People love to tell you their favorite movies and exactly why they matter. They have Top 10 lists…sometimes Top 5 if they’re feeling decisive. They can recite dialogue from films they haven’t seen in twenty years and somehow remember entire scenes more clearly than the names of second cousins on their mother’s side of the family. It’s true. I know because I’m one of them. I hand out movie quotes freely like cocktail napkins at a wedding. Most days there’s a line for every occasion.
But there are two movies that stand apart in my memory for entirely different reasons.
Both were seen at the old Plainview movie theater on Old Country Road — which, for bonus Long Island points, is now a medical office building. Nothing says “the magic of cinema” quite like a podiatrist’s waiting room where the popcorn machine once stood.
The first movie was Disney’s Herbie the Love Bug. Three mothers and about eight sticky children packed into one row on a rainy weekday during summer vacation. I remember the laughter, the chaos, and my mother quizzing us in the car afterward.
“What was your favorite part?”
“Which scene made you laugh the hardest?”
She wanted details. She wanted us to pay attention to the story.
The second movie was That’s Entertainment. If memory serves me correctly, it was a celebration of filmmaking itself — a giant love letter to Hollywood filled with scenes from legendary movies spanning decades. I remember loving the movie, but what stayed with me most wasn’t on the screen.
It was my mother’s face.
The second the lights dimmed and the music began, she transformed. Her entire expression softened and lit up with wonder. She was completely captivated by the screen in front of her. And that’s how it always was at 36 Grant Avenue. Mommy loved movies — and more importantly, she loved where they could take you.
Over the years we talked endlessly about television shows, films, writing, and performances. My favorites. Her favorites. My father’s picks. She appreciated sharp dialogue and stories that actually said something. She used words like “glorious” and “rich” when talking about writing. If a script fell flat, she’d dismiss it in seconds. If it sparkled, she celebrated it like art.
And somewhere in all those conversations, I realized I wanted to write for the screen — big or small. I wrote constantly. Stories. Scenes. Fragments of dialogue. When college applications rolled around, I had a plan all mapped out. I wanted to attend Northwestern University for Journalism, earn a practical living, and secretly write films on the side. I thought I had cracked the code to adulthood.
Heavy sigh.
I was accepted to Northwestern, but somewhere along the line I was told maybe that path wasn’t realistic for me. Business Management and English Literature were “safer.” More “solid.” More sensible.
So life moved on.
The writing career quietly drifted off after college while the corporate world came rushing in. I worked hard. I had success. I laughed. I traveled. I built a life. But somewhere underneath all of it sat a tiny unlit theater marquee flickering inside me waiting for someone to turn it back on.
Today, sitting in Row F, Seat 17 watching The Devil Wears Prada 2, I felt unexpectedly emotional. Not just because Stanley Tucci delivered a line with the kind of perfection only Stanley Tucci can deliver — but because the movie reminded me what my dream always was.
To entertain people.
To create something that lets someone escape their life for two hours while happily inhaling buttery popcorn and washing it down with a suspiciously oversized Diet Coke.
I glanced over to my right at Julia in Seat 16, happily watching the movie while balancing popcorn and what appeared to be a 675-ounce Diet Coke like a professional. And quietly, on the ride home, I reminded her to listen to her dreams. To never ignore the thing inside her that lights up when she talks about what she loves.
I told her to keep the fire alive inside her brain.
Because dreams may get delayed. They may get buried under careers, responsibilities, fear, practicality, or time. But sometimes all it takes is one dark movie theater, one perfect line of dialogue, or one memory of your mother smiling at a screen to remind you who you were before the world told you who you should be.
And maybe…just maybe…that fire never really goes out at all.
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