The first film I can remember, The Jungle Book, I saw as a child with my parents in the former Arti cinema in Via Pietro Mascagni in Milan. It was the end of the 80s and the Disney cartoon certainly did not have the modern definition and special effects of digital techniques. What was rather the “rough” line of the drawing was captivating, a feature that I always regret and that never fails to make me nostalgic.

Of that afternoon I remember the emotion and surprise of a new experience, the darkness of the room, the boy who passed by with the torch to sell the Cornetto and the Favor, the scent of popcorn mixed with the typical smell of neighborhood cinemas.

My adventure à rebours continues with open-air movie nights on the Riviera. The film in question was Dances with Wolves, I must have been eight years old, Kevin Costner was at his peak, and the Sioux natives for the first time were presented in a completely different perspective than what we were used to. Only at the end – after three hours of screening on the wooden seats – did I understand why the ladies had brought pillows from home.

I certainly haven’t lost the habit, and going to the cinema is still one of the things I like to do the most, because the films in the theater are imprinted in my memory much more than the TV series that I consume almost every day and often end up in oblivion.

I go to the cinema in comfort, often alone: it’s a moment of mental detachment, which I almost always allow myself on Sundays. For a period in Milan I attended the San Fedele film club: I liked criticism, discussing the hidden meanings of films, the final debate and the sharing of cultural references.