I Hadn't Realized This...

But before I posted that review of The Donner Party last week, I hadn't posted a movie review to this blog since February 9, 2015--or just over seven years ago.

Granted, a lot has happened since then--heart attacks, losing my apartment, my suicide attempt, moving back in with Mom, switching jobs more than once, etc.--but you'd think, in all that time, I'd have at least posted a "Popcorn Kernals" entry to catch up on all the movies I've seen since then. And I have seen movies since then.

I'll try to be better at posting here after I've seen something for the first time--or for the 101st time, for that matter.

Back in the "Blu"

Last night, I did something I hadn't done since my heart attacks: I watched a movie on a Blu-ray player.

Mom's house is not the most tech-friendly environment to be in. The phone works...sort of. The lights work...mostly. The water from the faucets? The less said, the better. And the TV? Usually it's OK, but sometimes the screen goes white with horizontal lines for a few minutes. Or hours. Or days.

And no, we don't have cable. We have a converter box. It picks up most broadcast stations, including Retro TV (yay, Horror Hotel!) and Comet (yay, X-Files!). So whatever movies I've been able to watch in the six years(!) that I've lived there have been "over the air."

That changed last night.

You see, just a few weeks ago, I found a Blu-ray player in the alley behind Mom's house. Seemed intact with remote in tow. Only problem? No cables to hook it up to the living room TV. That turned out not to be a problem, though: All I had to do was unhook the cables from the converter box and hook them up to the Blu-ray player. Took less that 5 minutes to set up.

And what did I watch on my first night with the "new" Blu-ray player? James Whale's The Old Dark House, which I'd bought on DVD just a few days ago. Beautifully shot with a great cast: Melvyn Douglas, Charles Laughton, Raymond Massey, Gloria Stuart and Boris Karloff as the butler. (The role must have been a real comedown for Karloff, having just played the Monster in Universal's adaptation of Frankenstein). It's a relatively short film--not even an hour and a quarter long--but damn, does it pack a lot into those 72 minutes, just like most of the Universal horror films of the '30s and '40s did.

Speaking of...I've replaced my complete Universal Monsters Blu-ray set with a new one. I'll be diving into that next.

Where I'll Be This Afternoon

In years past, I would see a movie on the big screen nearly every week--or, at least, every other week.

It helped a lot that I used to live within walking distance of three movie theaters: City North 14 (a megaplex on Western Avenue, which shows damn near every movie in wide release), the Logan (an older, smaller theater in, appropriately enough, Logan Square) and the Davis, the closest to La Casa del Terror and therefore the first choice when seeing anything at "the show."

But I don't live in La Casa del Terror anymore, and theaters (and pretty much every other business involving people gathering) have been closed for much of the past year.

So I haven't seen a movie in a theater for at least a year.

But that changes today.

I have bought tickets online (thank you, credit card!) for Godzilla vs. Kong showing at the Davis this afternoon.

I will buy popcorn. I will buy soda. And I will shop in the surrounding area after the show is over. (Hello, Laurie's Planet of Sound! Hey there, Quake! Yumm-o, Gene's Sausage Shop!)

Yes, I miss living in that neighborhood. Maybe I'll live there again someday.

But for now, I can visit via CTA--and I can go to the movies again.

Where I Was Last Night

Even though I had heard of the Pickwick Theater--the Art Deco jewel of a movie house in the northwestern suburb of Park Ridge--I'd never been there before last night, when Mr. E and I went there for a showing of the Douglas Fairbanks version of Robin Hood.

It was being shown as part of this year's Silent Summer Film Festival, which has moved its showings around from venue to venue for the last couple of years due to the abrupt closure of the Portage Theater in the spring of 2013. (The Portage recently reopened its doors, so I hope the Festival will return there in 2015--and that, by that point, I'll be gainfully employed again and able to afford to go to more than one movie.) We arrived slightly late--Mr. E had never been there before either, so we got a bit twisted up on the suburban roads), but we still caught all but the opening credits and thoroughly enjoyed Fairbanks as he jumped, skpiied and generally threw himself around for two hours.

