Summer of Silver: An analog journey into the past of drive-in moviegoing

Forever ago, when it used to take 6 months for a movie to hit the rental shelves next to the grocery store, the experience of cinema found a crucial foothold in my upbringing. Unlike so many other aspects of growing up, the sensation of watching light and color transform into something comparable to a gate or portal balanced the scales of age and made it possible for a youthful spirit to come out in everyone, from siblings to grandparents. It was a vehicle for seeing a different world or a time long past, and in many ways opened my mind and heart to the possibility of using such things in the future—to take a palette of colors, shapes, and sights and create a memory. As I aged out of elementary school, there were stories brought up of theaters that didn’t exist anymore on the East Coast—the antithesis of the air-conditioned and neon-lit homes of IMAX.

Open-air galleries of silver screens, surrounded by removed car tops, parking spots, and static- laced radio channels roaring through the heat and darkness of summer nights. I made it a goal of mine to experience it one day, even if it meant going across the country to discover it.

Fast forward two decades, and the opportunity came to enjoy this on my own terms when I relocated to the Midwest as my new home. My work had brought me to Missouri, and while the main reason for the move was career-based, I found myself wanting to explore the region deeply — to understand it and see its beauty.

My task list wrapped up by three in the afternoon on a Friday, and just over an hour west of town was a small operation still running a double feature during the warmer months. The timing was perfect, and the place had no issues with me reaching out ahead of time to ask if I could bring my camera. I stopped by the apartment to grab some extra film, packed a camp chair into the Jeep, and headed westbound to experience it firsthand.

I arrived in line and waited some time to hand a twenty to the booth man. The honor system of not sneaking spirits into the venue was reinforced, and directions were given for where SUVs could park. He liked my old camera sitting in the passenger seat and told me to say hi to the security guy so he knew what I was doing.

After parking close to the front of the snack stand, I put my sunglasses up and found my way over to the chain-link fence that separated the booth entrance from the lawn. Security was excited to hear someone was photographing the place. A few others walking past and overhearing the conversation chimed in, too, excitedly telling me about theaters in other states they’d taken road trips to enjoy and offering recommendations for which one to see next.

Entering the snack booth, several staff members were excited to hear that someone was taking pictures. Explaining that my camera wasn’t digital felt right at home in a space dedicated to preserving an experience undisturbed and intact for over 50 years. They asked what my project was about, and I gave my elevator pitch for the joy and excitement of road trips across America—finding my memories in new places and one day having a book to showcase it all.

They wished me all the success they could and handed over my popcorn and soda with a kind reminder that the first screening started right after sunset.

The rest of the evening fulfilled those old dreams of the kid I used to be. Checking my boxes off a side quest at a time felt enriching. And for the first time in a long while, it felt like something I’d been chasing since I was a kid had finally caught up to me.