Movies with my dad

Some of my most precious memories were formed in the cinema.

The buttery, warm smell of fresh popcorn. The whirr of the IceBlast machines. Heavy musk in the air. A familiar feeling of comfort. Stepping into the cinema with my dad is like visiting a second home.

“An adult and a child for Up please.”

“An adult and a teen to see Mockingjay: Part One please.”

“Two adults for Dune: Part Two please.”

One of my smallest, yet mightiest, achievements was paying for my dad’s ticket to see the latest Dune film (a masterpiece, by the way). The £16 his IMAX ticket set me back will never repay the probable thousands he has spent on our cinema trips over the years, but for me to say “my treat” had more monetary value than I can describe.

As a child, my dad was a “weekend dad”; I would see him every other weekend and occasionally for dinner in the week. In my teens I began to split my time between my parents a little more evenly, then I spent three years living with him full-time before moving out independently. Throughout those lifestyle changes for us both, our one constant has been our trips to the cinema together.

My dad and I on one of ‘his’ weekends, circa 2011. Thank god these glasses went out of fashion.

My dad has been a lover of film his entire life. A true child of the 70s, he loves the Star Wars franchise and the classics from his time (it was an amazing period for cinema, after all).

As I grew up he introduced me to Jurassic Park, The Breakfast Club, and, one of my favourite films of all time, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. I can still feel his old corduroy sofa as we spent slouchy Saturday evenings watching these, a bowl of microwave popcorn in hand - approximately one-third of it still kernels.

Over the years our adoration of film has grown like vines, twisting around each other and splitting off, only to reconnect. We both love rom coms and sci-fis, but where he enjoys a horror film I could think of nothing worse than sitting petrified for two hours.

My dad, stepmum and I at an outdoor cinema in Lanzarote, 2017. The film was La La Land - a romantic horror, if you ask me.

Post-movie debriefs are a ritual, delicately analysing every minute on the drives or walks home from “the pictures”. If one of us has watched a great film without the other, we enthusiastically tell them about it with childlike wonder.

We share inside jokes that probably aren’t that inside, but still a wink-wink-nudge-nudge between us - pronouncing Ari Aster’s iconic folk horror as “MidsOmAAAr”, referring to the Twilight movies as “Twiglet”, or picking up on a newer reference from the film we’d just watched (Marvel films are particular favourites for fresh quotes).

During long drives to visit my grandparents in London, Dad would play Kermode and Mayo’s Film Review on BBC Sounds (now independently Kermode and Mayo’s Take) and we’d listen to their thoughts on the latest releases, or we’d drive back from the cinema and fast forward to the interview with the director or actor whose film we’d just watched.

Now, when catching up on the phone or over a cuppa, we’ll ask each other “did you listen to Kermode and Mayo this week?” - it’s all it takes to spark a conversation about our favourite topics.

With that bond comes a fierce loyalty. My boyfriend, who is also a big film fan, and I both have monthly memberships to our local cinema. “Soph, do you fancy seeing [x] this week?” “No, I want to see that with my dad.”

It’s sacred father-daughter time and something I feel extremely protective over.

I have inherited a lot from my dad, and I’m proud to say a lot of my favourite things about myself are traits I see in him. Our connected love of cinema is one of our similarities I hold dearest.

From the thrill of a new trailer, to the comfort of an old favourite, to simply stepping foot into a cinema, my dad is, and will always be, the first person who comes to mind. Our shared love of cinema is more than a hobby; it’s a connection that has shaped my life.

My dad and I at the 2023 Hay Festival.