In that distant month of August

It was on August 6, 1896, when Chapultepec Castle opened its doors to admit an invention that General Porfirio Díaz had ordered from France to liven up a small, intimate dinner party. The device, a creation of the Lumière brothers, reproduced life-size images on a screen, visible to everyone. They weren't drawings or paintings, but they sounded and moved as if they were real. As if they were there, but they weren't. (Was it a blessing, a curse, a miracle, or proof of Satan's existence here on Earth?)

The party was a success, despite a fainting spell that ended in a collapse and a general initial scare. According to the chronicles, the Romero Rubio family and the general's friends were captivated. They inquired and learned that the device was a sensation in Europe, the epitome of progress, and was called a "cinematograph." The joy and anticipation were so great that at the end of the show, everyone had seconds of the chicharrón soufflé, drank more champagne, and drank mezcal de gusano (worm mezcal). Afterward, to the great delight of those present, the general had given his permission for the fantastic device to be put back into operation, with the exhibitions lasting until one in the morning. Before the farewell, the president said that that evening, Mexico had become the first country on the continent to enjoy the wonders of progress represented by the cinematograph.

Less than two weeks passed before the entire city learned of such wonders, and on Friday, August 14, the screenings for the general public began. The exclusive concessionaires for Mexico, Messrs. Veyre and Bernard, representatives of the Lumière brothers and experts in the operation of the device, found a space on the mezzanine of the Plateros Drugstore, on the second street of the same name—today Madero Street—and put up large posters announcing the new marvel (paradoxically, that site, a few years later, would become the country's first movie theater: the famous Red Room).

Despite the terror of some ladies and gentlemen, dismayed at seeing on the screen "creatures as Christian as we are and as animated by souls as ours," the performance took place. 1,500 people arrived, and due to the high demand, the programs had to be repeated every half hour. The Republican Monitor, receiving an exclusive, reported on the event. A colorful chronicle detailed the titles of the "views" offered, each lasting between 20 and 40 seconds: "The Irrigator and the Boy," "Card Players," "Arrival of a Train," "Herb Burners," "Roller Coasters," "Demolition of a Wall," and "The Child's Meal."

It was also reported that at some viewings—especially the one depicting the arrival of the train—people became frightened and jumped up in alarm because they didn't know if the rapidly approaching locomotive was going to run them over, killing them. (Since that moment, as you can see, dear reader, we've all been afraid of being taken by the train.)

Within a few days, the public lost its fear, began to enjoy the confusion between fiction and reality, and the desire not to miss a thing. Then, the competition began. Jacalones, garages, and vacant lots acquired the status of "Movie Halls," and the show became widespread. "The novelty of 'the view of the day' became the topic of every conversation, and the subject, for some, was completely degrading and dangerous: 'How did we get to the current decline?' a desperate columnist asks. 'What is it that makes us no longer paint, write, sculpt, or build on such a vast scale, nor with such profound aesthetic feeling, nor with such pure artistic inspiration? Is it because of the easy diversions to which everyone flocks?'"

You, dear reader, already guessed the answer: as soon as the cinema arrived, instead of grabbing pens, rulers, and paintbrushes, everyone went to sit in front of a screen. (And they still haven't returned.)

In a very short time, the “views” became short films, the themes diversified and by 1900, the city already had 22 venues between halls intended for “decent people” and tents intended “for the plebs”, where the former charged one peso and the latter 50 cents. Madero had not yet appeared with his Revolution, the 20th century was barely established and Don Porfirio, enchanted with the seventh art, commissioned more than thirty films to be made – one of them where he himself appeared as the leading actor riding through Chapultepec Forest, another, where his wife, Doña Carmelita Romero Rubio, rode in her carriage.

Time passed, the views became films, and the public was captivated. Cinema, that painted mirror, true illusion, invention of the devil and eye in the keyhole of an artist's heart, still remains and enchants. And it arrived in the summer, in that distant month of August.