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

The Hollywood Max Museum

From left to right-Max and Max

The following is an excerpt from my first book, IN THE DARK: A LIFE AND TIMES IN A MOVIE THEATER.  I devoted  an entire chapter to my best friend and brother, Ed Thorpe who left this earth this past November. I re-print this truncated version here on the occasion of his birthday and because I miss him. Plain and simple.

My best friend calls me Max. I, in turn, call him Max. I’m Max. He’s Max. We’re both Max.

Our phone conversations always begin with the same greeting.

“Max-x-x…”

“Max!”

All correspondence, electronic or print, is addressed to Max. Any gifts we exchange have the same gift card.

    

“To: Max

  

From: Max”

We don’t find this confusing in the least. In fact, if we called each other by our real names, we’d be mighty suspicious, as in “Who died?” It been over twenty-five years that I’ve been Scott and he’s been Ed, specifically since the release of ANNIE HALL back in 1977.

In that film, Tony Roberts addresses Woody Allen as Max even though his character’s name is Alvy.

“Why do you keep calling me Max?” Alvy asks his friend.

“You look like a Max,” he replies.

Right back at him, Alvy calls his pal Max also, knowing full well that Tony Roberts’ name in the film is Rob.

Back when the two actors were performing PLAY IT AGAIN, SAM on Broadway, they adopted the mutual persona of Max when they would go out in public. Apparently, they thought they could move about New York City anonymously if they led anyone to believe that they weren’t who they appeared to be.

“Why, that looks just like Woody Allen. But, it couldn’t be. His friend keeps calling him Max.”

How effective was this ploy is anybody’s guess, not to mention how serious Allen and Roberts might have been about the whole matter. Was anybody really fooled by their little charade? And, seriously, back in 1969, who in the hell knew Tony Roberts?

Whatever their dubious rationale, we stole this little quirk and theirs and made it our own. It’s not that we had allusions to be the West Coast edition of Allen and Roberts. However, we felt it was a tribute to a great movie and to each other-the very best of friends.

I’ve known Ed Thorpe since 1967, nearly ¾ of my life. That’s the longest single relationship I’ve ever had with anybody outside of my immediate family. Through almost four decades we’ve hit highs, lows and everything in between. We’ve shared laughter, tears, bottles, joints, the stage, writing credits and, even at one point, the same girl. We acted out our own version of JULES AND JIM, only instead of Francois Trauffaut, ours would have been directed by Jack Smight. Eventually, he won the girl, which resulted in their eminent marriage. After I drifted away for a while, I soon returned to the fold and we resumed our friendship. Eventually, their marriage ended but the friendship continued.

One of the constants we can always depend upon is our mutual love of film. In Max, I have a true peer, someone whose knowledge is as extensive as my very own and whose opinion I value over all others. There is nobody I would rather have that post-movie discussion with than Max when we can sit down and critique, analyze or, sometimes tear a new asshole out of any movie we had just finished viewing. For another, he “gets the references”, another quote from ANNIE HALL that is pretty self-explanatory.  Since we speak in that Secret Language of Friends, our conversations are peppered with quotes from movies and TV shows both popular and esoteric as well as recalling the people, places and things we’ve experienced in the time we’ve passed together. Often nobody can keep up with us once we get started nor can they break our code. Of course, we make each other laugh harder than anyone else we’ve ever known, which, admittedly, can be over the most childish and gloriously immature thing possible. Can you say monkeys and fart jokes?

In our late teens, we challenged one another to a movie trivia contest, which lasted almost five excruciating hours. It would have ended earlier had we set our alarm properly, which, for his sake would have been merciful since I totally decimated him. We played some kind of honor system trivia where we’d ask each other questions. Every correct answer scored a point and every wrong answer was a point for whoever asked the question.  I played the Hitchcock card and beat him into bloody submission with a series of questions he had hope of surviving. This is how a geek talks trash. Hey, I had to win something from this guy, for crying out loud. The sonuvabitch stole my girlfriend! Wait a second. It just occurred to me that the trivia contest came first. Oops. That certainly explains a few things.

Over the years, our mutual admiration society produced something more than just good times and some actual collaborations, including a comedy melodramatic play (LA RUE’S RETURN or HOW’S A BAYOU?), a screenplay (CITIZEN PLAIN) and our very own cable access TV program entitled TWEAK! The show was a twisted version of ENTERTAINMENT TONIGHT with me as me hosting as kind of an extension of my SIGHTS AND SOUNDS radio format. Though we produced only a few, we finally hit our stride on the last episode, filmed partially at the location of COOL HAND LUKE, the best movie ever shot in Stockton on a list that includes John Huston’s FAT CITY and Robert Rossen’s ALL THE KING’S MEN. Now known as Dentoni Park, the work farm in LUKE had sat on that very spot we were shooting and that connection to a classic somehow made TWEAK! truly work for the first time, which, unfortunately, had also been the last. Ironically enough, Dentoni Park was only a couple of blocks from where my wife lived before we got together and she didn’t even realize she had been that close to Paul Newman, even though it was years before she lived there. Okay fine. It’s important to me. Move along here.

