“Jurassic Park” at the Movies in 1993 — My First Movie on the Big Screen, and I Almost Had a Heart Attack at Age 7

There are memories that time cannot erase. No matter how many years go by, no matter how many other experiences come afterward—some things remain stored in a special place in our memory, complete with their scent, color, temperature, and everything else.

For me, one of those memories looks exactly like this: 1993, almost 7 years old, the whole family together, the heat of Espírito Santo, and a huge line at the door of a movie theater that was opening at Shopping Vitória, here in Espírito Santo.

The movie? Jurassic Park.

I didn’t really know what it was. I knew there were dinosaurs. I knew the whole family was excited. And I knew, from the contagious energy of that place, that something very different from anything I had experienced up to that point was about to happen.

I just didn’t know that I would leave there with trauma, enchantment, and a memory that I carry with me to this day—all at the same time.

Let me tell you how it went.

“That day was different—the whole town knew it”

You need to understand the context to grasp the significance of it all.

We’re talking about 1993, in Espírito Santo. A newly opened shopping mall was a full-fledged family outing—it wasn’t just about buying sneakers or eating at the food court. It was an event. You dressed up. Your parents dressed up. Your grandparents probably told their neighbors they were going to the mall on Sunday.

And on that specific day, Shopping Vitória was also opening its movie theater.

You know that feeling when it seems like an entire city decided to go to the same place on the same day? That’s exactly what it was like. The atmosphere was different. People were more excited, better dressed, chatting with strangers in line as if everyone were old friends—because everyone was there for the same reason.

My whole family showed up together. Just like families from Espírito Santo do when the event is special: no one stayed home. Everyone went.

The line to get into the movie theater was… let’s just say it was long. One of those lines where you look ahead and can’t see the end. And instead of getting discouraged, the reaction was one of excitement, because a long line meant it was important. That we were in the right place.

I, at almost 7 years old, looked at it all from below—literally, because I was short and saw more adult waists than anything else—and felt like I was part of something historic.

“Sitting on the floor. On the floor. But happy.”

This is where the story gets interesting.

The theater was packed. And when I say packed, I don’t mean “pretty full” or “pretty busy.” I mean sold out, overflowing, with not a single seat left—the kind of situation that would be unthinkable today but was handled back then with a creative, quintessentially Brazilian solution:

“You can just sit on the floor.”

And you know what’s most incredible? No one complained.

Everyone thought it was normal. Fair, even. You’d made it there, waited in line, the movie was about to start—it was either sit on the floor or miss the show. And missing the show wasn’t an option.

My family settled in however they could. Some managed to get a seat; others claimed a spot on the floor with dignity and determination. As a child, I actually preferred the floor—because from the floor I had a different view, I’d look up at the screen with my neck craned, and there was something adventurous about it. It was almost like camping inside the movie theater.

Today, as an adult, with the back I have, the mere idea of sitting on the floor of a movie theater for two hours makes me want to call an orthopedist just in case. But at age 7? It was the best thing in the world.

The room went dark.

And the world disappeared.

“I didn't know what was going to happen. But my body already knew.”

If you’ve ever seen Jurassic Park, you know that Spielberg is a master of suspense.

The movie doesn’t start with dinosaurs running and roaring. It starts slowly, in the dark, with a cage being transported through the forest. With sounds. With the frightened faces of the staff. With something invisible moving behind the bars.

And then—in a flash—a hand is pulled inside the cage.

I, at almost 7 years old, sitting on the floor of a newly opened movie theater in Espírito Santo, saw that scene and got such a genuine scare that I think I jumped a few inches off the ground.

The person next to me—a relative, I don’t remember exactly who—laughed at my reaction. I pretended I wasn’t scared. But my heart was already in emergency mode, and the movie was only about 4 minutes long.

Then came the park scene. John Williams’ music began to play—the one you still recognize today from the first three notes—and the first dinosaur appeared on the screen. A Brachiosaurus, huge, serene, eating leaves from the top of a tree while the characters watched, mouths agape.

I mimicked their expression exactly.

Mouth agape. Eyes wide. Completely forgetting that I was sitting on the floor.

Spielberg made that scene to impress the adults in the movie. But it also impressed a 7-year-old in Espírito Santo who had never seen anything like it in his life.

I’ve been to the movies hundreds of times since that day.

I’ve seen better films, technically speaking. I’ve seen more advanced special effects. I’ve sat in reclining seats with cup holders and everything. I’ve watched movies in IMAX, in 3D, and in VIP theaters.

No experience has been quite like that one.

Because no other had that specific, one-of-a-kind combination: the theater’s grand opening, the whole family together, Shopping Vitória in a festive mood, the floor as my seat, and a nearly 7-year-old child discovering the absolute magic of cinema for the first time on an afternoon in 1993.

Jurassic Park wasn’t just a movie to me. It was the gateway to a passion I carry with me to this day.

And when that John Williams score plays—no matter where I am, no matter what I’m doing—I’m 7 years old again. Sitting on the floor. Mouth agape. Completely enchanted.

Do you remember the first movie you saw in the theater? Tell me in the comments. I’m almost certain that memory is as vivid for you as mine is for me. 🦕

“The T-Rex, the rain, and the end of my peace of mind”

Look, I need to be honest with you.

I thought I was prepared. I’d seen the trailer, or something like that. I knew there was a dangerous dinosaur. I was mentally ready.

I wasn’t.

The scene with the T-Rex at night, with the rain, the stopped cars, the bathroom light going out, the glass of water shaking with every step—that scene was designed by a human being who clearly took some pleasure in causing anxiety in innocent audiences.

And it worked masterfully on me.

When the T-Rex actually appeared—huge, wet, roaring with a sound I felt in my gut more than I heard with my ears—I think part of my carefree childhood was left behind in that moment.

I didn’t scream. But I only didn’t scream because I was paralyzed, which is technically worse.

All around me, I heard other screams. Adults screaming. Adults who had lived decades on this planet, who had been through real, serious things in life, screaming at a movie screen. That gave me two simultaneous feelings: first, a slight relief that it wasn’t just me. Second, an even greater terror because if the adults were screaming, the situation was really serious.

I stayed glued to the closest family member for the rest of the scene.

“A different child came in. Another one left.”

When the lights came on and the credits started rolling, there was a truly beautiful shared moment in that packed theater—including the people on the floor.

Everyone fell silent for a second. Processing.

And then the comments began, the laughter, people going over the scenes. “When the T-Rex appeared...” — “That part in the kitchen with the kids...” — “That guy who got bitten in the bathroom...”

My family was like that too. Everyone talking at once, just like families from Espírito Santo do after any major event—from a Flamengo game to a Christmas Mass.

I left the theater in silence, processing it all.

I had just seen the most impressive thing of my life up to that point. A giant screen, sound that shook the seat (or the floor, in my case), dinosaurs that seemed too real to be fiction—and a story that, despite all the terror, had left me with a sense of wonder that I couldn’t name at age 7, but that I recognize perfectly today.

It was cinema doing what it does best: transporting you to another world entirely.