Also? I bought the T-shirt, as I always do, knowing full well that it would likely feature the exquisite Louise Brooks (since the Festival opened this year with It's the Old Army Game, a comedy featuring Brooks and W.C. Fields).

As well preserved and beautiful as the Pickwick is, though, I look forward to the fest's return to the Portage next year.

Every Picture Tells a Story 5/27/14

Happy 92nd(!) birthday to Sir Christopher Lee!

The Girl in the White Bathing Suit

The late September Saturday was unseasonably warm, rendering my mostly black attire (shirt, shoes and Go-Go White Sox-style baseball cap) entirely inappropriate for standing outside for any great length of time.

Then again, I hadn't anticipated standing outside for any great length of time. Perhaps I should have. Whatever the case, there I was, baking in a sweat lodge of my own making, waiting in line outside the Patio Theater to get in for a 3D showing of Creature from the Black Lagoon.

Of all the monsters from all the monster movies from Universal, the Gill Man had long been my favorite. It wasn't just because the Creature was inherently sympathetic--yes, he killed people, but did he ask those knotheads to come messing about in his lagoon? No, he did not--and it wasn't just because the story was basically an uncredited remake of King Kong (another inherently sympathetic "monster").

It was really because the design of the Creature (by Millicent Patrick, according to Wikipedia, though the then-head of Universal's makeup department, Bud Westmore, received the sole onscreen credit) was so organically believable. the Creature looked like something that could actually exist--and, when I was a very young child, I firmly believed that he did exist. Not only that, but I was certain that he lived in the lagoon in Humboldt Park; the water sure looked black to me, so why wouldn't he live there? (Then again, I also firmly believe that, if I gathered enough nuts and bolts from around the neighborhood, I could build my own robot. My imagination was, shall we politely say, vivid.)

I had seen Creature many times over the years--first on Creature Features, then later on VHS, DVD and Blu-ray--but I'd never seen the movie on the big screen, much less in its original 3D. But was that really why I was standing in this line under the surprisingly hot September sun, eager to get inside? Or was it because of my boundless love for the Patio itself?

No, it was not. I was really here to see Julie Adams.

Julie Adams was a contract player at Universal in the 1950s and had a number of starring roles in feature films like Bend of the River opposite James Stewart (in one of the six westerns he with director Anthony Mann) and Man from the Alamo with Glenn Ford (for another legendary western director, Budd Boetticher). She later went on to work extensively in television, guest-starring on everything from the original Perry Mason to the Big Valley to Night Gallery to Murder, She Wrote to Lost--a career spanning more than 60 years.

For many fans, though, the signature Julie Adams was in Creature from the Black Lagoon, in which she played Kay Lawrence, a marine biologist who is recruited along with her boyfriend, David (Richard Carlson), and their boss, Mark (Richard Denning), to go up the Amazon in search of fossils of what looks like a human/fish hybrid, only to find one very much alive, very much pissed off specimen (played on land by tall, burly stuntman Ben Chapman and in the water by Ricou Browning, who could hold his breath and swim vigorously for minutes at a time).

This goes about as well as you'd expect for the scientists/explorers: Several get mauled to death by the Gill Man, while Kay, who is intelligent and thoughtful through most of the movie, is reduced to screaming her lungs out when she's grabbed by the Creature and spirited away to his underwater grotto (to be fair: I think anyone would scream under those circumstances) and must be rescued by David.

The last we see of the Creature is his bullet-riddled body drifting down to the bottom of the lagoon, presumably dead. (Except not really: The Gill Man returned for two sequels, Revenge of the Creature and The Creature Walks Among Us.)

