Tales from the Ville: Under the Big Top-The Adventures of Crash Pollard

Part two of the Under the Big Top saga, a three part "epic" recalling my first vaudeville show at the

Two Cyclinis and a fish

Palace Showboat Dinner Theater at Pollardville in Stockton, California.

PART ONE OF UNDER THE BIG TOP-BE A CLOWN

Neil Pollard is one of the funniest men who ever walked the face of the earth. That I was fortunate enough to work with him was an unexpected, but more than welcome perk of this show I didn't expect. It paid off dividends in the end because I was able to momentarily ride on the coattails on the man, the legend, the guy who never met a chicken he didn't like. 

As I stated in the first installment, Neil was managing the Chicken Kitchen restaurant as the same time the show was underway, taking care of those customers as well as the theater patrons since this was indeed a dinner theater. How he knew to race across the parking lot to get ready for whatever act he had been cast is beyond me. Sometimes he'd run a little late like the blackout Neil and I were cast in.

Me: I heard your parents used to be in the circus. 

Neil: That's right. They used to make love on the flying trapeze. 

Me: What did they call themselves? 

Neil: Hi Diddle Diddle! (buh-dump-bump!) 

One night, Neil missed his cue and I did the whole thing myself. When he realized his error, it barely fazed him. "Shit," he uttered. "Well, carry on!" Then he dashed back to the restaurant because, above all else, Neil Pollard was a early pioneer of multi-tasking.

In UNDER THE BIG TOP, Neil also appeared as The Great Flamo, a fire eating act. (Or was it Flamo the Great? Maybe it was just plain Flamo)  I should have asked how he did it, when he learned it or even why. Whatever the answers were, he certianly did it. Set up on one of the side stages, Neil gave a little audience patter as he lit his torches over a can of Sterno on a small podium. While I didn't witness this myself, I got the full report from several sources of what occurred during an early performance. After he had fired up the Sterno, he accidentally knocked the can over, spilling the jellied fuel and igniting the podium on fire. Neil basically stood dumbfounded, flipping his hands in the air like Art Carney's Ed Norton character from THE HONEYMOONERS. Thinking fast (mostly), Greg Dart ran down the side aisle with a fire extinguisher. He put out the fire, but the powdery blast from the extinguisher bounced off the back wall of the side stage and ricocheted into the audience members who were unfortunate enough to be sitting in the front row that evening. Unaware for what happened since we were getting ready for our Wild Willy number, Goldie and I entered the same side stage soon afterward in the midst of a toxically dusty haze. When the lights came up, I couldn't get my lines out, basically choking throughout the whole thing. I could hear Goldie coughing inside her bear mask as well. Once it was mercifully over, we stumbled our way backstage and I think we both said in unison once we got our breaths back, "What the hell happened out there?" Oh, it was Neil.

Another sketch in which I had been cast was the other circus act known The Cyclinis. All the

performers, with the exception of Flamo, were all Italian. (There were a bunch of "inis" in the show.) Our bicycle act consisted of Neil as Bicyclini, our brother Vincent as Unicyclini and me wearing a crash helmet and chewing bubble gum as little Tricyclini. For my entrance, I rode a creaky tricycle around the band pit, stop midway, blow a big bubble and complete the circle. How I never fell into that dark hole is a theatrical miracle. The sketch consisted of the three of us writing our bikes back and forth across the stage as Phil De Angelo, in his role as ringmaster, narrated the entire act. Vince had popped a wheelie across the stage, hence his designation as Uni. After a couple of more back and forths without or reason, I switched bikes, now riding on the handlebars of Neil's bike backwards and had to pedal us the two of us in reverse from stage right to stage left, hitting the proscenium arch with the front tire or my back whichever came first. What could go wrong? Well, it started off all well for the first month or so until one night as I was about to start pedaling, my foot slipped once we got started. We instantly started to wobble and Neil attempted to regain our balance, but took took a sharp left upstage in the process. He tried to adjust by steering right just as hard. Helpless, I didn't know what to do except lift my feet up so it's not to get caught in the spokes or drag on the stage. All of a sudden we passed up Phil. I thought to myself, "Hmm, that's funny. There goes Phil." And in that split second, we fell in a heap down stage left on the other side of the proscenium arch. I landed sideways on one ass cheek directly onto one of the footlights, basically a cut out spray painted can, flattening it and a crushing the light bulb underneath. Had I landed an inch or two over, I probably would have cut off my right buttock, remaining half ass for all eternity. In a burst of adrenal shock, I immediately stood, brushed myself off, walked off stage and screamed to the top of my lungs. I then returned a second later and posed. Ta da! The act was never the same again which I can only blame myself for since I had grown a little skittish after our pile-up, throwing off both my timing and balance. What were the odds that would have happened again? In my mind, pretty goddamn good.

Our founder

On closing night I had something in mind I had been plotting for a while. When Neil would pop in from the restaurant duties for the Cyclinis, he quickly don his tights, sometimes just wearing hem underneath his street clothes to save time. Then he'd change hair. It's no secret that Mr. Pollard wear a rug in his daily life. But for this show, he'd put on a curly wig, not over his toupee, but in place of. To accomplish this without anyone watching, he'd shove his entire head into the wardrobe and pull the old switcheroo. He wasn't fooling anybody. If he did, they'd probably still wonder, "Why is Neil sticking his head in the wardrobe?" During the last performance, I chose Hubba Bubba, the juiciest bubble gum at the time. Before our big ride across, Neil used to give me a big kiss right on top of my crash helmet. That night after the big smooch, I took the gum out of my mouth, lifted his wig, place it underneath place and slapped his curly locks down upon it. Splat! Backstage as he pulled off that juicy wad of Hubba Bubba, he gave me the ultimate Neil insult:

"You sumbitch." 

An ass move on my part to be sure, but believe me, it was done with a lot of affection. Honest.

Neil and friend

Following that show, Neil only appeared onstage only a handful of times, still flying across the parking lot in the nick of time, sometimes not. I, for one wish there was more and I'm not alone in that, but the tide was changing around the theater at that point. What Neil did onstage appeared so deceptively effortless and devoid of self-consciousness because he didn't have a false funny bone in his whole body. He was all natural and, dare I say, organic. Probably free range as well. In real life, he certainly had his moments as well with an abundance of unintentional slapstick to his credit. There is nothing more satisfyingly hilarious to a Pollardville veteran than a Neil Pollard story and there a million of 'em, all solid gold.

I was proud to work for and with the man, especially during my very first show. If I had to do it all over again, I'd give Neil a big kiss on his head. That is, before I stuck my gum on top just so I could hear it one more time again:

"You sumbitch."

COMING UP: NAZIS INVADE POLLARDVILLE

MORE TALES FROM THE VILLE

Tales from the Ville: Under the Big Top-Be a Clown

Something else that made 1979 my favorite year was my debut on the Palace Showboat stage soon after the ghost town closed for the season, joined by my fellow desperados in arms, Bill Humphreys and Grant-Lee Phillips. I've already recounted the melodrama part of the story, that being DOWNFALL OF THE UPRISING or WHO DO THE VOODOO,  so let's take a deep dive into the second half of that double bill, so break out your pool noodles, gang, and float along. 

