Where I Was Last Night

The Patio Theater hosted a showing of Lon Chaney's Laugh, Clown, Laugh for the Silent Film Society of Chicago...and the place was packed.

Where I Was Last Night

I've long been a fan of silent films in general and the works of Charlie Chaplin in particular, but I must confess that, if I had to choose any of his films to watch, The Kid wouldn't be my top choice. It was a sensation in its time--feature-length comedies were still a relative rarity in the early 1920s, and Chaplin's mix of slapstick and genuine drama was an innovation that revolutionized screen comedy. Today, though, it comes off as slight and manipulative. Chaplin could (and would) do better.

Still, when the Silent Film Society of Chicago announced they'd be screening The Kid, I was determined to go--partly because I miss the screenings the Society used to have regularly at the nearby Portage Theater (shuttered last year in a dispute between the new owner and the city) and partly out of love for the Patio itself.

Sadly, the Patio itself will be shuttered again soon.

After closing in 2001 for "renovation," the Patio reopened to much fanfare in 2011, but has struggled with various challenges over the past three years. It started out showing mainstream movies on a second-run basis, but found there just wasn't enough of an audience for that--not enough for a 1,000-seat theater, anyway. The owner switched to more of special event format, with screenings of classic and rarely seen films. That seemed to go well until the theater started breaking down--first the air conditioning, then the boiler, then water damage during our brutally cold winter.

Thus, last night's showing took on extra significance--It was likely the last time most of the folks who attended would see the glory of the Patio, at least for a while.

The film was accompanied by the Greensboro (N.C.) Youth Orchestra, and they did a wonderful job with the score that Chaplin wrote for his silent classic many years after the advent of sound. At the end of the showing, the audience stood up and delivered a prolonged, exceedingly loud ovation.

I had the feeling we weren't just cheering the orchestra, though they certainly deserved it, nor just the Silent Film Society, nor the Little Tramp, now 100 years old. We were giving a proper sendoff for the Patio itself.

Who knows? Maybe this will only be temporary. I fervently hope so. In the meantime, though...I'll miss you, Patio. There are so few theaters like you left anywhere anymore.

Come back soon. Please.

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.

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.

Every Picture Tells a Story 4/30/12

Have you been to the Patio Theater yet? If not, get over there--it's a beautiful movie theater and super cheap (five bucks!).

White Borscht and Wine

Whenever I get out to the Patio Theater (which I do as often as I can), I make a point of stopping at the Polish deli/liquor store a few doors down.

It's not a big place--as wide as a typical Chicago storefront, but a bit deeper than most. Its narrow aisles are crammed full of grocery items--some typical (milk, mustard, pineapple chunks, etc.), but many catering specifically to their Eastern European clientele. Like breads baked in the Old World style. Or freshly smoked meats (one whole wall of the store is taken up by the deli counter). And jars of white borscht soup.

I was introduced to white borscht soup (sometimes referred to as sour rye soup) by Gretchen (a.k.a. Mrs. Fluffy) back when we were dating. There was (and, I believe, still is) a tiny Polish restaurant on Division Street (a remnant, perhaps, of the time when the whole neighborhood was Polish, back in the days when Nelson Algren lived there and wrote The Man with the Golden Arm) where they served the soup, hot and fresh, with sausages or--if you were really lucky--a hard-boiled egg floating in it.

It's a fairly sour soup, but extremely flavorful and hearty (especially when the sausage and egg are added). Gretchen and I went there more than once for it, We also attempted to make it in her kitchen using one of the packets of dried soup you can find in many Polish delis all over the Northwest side. The results? Horrible. We left out some key ingredient (probably because the instructions on the packet were in Polish, which neither of us could read) and wound up with a pot full of foul-tasting paste. Not too long after, though, we tried a second time, with much better (and tastier) results.

I continued making white borscht soup long after Gretchen and I broke up, and we remained close friends after that as well, even after she and her fiance (and later husband) Greg (a.k.a. Mr. Fluffy) moved to the western shore of Michigan, where she and her family are from. I visited them from time to time, staying at the home she (somewhat) affectionately referred to as "Crumbling Cliff." I read poetry at their wedding and danced at their reception.

