When cinema was a way of life in Vigo

By Álvaro J. Díaz-Mella

Every morning, when I open my window, the first thing I see is the Fraga Theatre-Cinema. It's curious. After a lifetime living in Vigo, I've ended up in front of one of the buildings that best symbolizes the city's cinematic history. And yet, I had hardly been to the cinema for years.

Ricardo Mella and Miguel Anxo Bastos, two uncomfortable people from Vigo
Vigo is dying. The city of lights is going out

A few days ago I decided to break that routine. I went alone to see the latest Spider-Man movie. I didn't like it very much. However, there was something that did comfort me. The theater was full of parents with their children and groups of teenagers laughing, talking about the movie, and making plans for later. For a few moments, I had the feeling of seeing ourselves many years ago. I left the theater certain that I had rediscovered a habit I had abandoned for far too long.

There are cities that also grow within us. Not because their streets change, but because each stage of our lives becomes forever linked to a specific place. When I think of my childhood and adolescence, I inevitably return to the cinemas of Vigo. I don't just recall the films. I return, above all, to the person I was when I watched them.

I was born in December 1961, when Vigo was experiencing the golden age of its cinemas. In the mid-sixties, it boasted around twenty cinemas operating simultaneously between the city center and the surrounding neighborhoods, an extraordinary concentration for a city of its size. But it was much more than just an abundance of screens. The cinemas were part of the daily lives of several generations of Vigo residents and ended up becoming the places where we grew up, made friends, and accumulated memories that remain intact to this day.

My earliest memories are linked to the parish cinema. I would go hand in hand with my parents, and for very little money, we would enjoy a double feature, an orange soda, and some of the sweets we had back then. First came the Disney movies. Then those endless double features of Roman epics, martial arts films, or Italian cowboy movies that fascinated us so much as children. At that age, everything seemed immense: the darkness of the theater, the size of the screen, and the excitement of waiting for the movie to start turned an ordinary afternoon into an adventure.

Soon after that came the first outings with our school friends. We no longer needed to be accompanied by older children. Meeting up to go to the cinema was enough to make us feel a little more independent. The film mattered, of course, but so did everything surrounding it.

With adolescence came the changes in the theaters, but not in the rituals. The big premieres awaited us at the Fraga, the Tamberlick, the Odeón, the Cinema Radio, the Cine Vigo, the Ronsel, and so many other cinemas that gave Vigo its unique character. The films changed too, and perhaps without realizing it, we changed with them. Then came Jaws, Star Wars, and The Exorcist. Some made us dream; others impressed us far more than we were willing to admit. I confess that The Exorcist kept me up so many nights that even today, when someone mentions it, I remember that first time I saw it on the big screen.

There were no cell phones or WhatsApp groups. If you wanted to meet up with friends, you had to call their home phone and hope they answered, not their parents. Then came the walk downtown, the discussions about which movie to choose, and the inevitable queue at the ticket booth. That wait was also part of the plan. We looked at the posters, talked about the new releases, and made plans for later. Before we knew it, the movie had already started.

And when it ended, the afternoon still went on. Across from Fraga was the Blue Hut, and a few years later, the Corner Hut became another of those places inseparable from our youth. I still remember the first hot dog I ate and, later, the first hamburger. Today they may seem like insignificant memories, but back then they were part of the same ritual. We didn't get together to eat a hamburger; we got together to go to the movies, and the hamburger came later.

Over the years, some cinemas closed and other ways to enjoy movies emerged. Television arrived in homes, then video, then streaming platforms. Each innovation made watching movies at home more convenient. However, amidst all this progress, something difficult to replace also disappeared. Vigo didn't just lose cinemas. It lost, almost without realizing it, a way of experiencing the city. Those cinemas weren't just buildings where movies were shown. They were meeting places. Entire families, groups of friends, young couples, and neighbors from the same district all came together there. The cinema was as much a part of Vigo's life as its squares, its cafes, or its shopping streets.

I myself hardly ever went to the cinema anymore. Convenience is a powerful motivator. So is the vast selection offered by streaming platforms, which allow you to watch almost any film at any time without leaving home. There is, moreover, another reason, perhaps more important. Before, a simple phone call to a landline was enough to arrange to meet up with friends. Today, we are all still friends, but each of us has our own family, our own job, our own schedules, and our own obligations. Finding a time that works for everyone is much more difficult.

That's why I went to the cinema alone that afternoon. And I think I'll do it again. I've resolved to go back to the cinema as regularly as I'd lost. I'll probably often choose a showing in the original version at the Multicines Norte. I would have liked to share that plan with some of those old friends, but that's life.

Perhaps true nostalgia isn't about missing the cinemas that have disappeared, but rather the stage of our lives we lived within them. We can still hold onto something of that spirit. As long as I walk into a darkened theater and the lights go down, I will continue to feel, even if only for a moment, the same wonder I felt as a child walking hand-in-hand with my parents to the local cinema. And as long as I see other children enter with their parents or groups of teenagers take their seats with the same excitement we felt then, I will know that, in some way, the story continues.

Because, in the end, cinema was also the stage where many people from Vigo wrote a part of their lives.

Álvaro J. Díaz-Mella
Vigo, August 2026

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Photo: HombreDHojalata / Wikimedia. The old Fraga Cinema Theatre, in Vigo.