An ex-projectionist and armchair
film critic reminisces...
My first cinematic experience
was in 1968 when, at the formative age of 6, I was taken to see the original
Planet of the Apes. In the darkness of the theater,
I was awestruck at how I was transported to an imaginary world, then magically
returned to reality after two hours.
I craved the cinematic experience
for the next decade, but as a child, was only seldom afforded the opportunity
to go. At an early multiplex, I once sneaked up the stairs and peered
into a dimly lit projection booth, to marvel at the film chugging through
the projectors at 24 frames per second.
On
my 16th birthday, with driver's license in hand and eligible for after-school
work, I applied for a $2.16/hour part-time job as usher at (now defunct)
Turnpike Cinema in Fairfax, Virginia. When the elderly couple who managed
the place offered to train me to run projectors, I eagerly accepted. Turnpike
Cinema's booth was so old, it still had the firescreens attached to strings,
to be released if the film caught fire. (Very early films were highly
flammable.) The booth had two projectors, which alternated 20-minute reels
six times or so throughout any given showing. Inside a projector, high-voltage
electricity sparked a carbon arc lamp, which reflected off a parabolic
mirror to shine light through the film, projecting the movie over the
heads of the audience and out onto the screen.
A mechanical bell would chime
toward the end of a given reel, signaling "get ready for changeover."
If the alternate projector wasn't threaded up in advance, the audience
saw the dreaded 5-4-3-2-1, then white screen. But 20 minutes is plenty
of time to thread the next reel, so it was then a matter of watching for
two changeover marks to roll by in the upper right corner of the screen.
(Watch for these, when you see your next movie.) First mark, roll the
film and open the shudder. Second mark, flip the changeover switch. With
practice, these changeovers were so seamless, the audience never noticed.
By
the way, I dedicate this webpage to the drive-in
movie theater, an institution sacred to yesterday's teenagers, but
sadly unknown to today's. I'd frequent the (now defunct, replaced by a
Costco and a Home Depot) Super-29 Drive-In less than a mile from my home,
frequently sneaking my compliant date through the gate in the trunk of
my MGB convertible! (Don't worry, I let her out once inside, as promised.)
After graduating high school,
I went off to college in Boulder, Colorado, where projectionists were
unionized. I scored a better paying job as relief projectionist for various
theaters, including the giant Flatirons Theater on University Hill, a
(now defunct) Art Cinema on Boulder Mall, the (also now defunct) Holiday
Drive-In on the outskirts of town, campus screenings, and others. These
more modern projection booths featured "platters," where all
reels of a given movie were spliced together into one continuous strip
of film, requiring only one projector per theater. Xenon bulbs replaced
the old carbon arc lamps. With more modern equipment, my job generally
became easier. At least, no more changeovers!
One
exception to this was the drive-in, which could suffer sudden mechanical
failures. Drive-in speakers are wired like Christmas tree lights, where
an outage in one speaker will affect all speakers from that point forward.
The projectionist only knows of a problem when, you guessed it, everybody
starts honking their horns. I'd hustle out to the horn-honking area with
screwdriver in hand, locate the offending speaker, and perform on-the-spot
open heart surgery. Cheers indicated success.
The experience not only paid
my way through college, it exposed me to many hundreds of films I wouldn't
otherwise have seen. After showing Reds or Raiders
of the Lost Ark all summer long, I knew the script by heart,
but still discovered nuances every time I saw the film. Others would be
part of a rapidly changing Art Cinema calendar where, like with Quadrophenia
or Gallipoli, I'd be forever moved after seeing them
only once.
Having handled so much film with
my fingers, I relate to it on a visceral level, as a mechanic would a
car, or as a doctor would a body. Movies have profoundly influenced me,
including the foreign travels I embarked upon, my musical preferences,
my spiritual and political beliefs, my understanding of individual and
societal weakness, my choice of career and spouse... basically, every
decision I've ever made in life, adding up to who I am today. Cinema is
an art medium like no other.
Having such a lifetime bond to
the cinema, it may surprise you to hear that I have vowed never to set
foot inside a movie theater again! I just got fed up with the mobile phones
going off in the audience, exorbitant ticket prices, shoddy projection
work (out-of-frame or out-of-focus), audience members talking during the
movie, perfumed audience members, the disgusting smell of buttered popcorn
(which I never did like), lax management and staff, serious scratches
running the entire length of a reel, etc. The quality of a cinema experience,
always patchy, has dropped like a rock in recent years. So what was my
solution? I got a 34-inch 16:9 flatscreen television with a DVD player
and a Netflix subscription. Now, I knock over several movies each week
in the comfort of my own living room. At least, I can hit the pause button
and go take a leak without missing any part of a film!
So without further ado, I present
my diverse collection of favorites. They are in alphabetical order, since
I couldn't possibly rank-order them. It's biased toward small-time foreign
art films, tragic endings, corporate responsibility, triumph-over-adversity,
and post black-and-white era films. The list is obviously work-in-progress.
Love or hate
Mel Gibson, this film is spectacular in its costumes, make-up,
cinematography, and set design. Also, very ambitious, being acted
entirely in an ancient Yucatan Mayan language. Rife with
historical inaccuracies. For starters, Mayan civilization fell centuries
before the arrival of Conquistadors. It's unlikely they'd locate an open
mass grave so close to crops. And tribes within walking distance
of a city would surely have known about it. But hey, artistic
license granted!
"God can see everything I do - and he's gonna beat me brainless." Extremely
dark humor. First 30 minutes rough. And you think you had a difficult childhood?
Director Ron Fricke comments,
"I really believe that we are connected to everything, that in
a sense, I've been invited here to this planet just like you and everyone
else has, and life didn't ask anybody to approve of a guest list."
A
daughter's journey to know her father, 30 years after his death in Vietnam.
The film's title comes from the phrase Lt. Droz used to close his letters
home.
Military
courtroom drama involving three Australian soldiers of the Bushveldt
Carbineers, set near the end of the Boer War (1899-1902). Based on a
true story.
"Shoot straight,
ya baastads... Don't make a mess of it!"
Unconventional
educator challenges system. To think how far this actor has progressed...
from Mork & Mindy "Nanu, Nanu" sitcom rubbish of the
late 70s, to fine flicks like this. Who would have guessed?
At 43,
Jean-Dominique Bauby, charismatic editor of French magazine Elle,
suffered a massive stroke rendering his brain stem inactive. After 20
days in coma, he awoke to find himself mentally alert and with
imagination and memory intact, but a prisoner inside his own body.
He used his only means of communicating with the outside world, blinking
alphabetic code with his left eye, to write a book about his experience.
From the director of Eraserhead, a story of tremendous cruelty, compassion,
and courage towards
Joseph Merrick, a
19th Century London man suffering severe congenital disfigurement.
Disenchanted and idealistic middle-class college grad Christopher
McCandless (a.k.a. Alexander Supertramp) dies in
pursuit of a more wholesome lifestyle.