Before we moved to our small town, I thought all movies were now the big box kind. You buy your ticket from a nameless receptionist and find your way to the slice of the box for the movie you have chosen. You stumble among the seats in the three-quarter darkness to an empty one, trying to avoid stepping on toes. You listen to screen advertisements for ten minutes or so, depending on how early you made it to the show.

Then we moved here and discovered the leftover, pre-World War II theater on our town’s main street. It was built in 1937. In spite of resembling something a Soviet collective might have created, it’s one of the community’s beloved icons.

Before the show, we line up outside and take our place, carrying on conversations with those we know. We greet the ticket seller and perhaps nod to the movie’s owners, who often stand by to open the door. We might buy refreshments from the stand squeezed into an alcove just before we enter the viewing area.

Since we have only one movie, the lights remain on until show time. We greet friends and neighbors, maybe carrying around our popcorn to walk the aisle and check on who’s here. A few people stare at cells or tablets but most talk or observe. No reason to shush anyone. As the proprietors of the theater point out, it’s noisy, a community kind of noise. If somebody is celebrating a birthday, friends make it known with the appropriate song.

Once in a while, the owners invite a local musician to play a violin or to sing before the movie begins.

The lights dim. We hush. The previews flash by, then the movie. When it’s over, we may stay and watch the credits, discussing the story. Then we slowly line up and crowd out, still talking with friends.

Some of us living close by walk home. The line of cars for everyone else lets those checking the streets from a window to pretty much guess what time it is. The movie’s over for another evening.

That’s community in a big boxless society.