Taking the Children to the Cinema

Among the many voices I encountered throughout the documentary Piracicaba Never Forgot, Dona Maria Laudelina Pereira Reis touched me in a very special way. It was a brief conversation, yet full of feeling, like an afternoon screening that leaves your eyes brimming and your heart at peace. Dona Maria was not a cinema owner, nor an exhibitor, nor a critic. But with love and naturalness, she did what makes cinema eternal: she lived it, and she shared it. And with her, she brought along a legion of children.

“I would gather all the children from Bairro Alto and take them to the cinema,” she told me, laughing, with the sparkle of someone remembering good times. And as she spoke, I could almost see those afternoons: the joyful running along the pavements, the queue, the attentive eyes fixed on the Rivoli screen. For Dona Maria, cinema was a Sunday commitment. A routine filled with celebration. It was about caring for the children, but it was also a space of pleasure for herself, when she went down with her friends to watch action films, while the children watched Woody Woodpecker and Batman.

That is what moves me so deeply in these stories. Street cinema, for many, was not a luxury. It was community. It was accessible, living culture. It was a way of being together. Dona Maria spoke much about this: about how much the cinema in the city centre was missed, especially by those without a car, those dependent on buses, those who wanted to go but could not, or could not manage to reach the shopping centre, which was far away. She told me that today street cinemas have disappeared, and that much of the good went with them, swept away by violence and the changes of time. “These days we can’t do anything anymore,” she said, with a certain sadness. And I understood. That is what it is about: cultural spaces that vanish, leaving behind a longing that sometimes no one names.

And yet, Dona Maria holds on to this longing with a smile. She told me about the social projects she had taken part in, about the street cinemas they set up with a big screen in the neighbourhood, about her work with children and teenagers. I was filled with admiration for her dedication. I was enchanted by her memory. By the lightness with which she handles the past, and the clarity with which she speaks of the present. When I asked what it meant to watch a film in the cinema, she replied simply: “It’s very nice. Very good.” And it was that phrase, spoken so naturally, that captivated me. Because that is precisely it. The beauty of the cinema experience lies in the small things: in the nice, the good, in what makes you want to return. And listening to Dona Maria was like listening to all the voices that also formed part of the history of cinema in Piracicaba, not through the spotlight, but through frequency, through presence, through affection.

Sitting there with her, I felt the deepest reason for having created this documentary: to record and to respect these memories. To preserve what remains stored in people’s bodies. In their routines. In their longings. Dona Maria welcomed me with kindness. She lived cinema with her children. And she still carries it with love.

Piracicaba Never Forgot. And I will not forget Dona Maria.

— Dara Oliver