The movie chosen that night was (Míngtiān huì gèng hǎo), which translates to "Tomorrow Will Be Better" in English. It was a title filled with hope, just like the story the film sought to tell. Widely regarded as one of the seminal works of the Hong Kong noir genre, this film carried a long history in the landscape of Asian cinema.
Ryu Ji-ho and his friends managed to snag seats in the front row of the second-floor balcony, right behind the safety railing. Back then, there was no assigned seating system; those who arrived early got the best spots. With excitement painted clearly across their faces, Ryu and his friends had ensured themselves a prime view from up high.
The theater was laid out like a classic opera house, with a ground floor and a balcony above. Most of the audience, including Ryu, preferred sitting upstairs. From there, they could take in the broader perspective, as if they were observing the world from above.
"Not many people here tonight," Ryu mumbled softly, his gaze drifting toward the almost empty ground floor.
He leaned slightly against the railing, surveying the atmosphere around him. There was something magical about the silence of a cinema as the lights began to dim, pulling him into a wave of nostalgia.
When Míngtiān huì gèng hǎo was first released, it hadn't been met with much enthusiasm. The film barely made a profit, even though its quality was undeniable. But its fate shifted when it was re-screened in smaller theaters. Word of mouth began to spread, slowly drawing more attention. The movie's popularity truly exploded when it started showing in double-feature cinemas. After it was released on video, it became a massive phenomenon.
"Back then, before the major corporations dominated film distribution, things were far less organized. A movie's success often hinged on pure luck," Ryu mused, recalling those days.
In those times, theaters were categorized into three types: premier theaters, re-release theaters, and the ones that showed double features. Where a film first premiered had a profound effect on its reputation. Famous cinemas in Seoul, like the Daehan Theater, Piccadilly, and Dansungsa, were considered prestigious venues. Movies shown there gained a certain status, making it easier to attract large audiences. Meanwhile, theaters outside of Seoul had to make do with the leftover buzz that arrived much later. It wasn't uncommon for movie posters in smaller regions to carry the label Now Showing at Top Cinemas, as a tactic to lure in more viewers.
As the lights inside the theater slowly dimmed, the atmosphere became thick with anticipation. The gentle hum of the projector began to fill the air, breaking the silence. Ryu, who had grown used to the silence of digital projections, found himself smiling. That sound—the click and whirl of the old projector—stirred memories, evoking a sense of longing for the days when celluloid films ruled the silver screen.
"Celluloid films would wear out over time," he thought, reminiscing.
"The more times it was played in Seoul, the more scratches and marks appeared on the film. By the time the movie reached smaller theaters, it often looked like a storm was raging on the screen. And in double-feature cinemas, it wasn't uncommon for critical scenes to be missing altogether, leaving the audience frustrated."
After a few minutes, the long newsreel from *Dae-han News* began to roll, followed by a series of film trailers. Then, with a deep, rumbling sound, the iconic logo of appeared on the screen, signaling the start of the eagerly awaited film.
In the charged silence that followed, Ryu could feel his heart beat just a bit faster. His mind wanders to the movie Cinema Paradiso, where the main character, Chang Guo, sheds a tear while watching a reel of old film memories given to him by Alfredo, the projectionist from his hometown. There was something similar in the air that night—an emotional current as if Ryu was becoming part of the story playing out on the big screen before him. Like Chang Guo, he too felt the magic of it all... but this time, the tale unfolding was his own.
As the movie flickered to life, Ryu's thoughts floated back to his younger days, when trips to the cinema were rare treasures. He remembered the excitement of seeing a film for the first time, the palpable thrill of the unknown, the collective gasp of the audience at a pivotal moment, and the conversations afterward that seemed to stretch long into the night. Back then, movies weren't just entertainment; they were events, moments of shared wonder that had the power to transport you to another world.
Tonight felt like a return to that era. The murmur of the crowd, the dimming lights, the rhythmic hum of the projector—it all carried a sense of ceremony, like stepping into a sacred space where time slowed, and reality blurred into the world of the film. Ryu took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment settle over him.
As the story on the screen progressed, Ryu was struck by how timeless it felt. Even though the film had been made decades ago, its themes of hope, resilience, and the promise of a better tomorrow resonated just as strongly now as they had back then. He couldn't help but marvel at the way a well-crafted story could transcend time and space, connecting people across generations and cultures.
By the time the final credits rolled, the theater was bathed in a soft, reverent silence. No one rushed to leave. Ryu sat still for a moment, savoring the lingering emotions that hung in the air. He glanced at his friends, who seemed equally lost in thought, and smiled. It was in moments like these that he remembered why he loved cinema so much—its ability to bring people together, to inspire, to provoke, and, most of all, to remind us that, no matter how dark the present might seem, tomorrow truly can be better.
As they left the theater that night, Ryu felt lighter, as if a small part of him had been renewed.