Oct 20, 2026
✨ New
Free (RSVP)
Skylight Books, 1818 N Vermont Ave…
If you have ever stayed up past one in the morning because the host said something about a film you had never heard of and now you had to see it, you already belong to this. The two people who do that to you on Turner Classic Movies will be in a bookstore in Los Feliz, in a room with about forty chairs, talking about the place where old Hollywood meets actual murder - the real crimes the studios buried, and the pictures that kept circling them anyway. Malone wrote the book; Mankiewicz sits across from her, and anyone who has heard the two of them together knows it turns into argument quickly and affectionately. This is the crossover night: the classic-film people who can date a print by its title cards, sitting next to the true-crime people who know the Bugsy Siegel address by heart, discovering they have been the same audience all along. The store keeps a surprisingly deep film-criticism section a few feet from where they will be sitting. Go look at it before it starts. Free, RSVP, Tuesday evening.
There is one week a year when the boulevard that sells cheap souvenirs the other fifty-one becomes the center of the movie universe. Not figuratively. The films everyone will be arguing about in winter are screening a few feet from the handprints.
The actual pleasure is narrower than that: sitting in that enormous auditorium as the lights go down on a film nobody has decided about yet — before the critics fix its meaning, before the trophies tell you what it was. The year's most talked-about titles arrive here months ahead of wide release, in the same complex where the studios stage their own premieres. Around you: the obsessives, the awards-season trackers, and the students who moved to this city for exactly this.
A week in the fall at the TCL Chinese Theatres on Hollywood Boulevard.
Send it to the friend whose Letterboxd reviews you actually read all the way through.
There was a shelf in the video store nobody's parents walked down, and whatever was on it got passed to you by an older cousin who swore you could handle it. For a lot of people that was this one: a haunted-house picture built on a Black neighborhood's memory of what got taken from it, starring Snoop Dogg as a ghost in a full-length fur, with Pam Grier in the house. It was dismissed on arrival in 2001 and has spent the years since becoming a genuine cult object. Now the man who shot Do the Right Thing and directed Juice is bringing it back on an actual 35mm print and standing up to talk about it. Ernest R. Dickerson is one of the most important cinematographers in American film and he does not do many of these. The print is the point - the reds in this movie were designed for film and have never looked right on a stream. The print screens Wednesday, October 21 at 7:30pm.
For a generation that grew up screaming along to Welcome to the Black Parade in bedrooms plastered with band posters, My Chemical Romance at the Hollywood Bowl on October 21 is not just a concert -- it is a summoning. The Bowl's open-air acoustics and the October night sky turn every anthem into something larger than it was on the record, and the crowd will sing louder than the PA system at least twice.
MCR's catalog runs from the raw punk fury of I Brought You My Bullets to the theatrical grandeur of The Black Parade to the synth-soaked Danger Days, and a setlist at the Bowl will pull from all of it. The band has been selective about touring since their reunion, making every announced date feel like it might be the last one for a while. Two nights at the Bowl -- different setlists each -- and both will leave you hoarse.
The Bowl sits at 2301 N Highland Avenue, just off the 101 in the Hollywood Hills.
Every day· Next Oct 22
1000 14th St, Denver, CO 80202
Something happens at 10 PM on a Wednesday in the Ellie Caulkins Opera House when a director from a country most Americans can't locate on a map introduces a film about a life you've never considered, and the audience sits in the dark and lets a stranger rearrange how they see the world. That chemical hit is what the Denver Film Festival has been manufacturing since 1978, making it one of the oldest film festivals in America — and every October it proves that nearly five decades of practice has only sharpened the dose.
The 49th edition runs October 22 through November 1, 2026, across ten days and multiple venues in downtown Denver including the Ellie Caulkins Opera House and the Sie FilmCenter. More than 140 new films from countries across the globe screen for 27,000 attendees, joined by over 50 international filmmakers, directors, and actors who stick around for Q&As, panel discussions, and the kind of bar conversations that only happen when someone has just watched something that rewired them.