Aside from the Creature himself, the most indelible image from the movie--and one of the most indelible images from any movie of that era--is of Adams herself in a one-piece white bathing suit, swimming without a care in the lagoon while the Gill Man matches her move for move beneath the surface. The fact that Adams really only appears in the shots where her character is seen above water (Adams was doubled in all underwater swimming shots by stuntwoman Ginger Stanley) has not diminished the potency of the imagery, in part because Adams was one of the most beautiful women ever to appear on the big screen--then or now--and because numerous publicity shots showed her in that white bathing suit.

A couple of years ago, Adams wrote The Lucky Southern Star: Reflections from the Black Lagoon, a memoir of her time in Hollywood. Since its publication, she has made appearances around the country, talking about her lengthy career and autographing copies of the book.

And that was what she would be doing at the Patio that day--hence, my reason for standing in that line, waiting for the doors that were supposed to open at one in the afternoon to allow us inside sometime before showtime.

Finally, sometime around 1:20, we were told to head inside; people who'd bought tickets online (like me) could go to a table on the left, while everyone else hit the old-school ticket booth on the right. The left branch of the line moved briskly, and I was soon past it with 3D glasses in hand, headed for...another line, this one snaking off to the left of the conscession stand to a corner of the lobby near the entrance to the downstairs men's bathroom. I assumed this was the line that led to Julie Adams and got in step with everybody else.

The usually expansive lobby of the Patio was decidedly clutter this day--not just with people grabbing tickets and standing in snaking lines, but with vendors of various kinds. One sold oil paintings of various horror icons; another sold Halloween-themes jewelry; still another had comic books and action figures (though, somewhat weirdly, none of the Creature, which surely would been hot sellers in this venue); and, nearest the entrance, a table stacked with copies of the novelization of Creature from the Black Lagoon and 11"x17" poster reproductions. I hadn't thought to bring my own copy of the novel (purchased from the same vendor at a Printers Row Lit Fest a couple of years back), but that was fine. I wanted a copy of Adams' memoir, which was almost certainly for sale at the end of this line.

Several other people in line had mementos of their own for Ms. Adams to autograph. A couple had full-sized poster repros. One had a half-bust of the Creature with a flat, smooth patch on the back, ideal for signing. (How this guy intended to display this piece after it was signed was beyond me.) And one surprisingly young fan (looked to be in his early 20s) had a full-head Creature mask that he had Adams sign on its forehead.

The line shuffled slowly forward until, three or four patrons down, I saw her--a small, elderly lady with medium-brown hair, a teal blouse and a white sports jacket. She was signing pretty much whatever was put in front of her, shaking hands and posing for photos with fans and, more than anything else, smiling broadly, clearly enjoying the fact that so many fans had come out not just to see a nearly 60-year-old monster movie, but her in particular.

Finally, I got close enough to the table to see the deal: You could buy her memoir with just her signature; pay a bit more and have said signature personalized to you; or go for the deluxe package of memoir with personalized signature, 8"x10" photo with personalized signature and a copy of the Creature soundtrack (a composite score made up of contributions from several composers, including leftovers from Hanz Salter's music from 1940s Universal monster movies and bits from a young Henry Mancini).

I opted for the deluxe package (seemed like a fair deal, really, considering all I'd be getting, along with the opportunity to meet Julie Adams) and forked over my $40 to the man behind the stack of memoir copies. This man, it turns out, was Mitchell Danton, coauthor of the memoir, as well as being Julie's son from her marriage to fellow actor Ray Danton. He asked my name, handed a copy of the book to his mom and told her my name. She looked up at me, smiled and shook my hand gently. I tend to fumble my words around celebrities, but I managed to get out how wonderful it was to meet her without strangling myself with my tongue. She asked me if the dedication "Hope you enjoy my Hollywood adventures!" would be OK with me, and of course I said that would be fine. Honestly, no matter what she wrote in the book, I'd have been fine with it. I assured her that I did indeed enjoy her Hollywood adventures. "And now you can read about them!" she replied, smiling brightly.

