Frankly, My Dear, I Give a Damn
My back was hurting from the Parkinson’s or from the humidity or from the way I slept last night. Who the heck knows? So I tried to find a comfortable position in my easy chair and searched through my six hundred television channels when I hit gold. The Creature from the Black Lagoon, the 1954 cinematic gem starring Richard Carlson, Julia Adams, and Richard Denning. This was the stuff that filled my eight year old brain with nightmares of beasties hiding in my bedroom closet. So I started watching, eagerly trying to recapture that youthful thrill of vicarious danger. Five minutes later I was wondering what was so nightmarish about an amphibian in a shaggy, baggy suit of badly painted green cardboard scales staggering slowly in the marshland. Some fond artistic remembrances are best left locked in the vault of undusted memories.
My mind drifted as I watched the aquatic monster stagger slowly toward the heroine who had tripped and fallen on an imaginary leaf and spent considerable time looking back at the snail-like approach of the Creature as he closed the distance. I figured she had about two hours to get up and continue running away so I began to reflect on my youthful movie going experiences.
Down the block from my apartment building in the Bronx was the Avalon movie theater. My older brother was an usher, and, for fifty cents, I would spend most of my Saturdays at the Avalon watching two features, ten Merry Melody cartoons, a short subject featuring the Three Stooges or Laurel and Hardy or Abbott and Costello, two adventure sequels sporting heroes like Flash Gordon and Commander Cody and at least one newsreel, The Eyes and Ears of the World, the latter affording us kids a break in the action and a chance to go to the snack bar.
Adults view the life of a kid as a simple time, but to a kid there are no simple decisions. Quarter in hand I agonized over what to buy at the snack bar of the Avalon. There were many factors to consider: 1) price; Ice Cream Bonbons were everyone’s favorite but they were expensive, and the four bonbons would melt quickly which affected factor 2) lasting power; would the candy, carefully rationed, last me through an afternoon or would the edible be gone before the first cartoon ended? 3) mood; was my sweet tooth monster requiring sustenance or did my salty taste buds want to be fed? Did I feel my young age or was I aspiring to be more adult in my choice of candy thus giving serious consideration to King’s Candy Cigarettes or Bubble Gum Cigars or a Licorice Pipe (horrible taste but elegant)? Before me in the glass case were arraigned my choices: Charleston Chew, Jujubes, Candy Necklace, Bonomo’s Turkish Taffy (Banana flavor, please), Jujyfruits, Chuckles, Boston Baked Beans, Bit-O-Honey, Necco Wafers, Mike and Ike and their cousin Good and Plenty, and Dots candy. For some reason the older kids who sat in the balcony preferred tossing Dots candy at their victims below. Cherry, interestingly, seemed to hurt the most. If I made the right choice, the candy would carry me through at least one of the features. To this day my dentist is still trying to extract a remnant of a Peanut Chew I worked on during a Roy Rogers and Dale Evans cinematic triumph, Rainbow Over Texas.
The Avalon was noisy as kids laughed and shouted at the screen and jostled for elbow position on the arm rests or screamed when the Creature from the black lagoon, eschewing the boat’s ladder, struggles mightily as he climbs aboard the vessel harboring the heroine whose back seems to be perpetually turned toward the monster in the shaggy suit. But the worse moments came when the characters on the screen were just talking, deep into exposition, or holding each other tight and kissing and exhibiting other forms of what we kids considered adult violence. That is when the wrestling broke out, and I had to be on the constant lookout for incoming volleys of Dots candy from the urchins in the balcony. Between watching the antics of my fellow movie viewers and spending considerable time scraping off the gum on the soles of my shoes (the Avalon theater floor was a virtual minefield of gum and other candy splotches), a significant portion of screen watching was lost.
No such minefields or noisy intrusions existed in the movie theater that my mother and father attended. Saturday nights my mother required my little brother Jimmy and I dress in our best school clothes (which were always hand-me-downs from our cousins) because we were going to the elegant Loew’s Paradise Movie Theatre (that is “theatre” with an “re”) on the Grand Concourse. I wondered why my parents brought Jimmy and me to these adult entertainment events. At first I assumed it was because on Dish Night at the Loew’s Paradise my mother would get an extra place setting if her children came along. That was not the case (although the Loew’s Paradise did furnish the porcelain dinnerware for our Sunday sit-downs which usually accommodated a substantial number of relatives). Then I considered that my father would prefer to pay our admission than to hire a babysitter. Only years later did I realize the true reason. Families of Italian descent do not hire babysitters ever. The children accompany their madres and padres everywhere—even the youngest family members are in tow: weddings, baptisms, funerals, shopping, father’s tax audits, mother’s dental visits, grandpop’s hernia operation…
Whatever the reason, the Loew’s Paradise Movie Theatre awed my brother and me into respectful behavior. The lobby of the Loew’s Paradise Theatre gleamed from the fool’s gold pillars and glistening chandeliers; the floor was carpeted in red velvet which ran up both balcony spiral staircases that flanked four entrances into the theatre proper and were guarded by ushers dressed in wine red uniforms festooned with gold epaulettes. The “Refreshment Bar” appeared longer than a city block. Inside the theatre itself, Jimmy and I were cowered into best behavior by the dark blue night sky sparkling with stars and other heavenly bodies that was the Loew’s Paradise ceiling. The rim of the semi-circle theatre was punctuated by statues that I had only seen in history books of ancient Greece. There was no danger of incoming Dots candy here, nor was there any danger of getting stuck to the floor by a wad of Palooka bubble gum. Nosireebob. Although throughout the single feature Jimmy and I still elbowed each other for the right to use the arm rest. Most of the movies we saw at the Loew’s Paradise were beyond my eight year old understanding. The only thing I remember about On the Waterfront was that the main character talked a lot like my friends. My parents really seemed to enjoy Dial M for Murder but I did not. After the woman stabbed a guy in the back with a pair of scissors, which was pretty cool, the rest of the movie was just a lot of talk, and Grace Kelly sitting around in gray prison garb looking depressed because they were going to hang her, and the good guys searching for a key. It ended with everybody having drinks, including the bad guy. Fifty years later I consider the film one of Hitchcock’s best.
