There are times in life when we circle back to the passions of our past, and for me, cinema has been one of those enduring loves. Today’s reflections are not about tabletop hobbies or evenings around a board, but rather about the silver screen — the flickering light of a projector, the immersive darkness of a theater, and the way stories unfold larger than life in front of our eyes. Movies have been interwoven into my life for as long as I can remember, and while there was a long stretch when I drifted away from them, I’ve found myself coming back, rediscovering old favorites and uncovering treasures I missed along the way.
My earliest connection to film is bound up with family, especially my father. He worked for Rank, the well-known film company, though not in the glamorous world of acting or directing. His place was on the technical side, working with lighting and helping pioneer the process of Telecine, which converted film reels into video so that cinema could more easily make its way to television. It was the sort of job that lived in the background of the film industry, invisible to the average viewer but utterly vital to the way we experienced moving pictures at home. Growing up with a father so closely tied to this world meant I was exposed to movies at a young age, and he instilled in me a deep appreciation for cinema as both art and entertainment.
I still remember my first real movie-going experience: watching Star Wars in a theater in Singapore. I must have been quite young, but the scale of it all left me wide-eyed. The sweeping space battles, the drama between light and dark, the sheer imagination — it was everything a child could hope to see in a film. That memory is anchored not just in the story on the screen but in the feeling of sitting next to my father, sharing in his love for film. He was the one who introduced me to countless classics, often through special events. The Tanglin Club, for instance, held Sunday film nights, and it was there that I saw Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and The Sting. These films carried a certain weight, balancing humor, tragedy, and adventure in ways that resonated far beyond the screen.
School was another unexpected avenue for discovery. In Singapore, I was part of what could be described as an “underground” film club — a group that dared to show banned or restricted films. Looking back, it felt almost rebellious, sneaking a look at works like The Life of Brian, Airplane!, and even episodes of Fawlty Towers. At the time, these films had a forbidden allure, making them feel even more special. They weren’t just movies; they were experiences that broadened my understanding of comedy, satire, and the power of storytelling to push against cultural and political boundaries.
When I eventually returned to the U.K., films continued to accompany me through different stages of life. As a teenager and young adult, many of my cinematic outings were with boyfriends, and those evenings at the movies have become markers in my memory. I can vividly recall the excitement of seeing Titanic in theaters, feeling the shared awe as the ship loomed on screen. Other nights brought Top Gun, Pretty Woman, Alien, Ghostbusters, Back to the Future, Ghost, and Four Weddings and a Funeral. Each of these films represented not only the culture of their era but also milestones in my own personal journey — the people I was with, the emotions stirred, the laughter, the tears.
Over time, though, life has a way of changing our routines. Marriage, children, work, and countless responsibilities meant that films slipped further into the background. Other than occasional trips to watch Harry Potter with the kids or family-friendly outings to see Paddington, cinema became less of a constant companion. My ex-husband sometimes coaxed me to see the latest James Bond installment or an Indiana Jones adventure, but outside of those, I found myself missing entire waves of releases. Decades of movies passed me by, entire trends and cultural phenomena I never experienced first-hand.
That changed after meeting Jez, who reignited my connection to the cinematic world. Jez owns a staggering collection of nearly two thousand films, a personal archive spanning decades and genres. Being surrounded by that kind of collection was like opening the doors to a treasure vault, and slowly, I began catching up on what I had missed. In the span of a few years, I managed to watch more than 150 films, many of them considered modern classics. The Matrix, The Lord of the Rings trilogy, the sprawling universe of Marvel films, Dune, The Jackal, and the entire Jason Bourne series all became part of my rediscovery. What amazed me most was how much these films had seeped into popular culture even without me having seen them — watching them now was like piecing together the cultural references I had half-understood for years.
Practicalities also shaped this new stage in my film life. When I divorced, I left the television, DVD player, and all the DVDs behind with my ex-husband. Starting fresh, I invested in a Blu-ray player instead, and since then, I’ve steadily built my own collection. Charity shops became a surprising goldmine, offering films for just a few coins and allowing me to pick up everything from Silence of the Lambs to The Italian Job. Each purchase felt like unearthing a small gem, and soon enough, the shelves began filling with Blu-rays that reflected both nostalgia and curiosity.
