Many years ago, when I was a small child, we would attend movies at a mysterious old theater called the Manos. Its free-standing ticket booth and colorful framed posters beckoned one in with an air of entering an adventurous place. This was long before the days of cable, VHS rentals, or any type of streaming. Movies were special, a miraculous event that sometimes magically occurred in one’s own environs. Trips to the theater were as anticipated and prepared for as any sporting event, museum visit, or play.

First you chose a film from the helpful section in the local newspaper. They actually had a few pages devoted to this, and the Pittsburgh Press was revered because their Sunday edition contained even more listings, letting one know what cinematic treasures might come to your town. So, you’d open the paper and see what was playing at the Manos, the local mall theater, and (in summer) the drive-ins.

If there was something of quality (or so you hoped) at the Manos, the next step was to pick a day, usually a Saturday afternoon, and go off to the theater. Entering the lobby was an experience in itself, since it was quite dark, even in the summer. There was no huge facing window as in modern venues, so you were ensconced at once in a cozy room that contained a long concession area and the restrooms.

The popcorn and soda machines functioned behind a lengthy glass counter, which held the candy and other treats. This area was often decorated, depending on the season and various films that the management wished to promote. Colorful paper chains or autumn leaves were hung up, or simply smaller handbills with movie images. I recall more detail at the holidays: Halloween would bring cobwebs or paper witches and skeletons, Christmas colored lights and small Santa figures. It was all a part of the otherworldly milieu.

Once you got your snacks and soda, you entered the glory of the theater itself. Time has dulled these details, but I still remember the dignified curtains that obscured the screen until the show started. I cannot recall the exact color, possibly red or a dark brown. And it was dark inside, far more so than today’s equivalents, since there were fewer side lights.

The main feature was often preceded by a short or a few cartoons, at least in the ’70s when I was still quite young. The animation included the Pink Panther and Warner Brothers cartoons; the live-action shorts varied from comedic stories to educational material, like views of other nations. Then the movie itself would come on, and you were happily engulfed in another world for a few hours. I forget who originally called cinema “dreaming with your eyes open,” but it certainly seemed like it in those days. Since you could not count on the film hitting VHS or streaming in a few months, paying attention was essential.

The first thing I have a clear recollection of seeing at the Manos was Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory. My brother and I saw many Disney films there, both the classic cartoons and live-action fare such as Follow Me, Boys! and The Shaggy D.A. And then there were the Sun Pictures classics. I remember being particularly impressed by In Search of Noah’s Ark. Most of the movies were wonderful, and seeing them in such a lovely and unusual place enhanced them even more.

Over the years, economic changes took their toll on our small town as commerce became increasingly centered on urban strips. The Manos hung on for a while, relying on weekend matinees and even achieving a cult status as the place where one could view edgier fare like The Kids Are Alright, The Rose, and the latest horror/slasher offerings. I still loved going there as a teen, and the owners kept up the lobby and general look of the theater fairly well. Sadly, they were losing money due to the prevalence of mall theaters and had to sell the property in the mid ’80s. It was a blow to the downtown area and to many local movie fans. The shiny new multiplex was convenient, but we missed the Manos and its unique charms.

Today, we have hundreds of cinematic choices at our fingertips via technology, and enhanced theaters with digital sound and huge screens. Yet somehow, that special feeling of leaving the world temporarily and becoming immersed in another one is sometimes missing. Maybe it’s something that only those of us from a less-enhanced time can relate to. Nonetheless, the Manos was a magical place, one that I feel very lucky to have experienced. The current trend of reopening small theaters in some areas has made me hopeful that others, young and old, will discover that magic anew.