There are nights that feel ordinary on paper but end up stirring something deep in the collective memory. The double screening of W: A RETURN TO OZ at the Blue Walnut Café and Cinema was one of those nights — a quiet reminder of how the 90s shaped a generation, and how those echoes still ring beneath the surface for anyone who lived it.

We arrived early for the 7pm showing, only to discover we were actually booked for the 9pm. No problem, it gave us time to drift through a rain‑soaked Torquay, headlights dazzling dog walkers on Babbacombe Downs, the partygoers of the Harbourside, a quiet Daddyhole Plain and the sleepy charm of St Marychurch. It felt fitting — a small, unplanned journey before the bigger one we were about to embark on.

Back at the venue, the DJ was already warming the room with 90s classics. Not the polished, TikTok‑approved tosh you hear on today’s themed playlists, but the real stuff. You could feel the shift in the room: shoulders loosening, faces softening, memories stirring.

Inside the cinema, Rich — who has run the venue for seven years — delivered an emotional thank‑you to the crowd for supporting the venue and explained that he had sold the lease to new owners. Then director Daniel Howard‑Baker introduced the film. Born in 2000, he never lived through the era he was documenting, yet he approached it with the hunger of someone who knew he was handling something sacred. He dug through old footage, tracked down stories, and pieced together a world that existed long before smartphones, social media, or the need to document every second and upload it to channels, seeking ‘likes’ and adoration from what I can only describe as distant strangers.

The film itself was a 30‑minute time machine. Present‑day shots blended with shaky camcorder footage from Plymouth’s legendary Warehouse — a venue that, for many, acted as a sanctuary. Interviewees shared their memories in voiceover: the nights that stretched into mornings, the friendships forged on sweat‑slicked dancefloors, the sense of unity that feels almost mythical now.

And that’s the thing about the 90s. For those who lived it, it was a cultural awakening. Clubs were places where every creed, colour and background collided under one roof, dissolving into the same beat. No bravado. No ego. No phones. No bullshit, just music, movement, and the kind of freedom that can’t be recreated, only remembered.

W: A RETURN TO OZ captured that beautifully. Not through glossy production or over‑explained nostalgia, but through feeling. Through the nods of recognition around the room. Through the quiet ache of remembering a time that changed people — and knowing it won’t ever come again.

Clubbing culture has shifted, splintered, commercialised, or disappeared entirely. But for those who lived through the 90s, the memories remain vivid. Life‑changing. Untouchable. A reminder that once upon a time, for a few hours every Saturday night, the world felt unified — and the dancefloor was home.

We said our goodbyes to everyone except Joe Freeze Taylor, who was completely locked into his 90s‑themed set, eyes fixed on the mixer. Even when we waved from the far side of the cheese‑counter DJ booth, he didn’t budge. We asked his partner to pass on our thanks, then stepped out into the rain and wind to begin the journey home…