Certain films stood out as instant favorites in this new chapter of viewing. Wonder moved me deeply, telling the story of a boy with a facial deformity in a way that was both heartbreaking and uplifting. The Expendables was unexpectedly delightful, breathing new life into older action stars by embracing their history and poking fun at it. Passengers struck me as particularly thought-provoking, raising questions about loneliness, morality, and survival in the vast emptiness of space. The Adjustment Bureau fascinated me with its play on fate and free will, while Frequency offered one of those satisfying twists on time that I’ve always adored. Films that toy with timelines or alter perceptions of reality always leave me reflecting long after the credits roll.
Through this rediscovery, I realized I had developed specific tastes I might not have identified before. British films became a particular favorite, perhaps because they often carried a certain intimacy and charm. Movies like The Boat That Rocked, The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, Notting Hill, and The Full Monty painted portraits of community, struggle, and humor in ways that felt close to home. Stories based on real people also began to captivate me. Films such as The Krays, The King’s Speech, Catch Me If You Can, and Bohemian Rhapsody struck a balance between drama and authenticity. Even quirkier tales, like Lady in the Van, managed to stay with me, reminding me of the extraordinary lives that ordinary-seeming people often lead.
Of course, there were humorous moments along the way. Once, while browsing a charity shop with Jez, he picked up The Theory of Everything and, with a grin, remarked, “This is the sort of film you like.” His cheeky tone carried to nearby shoppers, and a woman nearby burst into laughter at the exchange. It was one of those small, spontaneous moments that made the whole experience of film-hunting feel warm and connected.
Even with a steadily growing collection, films have proven easier to manage than other hobbies. Blu-rays are compact, easy to store, and unlike bulky collections, they don’t threaten to take over the house. There’s little risk of a “shelf of shame,” as the only real barrier is time itself. If I want to watch something, all it takes is setting aside an evening.
And while films are now firmly back in my life, they’ve also shifted how I engage with other interests. Evenings that might once have been spent watching YouTube videos about hobbies or browsing forums are now more often devoted to cinema. In some ways, that feels healthier — stories on the screen have a way of feeding the imagination, sparking reflection, and connecting us to people and cultures in ways that scrolling never could.
Rediscovering film has been like reconnecting with an old friend. The memories of my childhood, the joy of youthful movie dates, the long gap of absence, and now the rich tapestry of rediscovery all remind me that cinema isn’t just about entertainment. It’s about identity, history, and emotion. Whether it’s a sweeping epic, a quiet character study, or a quirky comedy, every film has the potential to leave its mark. And in finding my way back, I’ve realized just how much I missed — and how much I still have to look forward to.
Rediscovering the Magic of Cinema: Part Two – Themes, Genres, and the Pull of Storytelling
When I first began catching up on films I had missed, it felt like a personal mission — almost like dusting off a library card after years of neglect and finding the shelves filled with volumes I had yet to explore. At first, the process was overwhelming. With thousands of films released across the decades I had neglected, where should I start? Some people are completists, determined to watch everything in a particular order, by director, or by series. But for me, the journey was less structured. I let instinct guide me. I allowed charity shop discoveries, Jez’s expansive collection, and personal recommendations to set the pace.
Over time, I began noticing patterns in my choices. Certain genres resonated more deeply than others. Certain themes stayed with me long after the credits had rolled. And the films that became my favorites were rarely the ones I expected to love. The rediscovery of cinema became not only about catching up on stories I had missed but also about learning something about myself through the act of watching.
The Power of British Cinema
One of the surprises along the way has been my affection for British films. Growing up abroad and later living in the U.K., British culture always ran alongside my life, but perhaps I didn’t fully appreciate its cinematic output until recently. There is something uniquely grounded about British films. They rarely try to dazzle with explosions or massive spectacle, though there are exceptions. Instead, they often dig into character, community, and everyday struggles.
The Full Monty is a perfect example. At first glance, it seems like a bawdy comedy about unemployed men stripping to make ends meet. But beneath the humor lies something much deeper — a reflection on the loss of dignity that comes with long-term unemployment, the shifting sense of masculinity, and the resilience of ordinary people who refuse to give in to despair. Watching it, I couldn’t help but think of my own work and the realities I’ve seen for people who face similar struggles. The laughter it provokes is genuine, but so is the empathy.
