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IT BEGAN AT HIGH NOON By
Diane E. Dees
If I try, I can still see Gary Cooper in his cowboy vest, riding through town in High Noon on the largest screen in the world. Or so it seemed at the time, for I was only three, and this was my first trip to the movies. Even more remarkable was that my father, who never took us anywhere, was sitting next to me. The insistent repetitions of the film's theme song, "Do Not Forsake Me, Oh My Darlin'," became a psychic drumbeat, and Grace Kelly's cool blonde beauty was overwhelming to me, a small girl who knew nothing of cowboys or Quakers or male honor. But when Will Kane shot Frank Miller dead, I was finally able to release my breath, safe with the knowledge that Gary Cooper could marry Grace Kelly and the town would be safe. As exciting as that was, it probably paled in comparison with my trip downtown the next year to see Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. My mother and I traveled on the bus to a matinee to see what Anita Loos would later call the best version ever performed of her play. Jane Russell has always been under-praised for her wonderful performance in this film, but that is because it is so hard to take your eyes off of Marilyn Monroe. When Madonna did her "Material Girl" video in 1985, I felt sorry for the thousands of fans who had no clue that her performance was homage to Marilyn in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. Monroe wore a pink satin gown and sang "Diamonds Are A Girl's Best Friend" as she slinked among lines of handsome and adoring men. When I was nine, a friend of the family took me to see The Fugitive Kind, and for years, all I remembered about it was the sight of Marlon Brando in a snakeskin jacket. I have seen The Fugitive Kind (the film version of Tennessee Williams' play, Orpheus Descending) many times since then, and every time, I am reminded of how grown up I felt that day long ago, sitting in the theater with an adult who was not one of my parents, staring at the wonder that was Brando. I did see children's movies from time to time, and the one that sticks in my mind is Lady and the Tramp, which my mother took me to see when I was six. But as much as I loved hearing the cats sing "We are Siamese If You Please," my real passion was for Lorelei and Dorothy, and seeing Monroe on the big screen ruined me for life. I grew up when going to the movies meant going downtown to beautiful theaters with uniformed ushers. Now, many of these places have been restored and are used for live theatre presentations, but I was lucky enough to haunt them when they were majestic big screen emporiums. By the time I was eight, I had developed the habit of going to the Saturday horror double feature—the matinee, not the Rocky Horror late night double feature picture show—with my best friend. I would spend the night at his house, and his mother would drive us downtown so that I could eat popcorn and be frightened out of my wits. Ray Harryhausen's 20 Million Miles To Earth remains the most memorable of these films, though it certainly wasn't the scariest. That would be Dracula. Perverse even at a very young age, I wasn't particularly frightened by the fanged count in the black cape; what gave me nightmares for weeks was the sight of the stake being driven into his heart. Go figure. Ironically, as I grew older, it was television that drew me back to the big screen thrill of the movie theater. One of our local stations, Channel 12, presented Cinema 12 every weekday at 4 p.m., and when I came home from school, on those days that I didn't feel compelled to watch The Mickey Mouse Club, I tuned in to the movie of the day. It was on Cinema 12 that I first saw what would become my favorite comedy—and perhaps my favorite film—of all time: Bringing Up Baby. On Cinema 12, I saw Barbara Stanwyck, Clark Gable, Joan Crawford, Henry Fonda, and Cary Grant. Though I didn't realize it at the time, I also saw a great deal of film noir. When I started dating, I rushed enthusiastically into the movie date ritual of my community: First you went to Piccadilly Pizza for dinner, complete with red checked tablecloths and bottle drip candles, then you went to one of the big downtown theaters—the Don, the Strand, or the Saenger. I saw Goldfinger, Mary Poppins, and Dr. Zhivago, and, more often than not, I was more interested in what was going on the screen than in what was going on in the teenage relationship that had brought me to the theater. For lots of kids, a dark theater was the perfect place for kissing and holding hands. It was for me, too, but most of all, it was a place where I could see Julie Christie riding through the snow in a make-believe Russia, or Jane Fonda hilariously put upon by a drunken Kid Shelleen. As a young adult, I had an active social life in New Orleans, and one of my fondest memories is that of the Saturday nights I spent at the home of a friend who gave what amounted to a standing poker party with an unending supply of food and drink. Her husband was the projectionist at a Magazine Street movie house, and he was permitted to take us all to the late show for free, so many Saturdays around midnight, a group of us rode over to see what was playing. During this time, the only place that resembled an art house was the old Gentilly Theater. Mrs. Kern, the manager, always kept plenty of frozen Snickers bars ready for us, and when the place finally closed, we all trooped over to see the great John Ford western, Red River, which was also the final feature shown at the Royal in Peter Bogdanovich's The Last Picture Show. During the late 70's, the glorious old Saenger Theater in downtown New Orleans was restored to its former glory, complete with cherubs, statues, Florentine urns, and pipe organ. The Saenger celebrated by showing a number of classic films, including Gone With the Wind. It was important to arrive early to hear the organ music. This was where I finally saw my beloved Bringing Up Baby on the big screen. My friend and I knew practically all of the lines, and throughout the film, we whispered in our best Hepburnese, "Oh look—you've torn your shirt!" and "But I can't, David! I have a lease!" The Saenger is also where I saw the restored 1954 version of A Star Is Born, which Warner Bros.—fearing the film's length would interfere with revenues—carelessly hacked to pieces. This was another film that had meant a lot to me for a long time, and attending the New Orleans premiere of its restoration was a wonderful experience. Now I live on the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain, and for a few years, there was an art house in my little downtown, but it now has only live theatre. Fortunately, a small theater in the next town now shows independent films, and my local multi-plex has changed to stadium seating, so I am still a pretty happy moviegoer. It amazes me when I hear people say they would rather rent DVDs than go to the movies. Unless you have a giant screen and all of the films are in letterbox format, there is no way you can see the film as it was intended to be seen. And even if you have those luxuries, nothing can replace the anticipatory stroll through the lobby, the wait for popcorn, and the marvelous moment when the lights go out and you become part of one of storytelling's greatest innovations. THE END |
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