WHO DO THE VOODOO?

Since the shows at the Ville were traditionally two parters (melodrama AND vaudeville, the peanut butter and chocolate of show biz), the second half of this particular show debuting at the end of 1979 was to be entitled UNDER THE BIG TOP as directed by Mr. Phil DeAngelo. At first glance, conventional thinking would at least assume these might be a circus themed olio. Well, yes and no. At our first rehearsal, Phil laid out his plans for the show. Yes, there would be circus acts, basically recycled bits from shows past. However, he wanted to expand on the concept and rattled off his ideas like clues on The $100,000 Pyramid.  The finale was to be gospel-themed along the lines of a tent revival. Midway there would be a big production number featuring the entire cast ala Broadway or, more accurately, in the manner of Music Circus. "Things found under the big top, Phil!" Grant-Lee Phillips added "How about mass camping expeditions?" As for that production number, we'll bookmark  that for now.

Being full of youthful piss and vinegar combined with the chutzpah I felt I earned from my year in the Ghost Town and working on the melodrama with Bob Gossett, I desired to creatively contribute to the olios as well. I wrote a few bits, mostly duds, but one made it through, a two-piece blackout I called it "Tex McKenna and His Dancing Bear". When introduced, cowboy Tex would draw his pistol and make his bear dance by shooting at his feet. For the payoff, the roles were reversed with the bear holding the gun, shooting at Tex to make him dance. Blackout. I played Tex with the one and only Goldie Pollard as the bear. As director, Phil changed the name of the cowboy to Wild Willy for some reason, but didn't alter it any further. For its inclusion to UNDER THE BIG TOP, I have to thank Goldie for going to bat for me. From this point on, I realized I had found a theater angel or, better yet, she found me. Because of her shining the light, I had an in-road into the theater that lasted for the next decade an. as I always said, allowed me to do everything I've ever wanted to do in show business, amazingly under one roof or big top, as it were. One stop shopping.

Joining the vaudeville cast were Lisa DeAngelo, Vincent Warren (despite what the program says, which is Joel's middle name) and Neil Pollard himself, pulling double duty managing the Chicken Kitchen and schlepping across the parking lot for a few choice moments in the spotlight. More about him later. As for Lisa and Vince, it should definitely be noted that this was where and when their relationship began, resulting in a marriage that has lasted after all these years. That's probably because they didn't get married on the Palace Showboat stage. Take it from one who knows.

UNDER THE BIG TOP began with Lisa's solo rendition of the Sondheim classic "Send in the Clowns", transitioning into "Be a Clown" with most of the cast in full costume and makeup. Over the standard six month run of the show, the clown facial paint had its variations. For example, someone (maybe me?) once drew a tic tac toe on their face. Another time, three of us-Grant (his suggestion), Cory Troxclair and myself-made up our faces as the members of KISS. Kids. Whudda ya gonna do?

Following the opening were the various circus "acts", per se, called for us to don tights (hello, dance belt!) and perform parodies of three ring performances. One of them was Grant in the role of Jugglini, a rather one note bit that he ended up transforming into comedy gold. He gathered up a bunch of whatever he could find backstage, studied them and came up with gags that were spot on hilarious, prop comedy at the speed of light. To see that teenage mind at work was awe-inspiring. He still worked in the juggling gag, lame as it was, as his "big" finish or finale (He would tell the audience in broken Italian accent, "I know that it you say. Finale.") His best gag involved the can of mixed nuts with the spring snake inside and announce that he would now recreate a scene from the movie ALIEN. He'd hold the can up to his chest and say "I can't eat no salad", then open the can to release the "chestburster" within. Absolute freaking genius. 

NEXT UP-WORKING WITH NEIL POLLARD

MORE TALES FROM THE VILLE

 

Stage Presents

Anytime I am fortunate enough to see my granddaughter Aefa on stage is a gift that I truly cherish. Since getting the theater bug a few years back, the same critter that bit her Grandpa eons ago, she has racked up an impressive resume of appearances in such shows as Beauty and the Beast, Pippin, Matilda and Peter and the Star Catcher. I have been able to catch three productions thus far, the latest being a non-musical Agatha Christie's And Then There Were None. I would have loved to have seen them all, but logistically, it doesn't pan out for now since she and her theatre troupe, Roaming Gnome, are in Denver and I'm here in Portland which makes it an annual sojourn at most.

This recent production has some extra added curiosity attached to it since we are talking children's theater here and this Christie meller contains adult elements unseen in previous shows such as murder, suicide and an abundance of alcohol consumption (prop hooch for those who need clarification). Watching a bunch of kids in this acting like irresponsible grown-ups was quite the treat. There was an unfortunate piece of business involving cigarettes that should have been excised or re-vamped somehow. My objection had nothing to do with the act of smoking itself. The actors had no clue what to do with their unlit cigs, not miming the action at all and merely holding them like some stale pretzels. In another scene, a pipe was used as well and I half-way expected to bubbles. At least the actor held it in her mouth. I quibble. I can't totally resist entirely, but I don't want to come off like this guy.

Some performances were actually quite good, a difficult task for young 'uns to pull off with this script. There was also the inter-gender casting since, as always is the case these days, more females were available than males at a ratio of 8 to 2. Then there was old age makeup, always amusing on youth. (I'm an former Streaks 'n Tips user myself) I give these kids all the credit in the world, but if I'm to be completely honest, the best one on that stage was my darling Aefa.

Of course I am proud grandparent, one of three, the others grandmothers deux, so you can naturally assume I am biased in my assessment. That's fine. I'll take the hit, but I can speak straight from the ticker, man. Unabashedly I conclude Aefa's got the goods. Her instincts are on point, listening to her fellow actors and reacting appropriately without overdoing it as young actors tend to do. She shows great restraint and quite good timing, showing an inner strength I don't see in adult performances most times. Her character portrayal of an overbearing righteous zealot, was spot on, once again, dismissive when appropriate, getting unexpected laughs at opportune moments and more than earning her dramatic highs. On top of this, she has true stage presence. I noticed this when I first saw her in Beauty and the Beast. Though part of the ensemble, she positively threw herself into the musical numbers, such as "Gaston". Her enthusiasm and energy made her stand out, but not In Pippin as another member of the chorus, she didn't withhold her passion in the finale, radiating from the stage as well-earned tears poured from her eyes. That one left me a blubbering mess myself, not an objective opinion to be sure, though it showed me how committed she can be. With this latest endeavor, her growth is readily apparent.