Then there are films like The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, which combine humor with heartfelt commentary about aging, community, and new beginnings. British films have a way of making the extraordinary out of the ordinary, celebrating the quirks of life without needing to overinflate them. Even Notting Hill, essentially a romantic comedy, lingers because it blends charm with a gentle acknowledgment of the absurdity of fame and the universality of love.
Films Rooted in Real Lives
Another category that has deeply captured my attention is films inspired by real people and real events. There is a magnetic pull in stories that are “based on a true story,” perhaps because they remind us that truth is often stranger — and more powerful — than fiction.
The King’s Speech was one such film that left a deep impression. Watching the struggles of King George VI as he worked through his stammer, guided by the unconventional speech therapist Lionel Logue, brought history alive in a way that textbooks never could. It wasn’t just about royalty or politics; it was about vulnerability, perseverance, and the courage to face one’s own limitations.
Similarly, Catch Me If You Can blurred the line between crime and charm, following Frank Abagnale Jr. as he conned his way through multiple identities. Beyond the thrill of the chase, it posed questions about identity, loneliness, and the human desire for connection. In its own way, it became less a story about deception and more one about longing — something we all understand in different forms.
Even films like Bohemian Rhapsody, though dramatized, became a celebration of artistry and individuality, reminding us how creativity can break boundaries. Watching Freddie Mercury brought to life on screen underscored how art and music can transcend time, becoming part of collective memory long after the person is gone.
British films like Mrs Wilson and Lady in the Van showed me another side of this. They were not about grand history or global fame but about intimate, deeply personal stories. Mrs Wilson dealt with the shocking revelation of a husband’s double life, while Lady in the Van unfolded the strange yet touching relationship between Alan Bennett and the eccentric woman who lived in a van on his driveway. Both films reminded me that life is filled with untold stories — ordinary people living extraordinary experiences, often hidden in plain sight.
The Fascination with Time
If I had to pick a single theme that consistently draws me in, it would be films that play with the concept of time. Time travel, altered timelines, the question of destiny versus free will — these ideas intrigue me endlessly.
Films like Frequency and The Adjustment Bureau left me reflecting on the fragility of choice. Frequency explored the bond between father and son across decades, using radio waves as a bridge between timelines. It wasn’t just science fiction; it was about love, regret, and the chance to rewrite personal history. The Adjustment Bureau, on the other hand, asked whether our lives are entirely our own or subtly steered by unseen hands. Watching it, I found myself pondering how much of my own life was shaped by deliberate choices and how much by circumstance.
Other films, from classics like Back to the Future to newer explorations like Passengers, add their own spin to the theme. Even when they cloak themselves in adventure or romance, what lies at the heart of these films is always the same: the question of how we experience time, how we wish we could change it, and whether we can ever escape its flow. Perhaps it appeals to me because it resonates with the way memory itself works — the constant back-and-forth between past, present, and the imagined future.
Collecting as a Window to Discovery
Part of my rediscovery of cinema has been tactile — the physical act of collecting films again. Blu-rays became my chosen medium, partly by accident after buying a player during my divorce, but partly because they provided a satisfying sense of permanence. Each disc feels like a small artifact, something I can hold, stack, and rediscover whenever the mood strikes.
Unlike digital libraries, which often feel overwhelming and intangible, my collection sits quietly in a cabinet, waiting. Each spine on the shelf is a potential adventure. Picking up Silence of the Lambs feels different than scrolling past it in a list. Discovering Truly, Madly, Deeply in a shop for a few coins was more than a purchase; it was like uncovering a hidden piece of Alan Rickman’s legacy, one that I hadn’t yet known existed.
And then there are the moments of humor, like Jez teasing me about my penchant for so-called “serious” films. When he held up The Theory of Everything in a charity shop and declared it “the sort of film you like,” it made me laugh — partly because he was right. But that’s what makes cinema wonderful: we are all drawn to different kinds of stories, and sometimes the ones we least expect end up touching us the most.
Cinema as Connection
The more I watch, the more I realize that cinema is not just about the individual experience but also about connection. My early memories of film were tied to my father, who introduced me to classics and instilled a love for the medium. Later, dates at the cinema were less about the film itself and more about the shared experience of being there with someone else. Today, with Jez, films have become part of how we spend time together, browsing collections, laughing at our different tastes, and finding overlap in unexpected places.
