Hugo

We have each arrived at Movie Night from different backgrounds, having traced different paths through life. But we gathered here with one shared feeling: that we love movies, or at least that we are willing to love them. Then a more fundamental question quietly raises its head. Why do we love movies so much? When I think about it, there may be no act in modern society as inefficient as watching a film. A film does not solve the reality in front of us, and watching many of them does not grant us any practical benefit in life. In a world where everything has become instant and convenient, it takes a surprising amount of care, both from the person who creates an entire world and from the person who sits still and gives that world their full attention. In a world where efficiency has become the highest virtue, why do we still insist on pursuing this beautiful inefficiency? No one could honestly answer that film is efficient. But if someone asked, "Even so, does film need to exist in this world?" we would nod without hesitation. Because even amid the absurdity and barrenness of life, human beings can only keep living by holding on to romance, by continuing to imagine fairy tales. Film allows us exactly that: a vivid dream.

In Hugo, director Georges Méliès says, "Movies have the power to capture our dreams, and within them, every dream comes true." Cold reality, concerned only with efficiency, often treats dreamers like children who have not grown up. But inside a dark theater, even the most outrageous imagination becomes a living reality.

For me, movies have always been a medium that connects the precious moments of my life. The strange sense of release that wrapped around my whole body when I walked out of a theater. The firm conviction that I, too, could become anything. The warmth of people who looked at the same screen and shared the same feelings. I wanted my life, too, to feel like one beautiful film. When I follow my memories backward, there is one scent that comes back with unusual clarity. The sweet smell of caramel popcorn from the first movie theater I went to as a child, holding my parents' hands. Even now, when I smell that nutty sweetness, my heart softens as if it all happened yesterday, and the memories of those childhood days, when the world felt endlessly wondrous, begin to wake up. I remember my school days, when exams were over and, drunk on freedom, I sank completely into the screen with my friends. I remember the days I worked at a movie theater because I wanted to be a little closer to film. And the nights when I came home carrying an armful of leftover popcorn and stayed up watching movies with my dad, becoming clumsy bedroom critics as we gave out star ratings, remain some of the warmest frames of my life. When I studied literature and film in college and learned that cinema was not merely entertainment but a record of life in an era and an inquiry into human existence, the way I looked at movies grew a little deeper. Curious about the world behind the screen, I threw myself into volunteer work at film festivals. Watching the labor of so many staff members who quietly sweated behind the bright lights for the sake of a single work, I sometimes felt ashamed of how small my passion seemed next to theirs. But now I know that, like the boy turning gears unseen inside the clock tower of the train station in Hugo, the great magic of cinema is completed by all those invisible acts of devotion gathered together.

My understanding of film is still brief, and there are countless movies I watch and then easily forget. Even so, movies still make me dream. Before the grand weight of reality, the phrase "have a dream" can feel vague and burdensome. But sitting in a dark theater and facing a film is not so difficult.

In Hugo, the boy repairs a broken automaton and, in doing so, heals his own wounds and finds a purpose for his life. Perhaps our lives, too, are like machines whose clockwork has unwound and stopped. In a life spent wandering without knowing the destination, willingly setting aside time to watch a film may be the most sound and beautiful luxury we can offer the world.

I want to try loving movies more deeply from now on. Loving movies is an act that restores so many things to me. It is shaking hands again with the child I once was, the one who had so many dreams. It is tuning the frequency of my heart to my dad, who has always been a sturdy pillar for me. And above all, it is a way of connecting with the "romanticists" gathered here, people who still choose to dream in a world where dreaming itself has become a luxury. So that we can find our place without breaking inside the great machine of the world, our movies must go on.