Max and I always had a dream project that will probably never see the light of Day. The Hollywood Max Museum. Inside would be tributes to such famous Maxs as Max Von Sydow, Erich Von Stroheim as Max in SUNSET BOULEVARD, Max Schreck, Willem Dafoe as Max Schreck in SHADOW OF THE VAMPIRE, MAD MAX, Zero Mostel as Max Bialystock in THE PRODUCERS, the list is endless. Naturally, there would have to be a statue of Woody Allen and Tony Roberts, the initial inspirations for our namesakes.

But, greeting the visitors to the museum and performing shtick in a cheesy tuxedo would have to be my very best friend in all the world, Max. He is my partner, my collaborator, my brother. He keeps me grounded when things seem to be spinning out of control. He’s always there to listen. He’s always there to give his opinion. He’s always there to make me laugh. He’s always there. When that day inevitably comes when he’s gone, he’s still going to be there. That’s the kinda guy he is. And standing next to him at the entrance of the Hollywood Max Museum, wearing an equally cheesy tux will be his 

best friend Max and that would be me. 

You can’t split us up. We come as a set.

Copyright 2004 by Scott Cherney

That was then. This is now. There's a void in my life since Max left this world, but it's filled with the memories we had and the impact he had on me that I feel each and every day.

Happy birthday, Max. Love ya. Miss ya.

See also: LOVE YA, MAX

This production of LA RUE'S RETURN is available on DVD or streaming and is dedicated to my friend.

Heaven on a Saturday Afternoon

Ah, the Good Ol' Days! Remember when we actually went to a building where we sat with a bunch of other people to watch a movie? Those places were called cinemas. Can you say cinema? I knew that you could. I wonder what happened to them.

Here's some real nostalgia about those swell days of the Kiddie matinee, an excerpt from my book      IN THE DARK: A LIFE AND TIMES IN A MOVIE THEATER.

One of the ancient rituals of youth that I was fortunate enough to have experienced was the Saturday afternoon Kiddie matinee. Kiddie is an archaic term for child; therefore this was a special movie show just for kids, not cats. (If cats had their own matinees, what would they watch?) 

I used to attend these every single week without fail at the Stockton Theater, the last of the classic style movie houses built in my hometown of Stockton, California.

What a bargain this was! For the astronomical sum of twenty-five cents, you would get three to four hours of non-stop pre-pubescent entertainment. This was the spark that ignited my love for all things celluloid for this weekly underage Cannes Film Festival was a crash course in the World Cinema. It was like a day-care run by Leonard Maltin.

For starters, the matinees I remember were always jammed packed to the rafters with tons o’ cartoons. I’m talking GOOD cartoons too. Early on, I was able to recognize the quality of any given cartoon by the company that produced it. Warner Brothers delivered guaranteed goods-and those goods were great, featuring the likes of Bugs, Daffy and The Road Runner (the original Mad Max). If it was MGM, you’d score big time with Tom & Jerry, Droopy and anything by Tex Avery.  But, if it was Universal…Woody Woodpecker…Andy Panda…or (shudder) Chilly Willy…The horror…the horror…

Intermingled in that animated buffet was one or two live action comedy shorts. Once in a great while, they starred either Laurel & Hardy or The Little Rascals, but for the most part-The Three Stooges. This was my first exposure to the boys before I could bask in them on a near-daily basis on television. On the big screen, they took on a whole new dimension by their sheer size alone. Maybe as a kid, I subconsciously imagined them to be gods, albeit gods that beat the crap out of one another.

It was always a crapshoot to find out who the third Stooge would be that particular day since that would either add to-or subtract from-your potential viewing enjoyment. Moe and Larry were constants, permanent fixtures, if you will. Moe was the boss, the head guy, the Mack Daddy Stooge. Larry was…well, Larry. He was the guy in the middle, the foil for the other two who rarely flew solo. Larry was a buffer. Now when the Columbia Pictures logo appeared, you knew right immediately that it was The Stooges. Then their theme song, “Three Blind Mice”, played and, suddenly, everything banked on how the music was arranged. If it just charged through without stopping, JACKPOT! You got Curly, everybody’s favorite. But, if the theme was more staccato with some pizzicato strings, that meant one thing and one thing only…SHEMP! There would be a moan of disappointment throughout the theater. Then you’d see his stupid face mugging at you with his greasy hair and every kid in the place just sank in their individual seats and grumbled that it wasn’t Curly. Once Moe smacked Shemp in the face with a frying pan, all was well in Matineeland again.

