Overlooking the serene shores of Lake Ohrid in southeastern Albania once stood a grand institution of culture and community—Pogradec’s first cinema. Just a short stroll from city hall, nestled between the Old Tourism building and the Big River, the cinema was a beacon of modernity in the early 20th century Balkans.

Established in the early 1900s by a local aristocrat, Xhevat Beu, under Ottoman rule, the cinema boasted a 400-seat ground hall and a 100-seat balcony. At a time when motion pictures were still a novelty in much of Europe, the people of Pogradec enjoyed screenings of French and Italian classics in a venue that also doubled as a courthouse—a true civic hub.

Following World War II, Eastern European cinema began to dominate. Subtitled Soviet productions filled the screen until 1952, when Albania launched its own national film studio with Soviet collaboration. Local audiences soon watched documentaries and historical dramas in their native language, including Skanderbeg (1954), the first Albanian-language feature.

Astrit Lami, a now-retired cinema operator, remembers when films were a daily ritual. Three scheduled screenings per day and weekend children’s matinees turned the cinema into a social rendezvous. Under Albania’s centrally planned economy, film distribution was highly coordinated. Mr. Lami operated the “auto-cinema,” delivering state-approved films to villages in 16mm or 35mm formats. For rural communities isolated by political borders, the cinema offered a rare window into other cultures and imagined worlds.

Politics and cinema often intersected. On the dictator’s birthday, October 16, all screenings were replaced by a documentary tribute to his legacy. During one such screening, a technical failure briefly silenced the dictator’s voice—a potentially dangerous event under such a regime. Mr. Lami recalls the fear of being arrested for what was later found to be a mechanical glitch.

In 1989, as Albania’s political tides shifted, the Pogradec cinema was demolished to make way for a public park. The structure is gone, but in the memories of its former patrons, it remains a cherished emblem of refinement, escapism, and community life by the lake.

By Engjëllushe Icka