Even beyond personal relationships, films create a broader connection. They link us to cultural moments, shared references, and collective emotions. When I watched The Lord of the Rings for the first time, years after its release, I finally understood what so many conversations and cultural jokes had been referencing. Cinema is not only a personal journey but also a social one, a way of participating in something larger than ourselves.
A Lifelong Conversation
Looking back at the films I’ve rediscovered, I realize they form an ongoing conversation with my own life. Childhood favorites remind me of innocence and discovery. Romantic comedies from my youth remind me of love’s hopeful beginnings. Serious dramas and biographies make me think about resilience, identity, and the complexity of people. Science fiction and time-bending stories remind me that imagination has no limits.
The best films are not just watched; they are lived. They echo in our thoughts, shape our moods, and sometimes even alter the way we see the world. For years, I let this conversation fall silent. But now that I’ve begun listening again, I know I won’t let it go so easily. The rediscovery has been more than catching up on movies. It has been about catching up with myself.
Films, Memory, and the Stories That Shape Us
As I’ve rediscovered cinema over the past few years, one thing has struck me more than anything else: films are never just films. They are more than entertainment, more than a way to fill an evening, more than a two-hour diversion from the stresses of life. They are vessels of memory, mirrors of culture, and sometimes even guides that help us process our own experiences. Looking back at my life through the lens of the films I’ve seen — both old favorites and new discoveries — I realize how much of my personal story is entwined with the stories I’ve watched unfold on screen.
Memories Anchored in the Cinema
One of the most remarkable things about film is how strongly it anchors memory. Ask someone when they saw Titanic, and they won’t just recall the sinking ship; they’ll tell you who they were with, where they sat in the theater, maybe even what they felt as the credits rolled. For me, those memories are vivid. Sitting in a crowded cinema as the grand ship broke apart was unforgettable, but so too were the quiet moments: holding someone’s hand, listening to the hushed sobs around me, realizing that I was part of a shared experience that transcended the film itself.
The same applies to the films of my childhood. Watching Star Wars in Singapore with my father wasn’t just about space battles and lightsabers. It was about feeling small in a vast theater, clutching a bag of sweets, and sensing my father’s excitement beside me. Even films I didn’t fully understand at the time — like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid or The Sting — became part of a deeper bond. The act of watching them together was as significant as the films themselves.
Films become time capsules. When I rewatch something like Pretty Woman or Top Gun, I’m not only revisiting the story but also the period of my life when I first saw it. The hairstyles, the music, the fashions all remind me of an era gone by, but they also remind me of my own youth, my relationships, my hopes and uncertainties at the time.
Films as Emotional Teachers
Another truth I’ve discovered is that films are teachers, whether we realize it or not. Some lessons are subtle, others more direct, but almost every story carries a kernel of wisdom.
Romantic comedies taught me, in my teenage years, that love could be sweet and spontaneous, that misunderstandings could be overcome, and that laughter was often the glue that held relationships together. Of course, reality is more complicated, but the hope and optimism of those films seeped into how I approached love in my own life.
Dramas and biographies, on the other hand, shaped my sense of resilience. Watching The King’s Speech, for instance, wasn’t just about the history of a monarch — it was about persistence in the face of vulnerability. Seeing someone fight their own limitations with courage and humility made me reflect on my own struggles, big and small.
Even action films, with all their explosions and impossible stunts, offered lessons. The Bourne Identity was thrilling, yes, but beneath the surface it was about identity, memory, and the search for truth in a world of deception. Those themes resonated far beyond the chase scenes.
Sometimes the lessons come in unexpected ways. Passengers, for example, was marketed as a love story set in space, but for me it was much more. It posed uncomfortable questions about morality, choice, and loneliness. Would I have made the same decision as the protagonist? Could I forgive such a choice if I were in the woman’s place? These aren’t just cinematic hypotheticals — they are thought experiments that linger, reshaping how we think about human nature.
Cultural Mirrors on the Screen
Beyond personal lessons, films also act as cultural mirrors. They reflect the world we live in, sometimes directly, sometimes through metaphor. Watching older films now with fresh eyes, I can see how they captured the mood of their time.
