Scott Fitzgerald’s “The Love of the Last Tycoon” could describe my coming-of-age: “Though I haven’t ever been on the screen, I was brought up in pictures.” Both of my parents have backgrounds in film - they met cute while working on an independent feature - and I grew up visiting sets with my dad when I was on break from school. “You were right - it was a young Norman Lloyd!” We’d go down rabbit holes and hop from one actor or director to another. Childhood movie nights at home with my parents and brother would often end with us opening “The Film Encyclopedia,” by Ephraim Katz, an impressive A-to-Z volume that compiled bios and credits from the silent era to the early aughts. Before Google and IMDb, if you weren’t sure of the name of a certain scene-stealing character actor, or who was responsible for the exquisite editing, the credits were your source of confirmation. Now they run at the end, like the answers to a special round of movie trivia for those in the know. Back in the golden age of Hollywood, the credits (albeit far less comprehensive) appeared at the beginning of the movie, for all to see. My parents were practicing what now feels like a lost pastime, one I happily joined in as I got older. But my parents were still in their seats, eyes on the screen. Their ritual confused me as a kid: “Muppet Treasure Island” was over Kermit and his friends were reunited and the villain had his comeuppance. I learned from my parents, who would always sit in the dark theater watching the names scroll down the screen while the ushers trickled in and the rest of the audience collected their belongings. I watch the closing credits of every movie I see.
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