Sure thing, I’ve spent a night or two coaxing a silent‑film projector back into motion. There’s a ritual to it—first you clean the dust‑filled gears with a brush, then you gently tap the motor to wake it from its sleep, and finally you replace the incandescent lamp, watching the warm amber glow return to the screen. It’s the kind of mechanical dance that feels like a quiet stage, and even when the motor stalls and the projector throws a tantrum I can’t help but sigh, “You know, you’re not supposed to do that!”