While she was signing my copy of her memoir, her son asked me which photo I wanted autographed. There were at least a dozen on the table, from various points in her career, but my eye immediately gravitated to the shots from Creature--especially those of her in the famous white bathing suit. I chose one of her posed with her right hand on a tree trunk for balance, and Mitchell turned to a box behind the table that held copies of all the photos spread out before me. By the time Julie had finished her dedication and, rather charmingly, blown on the ink to dry it before closing the cover, Mitchell had pulled a copy of my requested 8x10, had handed it to his mother and suggested what the dedication for this particular photo should be: "Join me for a swim?" (Why yes, don't mind if I do...)

After she signed the photo and marveled that she's gotten the dedication right on the first try, I asked if she would mind posing for a photo. She smiled again and was more than happy to do so.

As I came around the side of the table and handed my camera to a bystander, I accidentally kicked over the two bottles of water on the floor beside her (which she no doubt needed--since the Patio was still without air conditioning, the lobby was a bit stuffy, and Ms. Adams had been fanning herself with pieces of paper just a few minutes earlier). I apologized, smiled for the camera and, seeing her start to reach down for the bottles, reached ahead of her, apologizing again. "I knocked them over--the least I could do is pick them up." She thanked me and, again, shook my hand and smiled.

I got out of the way as quickly as I could--there was still a substantial like of folks waiting for autographs and photos--and cut through the line to head down to the bathroom. Before going in, though, I stashed the book, photo and CD in my backpack for safe keeping, though, to pass the time until the movie started, I pulled the memoir back out again once comfortably seated in the auditorium. Though it's technically a paperback, it's printed on heavy stock, no doubt to improve the quality of the many photos spread throughout. The front and back covers were also printed on heavier cardboard than usual, likely because each had numerous photos printed on the other side--the front inside cover had posters and lobby cards from many of her other movies, while the back inside cover was exclusively devoted to Creature pictures, including a shot of the Julie Adams figure that came with the deluxe Creature action figure from a couple of years ago.

As for the movie itself, the showing got off to a rough start--the film ran for two or three minutes without any sound. Audience members started shouting out their own replacement soundtrack contributions (like "BOOM!" for explosions or the score's famous "dun dun DUN!" spike), while others simply sent up shouts of "Sound?" into the darkness. The projectionist stopped the film, and somebody came out to tell us that the problem was being worked on. Sure enough, after two or three more minutes, the movie started up again, this time accompanied by its proper soundtrack.

The 3D varied in effectiveness--the subtle moments scored best (bubbles drifting through the water, rifles or spearguns held by characters suddenly swinging out over the audience, depth of image while Adams and Carlson stand on deck), while one big, obvious effect worked well (the fossilized hand found at the beginning of the movie seemed to stretch out several rows over the amazed patrons, eliciting a few gasps and more than a few laughs).

After the movie was over, Julie Adams was brought out onto the stage to much applause, and a questions-and-answer session ensued. I chose this moment to head out--other places to go, other people to see--but paused at the doorway and looked back as Adams answered questions and smiled at the assembled crowd.

Sunday morning, I framed the 8x10 and placed it on the hallway wall of La Casa del Terror, in honor of Creature from the Black Lagoon's charming star, who turns 87 years old today (coincidentally one year older than the Patio itself)--though nothing was old about those eyes, that smile or the warmth expressed to that line of grateful fans. Nothing at all.

Where I Was Friday Night

In previous years, a fair chunk of my summer was spent attending the Silent Summer Film Festival, which ran for six weeks at the historic, rundown-but-lovely Portage Theater. At the end of last year's festivities, I fretted over the future of that movie house, as it was up for sale and the most likely buyer appeared to be a North Side church.

The church withdrew, much to the delight of Portage fans everywhere. Delight turned to horror, however, when the theater was subsequently purchased by the owner of the Congress Theater, which has long been in poor repair and has suffered many issues with its security (most infamously a rape immediately outside the theater on New Year's Eve a couple of years ago).