Take Top Gun. When I first saw it, I was dazzled by the speed, the music, the romance. Watching it now, I can also see how it encapsulated a certain American bravado of the 1980s, a mix of patriotism and spectacle that mirrored the cultural climate of the time. Similarly, Four Weddings and a Funeral doesn’t just tell a story about love and loss; it captures the social quirks and understated humor of Britain in the 1990s.
Science fiction, too, often holds up a mirror. Films like The Matrix ask us to question the nature of reality itself, but beneath the philosophical questions lies a critique of conformity, technology, and control. When I first watched it, long after its release, I realized just how influential it had been — not just as a piece of cinema but as a cultural touchstone that still sparks debate decades later.
Even comedies, which might seem frivolous on the surface, often reflect deeper truths. Airplane! and Monty Python’s Life of Brian may have been irreverent, but they were also bold acts of satire, pushing back against societal norms and expectations. Watching them as part of an underground film club in Singapore made them feel dangerous, but also thrillingly honest. Humor has always been one of the most powerful ways to hold up a mirror to society.
The Role of Absence
Part of my personal relationship with film has also been defined by absence. There were decades where I barely watched anything new, where films slipped into the background of my life. At first, I regretted that absence. I felt as though I had missed out on an entire generation of cinematic experiences. But over time, I’ve come to see it differently.
Perhaps stepping away allowed me to return with fresh eyes. Watching films like The Lord of the Rings or The Marvel series years after their cultural peak gave me a unique perspective. I wasn’t caught up in the hype; I could simply enjoy them for what they were. And in some ways, it made the experience even richer. Seeing them outside their original cultural moment allowed me to reflect not only on the story itself but on the way culture shifts over time.
Absence also highlighted the role of film as comfort. During the years when I didn’t watch many films, I was immersed in work, family, and personal challenges. Looking back, I think part of me avoided cinema because it required emotional investment, and I didn’t always feel I had the space for that. Films demand attention, not just of the eyes but of the heart. Stepping away, then, wasn’t just neglect — it was self-preservation. And returning to cinema now feels like reclaiming that space, giving myself permission to be moved again.
Shared Laughter, Shared Tears
One of the things I love most about films is their ability to unite people. In a world where we often feel divided, cinema can create moments of collective emotion. Sitting in a theater, laughing with strangers at a perfectly timed joke, or sitting in silence as a tragic moment unfolds, reminds us that we are not alone in our feelings.
Even at home, watching with family or friends, the shared experience matters. I remember watching Ghostbusters with friends and laughing until my stomach hurt, or seeing Alien and feeling the palpable tension in the room. These moments are not just about the story on the screen; they are about the way people come together around that story.
With Jez, film has become a way of weaving new shared memories. Our tastes sometimes differ — he may prefer something loud and action-packed, while I gravitate toward the thoughtful and character-driven — but that difference is part of the fun. Browsing his collection, debating what to watch, laughing about our different preferences, has become part of the ritual. Even his teasing about “serious” films has become a running joke, one that makes the whole process of watching and collecting feel playful.
The Lifelong Nature of Cinema
What I’ve realized most in this journey is that cinema is not a phase of life; it is a lifelong companion. It was there in my childhood, holding my hand in the darkened theater with my father. It was there in my youth, coloring the excitement and romance of first dates. It slipped away during certain years, but it never truly disappeared. And now, in this new stage of life, it has returned with a richness I couldn’t have imagined before.
Each film adds to an ever-growing conversation. Some will fade from memory, but others will linger forever. Some will become comfort films I return to again and again. Others will challenge me, forcing me to think in new ways. That is the beauty of cinema: it is never static. It changes as we change. A film we saw at twenty may feel entirely different when we watch it at fifty because we are no longer the same person.
For me, this rediscovery has been a reminder that it is never too late to reconnect with something you love. Whether it’s cinema, music, books, or any other passion, the joy lies not in how much you’ve missed but in how much you still have left to experience. The shelves are still full, the reels are still turning, and the stories are still waiting to be told.
The Evolution of Watching
It’s impossible to talk about cinema today without acknowledging how much the way we watch has changed. When I was younger, going to the cinema was the only way to see new releases. Later, video stores and DVDs brought films into our homes, offering both convenience and the novelty of building collections. Now, streaming platforms have transformed the landscape completely, placing thousands of titles at our fingertips at any given moment.