In retrospect, Shemp got a bum rap. One of the first Stooges I saw was SING A SONG OF SIX PANTS when Moe, Larry and Shemp ran a dry cleaners and it’s always been a sentimental favorite of mine. (I loved the way Moe made pancakes on the pants press.)  Let’s face it. Shemp may not have been Curly but neither were Moe or Larry either. And Shemp was certainly preferable over Joe Besser, the last stooge in the cast of short subjects, those that began with the three of them repeating their patented “Hello…hello…hello. Hello!” routine. It was enough to want you throw something at the screen…like another kid. El Crappo del Stoogero. However, it was it was a feature, that meant it was Curly Joe and that would fool into thinking Curly was back. Then, Joe DeRita as Curly Joe would pop up and that would be just cause for a full-scale theater riot. Joe Besser was freakin’ Charlie Chaplin next to that pantload. Curly Joe was never, ever funny, the absolute antithesis of comedy. So, in order of appearance meant in order of importance: Curly, Shemp, Joe and Curly Joe. Such is the evolution of the third Stooge.

Following a few dozen more cartoons came another exciting thrill-packed episode of an adventure serial complete with cliffhanger, the only pictures the studios produced specifically for the Saturday matinee market. I ate these things up with a spoon. My best friend at the time and I would re-enact what we saw in those serials in the park or the vacant lot around the corner, calling them “chapters”. We weren’t playing cops and robbers or cowboys and Indians. We were having “chapters”.

My very favorite serial was a science fiction saga that featured your three basic protagonists:  the square-jawed, no-nonsense hero, his hot, yet strangely non-sexual girlfriend and, for comic relief, his dorky sidekick whose name probably was Dorky. I was riveted each and every episode for several weeks (most serials contained 12 to 15 separate parts). 

During the showing of the next-to-the last chapter, the Dark Side of my young personality emerged for the very first time, which is not a proud moment in my biography. Slumped in my chair and engrossed in my “chapter”, I had my feet up and over the seat in front of me. This was wrong to begin with, but it gets worse. There were a couple of girls sitting there who were annoyed by this and one of them let me know it. My feet weren’t on her chair, just next to it so I ignored her. “Put your feet down,” she demanded again. I told her no, so she repeated herself once more. I had had enough and kicked her in the head. Now, I didn’t kick her hard and only with the side of my shoe, but it was enough to startle the hell out of her and make her cry. 

I wasn’t a rotten kid. This really was an isolated incident. Honest! But, man, what I did was horrible. I’m sure I traumatized that kid for life and she probably hasn’t been to the movies since. Whoever that little girl was that I bopped in the noggin with my foot at the Stockton Theater back in the early 1960s, I apologize from the bottom of my heart. Don’t try to sue me for it now though. There is such a thing as a statute of limitations, you know.

I didn’t get in trouble with the theater management like I should have because the girls didn’t report it. However, my mom found out, thanks to my sister ratting me out. Her punishment, while not physical painful, was devastating to me. She took away my movie privileges for a month. That meant I could not see the last chapter of my “chapter”, the same one I had invested three months of my young life. The last image I recall of this serial was two spaceships, one carrying the hero, the other, the villain, colliding head-on in outer space with a title card that read “TO BE CONCLUDED”. To this very day, I never found out what happened because I don’t know the title, so I couldn’t track it down. Maybe I blocked it out as a result of that viciously stupid bratty act of mine. Did the punishment fit the crime? You decide for yourself. Just remember, I’ve got a shoe with your name on it.

Several cartoons later-as I said, there were tons o’ ‘em-lead up to the main feature which was usually of questionable quality. Sometimes there might be a Tarzan or Jungle Jim (not the inventor of the playground) or Lone Ranger movie. Very rarely was it something like THE INVISIBLE BOY, the only starring vehicle for Robby the FORBIDDEN PLANET Robot. The “main attraction” was more likely to be a snoozer like THE LITTLEST HOBO, all about a German shepherd on the run or SNOWFIRE. I saw SNOWFIRE twice, fooled by its title both times. It sounded cool to me because I took it literally. “A fire…in the snow!” I thought it might be some kind of war picture. Nah. Snowfire was a white horse and not a very interesting white horse at that.

In the long run, it didn’t matter one iota what the feature was. It was just a piece of a very large whole and that whole was the Kiddie matinee, which I considered to be a slice of Heaven for a quarter.

Copyright by Scott Cherney All Rights Reserved

IN THE DARK: A LIFE AND TIMES IN A MOVIE THEATER is on Kindle on Amazon and paperback from Lulu.com

See you at the movies...one of these days.