Piracicaba Never Forgot, and Neither Did I

There are encounters that transcend time. Interviewing Cecílio Elias Neto for the documentary Piracicaba Never Forgot was one of them. And meeting Chico Andia again, with his living memory of projectors, seats, and sound, was another. Each, in their own way, taught me that cinema in Piracicaba was never just about films. It was, and still is, about life.

This project was born within me long before I knew it was a project. It was shaped by the stories I heard as a child, in family conversations, in the names of cinemas my grandmother mentioned with sparkling eyes, in the details my uncle recounted with the precision of someone who never forgets. For me, the cinema was never just a projection room. It was shelter. It was celebration. It was where the world fitted inside the city.

When I sat down with Cecílio, I expected a beautiful conversation. But what I received was an immersion. He transported me to a time when young women paraded in front of the Politeama. When leaving the cinema was more anticipated than the film itself. When boys would play Tarzan in the trees lining the street. He told me everything with the delicacy of someone who respects the past, but also with the courage of someone unafraid to laugh at it. We laughed a lot, at Ava Gardner, at the usher with his torch, at the fear of the end of the world outside the Cine Broadway. I left feeling as though I had listened to the soul of Piracicaba.

With Chico, it was different, and equally magical. His love for cinema is technical, visceral, meticulous. It is the love of someone who built and dismantled entire screening rooms, who knew the weight of good sound, the value of a well-focused image. He renovated, rebuilt, dreamed, and even survived a cinema that literally collapsed. He told me about the Cine Plaza, which he himself built, and then lost. And even with all that, even with the distance time imposed, his eyes still held the living memory of every detail. Listening to Chico was like leafing through a sensitive archive, where every poster and every reel had a story to tell, and someone to remember.

These interviews, more than testimonies for a documentary, were gestures of care. Of listening. Of affection. They are living proof that the cinema of the streets has not disappeared, it has migrated into memory. Piracicaba Never Forgot is more than a film. It is a thank you. To all who fell in love while queueing for a ticket. To those who were dazzled by Ava Gardner or the musical Lili. To those who, like me, still look for a kind of home in the cinema.

My role as a director is, above all, this: to listen. And then to transform that listening into something that lasts. This documentary was made over more than ten years of research, questions, and steps along streets where once there were queues, illuminated façades, popcorn and music. The city has changed, but the longing remains, and it is powerful. I cannot thank Cecílio, Chico, and so many others who shared their memories with me enough. But I can promise one thing: every detail is here, every word is preserved, every memory has found a place.

Because, in the end, cinema is this: a place where we recognise ourselves. And if Piracicaba Never Forgot… neither will I.

Dara Oliver