Memories on display

Throughout the entire process of creating the documentary Piracicaba Never Forgot, one feeling accompanied me constantly: affection. Affection for every person who agreed to sit in front of me and share their story with cinema. Because when we speak of cinema, we speak of life, of encounters, of losses, of emotions, of rituals, of the cities we once were.

Listening to Cecílio Elias Neto was like watching a rare film, one that must be kept with care. He spoke to me about the cinemas of Piracicaba as if describing childhood friends: with fondness, vivid memory, and even a touch of humour. He spoke of the Cine Broadway on the day the world feared its end after Hiroshima, of the queues, the matinées with jackets, the frights and the enchantments. At that moment, it became clear to me that preserving these stories was not merely about recording them: it was about resisting oblivion.

With Chico Andia, I delved into the technical and passionate side of cinema. He built auditoriums, repaired equipment, lived cinema from behind the scenes. His dedication was as meticulous as it was moving; he would sleep on the floor of the projection booth to test the sound, and grew emotional when recalling the Cine Plaza, which he helped to create and later lost in the collapse. Speaking with him made me understand that behind every projection there is someone who believes in the power of the image.

Dona Maria Laudelina took me to another kind of auditorium: the one made of community. She told me how she would “gather all the children” from Bairro Alto and take them to the cinema. For her, cinema was care, routine, collective nurture. She spoke with sadness about the absence of a cinema in the city centre, and with joy about the street screenings she helped to organise through social projects. Her words were light, yet filled with urgency: “Cinema is missing.” And in that moment, I understood even more why I was making this film.

With Luiz Andia Filho, my father, the conversation was also a reunion. I grew up listening to stories of cinema at home, but recording an interview meant opening the doors to a family memory that is also part of the city. He told me of packed theatres, of queues winding around the block, of Os Trapalhões, of Star Wars, of Dolby stereo sound, of the posters of upcoming releases. He recalled the ushers, the thrill of being inside the projection booth as a child, and the magic that was the Rivoli. It was an intimate and collective immersion at the same time, and perhaps one of the most moving moments of my journey as a director.

And then came Tita Andia, with her vivid memories of flared dresses, dressing tables, and courtships outside the cinema. She spoke of her youth, of outings to the Broadway and Polytheama with her friends, of secret romances at the Colonial, of the impact of films like Gone with the Wind. She told me of a time when cinema was also a stage for sociability, a space where one lived, met, and grew. And with sweetness, she also spoke of today’s solitude, of how time has changed, and how she has withdrawn. Yet even so, her eyes still lit up when recalling the cinema.

These interviews transformed me. Each one taught me something about cinema, but more than that, they taught me about the city, about its people, about what remains. Piracicaba Never Forgot is the name of the film, but it is also a promise. A promise that these voices will not fall silent. That the cinemas may have closed, but the experience, that can never be taken away. Because as long as there is memory, there will be projection.

Dara Oliver