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.

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.

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.

The Lake Theatre

That's where Mr. E and I were headed last night to take part in their fun and festive 75th anniversary celebration--they're showing movies from that opening year of 1936, like Modern Times, After the Thin Man and Tarzan Escapes. Last night's selection? My Man Godfrey, the classic screwball comedy starring William Powell and Carole Lombard. Two problems: I wound up working yesterday (instead of taking the day off as planned), so we were delayed in getting to Oak Park until I could get out of work for the day; and we didn't buy our tickets in advance.

Thus, we were substantially disappointed to find that the show had sold out. (Who expects a 75-year-old movie to sell out?)

Oh well. The series runs through the end of the year on the second Monday of each month. and Modern Times is the selection for July. Try, try again.

Friday Night at the Patio

Last Friday evening was the first Friday evening it about 10 years for the Patio, which the owners have repaired, cleaned up and reopened. The crowd was substantial--not capacity (which would be difficult, considering that it has 1,500 seats), but it easily counted in the high hundreds, so Mr. E and I had plenty of company. The size of the crowd was pretty remarkable, considering that the opening night movie was Thor, which has been out for a month. And for anyone doubting that the throng was there for the theater, not necessarily the movie, there was this: Everyone started applauding and cheering when the green "preview" frame came up on screen. The lobby has been beautifully refurbished, and many photographers (professional and amateur) were standing around snapping shots both before and after the movie. I've seen many ticket booths over the years--the one at the Biograph comes to mind--but this is the first one I've actually seen in use. This is a pretty lousy picture, taken while Mr. E and I were out the door, but if you look closely, you can see the ticket taker giving me an enthusiastic "thumbs up." Right back atcha, buddy.

Vanishing Chicago: Piper's Alley

There's a reason why, whenever you go to a theater, you often see a mask with a smile and an accompanying mask with a frown--because happiness and sadness often travel together, one never very far from the other.

On Wednesday, I got the downright ecstatic news that the Patio, a 1927 movie house that closed nearly a decade ago, will reopen at the end of next week, fully restored to its classic glory. (The grand reopening movie? Thor.) Will I be there opening night? Oh, you bloody well know I will.

Thursday, though, brought the buzzkill: the Piper's Alley Theater was closing for good that evening.

This was not exactly a surprise. Piper's wasn't a theater I frequented--there were movies house that were closer to where I lived and less expensive--but I ventured down to Old Town from time to time to indulge in the indie features and foreign films that those closer, cheaper theaters never show. Whenever I did go, though, especially recently, the "crowds" were very thin. The last time I went there was a couple of months ago to see The Illusionist, an animated movie based on an unproduced screenplay by the great French comedian Jacques Tati. the screening room had at least a couple hundred seats, but there were maybe a dozen other patrons there. "How does this place stay open?" I wondered.

I need ask that question no longer--it couldn't stay open. Not with audiences that could be counted on fingers and toes and still have digits left over.

That's a shame, of course. Even though Piper's wasn't one of my "got-to" theaters and wasn't a classic, old-school theater like the ones I usually hit (the Portage first opened in 1920, and the Davis, New 400 and Logan all opened before 1920), but I saw quite a few flicks there in the 20 years it was around, including Cemetery Man (Italian zombies!), Diary of the Dead (American zombies!) and Moulin Rouge! (Australian zo...oh wait, that was just the Botox-frozen face of Nicole Kidman). The most memorable movie I saw there was The Blair Witch Project, which I saw opening night with Mr. E and two of his friends (or so they tell me--I have no memory of Chrissy or Katie being there, but that's no surprise, given my memory; I also can't remember my home phone number or what I ate for breakfast). Pipers was packed that night--the only time I ever saw it sold out--and when the end credits started to roll, the house lights immediately came up, leaving a stunned audience to stumble out quickly to the lobby wondering, "What just happened?"

It's also a shame because Chicago has so few movie theaters left as it is beyond the megaplexes found mostly in the near (and not-nearly-so-near) suburbs. (River East 21, nestled near downtown, is the closest, best option for most.) The Old Town neighborhood has suffered particularly, with the nearby Village Theater closing several years ago, and the nearest theaters to Old Town's north and south all either shutting down (the Esquire) or being repurposed as live performance space (the 3 Penny and Biograph).

Maybe some other theater chain will lease the space Piper's Alley used to occupy. Or maybe it will be repurposed as well. Or maybe, like so many other shuttered theaters in the city, it will just sit there, empty and dusty, a ghost of good times long past.