So this past spring, when the local alderman opposed the transfer of the existing liquor license to the new owner, said new owner displayed a mature, reasoned response: He padlocked the Portage's doors that same day. The theater has been closed ever since. (Because a movie theater can't operate without a liquor license, right? Oh, wait...it totally can.) The official website just says "Movie and Music Theater operator coming soon."

This sudden closure not only caused events on the immediate horizon to be cancelled (there was a horror film fest scheduled for the next day, which would have required no liquor whatsoever), but endangered future events--like the Silent Summer Film Festival.

The good news? The Silent Film Society of Chicago found a new venue for their fest.

The bad news? The new venue was in Des Plaines, one of Chicago's northwest suburbs. The Portage was one short bus ride away. The Des Plaines was much farther off, but fortunately has a Metra train station across the street. Unfortunately, the southbound train leaves the station at 9: 44 p.m.--before any of the movies would be over. The next train headed south? 12:59 a.m.

So I would not be spending this summer indulging my love of silent cinema. However, I still wanted to go to at least one show this year, so I needed someone with a car. Mr. E was kind enough to volunteer his automobile and mad driving skillz, and so he, JB and I headed northwest from the city to the comparative wilds of Des Plaines.

According to te ever-awesome Cinema Treasures website, the Des Plaines Theater opened on August 9, 1925 as a movie/Vaudeville venue and in recent years had shown Indian films off and on. I once interviewed for a job just up th street from the Des Plaines and remembered thinking it looked pretty (if somewhat time-worn). Friday night, I got to see the inside.

It's a lovely theater--smaller than the Portage, but with the same pipe organ and sound system. Faust looked and sounded wonderful, the crowd was large and enthusiastic, and the popcorn was terrific.

Even so, I hope that the Society finds a venue within the city limits for next year's fest--maybe the Patio Theater, if ever they can get their air conditioning situation sorted out.

At least I got to attend one night of this years festival, with good friends and a classic of German Expressionism. Here's to hoping we don't have to trek so far next year.

On the Way to Work This Morning

I have zero desire to see The Wolverine, but I have to admit this is a very sweet poster.

Last Night at the Patio

I was running late. Terribly, dreadfully late. But it wasn't my fault. Not this time, anyway.

Up to that point, the plan had been running smoothly. I left work early (and by "early, I mean "on time"), beelined for La Casa del Terror to feed/medicate Olivia and heat up a couple of Hot Pockets for myself, and sped right back out the door so I could make it to the Patio well before showtime.

But now I found myself standing at a bus stop on Irving Park Road, staring east in search of a bus that was not coming. I'd seen a couple of buses headed east, but none in the opposite direction. And so I waited. And waited. And. Waited.

25 minutes, I waited. No bus. And now, even if a bus did show up, there was no way I could make it there on time.

I started waving my considerable right arm at anything resembling a cab--not an unreasonable thing to do on Irving Park Road, a main artery to and from O'Hare Airport.

Perhaps it was unreasonable to expect a cab to actually stop for me, though, since two with their lights on (usually indicating that they're available to pick up fares) zipped past me, even though both saw me trying to flag them down. The third cab, though, swung out of traffic and to the curb.

It's not like I'm rolling in dough--I'm over here, but payday is waaaaaay over there--and usually, I'd just say, "Well, maybe next time" and head back home.

Problem is, I can't be completely sure there will be a "next time."

You see, the Patio is closing--presumably for the summer, but possibly longer. The issue: the massive, ancient air conditioning system, which has broken down and will be hugely expensive to fix. Also? It's June. It's Chicago. It's (usually) hot by now.And the patio is an enormous single-screen theater--1,500 seats--so a properly functioning AC system is vital.

That AC system is the same one that broke down in 2001, causing the Patio to close "for renovations." It stayed closed for 10 years.

It was open last night, though--a relatively cool evening with off-and-on showers. And with temperatures predicted to stay at or below seasonal averages for the next 10 days, the owners took the chance of scheduling a few more nights of movies--not just to give regular patrons like me a last chance to stop before the unwanted hiatus, but to help out a local film society in need.