As I gush over my granddaughter's theatrical abilities, I do recognize that her talent is extremely raw. She has miles to go, which should be expected for such a green talent. This is the starting point and, from what I've witnessed thus far, she is well on her way. I should note that the support she receives from her family is tremendous attending several performances as well as doing what they can to help fill those seats at Roaming Gnome's little playhouse. However, if Aefa doesn't follow this path  and chooses another way down the line, I've seen of what she can do makes me believe she is capable of anything should she put her mind, heart and soul to it. 

Am I overstating all this because I am her grandfather? Then you don't know me. I wouldn't be writing this unless I truly believed it. But no matter what, I would love her just the same as I have since she made her very first entrance, twelve years ago.

So put that in your pipe and try to smoke it.

Slap-Happy New Year

The waning hours of 2023 find me in an uncharacteristic state of mind, that being relatively unreflective. I'm usually able to wax nostalgic over the simplest of things from the past, marking the date of the last time I chewed gum or some other inconsequential nonsense that don't mean a thing, wing notwithstanding. Maybe, at this late stage of my life, I've finally realized that the changing of the calendar in a little over six hours from now, doesn't amount to a hill of beans in this world (gender purposely omitted for no reason at all). It's like finally accepting the fact that there is no Santa Claus, Easter Bunny or nutritional value in iceberg lettuce. Time marches on. So does life. Lather, rinse, repeat.

If I have to cherry pick reasons for my lack of enthusiasm for the ball dropping at midnight, it could be my age, something I've been living in denial about since I was a toddler. ("I am NOT a baby!") As I've entered this third act, which I am grateful to have since many don't even get two, I seem to be getting the signal to wrap it up already. Ruminating about the past twelve months at this point doesn't just give me pause, it makes me downright stagnant. I don't make resolutions, but I don't deny I have plans to make, goals to fulfill, dreams to still realize because my head is either in the clouds or firmly up my ass. 

The instantaneous magic that supposedly occurs after 23:59 tonight is all an illusion and slight of hand. So what? There's nothing wrong with hope. It worked out well enough for Crosby and it should for you too. As for me, I'll figure it out when the time comes. And it will, whether I'm ready or not. Until then:

Happy 2024 to ye and for me. 

See you on the other side.

The Martin Scorsese Experience

Dear Marty-

Forgive the informality of addressing you in such a familiar fashion, but in interviews, you seem to give permission it's acceptable. Besides, after nearly six decades of watching your films-the great, the good and those not to my liking (you're incapable of making a truly bad movie)-I feel I've earned the right. If we ever meet, you may call me whatever you please. A mook, even.

I've recently plunked myself into a local cinema to take in your latest, KILLERS OF THE FLOWER MOON and nearly didn't make the leap. To be frank, the running time held me back. Between you and Christopher Nolan, I've spent six and a half hours watching your recent efforts-over seven if count trailers and theater ads, but you have nothing to do with that. But the lure of the filmmaker as well as the material itself, having been previously riveted by David Grann's source material, proved to be too great a lure. 

Still, three and half hours with no intermission? In my long cinematic journey, a midway break never seemed to intrude on the experience itself. Many of them I can recall to this day. When I was a young 'un, my sister and I went to see GONE WITH THE WIND and left when the lights came up after Scarlett O'Hara declared "As God as my witness, I will never go hungry again!" Being dumb ass kids, we thought the movie was over. Took me almost ten years before I saw the whole damn thing. Intermissions are an affectation of the past, with the exception of revivals, though some are asking them to be reinstated if the three hour plus mark is to continue. 

You, sir, have flat out refused to allow theaters to allow intermissions and those that have, you and your editor Thelma Schoonmaker have claimed are violations, demanding the cease and desist. (Under threat of what? Pulling the film and replacing it with FIVE NIGHTS AT FREDDY'S?) You also said in an interview:

“People say it’s three hours, but come on, you can sit in front of the TV and watch something for five hours. Also, there are many people who watch theatre for three and a half hours. There are real actors on stage — you can’t get up and walk around. You give it that respect; give cinema some respect."

In rebuttal, I would say the TV experience is a weak argument. You can't compare the two effectively, much as you can't equate restaurants with eating at home. Cinemas and live theater have their own set of parameters that don't allow for the weapon of choice that no home can do without-the remote control. 

I get it, completely and absolutely. My love for the cinematic experience has helped shape how I've lived my life. I've made no secret that I consider a movie theater to be my cathedral and thus, a religious experience. (I've never been to a multi-plex church however, but that seems a swell idea to me.) And there is no one who has done more for cinema itself, through preservation and appreciation as well as your own work, than you, Marty. If you wish to take a hardline stance, more power to you. Someone should be especially when both the entire industry and artform itself are so fragile. Therefore, above any filmmaker alive today, you've earned the right to have your films presented however the hell you want them.

This week, since I had some time off, I found that I had four hours to spare (there's traveling time involved, m'kay?) and made KILLERS OF THE FLOWER MOON a priority and, just as I said after I hemmed and hawed before I caught OPPENHEIMER this summer, I am the better person for doing so, mainly because I saw it on the big screen. Not to lump the two films together, I can only collate them by how immersive they are. Nolan's went for the sensory route, utilizing techniques that engaged sight and sound almost relentlessly. KOTFM had been equally involving, though with more a deft touch in its unfolding of this horrific saga in American history, laying it out patiently one step at a time reeling in the viewer until the coil is taut enough to almost snap until the very end. It is an astounding piece of work. Leonard Di Caprio has never been so weasely, an absolute dope who has no clue where his loyalties lie, not with the wife he supposedly loves that's for sure since he decides to pick his wretched family and race above all else. Robert De Niro totally embodies one of the smarmiest bastards of his career, a character type that unfortunately has not died out over time. And Lily Gladstone as Mollie Burkhardt is so quietly powerful, a real welcome and refreshing screen presence that I wish she didn't spend half the movie sickly or in mourning, even though that's how the story plays out for her character. I wish the screen story revolved more around her as opposed to Leo's since  the film itself is much like she was and as portrayed by Gladstone. This sprawling epic could have a lumbering brute of a film, but in your hands, it becomes a symphony. And the epilogue is flat out brilliant. Bravo. If I were to quibble which I have be known to do, I would your own self-serving intro, Marty. It's a totally unnecessary distraction, adding nothing and dampers the opening. I felt as though you were going the Walt Disney route when he used to introduce shows on The Wide World of Color. The fact that you make an appearance at the end is more than enough. Don't belabor the point and let the film speak for itself which it does , loud and clear.

So about the length. (yeah, I have to get back to it) I didn't feel it until the last half-hour which quite honestly did not drag. It's a personal thing and could have been the time of day since I falter in late afternoons when I attended Ye Olde Moviehouse. And like OPPENHEIMER, I had to take a comfort break (aka go to the can) at, ironically enough, the halfway point. All in all, I am pleased to admit that I still have the stamina to attend a long-ass movie like yours. Unfortunately, my bladder has another agenda.

So, Marty, my ol' pal, keep fighting the good fight even if you do get all curmudgeonly in the process. If you can make films as compelling and vibrant as KILLERS OF THE FLOWER MOON and champion film as only you can do, please do. After all, you are Martin Fucking Scorsese and I think now you damn well know it.

