Tonight was the grand re-opening of Ottawa's Mayfair Theatre, a 1930s moviehouse gem complete with red velvet curtains, canopied balconies and ornate molding. In other words, a relic from the glory days of cinema-going, the days before the word "multiplex" entered the dictionary.

The Mayfair had finally closed down in November, after 75 years, and for an agonizing time it had faced the specters of dereliction, the wrecking ball, or -- worst of all? -- condoization. Tragedy had been averted, though, when a consortium of local enthusiasts (an odd mix of local film-makers, the theatre's longtime projectionist, film professors, and the like) scraped together the money to buy it up and keep it open.

I had already successfully pitched a story on the decline of the vintage neighborhood moviehouse, as seen through the demise of my local, when I got the good news: the Mayfair was saved! I've never been happier to see a story idea become obsolete.

So tonight, instead of writing an obituary, I was standing in line with a couple hundred other Ottawans, waiting to attend a celebration of rebirth.

The Mayfair is across the street from my junior high school, and just across the Rideau Canal from the neighbourhood where I grew up. Before I was old enough to drink, and before I'd discovered the junior hockey players at the local arena, Friday nights found me at the Mayfair. The place was technically billed as a second-run theater, showing the standard array of horror and action flicks, rom-coms, and other Hollywood slush, after they'd left first-run theaters but before they hit the video store. You'd pay five bucks to see a double bill: Twister and Independence Day, say, or Mission: Impossible and Broken Arrow.

But to those mainstream bargain offerings the Mayfair added a twist: classics, camp, and cult classics, served in perfect combinations.

Halloween meant Rocky Horror, complete with R-rated live floor show, rice and toast flying through the air, and chants of "Aaaasss-HOLE!" every time someone onscreen called Brad by name. Valentine's Day was The Maltese Falcon and Casablanca. A couple of times a year you'd catch Grease and Saturday Night Fever, or Top Gun and Days of Thunder. There were Russ Meyer triple bills (Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!, Supervixens, and Beneath the Valley of the Ultra-Vixens), Kubrick nights, Hitchcock specials, and Indiana Jones marathons on winter weekend afternoons. There were homages to John Hughes, and (of course) his muse, Molly Ringwald. There were documentaries, foreign films, and -- in January and February -- wall-to-wall screenings of that year's Oscar contenders.

To a kid who wasn't yet old enough to party, but who definitely felt herself far too grown-up to be home by 9 or 10 on a Friday night, the Mayfair double bill (which generally let out around midnight) was the perfect solution. And best of all: it even offered an outlet for mild rebellion.

When we were 12, and the movie was rated AA-14, we'd lie nervously and pay the student rate. When we were 13, and lining up for something G-rated, family-friendly, we'd lie again and claim the child rate. Oh yes, we were cavalier about the rules in those days! Best of all was when the Mayfair made the fatal error: of scheduling an R-rated movie for the second showing, alongside something less risque in the opening slot.

I can still remember my friends and I slinking down in our seats during the intermission, sweating and praying that no one would notice our little group of pre-teen girls before the curtains opened again for Pulp Fiction. Afterwards we'd run down the street shrieking with laughter at our audacity, and asking each other why the man in the leather suit had been referred to as a "gimp". (He didn't look disabled to us...) Wondering why John Travolta and his pal had seen fit to jam a needle into Uma Thurman's chest.

We didn't get it, true, but we knew we were glad we'd seen it.

I hadn't been to the Mayfair in years when I heard it was closing this fall, and I was devastated. Sure, we hadn't been in touch in recent years, but the place was still a dear old friend. I was beyond thrilled to hear about the re-opening, and, best of all, to be in town for the big event.

The new old Mayfair has re-fashioned itself somewhat, leaning more towards vintage and art-house fare and away from the second-run scene. The new schedule features Kung Fu Fridays, a (Pierce Brosnan-free) James Bond festival, and an emphasis on local content, as well as this year's award-season noisemakers. For the opening night, they opted for a selection of locally-made shorts at 7:30, followed by the 1927 Fritz Lang classic, Metropolis, at 9.

(Metropolis, it turns out, was the first movie ever screened at the Mayfair, way back in 1932.)

When I showed up at quarter to nine tonight, the line was already out the door and to the corner. Within minutes of my arrival, it stretched around the corner and down the block. TV cameras appeared, filming the spectacle for the local news. People joked: Hopefully all these people will keep coming back once they start charging admission tomorrow.

Now, a line-up may not seem strange to those of you who live in New York, or San Francisco, or other happening spots. But something should be made clear: people don't wait in line in Ottawa. Particularly not on the street, in January, when it's -12 with a stiff, cold wind. Nothing here is that important.

The shorts ended; the line shuffled forward. A few people left, but most stayed put. The staff, unprepared for the outpouring of support, desperately counted seats and let people in one by one. The screening was delayed as more seats were counted, more waiting people were admitted in ones and twos.

I stood in the cold for 45 minutes tonight, waiting for the chance to say hello to my old friend. When they finally closed the doors and started the projector, I'd moved 40 feet, and come within two dozen people of the front of the line. I was a little disappointed to miss the show (I've seen Metropolis before, but it would have been something on the big screen), and to be unable to say I'd really been there for the re-opening. But drowning those minor disappointments was my pride at seeing maybe two hundred Ottawans stamping and freezing in the cold (with three hundred more already safely inside), waiting for their chance to pay tribute to a neighbourhood landmark.

I've rarely witnessed -- or felt -- much civic pride here in Ottawa. Tonight, I got enough to last me a long, long time.