The Northwest Chicago Film Society has for years maintained an eclectic programming mix of film classics, hard-edged noir and oddball obscurities. They used to work out of an auditorium at the LaSalle Bank branch on Irving Park Road, but when that closed they moved to one of my favorite places in this world, the legendary Portage Theatre and continued their programming there. Until last month, that is, when the Portage's new owner opted to padlock the venerable movie house rather than operate it without a liquor license. (Said license is being blocked by the local alderman, who has reasonable concerns about the new owner, given that individual's many code violations and legal issues with his other venue, the Congress Theatre.)

The Society has been scrambling to find venues ever since. The Music Box stepped up and hosted one of their showings that week, but they have their own programming planned out months in advance, so another theater had to be found--hence, the showings at the Patio. Once the Patio closes for the summer, though, who knows where they'll wind up.

Last night, however, the Patio was open, and a reasonably large crowd (myself included, once the cab arrived with about 10 minutes to spare) turned out for a showing of High Treason, an incredibly rare film that was the second talkie released in Great Britain (Alfred Hitchcock's Blackmail was the first) and was lovingly restored by the Library of Congress a few years ago. It was preceded by an installment of Commando Cody, Sky Marshal of the Universe, a decidedly goofy 1953 serial (simultaneously shown on the then-relatively new medium of television) featuring a guy in a Lone Ranger-style mask fighting saboteurs on the moon.

As for High Treason it's a vastly silly anti-war melodrama made in 1929, but set in the far-flung future of, um, 1940. While it must be given slight credit for prescience--the world was indeed at war again a decade after this film's release--its awkward mix of stiff acting, bad dubbing (of scenes that had obviously shot silent) and Metropolis-influenced visuals (soaring art deco skyscraper models and futuristic fashions) elicited more laughs from the crowd than gasps of awe.

Still, am I glad I saw it? Sure am--especially because I got to see it in one of my favorite movie houses before it goes away for a (hopefully short) while.

The Man in the Balcony

Growing up, the most exciting day of the week was Friday. Not just because it was the end of the week (though also that, yes), but because that was the day that Roger Ebert's reviews appeared in the Chicago Sun-Times. (Well, that was the regularly scheduled day. His reviews sometimes popped up on other days, and his essays and interviews could show up any day.)

It wasn't just that I wanted to read about the movies that were coming out that weekend, though I certainly did, even if I didn't have the money or theater access to see most of them. And it wasn't because I valued Ebert's opinion over that of any other film critic--say, Gene Siskel over at the Tribune or Dave Kehr at the Chicago Reader.

It was because I thought Ebert (whom I've referred to for many years as "Uncle Rog") wrote about movies better than anyone else. He was the best essayist of the bunch, the best at relating what he saw on the screen to his life experiences, the best with words. His reviews often came with stars to indicate whether or not he liked a particular film (a system he expressed contempt for more than once), but you didn't need to know how many stars he'd given a film to know what he thought about it--the reviews, as well they should, spoke for themselves.

The book shelves of La Casa del Terror are dotted with collections of Ebert's reviews, essays and interviews. The interviews always showed a side of the individual movie star that the public rarely saw, from riding in a car with Robert Mitchum to beating John Wayne at chess, from discussing how scary "fans" could be with Jerry Lewis to watching Lee Marvin's dog bring his master a pair of panties that most definitely didn't belong to Marvin's live-in girlfriend. The essays always illuminated aspects of classic films I'd never considered, noticing gestures, trends and contexts that made the movies more accessible and understandable. Not that he ever simplified things for the reader/viewer, but more that he made it possible for us to look at the movies in more than one way.

And the reviews themselves? Ebert was a prolific writer--the annual collection of reviews, when published, often resembled a phone book--and his negative reviews were often as educational and illuminating as his positive ones. There were also specialized collections--essays on films regarded as classics (The Great Movies), and, on the opposite end of the spectrum, groups of reviews of films that were often painful to sit through. (Ebert famously said that "No good movie is too long. No bad movie is short enough.")