Cinematically yours,

Scott 

The Mook

Look What I Can Do!

Asking the world to acknowledge a milestone in one's life and/or career is pretty much the equivalent of acting like Stuart from the old MAD TV. "Look what I can do!" Sure, it's self-serving, but if I don't serve myself, who is?

A little history first. (Take notes. There's going to be a test.) Having had the privilege of having three melodrama scripts produced at my late, lamented and dearly beloved Palace Showboat Dinner Theater at Pollardville in Stockton, California, I wanted to share with other like-minded theaters in the country (nay, the world!). I first submitted them to various play publishers without any success whatsoever. So, after a helluva lotta research, I approached theaters one at a time. A couple of times I hit pay dirt, though the second one actually produced it without either contacting myself or my co-author on LA RUE'S RETURN, thereby trying to get away without paying us. When Ed the Pitbull went after them, threatening legal action, we were compensated handsomely. Once the Internet kicked in, I dove in and tried, tried, tried again with one production to show for all my efforts. I ended up self-publishing my scripts. My rationale was that I had to get my work out there, hoping for something, sometime, somewhere.

It wasn't until the Fall of 2013 when I was contacted by Nova Cunningham (no relation to Opie) who was the marketing director of the Great American Melodrama and Vaudeville Theatre in Oceano, CA. She found my script, SONG OF THE LONE PRAIRIE online and wanted to produce as their 2014 summer production. The only stipulation was that the title would be changed to SONG OF THE CANYON KID. Well, I was just about to publish my novelization of LONE PRAIRIE (a silly experiment of mine) that I re-titled SONG OF THE CANYON KID. I saw a possible tie-in here, that, alas, never transpired, but my head was in the clouds once again. Naturally, I told Nova yes and lo and behold, a third act of my life was created on the spot.

I started re-channeling my efforts and sure enough, my gamble paid off. THE CANYON KID not only played that summer, but another production ran concurrently with it in Jamestown, CA. LA RUE'S RETURN also found a new stage in Missouri and, as the cherry on top, was slated to be the 2015 Summer attraction at the Great American Melodrama. From there, I was off and running with a an interesting off-ramp into the world of murder mystery dinner theater as well and finally having three of my scripts published at long last by OFF THE WALL PLAYS. 

So thank you, Nova Cunningham, wherever the hell you are in this world, for my first big break since the Pollardville days which has culminated in having my plays produced from one end of the US of A to the other. 2024, my official anniversary year, promises to be one of the best yet. More news of that to come here and on my other blog MURDER, MELODRAMA AND MORE!

The main thing I've learned from the experience is that if you fancy yourself to be a writer, get your work out of the shadows. No one will find it if you've hidden it away from the world. Not knowing does no one any good, least of all yourself. Sometimes, showing up is half the battle.

So Happy Anniversary to me. Let the festivities begin!

Before the Fall

Summer '23 is unofficially behind us. Technically, the first day of fall will be September 23 this year (23 for '23), but let's face it, Labor Day is the last three day blowout before we are inundated with pumpkin spice this, that and every bloody thing until Xmas rolls around and...we're done here for another year.

While not a big fan of summertime (with the exception of Gershwin), this year's season between there and here was actually pretty sweet, despite the fact that the rest of the world was either on fire or on strike. The best possible reason for rave review stemmed from the fact that I got to spend some quality time with the fam, part of which I chronicled here in the post DADA DAY IN DENVER. What's missing from that post are two separate and superb bookended evenings with my son and grandson, respectively. This damn fam o' mine sends me to the moon and back. 

While in Colorado, I finally met my friend Melanie Roady face-to-face after almost ten years of communicating only online. Mel was the theater angel who got me to write the first play I'd written in way too long a time and produced said show. The following year, we did it again. Our origin story can be found in  A FROG BLOG. 

Speaking of which, one of those plays in question, MURDER-THE FINAL FRONTIER, was produced by CAST Plays in Douglasville, Georgia, possibly making it the most popular show in my catalog, which is only one page, but at least front and back. If you can't read the fine print, the show went on the boards (as we show folk say) back in April. I didn't learn about it until I received my royalty payment from my publisher in June. 

Managed to attend two-count 'em-two movies, a very big deal in the life of me since the experience had been pretty much obliterated by the damn Pandemic, much like almost everything else I used to love. Takes a bit to get me out to the cinema again, but since the films I took in came from two of my favorite filmmakers, I set forth to satisfy my craving headed into the dark once again.

ASTEROID CITY: Nobody makes films like Wes Anderson. After this and THE FRENCH DISPATCH, I'm getting a bit concerned. It pains me to admit that ASTEROID CITY is even too Wes Anderson-y for me. He overreached and couldn't attain any honest connection with his own work when he became too bogged down in design. It's not a wash by any means, containing enough delights that will be bring me back for a second viewing. But this time around, he went for big themes and emotions so far out of his reach because he was distracted by the next shiny object. "Ooh, look! A stop motion roadrunner!" The magic act didn't work for me this time, even though I was so glad to experience it on the big screen because it is a beautiful, however frustrating object. 

OPPENHEIMER: I had been looking forward to Christopher Nolan's latest epic all year. Naturally, since procrastination is my middle name, I waited until Labor Day to catch it. The enormity of the production, a total sensory experience, overwhelms much of the time, almost relentlessly, though it doesn't become bombastic enough to obliterate the drama or the performances contained therein. I have a problem, as many others have, with the dialogue recording since Nolan doesn't believe in ADR, so I lost some key elements and pertinent info along the way. (Maybe I require sub-titles as I do at home these days) The cast is superb, though Nolan nearly falls into the same trap as Wes Anderson. Critic Judith Crist used to call these vehicles with all-star casts a "Hey, look!" movie and OPPENHEIMER has a bit of stunt casting here and there.. "Hey, look! There's Gary Oldman as Harry Truman!" Overall, a fine achievement and the best time I had in the movies all year. That's three times if you're counting at home.

Add to this some swell TV viewing with the return of RESERVATION DOGS, WHAT WE DO IN THE SHADOWS and a limited series revival of JUSTIFIED to the mix and summer '23 turned out pretty damn nifty. It was all wine and roses, disregarding being sold down the river by an unnamed entity, but that's what the fall is all about...and hopefully, a fall from which I hope I can recover. (Cryptic much?)

Now if you'll excuse, I have to store away all my white clothes until next year. Do undershirts count?

 

Special Guest Star: Robert Blake

 

It's been my inclination to always-or almost always-root for the underdog my entire life, perhaps because I can relate or the empathy I happen to feel for the individual. For the late Robert Blake, it was the latter. Sure, he had a show business career that spanned well over the half-century mark, earning Prime Time Emmy and Golden Globe awards along the way as the star of hit TV series and working with such iconic directors as John Huston, Richard Brooks, Hal Ashby, George Stevens and David Lynch. 

