Thursday, February 26, 2009
In my senior year of high school, I only needed to attend half-days because I was already on my way to earning sufficient credits, so I decided to fill the rest of my time with two jobs: afternoons as a designer, typesetter, production artist at a shopping newspaper in South Bend; and evenings working at the Niles 31 Drive-In just over the border in Niles, Michigan. Kids have such energy.
The day I started, they showed me the ropes. Make the popcorn, clean the restrooms and keep the concession stand floor mopped so that people wouldn't slip on the grease and butter-like substance that accumulated there. The concession workers were also in charge of chasing out "sneak-ins," cars trying to gain entrance without paying. How that would work is when the boxoffice cashier saw a car driving in through the exit, she'd ring a buzzer wired to the concession stand. We grabbed baseball bats which were handily kept behind the counter, ran outside and flailed them in the air, hoping to frighten off the intruders.
Most of the time it worked, because the "sneak-ins" were usually stoned and the sight of a bunch of teenagers coming at them with baseball bats was too much to handle. Others just laughed, so we had to bring in a higher power...Nancy, the manager, a forbidding combination of too much makeup and too many wigs, humorless to the point of grim. She would go to the violators' car, tap on their window, and use some drive-in manager's incantation to frighten them off. Occasionally the police were called.
We showed some great stuff. Major studio films like "The Shining" and "Carrie" ran for weeks on screen one and came back for weeks longer on screen two (the smaller, harder-to-see screen, because the lights from the mini golf course next door would shine on it) as the third feature. It was a blast to run outside just as Carrie's hand is about to pop up from the grave and listen to a drive-in full of kids screaming. We also played "Friday the 13th" for ages and I almost lost my mind hearing Harry Manfredini's music and Betsy Palmer hissing "Kill her, Mommy," night after night. Best of all was Fulci's "Zombie," in all of its uncut glory, released to unsuspecting Michiana residents. We were still staggered by the release of "Dawn of the Dead" a few months before and now here comes an even stranger zombie movie. I had to take all my friends to see it.
On weekends, Nancy would choose one of us to go "car counting," which meant driving across town to the Chippewa Drive-In, our main competitor, and make an estimate of how many cars were in its lot. I don't understand what that was about; we didn't use the research in any marketable way. Maybe she was just jealous, because the Chippewa was the more "fashionable" venue. The only other drive-in in town was the Western, which would frequently show the "Don't" trilogy ("Don't Look in the Basement," "Don't Open the Window" and "Last House on the Left") but mostly softcore sex films from the Harry Novak collection.
We would occasionally get assigned lot clean-up duty, which I think paid $5.00 extra (whoo-hoo). That meant staying until after the third feature was over (sometimes two or three in the morning), turning on the lights, and picking up the trash in the lot. You can imagine what sort of trash we picked up. Let's just say we used heavy rubber gloves.
I also was in charge of changing the movie titles on the marquee on Thursday night. Not as glamorous as it sounds. Those things are deceptively high, requiring good balance on a long, rickety ladder. And it was dark, because I had to wait until the third movie was in progress before doing so. Worst of all, the letters were kept inside the marquee, which was home to all sorts of vermin. Bats, rats and God know what else. Walking around inside with a flashlight looking for the means with which to spell "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" was the real horror show.
In 1980 I moved to Los Angeles and didn't return to South Bend until 1984. Of course, I had to go check out the Niles 31 and was saddened to see that it had become a Home Depot. By that time there was only one ozoner left in the area, the Midway Drive-In, about 30 miles south of town.
When I first moved to L.A., there were drive-ins everywhere, but they too have vanished. From time to time I read about new drive-ins being constructed in the midwest, and I think, "Good for them. Our young people need a place to drink too much and have their first sexual experiences while enjoying a show."
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
About a year and a half ago I saw Guy Maddin's incredible film "Brand Upon the Brain" at the American Cinematheque at the Egyptian Theatre in Hollywood. As I'm sure you know by now, it's a silent film with recorded music and narration (by the wonderful Isabella Rossellini) in some cities. However, I was fortunate to see it with the music, effects and narration performed live.
When the film toured the United States, guest celebrities performed the narration in different cities. In New York, for example, Eli Wallach and his wife Anne Jackson did it, which would have been a thrill, but...
In Los Angeles I had the opportunity to see it with the incredible Barbara Steele narrating. Yes, the "Black Sunday," "Terror Creatures from the Grave" and "I Lunghi Capelli Della Morte" Barbara Steele--in person! I was beside myself, having never been able to attend the East Coast conventions, like Chiller Theatre, that she has been known to appear at--but rarely.
Not only was the film a moving, funny and on-target pastiche of silent movie techniques, German surrealism and just plain Winnepegean strangeness, it was given an extra dimension by the small but surprisingly full orchestra and effects team. And Ms. Steele looked glorious, delivering the narration for this very strange movie with determination in her sultry, Steele-esque tones. And she didn't fluff a line.
About the film, for the uninitiated. Maddin is certainly an acquired taste, but once you've familiarized yourself with his style, there's no turning back. He loves silent, stark, black and white surrealism, but he's like Bergman on Red Bull. He'll lull you into a "Cabinet of Dr. Caligari" semiconsciousness and then he'll do something that really f**ks with your head. Can I say f**k? This is my first blog.
And he utilizes such great, unusual, adventurous actresses as his leads. Shelley Duvall, from "The Shining," Faerie Tale Theatre" and "Nashville"; the gorgeous Alice Krige from "Ghost Story" and the Mickey Rourke/Faye Dunaway sleaze masterpiece "Barfly"; Rossellini, who is also in "The Saddest Music in the World" as well as their co-produced "My Father is 100 Years Old" (about Roberto, of course, in which she plays Alfred Hitchcock, her mother, Ingrid Bergman, and her father). She is currently his de facto muse (I hope), and well deserved. But I digress...
Anyhow, the film ended and Ms. Steele walked down the aisle and to the ad-hoc backstage area right in front of me. Two people in front of me jumped up and ran after her. Of course, I said "Hell, I'm going with them!"
She was behind the stage, looking incredible with the klieg lights dancing in her hair. She was signing autographs for the people who ran after her. I walked up to her and asked, "May I have one, too?" (Yes, like Oliver). She signed my program, handed the pen back to me, and smiled that strange, upside-down, serpentine smile, and suddenly decades melted away. Was this the good twin or the evil twin? Who cares? I was within touching space of the real Barbara Steele, and it was great! I said nothing else to her because it would have been ridiculous fanboy blather...I think.
And I was taken back to that warm summer night sitting in the back of our station wagon at the Niles 31 drive-in theatre, watching "Terror Creatures from the Grave" and thinking, "That guy's guts just came out of his stomach! Now that's entertainment!"