The projector’s hum may have faded, but the Rif still breathes cinema. This 1938 art deco jewel—where Bergman and Welles once premiered films—now hosts philosophical debates between old-timers in the balcony. Sunlight slants through the projection booth’s dusty windows, illuminating handwritten reels labeled in French and Arabic. On certain evenings when the Mediterranean wind rattles the seats, regulars swear they glimpse the ghost of a Spanish starlet smoking in the back row. The real magic happens during the annual film festival, when the silver screen flickers back to life and the velvet curtains part like a time traveler’s portal.