None of that really mattered in that end, for when he died this past year, most headlines read:

ROBERT BLAKE 'BARETTA' STAR ACQUITTED OF WIFE'S MURDER, DIES AT 89

So there's that too. 

I have no idea if Blake was guilty of the crimes he had been accused of relating to this case. This was the highest profile Tinseltown murder case that came down the pike post O.J. which the world at large had still not gotten over, but still seemed to have the blood lust enough to hash it out ad infinitum and nauseam for that matter. Therefore, I begged off on the judgment call, though I have a few opinions of my own that I'll keep to myself. 

I do know that Blake was one messed up individual having gone through alleged abuse by his parents, even while he was bringing home the bacon as a child actor in the final leg of the Our Gang comedy shorts at MGM and as sidekick Little Beaver in a slew of Red Ryder westerns. He survived drug addiction in the Fifties, dealing with every more demons. Television roles kept him employed until he landed a role, usually noted his very best, in Brooks' adaptation of IN COLD BLOOD. Stardom still eluded him until he landed the lead as BARETTA, the cop show that lasted four seasons in the mid 70s. 

During this period, he became a frequent guest on THE TONIGHT SHOW. Johnny Carson had a way with the volatile Blake, getting him to open up about his life to a superficial degree, allowing to be a rather entertaining raconteur about old time show biz and life in general. Carson gave him an outlet he never had before and Blake seemed to have the time of his life and less of a tormented soul, making several appearances over time. 

Following the end of BARETTA, he tried to kick start his film career again. One vehicle brought Robert Blake to my hometown of Stockton, California. The movie was COAST TO COAST, a riff on IT HAPPENED ONE NIGHT with Dyan Cannon in the Claudette Colbert role with Blake as Gable, I suppose, in the guise of a trucker, a nod to the SMOKEY AND THE BANDIT crowd. Since this was a road movie, it had been shot on several locations, many to mimic other parts of the country with downtown Stockton standing in for what I think was somewhere in the Midwest (Kansas City, according to IMDB).

KFMR radio station (which eventually became FM 100) had only recently debuted on San Joaquin County airwaves during this period. I had been longtime friends and former employee of the owners, Bob and Sue Carson  and had an idea to score a coup for the station. So I grabbed my cassette tape recorder and headed downtown to the set of COAST TO COAST in the hope that I could get the one and only Robert Blake to give a station ID for KFMR.

My friend Bill Humphreys and myself parked out by where the stars trailers and fabled Honey Wagons had been circled. Security was pretty much lax in those days, so I felt I would have no problem accomplishing the task at hand. It was long before shooting wrapped on the set and the actors returned to their portable sanctuaries. Dyan Cannon was first one out of the shoot, but I didn't even consider asking her as well. I would have made a complete fool of myself, probably more so than I usually did with women who weren't movie stars.

Robert Blake followed not long after and off I went. With the arrogance of youth on my side and no trace of a brain in my whole head, I had no qualms approaching this reportedly volatile Hollywood star and imposing on his valuable time just to get his voice on my cheap-ass cassette. He could have brushed me away like a mosquito or barked his disapproval, making me pee my pants and dash away with my tail between my legs all the way home.

I'll damned if he didn't comply. Maybe addressing him as "Mr. Blake" helped. I didn't give him any copy to read, just basically told him what to say. "This is Robert Blake and you're listening to KFMR."

He repeated, sort of. "This is Robert Blake and you're listening to...what?"

"KFMR."

"This is Robert Blake and you're listening to KRFM."

"No, KFMR."

"This is Robert Blake and you're...what?"

"This is Robert Blake. You know that part already."

"This is Robert Blake..."

"...and you're listening to KFMR.."

"...and you're listening to KMFR."

"KFMR."

"This is Robert Blake and you're listening to KFMR." 

He done did it. Graciously. Putting up with my wise ass self and not throwing my cassette recorder to the ground and stomping on it. Or me. I thanked him profusely and away we went in opposite directions. Maybe he had all along and was simply messing with me. Whatever the reason might have been, whether he was in a good place at the time or he was a consummate professional who dealt with the public the way he would like to be treated himself, even by the likes of a smart of a Stockton bumpkin like myself. 

That entire exchange ran on the station verbatim and it became my one and contribution to KFMR. An edited version without me also popped up between songs until both versions disappeared entirely when the station was re-branded as FM 100.

COAST TO COAST didn't fare very well at the box office or critics and after a couple of other misfires, Blake returned to television where he found his greatest success. At the turn of the 21st century, his

career was over and out, as was he, initially convicted and eventually acquitted for his wife's murder. The demons that chased him his entire life finally got the best and worst of him. When he died in the first part of 2023, an unfortunate punctuation to Robert Blake occurred due to his exclusion to the In Memoriam section of the Oscars only a few days later with no thanks to Jimmy Kimmel and a bad joke that has no business being repeated, at least by me. 

The point of the story? Merely another close encounter of the celebrity kind, a brush with someone famous who ended up, unfortunately and probably inevitably, infamous. I feel fortunate I was able to catch him in his prime time so that the memory I carry has a positive ring to it as opposed to what happened later when his life and career were over-powered by a horrific turn of events that would dictate his legacy from that point on. Such is the fragility of fame.

 

Rosebud Redux

An excerpt from IN THE DARK: A LIFE AND TIMES IN A MOVIE THEATER written by moi with a few recent musings at the end to wrap it all up in a pretty bow.

At last, I have vindicated myself. A wrong in my life has finally been made right.

A glaring red mark is now erased from my permanent record. I once was lost, but now I’m found.

What, you may well ask, is this bold, courageous step I have taken which will guarantee me a reserved seat in that big skybox above known as Heaven?

I have just seen CITIZEN KANE as it was originally meant to be seen-on an actual motion picture screen.

Okay, fine, I’m a little late. It’s not like I haven’t seen the dang thing before…only several dozen times since I was a lad of wee, but it was always on television. After all, CITIZEN KANE was a perennial LATE, LATE SHOW attraction in the prehistoric days before cable. I probably saw it for the first time on the San Francisco TV station KPIX at maybe two in the morning back in the 1960s. Even then, it was hard to deny the power of this incredible film, a tougher feat to accomplish in those days since it was broken up by incessant used car commercials featuring fast-talking hucksters like the notorious Ralph Williams, a dead ringer for Lex Luthor. CITIZEN KANE pulled me in every single time and I was always a willing hostage.

Only a series of missed opportunities throughout my movie-going life has prevented me from actually making the supreme effort to view what is generally acknowledged as the greatest film of all time in its natural habitat. Truthfully, it has been a major source of embarrassment to have to admit this shame of mine because I have always claimed to be somewhat of an expert on the cinema, a connoisseur, if you
will…someone who eats, sleeps, hell…even farts movies. Not to have seen CITIZEN KANE…really, honestly, truly seen Orson Welles’ masterpiece meant one thing and one thing only.