If you're the kind of person who watches the Sundance lineup announcement with genuine excitement — who texts friends about a documentary trailer, who has opinions about aspect ratios — this festival is worth the flight. The programming spans narrative features, documentaries, shorts, and experimental work, all selected with the curatorial rigor that comes from doing this longer than most festivals have existed. Red carpet presentations run alongside industry workshops, filmmaker receptions, and networking events that feel less like industry and more like congregation.
What to know before you go: Denver in late October is crisp and gorgeous — layers are mandatory, the light is golden, and the brewery scene means the post-screening nightcap is never the hard part. Single tickets, multi-packs, and festival passes are available at denverfilm.org. Book early — the marquee screenings sell out, and the best discoveries are in the slots you didn't plan for. The Sie FilmCenter runs year-round if you need a preview.
The Denver Film Festival matters because it's proof that nearly fifty years of showing up, every October, in the same city, for the same reason — to sit in a dark room with strangers and feel something together — is enough to build a tradition that outlasts every trend, every platform, every algorithm. The films change. The experience doesn't.
Every day· Next Oct 22
The Actors Company LA, 916 N Formo…
The story you carry does not look like the stories that get greenlit. The protagonist is too specific, the neighborhood too real, the ending too honest for a studio to touch. A hundred films have almost told it, and the distance between almost and exactly is the loneliest distance in cinema.
The Los Angeles Black Film Festival exists in that gap. Thirteen years running, LABFF takes over The Actors Company in West Hollywood from October 22 through 25 — four days of independent work by Black filmmakers that the mainstream circuit will not surface for another two years, if it surfaces them at all. Shorts. Features. Documentaries. The kind of films where the director is standing in the lobby afterward because they made it with their savings and a borrowed camera and they need you to understand why it matters.
The Let Live Theater and Other Space Theater at 916 North Formosa hold maybe a hundred people each. That is the point. At this size you do not just watch the film — you meet the person who made it. Parking is free on site and in the surrounding neighborhood.
October 22 through 25, 2026. Screenings at The Actors Company, 916 North Formosa Avenue in West Hollywood.
Somewhere on earth right now one person is the furthest anyone has gotten. When they go, the title moves to a stranger, and the whole record of human time shifts one seat down without ceremony. Thinking about that too long does something to you - it makes a Thursday feel both unbearably short and strangely survivable. Sam Green builds films about exactly this kind of vertigo, and he builds them to be experienced in a room rather than alone on a laptop; his work has always treated an audience's simultaneous presence as part of the material. He will be there afterward, in conversation, somewhere under fifty seats. This is not a movie you put on. It is an hour you agree to spend with other people thinking about the arithmetic of a life, and then walking out onto Eagle Rock Boulevard slightly rearranged. Thursday, October 22 at 7:00pm, in the microcinema.
You know exactly which friend to send this to. The one whose entire personality from September onward is horror movies, who has opinions about which sequel was underrated, who has been building a costume since August.
This is a Chucky-themed rave, and the joke is that it is not a joke — the bass music scene and the horror scene in Los Angeles have overlapped for years, same people, same aesthetic, same relationship to things being a bit too much on purpose. Dubstep and drum and bass all night, Crux My Heart on the bill, a room full of people who committed to the bit completely.
1720 is a warehouse in the Arts District with the kind of sound system that makes a novelty night stop being a novelty about twenty minutes in.
The Thursday before Halloween weekend is the sleeper slot. Everyone saves themselves for Saturday and misses the one where the people who really care show up.
Thursday, October 22. Doors 8 p.m. 1720 East 16th Street.