For one of Gretchen's recent birthdays, I sent her packets of (what else?) white borscht soup--wherever she was living at the time, the soup was impossible to find.

I switched recently from the packets of soup to the jars, which are somewhat easier to cook--I can concentrate more on what I'm going to add than the base of the soup itself, which is premade concentrate that only needs a quart of water to finish it. (I usually use either chicken broth or vegetable stock instead--much deeper flavor.) When I was out at the Patio this past Saturday to see Horrible Bosses, I stopped by the Polish deli after and picked up a couple of jars of soup and some fresh polska kielbasa to slice up and toss in. Add some onions, basil and black pepper, and serve along with some sunflower seed bread (also picked up at the deli), and you've got a bowl of comfort on a damp, gray night.

I also had some wine with dinner. Nothing special--whatever was in the discount bin at the liquor store. The glass I sipped it from, however, was special. It was a clear crystal glass, part of a set of six given to me by Gretchen as a birthday or Christmas present quite some time ago. I always use them whenever I drink wine (which isn't as often as it used to be). Sometimes, I'm careless--I accidentally knocked over one of the glasses back at the old La Casa del Terror and shattered it on the floor, something which wouldn't have happened had I taken it to the kitchen and cleaned it immediately. (Instead, I left it out and knocked it over later that evening.)

Somehow, I managed to break another of the wine glasses Saturday night. No, it wasn't another alcohol-sodden mishap (not that you'd be unreasonable in suspecting such), but an accident during the preparation of the white borscht soup. I had way more sausage than I needed for the meal, so I reached into the cabinet beneath the kitchen counter to grab a Ziplock bag. My hand came nowhere near the shelf where the wine glasses stand--at least I didn't feel it touch that shelf--but one of the glasses nonetheless tumbled off the shelf, bounced off the back of my hand and smashed to pieces at the bottom of the cabinet.

I would have felt bad about this at any time--the guilt of breaking a present from a dear friend can be overwhelming--but I felt especially bad about breaking the glass Saturday, which was two days shy of what would have been her birthday.

In other words, today.

As you may or may not remember, Gretchen passed away in April.In her honor, her husband, Greg, is running in the Bank of America Chicago Marathon to raise money for AIDS Chicago, a cause close to Gretchen's heart. (She lost several friends to the disease, and she and I did at least one of the AIDSWalk Chicago events together when she still lived here.) You can make a donation to Greg's run here.

Please give something--anything--if you can. It's a important cause, and it would be a great way to honor the memory of Gretchen, a great friend who is missed very much--especially on this day.

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.

Every Picture Tells a Story: 6/3/11

The photo above was taken in the summer of 2000, when I saw the first "X-Men" at the Patio Theater on Chicago's northwest side. (The fourth "X-Men" movie, a prequel to the other three, opens today nationwide.) It was a huge second-run movie house (1,500 seats) that had never been split down into smaller screens like so many of its contemporaries (the Davis, Logan, Esquire, 400, Village, etc.), but it still did pretty good business and, even though it was old and well worn, it still had an unmistakable beauty to it.

The next year, the Patio shut down.

The theater's air conditioning had broken down and, for a theater as old as the Patio (first opened in 1927, according to the invaluable Cinema Treasures website), there were few people qualified to repair such a thing. (A friend/coworker who used to work in an old movie house himself assures me that the AC units for these buildings are massive, and that there are maybe half a dozen men in the country who could do the job.)

The Patio closed for "renovation" (so said the marquee) for weeks, then months, then years. It seemed the Patio was closed for good.

Then, last year, signs of life: the eastern corner of the marquee, which had been dinged by a truck, was repaired; the lobby was dusted off and repainted; the windows were cleaned. Could the Patio be rising from the dead?

Tonight comes the answer in the form of the Patio's grand reopening. It'll still be a second-run theater (the first film of its new life: "Thor"). The ticket price will still be comparatively cheap ($5). The renovation will continue. (The balcony is still closed until repairs are completed.) Even with the fresh paint job and reupholstered seats, it's still a well-worn movie house.

But it's back, after most folks (myself included) had written it off as yet another loss for the ever-dwindling Chicago theater population. And I'll be there tonight with both the Canon AE1 and the Kodak digital to document the event, smiling from ear to delighted ear.