I was a fraud. Oh yeah. A genuine, bona fide, dyed-in-the-wool-whatever-the-hell-that-means, class A number one F-R-A-U-D.

But, not no mo’, pal.

Now, I can hold my head up high, climb to the top of Gene Shalit’s hair and shout victoriously, “Free at last! Free at Last! Pass the popcorn, I am free at last!”

This soul-cleansing redemption came one recent fall evening at the Guild Theatre in downtown Portland, Oregon, a venue that runs shows for the Northwest Film Center. The Guild has an auditorium that is old, musty and damp with seats to match, almost giving off the impression that’s it had been underwater for several years after a flood. That, to me, is part of its charm. The screen, framed by soft white light bulbs, was rather small, making me think this might be a 16mm showing, even though it wasn’t. The presentation began; stumbling and bumbling like a doddering old fool in the dark. The
opening titles, usually the first big rush I get because your anticipation is so high, were illegibly out of frame. The sound level was so loud, the NEWS ON THE MARCH fanfare alone nearly burst open my lower intestine. The print was fairly scratchy in that community college Film Appreciation class way. Instead of irritating the snot out of me, these gaffes actually amused me because they eventually worked themselves out. The Guild basically showed me a good time that night. I might even give it a second date sometime.

It is also my pleasure to report that I sat with a respectful audience that didn’t talk during the film, laughed at all the right places and even gave me a small sense of pride to be amongst them when they applauded after the closing credits. (There were a couple of knotheads that just HAD to leave just as the sled was burning. What’s the hurry? Afraid you’re gonna miss a rerun of JAG?)

To say that I’m familiar with CITIZEN KANE would be an understatement. Basically, I know this film backwards and forwards with entire scenes that I can recite verbatim. However, each repeat viewing affords certain aspects of KANE to stand out more than ever, as it would for any film. Projected on the big screen, these details are more abundant and have more clarity. I may not have seen KANE with “a whole new set of eyes” like a friend of mine suggested, but my vision most certainly improved. The opening sequence, just before Kane utters “Rosebud” for the very first time, has that eerie tour of Xanadu after dark. With its special effects and matte paintings, it looks damn near like animation, not dissimilar to early black-and-white Disney. Speaking of cartoons, check out the birds in the background of the Everglades sequence near the end. Just where the hell did Kane and Susan have that picnic anyway…Skull Island? Hey, look over there by the chilled prawns…it’s Bruce Cabot! Joseph Cotten is very obvious in the shadows of the screening room after NEWS ON THE MARCH. That smile he has on his face looks like he was trying to sneak into the scene. Another thing I’ve never really picked up on before: Dorothy Comingore, the actress who portrays the second Mrs. Kane, was hot! Take a look at the early boarding house scene when Susan Alexander is introduced. Small wonder how Kane got his hand caught in that “cookie” jar. Granted, she’s got a voice that would make Fran Drescher squirm, but how can I not pay tribute to the actress who says the immortal line, “Yer awful funny, are-runt cha?”

On the downside is a glaring oversight by Welles and screenwriter Herman Mankiewicz that weakens the film for me and obviously is something I haven’t picked upon before. There is a total lack of any kind of a payoff regarding the death of Emily, the first Mrs. Kane, and their son (played by the ever-popular Sonny Bupp) Surely, it was significant enough to warrant such attention. Their demise seems to be mentioned only in passing, as if it were merely a convenience of the story. Its absence leaves a very obvious gaping hole that I find impossible to ignore from here on out.

Volumes have been written about Gregg Toland’s cinematography and Bernard Herrmann’s music, so let me just add my undying admiration for both of their invaluable contributions, which are even more spectacular in a theater setting. When Rosebud’s secret is finally revealed and the music reaches its crescendo, so did I, in more ways than one. (You figure it out)

Orson Welles as Charles Foster Kane is the single greatest film performance of all time. Period.

After the movie, I drove home about as pleased with myself as I had been in quite some time. Now that

time has distanced me from that night, I have to ask myself why. What was it that I actually accomplished? I went to a movie. More accurately, I went to a movie that I’d seen maybe thirty times before I also own a copy of this movie I paid to see. The answer may be two-fold for it not only has to do with act of going to a movie, but also what it represents which, coincidentally enough, is a lot like the answer to the meaning of Rosebud. Watching CITIZEN KANE at the Guild gave me something I had been lacking-sense of being true to myself.

I love the movies. I own both a VCR and a DVD player. That means I will continue to watch movies at home each and every chance I get. The technology is getting better and better as each day passes, making the home experience a more viable option. There is never a lack of product since it is easier and extremely affordable to obtain movies to purchase or merely to rent. My own personal collection continues to grow into the treasure chest I’ve always dreamed of. But, it’s never going to be enough.
There is a qualitative difference in a theater, an entire dimension that is lost at home. This dimension is a separate world, a world of light and life that can envelop me entirely. It can make the fantastic positively believable and the tiniest gesture a poem. The portal to that world is a movie theater and I wish to remain a frequent traveler through its gateway. Sure, sometimes this magic portal takes me to a place where a teenager humps an apple pie. But, hey, allow me the pretentious metaphor.

The night I saw KANE was a wake-up call. It re-ignited the fire I myself allowed to go out, that is, my passion for the movie-going experience. It caused me to review the many options that exist out there for those with my voracious appetite for all things celluloid. I happen to be very fortunate to be living in an area where I’m only limited by my lack of imagination. The confines of the multiplex with its standard Hollywood fare mentality may be pre-dominant here as it everywhere but at least there are many other choices. Independent, foreign, revivals of classics, hell, even second run features at discounted prices are all currently playing at various neighborhood theaters all over town, many in glorious old movie palaces that have been saved and preserved by people who care. These are getting fewer and far between as each day passes, which is another reason to support them. There are even theater pubs where you can enjoy a meal and a brew while watching a movie. Okay, that’s here where I live. Maybe that doesn’t exist where you are. Go out and find them. If I didn’t live in this area, that’s what I would do. I’ve done it before and I’d do it again. And yes, I’ve even gone back to the multiplex too because it ain’t the only game in town. It’s just another option.

You see, as I said, I love the movies and I am proud to say the movies love me right back. What I’ve come to realize it that this a part of who I am and always will be, even it is just a piece of a jigsaw puzzle. This is my Rosebud.

In the dark, I see the light.

Copyright 2003 by Scott Cherney

CODA:
This incident occurred at the turn of century, a term that is still hard to swallow twenty three years into the 21st where we find ourselves now. That being said, some updates seem to be required. The Guild Theatre in downtown Portland is long gone. I no longer have a VCR, though am inexplicably holding onto some videotapes. There is no mention of streaming services because they didn't exist back then. You could rent a DVD from Netflix though if you so desired. 

I still believe in the power of cinema, especially in the realm of a movie theater. My attendance in recent years may belie this fanciful notion, but the experience in and of itself still gives me that visceral thrill like no other. In fact, I'm going to a movie tomorrow to keep my passion for film alive and hopefully still kicking.

