Recently, from deep within what I call my Closet of Doom, I unearthed a bag of celluloid treasures. Some were tucked inside square, yellow Kodak cartons and bore labels such as “The Desert Town” and “D&D Movie ’81.” Others, spooled naked on plastic film reels and wrapped with decomposing rubber bands, had no labels at all.
I knew these relics dated to the 1970s and ’80s, to an era when I was going to be the next Steven Spielberg. I shot dozens of Super 8 cartridges to capture my teenage world. These short movies had not seen the light of day in decades, nor the light of a projector bulb.