Oct 23, 2026
From $35
6233 Hollywood Blvd, Hollywood, CA…
The parents already know: the cartoon dog show that plays on loop in your living room is somehow making you cry over a game of keep-away, and now there is a version your kid can watch happen in front of them, in a room, with the lights down. Bluey's Big Play brings the animated series to the stage for the first time ever, using puppetry and live performance to extend the world of Bluey, Bingo, Bandit, and Chilli beyond the screen. It is built specifically for children ages 2 through 7, but anyone who watches the series regularly knows it rewards the grown-ups just as richly - and this production includes new material written just for the stage. Running time is about 55 minutes with no intermission, which is exactly right for the age group. Arrive early; the lobby experience is part of the fun. The Hollywood Pantages is a 1920s movie palace seating 2,700 on Hollywood Boulevard near Highland Avenue, accessible by Metro B Line (Red) at Hollywood and Highland Station. Parking is available in the adjacent Hollywood and Highland structure. Bluey's Big Play, Hollywood Pantages Theatre.
Oct 23 – Oct 24, 2026
The Monty Bar, 1222 W 7th St, Los …
Downtown bars that host a goth night usually do it once, discover the crowd drinks less than expected, and quietly stop. The ones that keep going do so because somebody behind the bar actually likes the music.
The Union is one of the long-running LA darkwave nights, and Male Tears are the local act most likely to be playing when somebody from out of town asks what the scene sounds like now — synthpop bones, EBM muscle, vocals pitched somewhere between sincere and theatrical. The Monty is small and a little grimy and sits on West 7th where downtown starts turning residential, which is the correct setting; a goth night in a nice room feels wrong to everybody present.
Nine at night on Friday the twenty-third of October. Black is not required, merely inevitable.
The sets lean. Doorways narrow to points, windows are painted straight onto flats, shadows are brushed by hand onto the walls, and a hundred and six years on it still reads less like an old film than like somebody's actual nightmare, carefully transcribed. Conrad Veidt plays the somnambulist Cesare with a stillness that has been borrowed by every horror performance since, and the picture worked out most of what we now mean by a twist ending. The German crews who built those crooked walls were partly doing so because a collapsed postwar economy could not spare real timber or real light, which is how a budget shortfall hardened into the founding grammar of the genre. Watching it silent on a laptop is a wholly different act from sitting in a dark room while a musician plays to the picture in real time, choosing tempo against an audience they can hear breathing. Beverly Blvd, October 25, two in the afternoon.
Theatrical rock made by people who are obviously having a wonderful time is deeply unfashionable and completely undefeatable in a live room. This Arizona band writes songs with narrative arcs, key changes that should not work, and a horn part when a horn part is funny — the sort of thing that finds its audience through video games, animation communities, and the general internet rather than through radio. Their crowd is young, extremely online, and knows the words to material that never charted anywhere. Expect the room to handle whole sections unprompted. Sunday evening in an upstairs Masonic hall in Highland Park, wood floors, no seats. Music at 7:00 PM at 104 N Avenue 56. Fandoms built in Discord servers and comment sections are the ones most likely to turn a normal concert into something closer to a convention, and that is the atmosphere here.
Forty minutes of scrolling, and you land on nothing — then go to bed having seen everything and witnessed none of it. Some Mondays the only cure is a dark room shared with strangers who made the same decision you did, which is that tonight was not going to be another night of the couch.
Two Canadian horror obscurities share this bill, both out of the tax-shelter years when Ontario money chased American drive-in dollars and produced something stranger than either country intended. A funeral parlor with a basement nobody discusses. A creature picture patient enough to make you wait a long time before it shows you the thing. Neither streams anywhere worth having. Both arrive as actual 35mm prints, which is the whole point here — this is the last continuous repertory revival house in Los Angeles, and the reels are real reels.
Quentin Tarantino bought the building in December 2007 to stop it becoming something else, and has kept one promise since: double features, on film, for as long as he is around to pay for them. The tradition itself goes back to May 1978.
First feature at 7:30, second at 9:35. 7165 Beverly Boulevard.