Doctor Whooooooooo (Old School Edition)

The 3rd Doctor sonic screwdriver Mr. E gave me as an early birthday prezzie last night is indeed coolness. Olivia, however, was not impressed.

Condolences

To Mr. E on the passing of his kitty, Hazel , this past Friday night. I never had much contact with her--whenever I visited Mr. E's cozy abode, she generally kept her distance from me, though I recall one occasion where she not only came within arm's length of me, but actually allowed me to pet her.

That's not unusual--I know many pets who are shy around strangers, but who are warm and loving with their people. So it was with Mr. E and Hazel, and they had 16 1/2 great years together. There's not enough love in this world, much less unconditional love. 16 1/2 years' worth of time spent with a friend who smiled when her chin was scratched is worth quite a bit, it is.

Nudge the World

As I compose this week's update at Polly Jean, the lime green e-mail machine, and sit in this desk chair whose springs have long since sprung and now threaten to depants me every time I sit in it, there is a coffee cup sitting on a Tiki-themed coaster atop my SuperDisk drive. Unfortunately, the cup does not contain coffee tonight, but, rather, Apple Cinnamon TheraFlu; I've been fighting a cold for the better part of a week, and as my sinuses remain jam-packed with fluids best not seen by human (or even nonhuman) eyes, I fear the cold is winning.

But it's not the cold, nor the coaster, nor the computer, nor the chair, nor even the sizable backside in the chair, that hold my attention tonight. No. It's the coffee cup, which came to me through a job I worked in one of Chicago's northern suburbs for just under five years (or about three years too long, depending on how you care to look at it) that has my eye--maybe even both of them.

Actually, though, even that's not entirely true: It's the words on the coffee cup that command me to stare at them in wonder. The cup itself is off-white (whether the "off-" part is by design or by age, I'm not certain) with a blue corporate logo on the side facing the Elizabeth poster (Ah, Cate Blanchett) on my "office" wall. (My "office" is really a bedroom which, since I now sleep on the increasingly uncomfortable futon in the living room, has been converted to house Polly Jean, the desk beneath her, the desk chair before her, and whatever other shit I can't fit into other rooms in La Casa del Terror--plants, action figures, free weights, comic books, clothing, porn tapes, a bicycle that hasn't been ridden in at least two years, etc.)

Facing me, though, are words in the same shade of pale blue as the logo. The words are attributed to the playwright Tom Stoppard: "...Words are sacred. They deserve respect. If you get the right ones in the right order, you can nudge the world a little."

I stare at those words often and remember that, when I graduated from college, I thought my fellow poetry mates and I were going to change the American literary landscape. No. Really. I thought that. Then I remember that, in one of my midterm conferences, my instructor told me, quite out of the blue, that the poet Wallace Stevens didn't have his first book of poetry published until he was 35. (Was he trying to tell me something?) The fact is, we didn't change the American literary landscape. Some tried, but failed. Others died before they could finish what they started. And still others abandoned the effort altogether and concentrated on children or careers or significant something-or-others. The arrogance and energy of youth settled into the bump-and-grind of everyday living.

And yet, even with all the years that have passed since then, and even with the time that has gone by since I left that job where I acquired the cup, its words keep coming back to me. "Nudge the world." Not "change." Not "reshape." Not "blow to fucking bits." "Nudge." Maybe that's how you go about changing or reshaping the world (though I'd rather not blow it to fucking bits, thank you)--with one little nudge at a time.

When I started this Web site exactly one year go today, I didn't go into it with the intent of changing anybody's world or mind or whatever; I really had no clue who would want to read what they'd find here (and I still don't); and I wasn't even sure how often I could get around to updating it (though, as it turned out, I posted 26 updates during that year, which averages out to one update every two weeks). More than anything, though, I just wanted a little corner of the Internet on which I could be somewhat creative--write, post photos, have a bit of fun. And if, in the process, I could "nudge the world"? Just a little? Even one tiny bit? All the better.

So here I am, sitting in a cluttered room, letting the springs in this chair eat my ass for dinner, and trying to gulp down the Apple Cinnamon TheraFlu before it goes cold. As good a way to celebrate the one-year anniversary of Adoresixtyfour.com as any, I guess. And if I have my way--which doesn't happen often, but, every once in a while, the very fabric of reality is split assunder and I do have my way--I'll be trying to nudge the world for a while to come.

Special thanks to JB, VB, Red Secretary, Mr. E, Sister Dee, the Fluffies of St. Joseph, the Grays of Dallas and everybody else who has encouraged, inspired, poked, prodded or otherwise given support over this past year. You all rock.