For some, this abundance is liberating. For others, it’s overwhelming. For me, it’s a bit of both. While I appreciate the accessibility of digital libraries, there is something I cherish about the physicality of Blu-rays. Owning a film feels different from scrolling past it on a screen. It becomes a conscious choice, a small act of preservation, almost like keeping a piece of art in your home.
The way we watch may continue to evolve — perhaps toward more immersive technologies, perhaps toward even more interconnected media — but the heart of it remains the same. The ritual of sitting down, dimming the lights, and surrendering to a story is timeless. Whether it’s on a massive cinema screen or a modest television, the experience of being pulled into another world is what matters most.
Films as Companions Through Life
Looking back, I can see how films have accompanied me through every stage of life, even when I didn’t realize it. As a child, they were magical adventures shared with my father. As a young adult, they were part of the thrill of dating, of discovering love and heartbreak. During my years as a parent, films became moments of family bonding — from Harry Potter marathons to family outings for animated stories that still make me smile.
And now, in this stage of life, films have become a way of reclaiming space for myself. They are not about obligation or compromise; they are about choice. I choose which films to watch, which stories to revisit, which characters to invite into my evenings. In that sense, films are not just entertainment — they are companions. They sit quietly on my shelf until I need them, waiting to make me laugh, cry, or think.
This realization has also made me more aware of the role cinema will continue to play in the future. There will always be new films to discover, old films to revisit, and favorite films to share with new people. Each stage of life brings new interpretations. A comedy I laughed at in my twenties might strike me differently in my fifties, when I see the subtleties I once missed. A drama I once found slow might resonate more deeply now that I have more life experience to bring to it. Films grow with us, even as they remain unchanged.
The Joy of Sharing Stories
One of the greatest pleasures of cinema is sharing it with others. Watching a film alone can be powerful, but watching with someone else adds a new dimension. There’s the immediate joy of laughing together, gasping at a twist, or discussing the ending long after the credits roll. But there’s also the quieter joy of simply sitting side by side, knowing that you are experiencing the same story in real time.
With Jez, film has become a shared language. His expansive collection opened the door for me to catch up on classics I had missed, and our differing tastes keep the experience fresh. He gravitates toward action and spectacle; I often prefer something slower, more reflective. But that difference is part of what makes it fun. We tease each other, compromise, and occasionally surprise ourselves by enjoying something we didn’t expect to like. The process of choosing, watching, and then talking about films has become part of our relationship, a ritual that strengthens our bond.
Sharing films extends beyond partners or family. Recommending a film to a friend, lending a disc, or even just reminiscing about a shared favorite can spark connection. Films are cultural reference points, shorthand for emotions and experiences. Saying “it felt like something out of The Matrix” or “they were like characters from Notting Hill” instantly paints a picture because these stories have become part of our collective language.
Learning Through Characters
Another reason cinema matters so deeply is the way it allows us to step into other lives. Through film, we can live countless experiences we might never encounter ourselves. We can travel through history, explore other cultures, or imagine futures beyond our reach. We can see the world through the eyes of people utterly different from us, and in doing so, expand our empathy.
Watching Wonder reminded me of the struggles faced by children who are visibly different, showing both the cruelty of others and the resilience of the human spirit. The Expendables reminded me that even aging heroes have a place in storytelling, celebrating experience rather than dismissing it. Passengers forced me to confront uncomfortable moral questions about loneliness and survival. Each of these films left me reflecting on what it means to be human, how we treat one another, and how we make choices in difficult circumstances.
These lessons are not confined to the screen. They seep into daily life, shaping the way I see the people around me. They remind me to be patient, to be kind, to recognize that everyone has a story behind their actions. Films may be fiction, but the emotions they stir are profoundly real.
The Balance of Hobbies
Of course, films exist alongside other hobbies. In my case, evenings spent watching movies often mean less time spent on other interests. There are fewer late-night browsing sessions, fewer YouTube videos about niche hobbies, and less time lost in endless scrolling. In many ways, this has been a positive shift. Films feel more intentional. They require me to stop, focus, and invest in a story. That act of slowing down is something I’ve come to value.
Compared to other hobbies, films are also easier to manage. A Blu-ray collection, even a large one, fits neatly into a cabinet. There is no looming “shelf of shame,” no unfinished projects waiting guiltily in the corner. The only barrier is time, and that makes the experience less stressful, more rewarding. Watching a film feels like closing a small, complete chapter — a satisfaction that other hobbies sometimes lack.