I didn't always agree with Ebert. He hated some movies I enjoyed thoroughly. He adored some movies I despised. But he wrote about some movies, old and new, that I'd never even have known about, much less sought out, if he hadn't brought them to my attention in the first place.

Ebert not only made me want to see more movie. He made me want to write about what I saw. I'd never written a single review if I hadn't read Ebert.

Of course, there was the TV show with fellow critic Siskel (shown under various names over the years, including the awkward "Coming to a theater Near You," "Sneak Previews," "At the Movies," and the even more awkward "Siskel & Ebert & the Movies"), which brought film criticism to people who never had read a movie review before. I watched the show, sure, but the infamously bitchy love/hate relationship the two shared made it less important to catch the show on a weekly basis than to catch those reviews in the paper (and later on the Internet) every Friday.

In recent years, Ebert's health tried to fail him over and over again--thyroid cancer, salivary gland cancer (I didn't even know that was a thing), multiple surgeries, the loss of part of his lower jaw and, with that, the ability to eat (he was fed through a tube thereafter) or even to speak.

But even though Ebert could no longer talk, he never lost his voice. He continued to type out hundreds of reviews while also maintaining a beautifully written blog, a lively Twitter feed and books not only about movies, but about his own personal history (Life Itself) and even a recipe book for cuisine prepared in a rice cooker.

Earlier this week, Ebert announced that he would have to cut back his workload significantly because his cancer had returned. He announced this on April 2--the 46th anniversary of his becoming the film critic for the Sun-Times. He viewed this change with unguarded optimism, stating that now he could do something he'd always wanted to do: Review only the movies he wanted to review, with a team of talented writers (including Richard Roeper, who had taken up residence in the balcony with Ebert after Siskel's untimely death at the age of 54 in 1999) covering the other movies released in any given week.

It was not to be. Ebert died yesterday, aged 70.

The Friday Sun-Times--and film criticism in general--just won't be the same without you, Uncle Rog.

Where I'll Be Today

I'll be at the Music Box Theatre, watching the exquisite Leslie Caron in Gigi.

Where I Won't Be Tonight

I definitely want to see The Dark Knight Rises, but I expect the crowds to be too huge for my claustrophobic ass to deal with, so I'll wait a week. Or two. Or five.

Every Picture Tells a Story 5/11/12

When I heard that Tim Burton and Johnny Depp were dragging Dark Shadows out of the development hell it had lingered in for years (ever since the short-lived prime-time revival back in the 1990s, really), I winced. Burton has become the retread king of Hollywood, helming remakes like Planet of the Apes, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Alice in Wonderland and Sweeney Todd (technically not a remake, but an adaptation of Stephen Sondheim's stage musical, which had two highly successful TV versions, both starring George Hearn as the Demon Barber of Fleet Street), all but one of which starred Depp.

Now we have this big-screen adaptation of the 1966-1971 gothic soap opera, and the trailer starts off like a straight adaptation, with Depp as Barnabas Collins, who loves Josette (Bella Heathcoate) and spurns the advances of Angelique (the lovely Eva Green). Unfortunately for Barnabas, Angelique is a witch, and she curses him to be a vampire. He is then buried for 200 years before being dug up and turned loose on modern-day New England. (The role was originally played by Jonathan Frid, who made a small cameo in this film before passing away a few weeks ago at the age of 87.)

This early part of the trailer looks wonderful (as, I must admit, all Tim Burton movies do) and, more importantly, serious. Depp's cry to Green of "What have you done?" as blood trails from his fingers and eyes is genuinely chilling, and the whole thing looks like an epic monster movie worth lining up for.

