NIGHTMARE… AT THE FILM DISTRIBUTOR

The phone call had been clear: the programmer of a film distributor told me that several 16 mm prints were available, and that I might be interested. Among them—nothing less than The Nightmare Before Christmas. My heart raced. After so many years chasing that elusive 16 mm print—my favorite archival format—it was finally within reach.

The distributor’s warehouse, long past its glory days, was narrow, almost claustrophobic. Dark aisles stacked with heavy 16 mm shipping cases stretched into the shadows. With only the dim glow of my phone’s flashlight, I scanned the dusty shelves one by one, setting aside film after film: one, two, three… up to five feature-length treasures. They were there, waiting for me. I hardly noticed the other archivists slipping in, so focused was I on my haul.

At the very back, something caught my eye: a 35 mm cartoon, Señor Droopy. I picked it up casually, like a child rescuing a forgotten toy, then turned back toward the entrance, content.

And then—friends—the nightmare.
The features I had carefully set aside… were gone. Simply vanished.

“They were taken by someone else—not an archivist, just a bulk collector,” the programmer at the door explained, as if delivering a trivial piece of news.

I froze there, stunned, left with nothing but Señor Droopy in my hand.
After years of searching for The Nightmare Before Christmas in 16 mm, dreaming of it—me, a devotee of Tim Burton, an admirer of Henry Selick, a fanatic of stop-motion cinematography—when I had finally brushed against it, when the print was a heartbeat away from being mine… it disappeared.

The shock hit me like lightning. I felt as if I were dying inside. And then—I awoke. It was 5:10 in the morning. My heart still pounding, the disappointment intact. Sleep was impossible after that.

It had been only a dream. But a dream with the intensity of a real nightmare—one of those reminders that in the memory of cinema, as in life itself, what we most desire sometimes slips through our fingers… into the hands of merchants and hoarders without film criteria.