The Future of My Film Journey
As I look to the future, I feel excited by how much there is still to discover. Cinema is vast, spanning more than a century of creativity across every culture and language. I’ve only scratched the surface. There are silent films I’ve never seen, foreign films waiting to broaden my horizons, and contemporary works that will one day be considered classics.
I also know that my tastes will continue to evolve. What captivates me now may not be the same in ten years, and that’s part of the joy. Cinema is not static. It grows with us, reflecting back different truths as we change. I may find myself more drawn to comedies as I get older, or perhaps I’ll discover a new love for documentaries. The beauty is that the possibilities are endless.
Most importantly, I know that films will continue to provide comfort, reflection, and connection. They will remind me of my past, help me process my present, and inspire me to imagine my future. Whether it’s a sweeping epic, a quirky indie, or a classic I’ve never seen before, each film is another chance to step into a story, to learn, and to feel.
Final Thoughts
Looking back over the journey of writing about my rediscovery of films, I realize that what began as a simple hobby has grown into something much more meaningful. At first, I thought of it as catching up on classics I had missed, filling in gaps, and exploring Jez’s seemingly endless collection. But as I’ve gone deeper, I’ve come to see cinema not just as entertainment, but as a thread that has been woven through my life, connecting different times, places, and people.
Films were there in my childhood, when my father took me to the cinema or introduced me to screenings that shaped my imagination. They were there during my school years, when film clubs showed stories that weren’t supposed to be seen but became formative all the same. They accompanied me as a young adult, sitting in darkened theaters on dates, laughing or crying in sync with the crowd. Later, as a parent, they became shared family outings — a reminder that even in the busiest of times, stories could still create common ground.
And then, for a while, they slipped away. Life has a way of shifting priorities, and for years films weren’t as present. Yet they never disappeared entirely. They lingered, waiting to be rediscovered. That rediscovery, helped along by Jez’s passion and by my own curiosity, has been like reconnecting with an old friend. Watching films again has reminded me of who I was, shown me who I’ve become, and helped me imagine who I might still be.
What stands out most is how films carry meaning beyond the screen. A comedy isn’t just a comedy; it’s a reminder of laughter shared with others. A drama isn’t just a story; it’s a lens through which we can see our own struggles more clearly. A science-fiction adventure isn’t just spectacle; it’s a way of exploring human fears and hopes in unfamiliar settings. The magic of cinema is that it allows us to step into other lives while at the same time illuminating our own.
Building a Blu-ray collection may not sound like much, but for me it has become an act of intention. Each disc is a small choice, a deliberate invitation to keep stories alive in my home. Unlike endless scrolling, where films are easy to overlook, a disc on a shelf calls out, asking to be revisited. In that way, the collection isn’t just about owning things — it’s about curating experiences, building a personal library of emotions, lessons, and memories.
I’ve also discovered that cinema isn’t just about the films themselves, but about the connections they foster. Watching with Jez, teasing each other about preferences, discovering surprises in genres we didn’t think we’d enjoy — those moments matter just as much as the films. Talking with friends, swapping recommendations, or even laughing with strangers in charity shops over unexpected finds shows that films can spark conversation and create bonds where none existed before.
Perhaps that’s the greatest gift of all: the reminder that stories are not meant to be consumed alone. They are meant to be shared, discussed, argued over, and remembered. They give us a common language, a set of reference points that help us make sense of life. Whether it’s quoting a line, humming a theme tune, or comparing notes on a favorite character, films keep us connected not only to the art itself but to one another.
As I think about what comes next, I know there will always be new discoveries waiting — silent films I’ve never seen, foreign cinema that opens windows to other cultures, modern releases that will one day be considered classics. I know my tastes will continue to shift and evolve. But that’s part of the joy. Cinema, like life, is never finished. It keeps unfolding, offering fresh perspectives with every viewing.
So my final thought is a simple one: films are more than entertainment. They are companions, teachers, and mirrors. They remind us of where we’ve been, help us make sense of where we are, and inspire us to dream about where we might go. Reconnecting with cinema has been like reopening a door I didn’t realize had been closed, and through it I’ve found not just stories on a screen, but new ways of seeing the world.
And that, I think, is what makes the journey worthwhile.