It feels like going to the movies today is less an event and more a transaction— an overpriced and sterile one. It’s a far cry from the traditional cinematic experience. But tucked away in the heart of London, a city full of fleeting trends and corporate glitz, there's a real gem: the Prince Charles Cinema. This isn't just a place that shows films; it's a place that lives and breathes them.
As someone who weirdly loves spending a sunny Friday afternoon in a dark, slightly worn-out theatre, I can tell you that watching a movie on a big screen is a completely different animal than watching it at home. At the Prince Charles It’s a shared, communal act and that's exactly what I did last week.
Its character and well-worn charm serve a simple belief: movies are something you participate in, not just consume from a distance. Sure, you could look at the place and might just see the scruffiness—the seats with faint indentations from generations of film lovers, the ghostly scent of spilled cokes and forgotten dramas. But what you're really seeing is the rich patina of a living institution. This place has been loved and used by generations of people who come for a deep, lasting connection, not just a quick flick.
The Prince Charles is proof that real culture can't be made in a boardroom. It grows organically, a stubborn, vital thing that resists corporate control and finds its own way. Plus it's a rare opportunity to see a screening with a packed out audience.
The cinema's history, from a struggling theatre to a venue once known for European arthouse and even softcore flicks, shows a willingness to exist outside the norm. In the 1970s, when it was showing movies like "Emmanuelle" and "Caligula" for months on end, it wasn’t some act of perversity. It was responding to a need, feeding a hunger for something beyond the polite, sanitised offerings of mainstream cinema. That legacy of showing what others wouldn't—of being a cinematic outlaw—has continued, just in a more respectable and deeply beloved way.
Today, the programming is a beautiful, chaotic mess, a pure reflection of a love for film. Where else can you catch a 70mm screening of "2001: A Space Odyssey" in one room while a wild sing-along to "The Sound of Music" is happening downstairs? The schedule isn't just a list; it’s a conversation full of inside jokes and nods to movie history. It's not about what's "new" or "important" according to the studios; it's about what's loved. The Prince Charles understands that some of the most profound movie experiences aren't the ones that fill you with silent awe, but the ones that make you laugh, yell at the screen and feel like you're part of something real—a community of fans who know the line between a masterpiece and a glorious trainwreck is often just a matter of perspective.
In an age of streaming and binge watching TV, a repertory cinema might seem like a dusty antique, but that’s a shortsighted way of looking at it. What the Prince Charles does is something no streaming service or massive IMAX theatre can replicate: it brings films back to life. A movie after its theatrical run isn't dead; it's just dormant, waiting on our TVs and computers. The Prince Charles is the defibrillator that brings it back. It puts films from different eras and genres in a conversation with each other, creating a living museum where the past and present of cinema collide. A season dedicated to Martin Scorsese can run right alongside a "Twilight Saga" marathon. This high-low anarchy rejects the idea that a film's value is just measured by box office numbers. It gets that a work of art is only truly alive when a live audience is experiencing it.
In a city of relentless corporation's, the very survival of the Prince Charles feels like a quiet act of rebellion. It stands there, a slightly crumbling temple to film, right in the heart of Leicester Square, surrounded by faceless chain cinemas. It’s a powerful reminder that there's an alternative to the Hollywood machine—a more human way of doing things.
The cinema's future is in jeopardy. Its landlords, Criterion Capital, want to redevelop the building and the ongoing negotiations include a redevelopment break clause that would allow them to kick the cinema out with six months' notice. The fact that the Westminster Council recently granted it "Asset of Community Value" status is a huge deal. It’s a small victory for the idea that some things are more valuable than their square footage. With its future up in the air, I knew I had to go.
Standing in front of it, amidst the fluorescent glow of Leicester Square and the buzz of Chinatown, it's hard to grasp what this place really is until you step inside. Entering the Prince Charles isn't like walking into a normal movie theatre; it’s like crossing a threshold. The air, unlike the manufactured butter-scented air of the corporate multiplexes, has a certain weight to it—a subtle aroma of age and shared memory. It’s the smell of a place that understands its purpose: to give you an unvarnished, real piece of a fantasy, not just sell you one.
That Friday, the movie was Michael Mann's "Heat." For thirty years, this film has been a legend, a complex look at professionalism, loneliness and the beautiful geometry of a city. But watching it at home is just seeing a copy. You’re a detached observer, a tourist. A film like "Heat," with its hyper-real textures and layered soundscape, demands to be experienced communally. The knowledge that it was a 35mm print—a tangible piece of celluloid—made it feel almost like a ritual. It was a promise the film would be shown exactly as it was meant to be seen, with all the warmth and beautiful imperfections of the medium.
I'd actually seen "Heat" in the cinema back in 1995 as a teenager, but the old three-screen cinema I used to visit is gone now. It was like the Prince Charles; it would occasionally show old classics (I remember how awesome it was to see "Raiders of the Lost Ark" on the big screen).
The audience that afternoon matinee was a specific, knowing crowd. They were there for the event, for the film itself. There was a quiet hum of shared excitement. When the lights went down and the faint whir of the projector started, we all seemed to hold our breath. The first frames appeared, a wash of cinematic grain and rich color that felt so much more organic and real than sterile digital projection. This isn't just about nostalgia. Digital images often feel like a window; celluloid, with its depth and texture, feels like a living painting.
The film began its slow, deliberate build. Mann’s genius isn't about spectacle, it's about using it to reveal the inner lives of his characters. He builds a world of cool, professional competence, where men operate by a strict code. The very fabric of the film—the way the camera glides through the L.A. night, the way the city sounds bleed into the score—is what makes it so immersive.
But the real power hit during the bank heist scene. We’ve all seen a thousand of these scenes and they’ve become visual noise. But in Mann's hands and with the full-throated presentation of that 35mm print, it was transformed. The buildup is tense, almost like a ticking clock. Then the first shotgun blast erupts. It wasn't just loud; it had weight and dimension. The gunfire wasn't a digitised effect; it was a physical event. The bursts of automatic weapons felt like concussive blasts, each shot a separate, brutal event. You could feel the sound waves hit you, vibrating through the seats and floor. It was a terrifying, beautiful cacophony, a symphony of urban violence. Mann, with his meticulous sound design, knows that a gunshot in a city street isn’t a clean pop. To truly feel this in the darkness of that theatre was to be reminded of the difference between watching and experiencing.
The whole sequence became a single, seamless, overpowering moment of cinematic glory, reminding us that some of the most profound art is the most visceral and unsettling.
After the carnage, later as the credits rolled and the lights came up, you're left with more than just entertainment. You feel like you’ve been through something, that you’ve shared a moment. The audience clapped at the end (apparently the regulars do this), filing out in a kind of hushed awe, each of us a little more connected by the shared experience.
The Prince Charles Cinema, in its cheerful, unpolished defiance, isn't just a place to see old movies, it's a place that brings them back to life. It reminds you, in the most powerful way, that a film is not just a story but an experience—a moment of shared, irreplaceable magic. It's the stubborn, beautiful idea that some things are worth preserving and that in a world of digital disconnection, there's still something glorious to be found in the darkness of a communal space and the light from a single, flickering projector.
"Heat", inks by Basesketch