In an age of streaming platforms, 4K screens, and digital projection, it is easy to forget that for over a century cinema lived on strips of celluloid.
Last week, I stepped back into that world at the India Habitat Centre, New Delhi, for an evening that celebrated not just a film, but the heritage of cinema itself.
The occasion was the inauguration of the 35 mm Film Club, the first initiative of its kind in India and South Asia. The club was formally launched by legendary lyricist Santosh Anand, whose immortal song “Zindagi Ki Na Toote Ladi” from Kranti continues to touch hearts even today. As the clapperboard came down, it felt less like the launch of a club and more like the revival of a tradition.
The mission of the club is both simple and important: every month, a restored classic from the National Film Archive of India (NFAI) will be screened in its original 35 mm format, allowing audiences to experience cinema the way generations before us did.
For its inaugural screening, the choice could not have been more appropriate—Kranti (1981), one of the landmark films of Indian cinema. The print being screened had been painstakingly restored by NFAI, preserving a piece of our cinematic legacy for future generations.
When Kranti was first released, its 179-minute runtime was spread across 21 individual 35 mm reels, each holding about 8.5 minutes of film. Projectionists had to skilfully switch between reels every few minutes to keep the story flowing seamlessly. During the restoration process, the National Film Archive of India (NFAI) combined these into larger double-capacity 10 reels, reducing handling, minimizing wear, and helping preserve the film for future generations. This careful work also makes it easier to screen restored prints on the handful of surviving 35 mm projectors, including the newly launched IHC 35 mm Film Club.
Yet, as much as I enjoyed Kranti, my attention was repeatedly drawn to an unsung hero hidden behind the audience.
Inside the projection booth stood a Cinesales KPK-23, a veteran 35 mm projector that has survived the digital revolution. Decades ago, machines like this were the backbone of cinema halls across India. Today, very few remain operational. As the projector sprang to life, its beam of light carried thousands of individual frames across the auditorium, transforming a strip of film into a living story.
There was something magical about knowing that every image on the screen was physically passing through a machine at 24 frames per second. The slight flicker, the film grain, and even the gentle mechanical hum of the projector added a character that digital projection often lacks.
As someone who enjoys preserving heritage—whether it is railways, stamps, tea traditions, or historic places—I found this evening particularly meaningful. It was a reminder that preservation is not only about protecting buildings, monuments, or artefacts. It is also about safeguarding experiences. And few experiences are as evocative as watching a film on 35 mm celluloid. For a few hours, I was not merely watching a movie. I was experiencing cinema as audiences did decades ago.
My review of IHC can be read here
Have you ever watched a film projected from a 35 mm print? If yes, what do you remember most about the experience? I would love to hear your memories and stories in the comments.