Oh my, but a great deal has changed in fifty years. The elegance and ambient charm of the Loew’s Paradise Movie Theatre has been replaced by, as Jay Leno noted, “the concrete pillbox at the end of the mall.” Decision making commences at the ticket aisle. What ticket showing do we prefer? The 1:30 show, the 2:00 show, the 3:15 show, the 4 AM showing on the Tuesday of next month? Wait! Which show we want depends on the movie’s format: IMAX, SHOWCASE MX4D, CINEMAX, SHOWCASE XPLUS, 3D, LETTERBOX…
We enter the rat’s maze of cordon guiding us back and forth to the ticket booth. Besides us there may be only two other people in line but still we must navigate the lanes back and forth, back and forth. Sometimes waiting in line and pondering what showing and what format we should choose, I study the other people in line and guess which movie they plan to see. The older man with a tie and distinguished gray hair and his pearl looped wife are probably up for the artsy Swedish movie, The Woman with a History. And the young couple with the three young children are probably opting for the Disney animated classic Chipmunk Galaxy. I am often surprised as the sharply dressed elder couple announce “Two tickets for Spring Break Mania,” and the father of the family orders “Two adults, three children for Babysitter Slaughterville.” After we take out a second mortgage and purchase our tickets, the next choice involves the snack bar, almost as wide as that of the Loew’s Paradise, but with two hundred adolescents with t-shirts advertising the name of the theater manning twenty lines of moviegoers.
There are the old movie standbys. Milk Duds, Raisinets, Whoppers, Goobers, Sugar Babies, and Baby Ruths, and, yes, Dots. But, in addition to snacks, there are basically mini-meals. Nachos, Philly Cheese Steaks, Pretzel Chunks, Pretzel Chunks Stuffed with Cheese, Tacos, Fully Loaded Hot Dogs, Chicken Bites, Pizza (Cheese or Pepperoni), and the occasional Beef Wellington for a family of six. All this to be washed down with a gallon of soda (diet if one is watching the waistline) and followed by Ice Cream Parfaits, Peanut Butter Stacks, and Blueberry Cheesecakes. In the future people will make reservations for both the movie and the movie fare.
I usually opt for popcorn, but the next choice involves size. The smallest size, LARGE, won’t last me until I get to my seat. The largest size, TRIPLE JUMBO FOR THE UNASHAMED, has enough popcorn to feed every pigeon in New York City. I usually choose the medium size, EXTRA LARGE FOR THE LOW PROFILE SEEKERS. Our credit line is good, so we also share a drink.
The next decision involves seating. Middle? Aisle seat for a fast escape after the credits? High up toward the back of the theater or down low where the screen fills my eyeballs? Once the seating choice is determined, we spend considerable time arranging our coats, purses, popcorn and drink. In the days of yore, I would perch my drink on my left foot which lay across my right knee, but, with the onset of Parkinson’s I refrain from that action, not wishing to spray the two rows in front of me with soda.
Instead of action serials or cartoons or short subjects or even the EYES and EARS OF THE WORLD NEWSREELS, modern theaters display previews and warnings. Sitting in the semi-dark, we are cautioned to TURN OFF CELL PHONES. We are reminded that it is impolite to TALK WHILE THE MOVIE IS SHOWING. We are also advised that FLASHING LASERS AT THE SCREEN IS NOT COURTEOUS. What does it say about modern communal human behavior if we are told DURING THE FILM DO NOT LOUDLY DISCUSS POLITICS OR THE SIGNIFICANCE OF THE GREAT VOWEL SHIFT? Finally, BE CONSIDERATE OF YOUR FELLOW MOVIE GOERS. DO NOT DETONATE A GRENADE OR ANY OTHER EXPLOSIVE DEVICE DURING THE SHOWING. Apparently modern audiences must be reminded of these transgressions….ten times. At least ten times. All I know is, is that by the time these warnings are over, my popcorn is almost gone.
Then there are the previews which are always loud and are supposed to be tailored to the audience currently sitting in front of the screen, but I am not certain. We are there to watch The Sands of Time, a British-made movie about a post-World War I Turkish soldier who seeks redemption for his military exploits as he struggles against his weakening health due to being gassed and his nation’s entrance into modernity. The previews are Aqua Man and the Super Heroes Battle the Galactic Cyclops, Vampires Rule the Boardwalk, and The Cocaine Comedies. Sometimes there is a truly intriguing preview. Meryl Streep, Tom Hanks, Tommy Lee Jones in a suspense thriller involving terrorism, betrayal, and courage. The Last Stand. COMING: FALL 2025. We are assured that all these previews have been approved, but they do not identify which second grade class approved them.
Unlike the Loew’s Paradise Movie Theatre, modern movie going takes some effort. For example, while watching a tender love scene between spouses, I have to work hard to tune out the explosions and gunfire of the movie next door, Dogfights in Hell. Perhaps, though, it is not the movies that have changed so much. Perchance it is the viewer, moi, who must adapt to the realities of cinematic changes and the cultural preferences that accompany those changes, some of which will be explored in my next blog entry.