Arlia

Soft night breezes, a million stars overheard, and Harrison Ford on the big outdoor screen speaking… Italian?  How childhood summers in Italy changed this girl’s movie-going experience forever.

“Remember, Indiana Jones is playing tonight!” 

I yelled the reminder to my cousin through the shop window where he worked, then made my way up the street to refresh the memories of the rest of the group about our plans.  Up until my late teens, I spent almost every summer in Italy, where I hung out with a group of friends that included my younger cousin.  On Sundays we would all go to the beach together.  During the week, I’d stop by their workplaces to chat, have a coffee or gelato together.  While they worked, I made my way through my summer reading list.  Most nights we would meet up to see the second showing of that day’s Big Movie.

In this small town, the sole theater showed a different movie every night.  There was a 7pm showing and second showing around 9:30 or 10pm, depending on how long the movie was.  It was almost always an American film that had come out in the states 9 to 12 months earlier.  Usually I’d already seen the movie so I would gauge the group’s “thumbs up” or “thumbs down” from a European perspective. 

We’d all meet at the theater, an open-air type forum, where the movie was projected on an immense wall.  We had our routine:  The guys would get the snacks and the girls would select the seats.  Most of the group was antsy with anticipation before the show started while I simply enjoyed seeing the films on another type of big screen than I typically came across near my home in the United States.

The faint nighttime breeze would mandate the carrying of a sweater or the wearing of jeans. Sometimes the crickets would provide the soundtrack. On other occasions, the whistling of the not-too-distant crashing waves would tickle my ear drums. During a slow moment, I’d peer up and get lost counting a million visible stars—nothing like the sky above the Big Apple. The scent from the local pizzeria would waft through my nostrils making me salivate even though I’d already eaten.

Outside these sensory specialties, another novel part of the movie experience in Italy was the intermission, which we didn’t have in the States.  During the break, I’d canvas the crowd to see what they thought so far, how they imagined the ending, and so on.  I’d comment on the comparison of the real actors’ voices to the dubbed Italian voices.  (Unfortunately, all foreign films were dubbed in Italy, which often ruined the movie for me.)

After a break of 15 minutes or so, the second half would begin.  Although I could never explain why, it always flew by, passing much more quickly than the first half. 

When the film ended, it was met with either whistling and applause or booing from the audience.  I loved to hear the immediate reaction during the rolling of the credits.  Often in the States, you had to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations to ascertain their reaction, but not so in Italy.  The audience’s opinion was evident here.

There was a special magic about re-seeing these movies in the company of my friends. The summers seemed everlasting. The days blended effortlessly into night, without the jarring interruption of a commute or even a rigid schedule. All my senses were activated and smiles seemed permanently tattooed around our mouths. As much as I love movies now, I’m just a spectator. But back then, I had become one with the experience of going to the movies.