A mother and a daughter share a shack in a Manila slaughterhouse district, and the mother's much younger boyfriend moves in, and from that one sentence the whole machine of the film grinds forward with no possibility of anyone stopping it. Lino Brocka shot it in 1976 inside the actual Tondo neighbourhood, during a dictatorship that was censoring everything it could reach, and it became the first Filipino film ever shown at Cannes. What lands hardest now is not the cruelty but the heat: you can feel the corrugated roof, the queue for water, the way privacy simply does not exist as a concept. Hilda Koronel plays the daughter's turn from endurance into calculation so quietly that you miss the exact moment it happens and spend the rest of the film hunting for it. It screens Monday, October 26 at 7:30pm in Eagle Rock. Anyone with family in the Philippines should bring somebody who has only heard the stories second-hand.
Every day· Next Oct 27
2910 La Jolla Village Dr, La Jolla…
After 300,000 years on the clock, the Grim Reaper is finally done. The question is what happens when his daughter Diana discovers she would rather fall in love with life than carry on the family business.
GRIM is a world premiere musical running at La Jolla Playhouse from October 27 through November 29 on the Mandell Weiss Theatre stage. It is irreverent, heartbreaking, and funny in the way only a show about death can be — because the people who made it clearly love being alive. The creative team has built something that feels like it was written for the person who ugly-cries at Pixar movies and then pretends they didn't.
First look previews run October 27 through November 1, with the official opening on November 8. Performances run Tuesday through Sunday — the theatre is dark on Mondays. La Jolla Playhouse is the only authorized ticket seller. Subscriber packs of three or more shows start at $167 and include free parking and free exchanges.
The Playhouse has premiered more than 30 productions that went on to Broadway, including Jersey Boys and Come From Away. GRIM is the kind of show you see before it leaves San Diego — and then tell people you were there first.
Giallo and italo-disco came out of the same country in the same decade, and almost nobody thinks to put them in one room. Argento's 1975 picture is the one with the Goblin score, the murder glimpsed through a window by a man who cannot trust what he saw, and a colour palette that makes no logical sense and perfect emotional sense. A DJ spins italo before the film and again after it, so you dance, then you watch somebody get killed to what is essentially a prog-rock lullaby, then you dance again — and the second dance feels different, which is the joke and also the point. It screens in a restored Eagle Rock movie house that still runs 35mm and keeps a thirty-six seat microcinema down the hall. Doors open ninety minutes before the picture, because the first set is not a warm-up act. Horror obsessives and record collectors end up finding each other in the lobby, which is not something either scene planned on. Doors six, picture seven-thirty, Tuesday the 27th of October, at the old Eagle Theatre on Eagle Rock Blvd.
Halfway through the second film someone in the row behind you will stop breathing properly, and you will hear it, because nobody in this building is looking at a phone. That is what a Wednesday in a revival house buys: an audience that came to be frightened together instead of alone on a couch with all the lights on.
Two Spanish filmmakers, six years apart, both convinced that the most frightening thing in a house is a mother who is certain. One is about a woman guarding her children from daylight. The other is about a woman who returns to the building that raised her and begins counting. Neither needs a drop of blood. Both were made by directors who understood that dread is really a question of how long you are willing to hold a shot before cutting.
Worth knowing the lineage: Guillermo del Toro produced the second picture, and its director later graduated to enormous disaster films — but this is the one where he learned how to make an audience wait.
Both screen on 35mm, house policy since 2014. First film 7:30, second at 9:45. 7165 Beverly Boulevard, Los Angeles.
Two sisters make a pact to die together rather than grow up separately, and then one of them gets bitten. Everybody describes this as the werewolf-as-puberty film, which is accurate and also sells it short, because the horror is not the transformation, it is watching a person you organised your whole personality around start finding you embarrassing. It came out in 2000, was barely released, and survived entirely on word of mouth and traded copies until it became the thing a certain kind of teenager hands to another certain kind of teenager. Katharine Isabelle and Emily Perkins play the sisters with a deadpan that makes the funny parts land and the sad parts land harder. Seeing it with a room that already loves it is a different experience from discovering it alone at sixteen, which is how most people here did. Wednesday, October 28 at 7:30pm in Eagle Rock. Text your sister.
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