IN THE DARK: A LIFE AND TIMES IN A MOVIE THEATER is available in paperback and Kindle on the Amazon

Dada Day in Denver

It appears that, after two and a half decades into the 21st century, Father's Day is making a comeback, a reboot, as the kids say these days. This lower-case holiday has been kicked about and shoved to the side in recent times, probably due to the revolving door of gender roles and, more likely, the sad fact that in order to build something up, we have to tear something down. Papa's Day will never reach the exalted status that Mothers have, so it currently sits further down the popularity chart placed above Arbor Day, but trailing Earth Day thanks to an aggressive marketing campaign by the Green Party.

This info about the much maligned Dia del Padre isn't new by any means. Certainly Chris Rock moaned and groaned about it about 25 years ago one of his iconic stand-up specials.  Another quarter century before that, Chuck Jones turned out a brilliant Warner Brothers cartoon on the subject entitled A Bear for Punishment. Sure, it celebrated Father, but at a price, a harbinger of things to come perhaps? 

Technically, I'm not a father. I've never sired any children...to my knowledge, if I wanted to drop the spurious playa card in order to impress nobody. I do hold the position of stepfather, though I've never been called upon to wield any parental duties per se especially since my wife's children were full grown and didn't have to put up with any clumsy platitudes from this guy right here. I love these guys to Jupiter and back and they have always accepted me as more that guy their mom hangs with. But the father part of the step process sometimes felt like a participation trophy, which has everything to do with me and not them.

But thanks to this trio of amazing human beings and great timing on my part, I reached the next level, earning me the privilege to be the Mack Daddy of them all-Grandpa, damn it. While I've always had age issues due to my latent immaturity/insecurity, I've never had any qualms being a grandparent and I cherish this honor with my very being. In fact, it has brought me closer to my stepson and daughters in the process and finally allowed me to be not only feel, but to actually become a part of this swell bunch of people that I call my family and not the outsider I used to consider myself to be. So when Father's Day rolls around and I get accolades from the fam over the years, this truly closes that gap for me.

This year, we happen to be to find ourselves in Denver once again visiting Colorado contingent of the clan. My youngest granddaughter is inexplicably turning 5 years old while, as a bonus feature, Father's Day is occurring as I write. The fact that I am spending part of this day away from them and scribbling says a lot, doesn't it? My wife, the matriarch of this bunch and I are always treated like royalty when we visit and this time is certainly no exception-eating, drinking and celebrating like the bleeding Windsors. It's not so much that they spoil us rotten but overcome us with the love that accompanies it all. I, as Granddad/Grandpa/Grandfather/Zeydah/Ol' Man River have finally accepted that this day is not for pater familias only. My hard candy shell finally cracked and the milk chocolate of my heart continues to melt for those who have embraced me into their bosom (Did I just hear an ew?) This year, along with various greetings far and wide, I was fortunate enough to actually celebrate the day along with my SIL (son-in-law for the acronym challenged) and this rare occasion instantly became a deposit into the savings account of my memory bank with a high interest rate. I can return to this day in times of woe to help dig me out of whatever mess I've got myself into, mental or otherwise so I can see the light of day that this family, this cavalcade of characters of the past, present and future have shown me time and time again and I can honestly say:

Thank you

I love you

and Happy Father's Day to me.

The Great Bijou Theater Robbery

Many moons ago, I, along with three other chaps, were robbed at gunpoint at the legendary-or infamous, as the case may be-Bijou Theater in Stockton, California. Instead of coming down with a case of the night terrors and PTSD from the incident in question, I got a half-way decent story out of it that I related in my chapter about my days at the Bijou in my book, IN THE DARK: A LIFE AND TIMES IN A MOVIE THEATER, adapted here to fit this format.

“Down on the floor!”

Like an ornery desperado from the pages of a western dime novel, the robber barked out this command after drawing his revolver and pointing it at the four of us. The small caliber of his weapon-a .22-was irrelevant because, after all, a bullet is still a bullet no matter what the size. Of course, it carried more weight when backed up by the sawed-off shotgun his ski-masked partner held beside him. In that instant, life as we knew it changed, as the distinct possibility suddenly existed that there might very well be four dead people in the Bijou Theater that winter’s night.

My brain had been thrust into a fogbank of confusion. Which way was up? Which way was down? If there had been anything on my mind at all, it was this: Every seat in the small auditorium had been filled that evening except for one and I knew exactly where it was located. All I had to do was get inside, slink down into that single, solitary chair and hide out until this all blew over.

Besides, I hadn’t seen the movie yet.

About a year and a half before that fateful encounter with Butch Cassidy and the Ski Mask Kid, an amazing occurrence happened in my hometown. An actual honest-to-goodness repertory cinema opened just off Stockton’s version of the Miracle Mile, Pacific Avenue and, coincidentally enough, not very far at all from my own house. I was positively flabbergasted that anything this fantastic could ever exist in a place like Stockton, a town I considered to be a cultural desert. Movie theaters of this type that features an on-going parade of vintage classics, foreign and avant-garde experimental works operated in more sophisticated urban settings like New York, San Francisco, even college towns like Berkeley. Not in Stockton, for Christ's sake. These people snorted peat dirt! But, lo and behold, I gladly accepted the fact that my snotty, cynical teenage self could actually be proven wrong for the grand and glorious 

Four friends got together in the early seventies and transformed the space into a movie theater, on the cheap. They set up 16mm projection equipment and added some used seats from a torn-down theater, created a combination box office/concession stand and voila! Instant Bijou! Their hopes were to appeal to the tastes of University of the Pacific students and hipper members in the community, filling a niche that was certainly apparent to my eyes.

Well, that lasted about a year. Unable to maintain a steady flow of customers, the business was sold to new owners, Bob and Sue Carson. They maintained the repertory element of the Bijou for as long as they could until converting into a second run house with occasional forays into Stockton premieres that the other cinemas in town had passed over. Thanks to a low overhead, admission prices were kept down especially on the popular 99-cent Monday and Tuesday night specials when change for a dollar took the form of a Tootsie Roll instead of a penny, no one's favorite coin, except for maybe Abe Lincoln completists. 

I came into the picture almost right from the start of the Carson era, acquiring what I considered my dream job at the time, a job in a movie theater. I ran the box office and concessions during the evening and janitorial duties in the daytime, the last part certainly not as "glamourous", but I had unlimited free admissions to all showings when I wasn't working of which I took full advantage.

Soon, the Bijou became a viable, however minor player in the Stockton movie theater scene. Times were so good for the Carsons that they were able to save enough for a European vacation over the holidays a little over a year after they took over the theater. They sub-let the Bijou to George Westcott, a true Stockton character who fancied himself to be the local version of Walter Winchell with his entertainment newspaper column, Entertainment by George! (yeesh…) Westcott could have been Oscar Homolka’s stunt double and chain-smoked almost non-stop, often not taking the cigarette out of his mouth and the ashes would drop off onto his charcoal encrusted stomach. Small wonder why he wore so many gray suits. With a crew of Dan Foley, who was basically second-in-command of theater operations, and myself, George became the captain at the helm of the S.S. Bijou in the Carsons' absence. 