Once Barnabas wakes up, though, the trailer quickly shifts from gothic to gag, with the action focusing on slapstick, labored "This modern world is really weird" comedy and done-to-death '70s jokes (lava lamps! disco balls!), shoving the horror elements way to the margins or playing them strictly for (presumed) laughs.

I'll read the reviews, of course, but it'll take a lot to convince me to buy even a matinee ticket to this.

Silents, Please

Most of my friends--and yes, I have real friends, not just the imaginary kind) love movies, but some of those friends find it difficult, if not impossible, to sit through silent films.

I don't hold this against them. To the contrary--I completely understand.

Silent films are a different art form, relying much more on pantomime than dialog. They demand attention. You can't talk on the phone, make your grocery list or do your taxes while a silent movie plays in the background. You have to either watch it or not watch it--no middle ground.

Me? I love silent movies. One of my latest decadent indulgences is buying silent movies on Blu-ray. The picture quality is substantially better than most DVDs of the same films, and the extras tell me things about the films and stars that I never knew before. (Buster Keaton broke his ankle while trying to make "The Electric House," so while he recuperated, he made "the Playhouse" instead--and danced on that broken ankle in the film! See the things you learn?)

More than anything, though, I love to watch silent films in a theater with an audience and live musical accompaniment (usually on a house organ, but sometimes by a visiting orchestra or ensemble that specializes in playing live music for silent films). When you see a silent film with a crowd, it's not really silent at all--you can hear audience reaction much more clearly than you can during a modern film, especially if it's a comedy. (The laughter reverberates off the walls and through the floor.)

Fortunately, I live in Chicago, where I have multiple venues for silent film viewing. The Portage Theater hosts many showings on behalf of the Silent Film Society of Chicago, including their annual six-week Silent Summer Film Festival. (Last summer, for the first time, I attended all six showings during the festival.) The Music Box Theatre, best known for showing a mix of independent films, revivals and cult classics, started a series last year in which, on the second Saturday of every other month, they'd show a silent film in their main auditorium, which seats something around 800. (They have a smaller side screen that can accommodate around 100.)

That series of screening must have done well--this year, they expanded the series to the second Saturday of every month. And each time I've gone, the audience has grown, regardless of what's showing or what the weather is doing outside. (For the first two movies this year--"Show People" starring Marion Davies and Fatty Arbuckle's "Leap Year"--it was bitterly cold, but each crowd was sizable and enthusiastic.) Tomorrow, they're showing the very first Oscar winner for Best Picture, "Wings," with live organ accompaniment by Dennis Scott.

At previous showings, Scott has said that the Second Saturday Silent Cinema series has "flown under the radar"--i.e., hasn't gotten a lot of publicity--and has urged attendees to bring their friends. Silent This blog can't generate too much publicity, and I don't have that many friends to bring. If, however, you stumble across this little missive and happen to like silent cinema--or, if you're unfamiliar with the likes of Clara Bow, Douglas Fairbanks and Lon Chaney and are willing to take a chance on something new--head on down to the Music Box tomorrow. The theatre is beautiful, the popcorn is great and the experience is one to remember.

My Year at the Movies 2011

Here are some (but not nearly all) of the movies and marquees I saw this year.

Where I was Friday Night

Coming Today to a Theater Near You

Every Picture Tells a Story: 7/22/11

This is where I will be tonight, and for several more nights over the next few weeks. Any excuse to go to the gloriously restored Portage Theater is a good one, but the opportunity to see a Louise Brooks movie on the big screen--especially one I've never seen before in any format--is not to be passed up.

The Lake Theatre, Take Two

Last month, Mr. E and I attempted to go to the Lake Theatre to catch part of their 75th anniversary series of movies that premiered the same year they did (1936). While we missed out then (tickets were sold out by the time we got to the box office), we did not this time--Mr. E bought tickets ahead of time, and I made sure I gott out of work with more than enough minutes to spare. Therefore, we were able to enjoy Charlie Chaplin's Modern Times with a remarkably large crowd for a hot Monday night in July.

Coming Today to a Theater Near You