Westcott had managed to book the Christmas attraction-the area premiere of WALKING TALL. Starring the inimitable Joe Don Baker, the saga of Buford Pusser had been a sleeper hit across the country. The ad campaign was spectacular in its simplicity. It began with a shot of a full movie theater audience beginning to rise to its feet as the narrator asked, “When was the last time you stood up and applauded a movie?” Well, it worked because audiences responded to this redneck vigilante minor masterpiece all across the country. George secured the rights for the theater just in the nick of time. The result was fairly phenomenal. WALKING TALL out grossed several higher profile holiday releases that year in Stockton and the theater drew the steadiest stream of customers in its history.

On the first Tuesday of the New Year, that grand Bijou tradition of the 99 cent special was in full swing, filling the theater with Joe Don Baker fans from the far reaches of San Joaquin County. (I always imagined the star of WALKING TALL to have a big ass monogrammed ring with his initials spelled out backwards in diamonds. That way, when he punched a guy in the jaw, he’d also brand him with a JDB-Joe Don Baker!) Five of us ran the show that busy night: Dan, myself, George-forever bitching about “these goddamn Tootsie Rolls”-and Les Fong, Danny’s friend whose father had been the Bijou’s landlord at the time. The fifth wheel, Butch the projectionist, kept to himself as always up in the seclusion of the projection booth.

George had actually made a generous contribution to the theater by donating a piece of indoor/outdoor carpeting he had for the purpose of covering the plywood ramp at the entrance. The second feature that week, THE LAST AMERICAN HERO, a Jeff Bridges Nascar biopic, had just started and it seemed to be as good a time as any to lay some carpet. George supervised the operation from behind the counter, hooving butt after butt while Dan and Les went to work. I stood by and observed as well, not because I didn’t want to help. It just wasn’t a three-man job, that’s all. That's my excuse.

Being the middle of winter and all, we had closed the front door so as not to freeze our huevos off . Suddenly, it swung open and two gentlemen had begun to enter.  We were prepared to inform them that, unfortunately, we were sold out at the moment. One of them had one of those knit caps with the brim, a look popularized by the Jackson Five if I’m not mistaken. His friend wore a full-face ski mask.

That’s funny, I remember thinking. It might have been cold outside, but was it really ski-mask cold?

Tito (or Marlon or Jermaine) pulled the door closed with one hand and his pistol from his belt with the other. Ski Mask whipped out his sawed-off shotgun.

“Down on the floor!” Tito (or Marlon or Jermaine) growled.

Les and Danny, already on the floor, didn’t have far to go. George muttered and sputtered his way out of the box office. He held his hands in the air until he lowered himself onto the new indoor/outdoor ramp rug. While they complied, Ski Mask’s shotgun popped open momentarily. He snapped it closed, hoping nobody noticed.

“Hey!” Tito (or Marlon or Jermaine) barked at me, pointing his pistol in my direction. “Where you goin’?”

Who? Me? What does he mean where am I going? I’m not going anywhe…oh, shit. My feet WERE moving. Where was I goin’? It had been a subconscious reaction; maybe a survival instinct took over. Then, in a nanosecond, my mind caught up with my body and flashed inside the auditorium. 234 people sat inside in an auditorium that sat 235 at that very moment. One seat, in the middle of the back row was all that was left. If only I could just slip inside, I’d be safe. They wouldn’t have come to get me, would they? I could have just run out the back exit too. So many thoughts in so little time but…the shock took over. The entire room had all the life sucked right out of it. It was a complete vacuum and a hyper reality took over. That .22 pistol of his grew to the size of Harry Callahan’s .44 Magnum and could blow my head CLEAN off. I had only moved a couple of inches so I had not problem getting back to my starting point.

“I said DOWN ON THE FLOOR!” 

He did say that, didn’t he? No problemo, sir.  My body and soul caved at the same time as I hit the ground and spread out flat like a skinned beaver.

Dan suggested that the two lock the door behind them so that no one would walk in on them. Later, he told us this was an attempt to get a fingerprint. After complying, Tito (or Marlon or Jermaine) hopped behind the counter, grabbing everything in the till.

“Where’s the rest of it?” he demanded as his partner’s shotgun popped open a second time. It took two tries to shut it this time. Somehow, it didn’t appear to be loaded, but I wasn’t going to be the one to test that theory. I could have been wrong, you know.

“Sir, the money’s in a drop safe. I don’t have the combination,” George offered. 

Oh no. Shut up, George. Your lies could get us all fucking killed. There was no drop safe. The night’s take had been stashed in its usual place, upstairs in the projection booth crammed into a popcorn box.

At this, Tito (or Marlon or Jermaine) began to grab our wallets.

“Don’t you look at me!” he snapped.

Who? Me? Was I looking? Not anymore. I scrunched my eyes closed and mashed my face to the floor as I felt his hand in my back pocket, removing the contents. I saved my watch by sliding it up my wrist and under my sleeve when he was taking the box office receipts, the only time I had been grateful for a skinny wrist. I heard the door open and nearly passed out. Had someone just walked in? Nope. It was Tito (or Marlon or Jermaine) and Ski Mask taking it on the lam.

Immediately, Dan flew to the phone as Les took off after them. In no way, shape or form was I about to follow. I yelled out the door for him to come back. Quivering on the shakiest legs I have ever seen on an old fat man, George struggled to his feet and over to the big wooden spool that sat in the corner. Oddly enough, he did not light a cigarette. Just then, Les reappeared with everyone’s wallet…except mine.

Remarkably, not one member of the audience knew what happened that night for no one ventured out that entire time to even use the bathroom. THE LAST AMERICAN HERO must be one HELL of a picture! As it turned out, an off-duty policeman had been a member of that audience. He greeted his fellow officers when they arrived on the scene at intermission. They all had quite a good laugh about it. Ha ha ha. One other person didn’t realize that the Bijou had been robbed. Butch the projectionist, who wandered downstairs after the show to get a Coke, unaware of the drama that had just unfolded beneath his very feet.

The two perps, Tito (or Marlon or Jermaine) and his ski-masked partner didn’t get away with much that night, but they did get away. Are you guys still out there? Just wanted to give you a shout out. 

Can I have my wallet back now?

Copyright 2011 by Scott Cherney

EPILOGUE

In the years that followed, the Bijou became, as many other cinemas had in the mid-1970s, an "adult" theater, eventually purchased by the Pussycat chain. When that finally dried up in 1993, it evolved into the Valley Brew, the oldest brew pub in Stockton where it remains to this very day. End credits.

IN THE DARK:A LIFE AND TIMES IN A MOVIE THEATER is available on Amazon in both Kindle and paperback form