Mama Mia, 'bout time!

Gosh, what was it? The long lost '02 trip to Cali to look for work? It was that long drive I made from Sacramento to LA in that wee little rental, knowing that I would have to make that long hot drive back there again in a few days, that made the trip to Whittier that night so memorable. The in-laws didn't know I left behind a good paying Seattle job, they didn't know that the lad, the husband of their daughter, the one with the two kids and a newborn, the one that sleeping on their couch, sipping their brews, eating at the trough, was unemployed. Big secret and it's been kept that way.

No matter. On that trip, down the San Jaguin valley, up the back side of the Sierras, I was listening to Abba Gold. Something about that music was infectiously peppy, upbeat, cheery, something completely different than the soundtrack to Oh Brother Where Art Thou? I was hauling along, much more clearheaded, emotionally sound than the strange but edgy electronic Christian music I found at St Vinnies in Ridgecrest. Abba took me to new heights in the mountain passes, took me to places outside of Vegas and in the backwaters of LA that I never expected, and that was to a place where I really and truly learned to appreciate their harmonious world beat pop. It was good.

Try as I might I couldn't get anyone else to see that. Played that same disk at a bbq one weekend and was roundly booed, made to change the happy upbeat tunes for another, more wild and raccous rock and roll album. Left it behind for awhile, set it aside, thought it to be an aberation. Maybe it was just the road, the lack of work, the need for speed, that made Abba sound so good that trip.

Then Jane changed it all again. She went to go see Mama Mia! with her boon companion downtown Seattle winter of '05. She came for supper one night not too long afterwards and I played the Gold album for her on my deck. Then the musical went away, only to surface here and there around the states, Las Vegas, NY. I thought it, too, to be another abberation, a long lost musical flashback, another strange bitg of Abba madness. Low and behold it took off again, this time capturing hearts and minds and musical tastes of America on the big screen.

Finally caught up with that musical tonight with Punkin, a borrowed copy from the Peninsula library. I had already passed along Abba Gold to her months back, so we both knew the music if not the lyrics. We bounced along to the soundtrack, happily humming and kinda dancing to the tunes. The movie made use of the music in a way that Dark Side of the Moon, side 1, has made use of the Wizard of Oz for oh so many years. Pure fun, lots of laughs, nothing but conjecture and happenstance and merrymaking. Happy happenstance.

Watching that movie tonight I was taken back to that moment when I got off the plane that afternoon in Sacramento and smelled the "green" coming off the fields near the airport. I was also taken back to that dinner I made for Jane close in to the time she had to head off to Arizona, right on the heels of my first Christmas trip to Boise. I heard Abba's music tonight and listened to the lyrics for the first time, truly, and know, that if I had the chance I would spin that record for M once more time, sit in happy bouyancy and, if given the chance, would happily watch this movie with her, too, side by side on that worn leather love seat of mine.

But, hey, life moves on and I loved it for what it was worth, and that was a chance to share some very happy music and very happy times with my daughter.

Mama Mia! Bout time!

Action!

Sweltering hot cinema

It was fitting, that opening scene in The African Queen, camera tracking throug that central African rainforest, tropical birds and monkeys screeching. The sun was still pounding through the window, the heat, oven like, was making my usually comfy and restful Futon Cinema an equitorial hothouse. I live in an old house, one that I've managed to insulate and keep to a comfortable level in the downstairs area, especially in the wintertime, but upstairs, in bedrooms pressed up against the roof in a thirties style "story and half" set-up, well, let's just say that when summer comes and delivers it's high eighty and ninety degree heat I would much rather be downstairs when it comes to bed time. Thank goodness for a high quality flying couch.

No matter, Punkin and I braved the heat and grooved on an old bleeding color VHS copy of the John Huston classic. To the credit of screenwriters, the romance between Bogart and Hepburn was believable and worthy of deep sighs. I have always cherished the scene when Hepburn, obviously in the throes of early love, offers Bogart that first cup of morning tea as the newly broken in lover. It was she gave him was more than classic, it was pure professionalism, one filled with admiration and a raw sort of authenticity, one that said, "yeah, man, well done. Look at what we're pulling off here in this hell hole of jungle setting, a "real life" romance for the ages." Never mind the fact that the set was deep in an equatorial African forest, that the animals, oh so threatening, were real, that Huston and company would take off on unscheduled safaris, that Bogie had his Bacall and that their love was still and would always be wildly on fire. All those much documented things made the timeless interplay between Charlie and Rosie that much more believeable and yet forever emblazoned in our minds as one of the great cinema romances of all time.

I was turned onto this movie as a boy and now I fulfilled my duty and passed along the torch to my girl. Toy Soldier Boy sat in at first, lasted just alittle while and then decamped to his video games, pity, as he missed the meat of that timeless adventure story. Maybe later on in life he'll find the time, or the right mindset, or a budding young romantically inclinded gal to groove to it with, find that place in his heart that's a little less jaded, a little less worldly than he is now, only in the way that a 13 year old boy can be. Heck, I am certain of that, for in our heart of hearts we'll always desire to have a winsome, handsome Rosie to go along with our rough cut inner Charlie, a sweet damsel worthy of our affections, one who is willing to give us hell, dump our booze, go over the falls with us and still see the wonder and glory that lies deep down inside us, the only true treasure we have to offer in this world filled with dangerous rapids, wild animals and timeless, everchanging cinema tastes and values.

And when he does, I hope it's in a cooler, more hospitable movie house!

Action!

Great old movie house post from Dorothy of The Tyee

This Old Movie House
Say goodbye to the Capitol Six and others theatres of yore.

By Dorothy Woodend, 4 Apr 2005, TheTyee.ca

It's the end of an era. The Capitol Six Theatre in downtown Vancouver is closing. If you’ve seen a movie there any time recently, likely you knew this already. The place has been in a state of decline for quite a while now, the seats are broken, the carpet threadbare and the popcorn substandard. The theatre has two more weeks to live, and it's looking like it will crawl towards the end on its hands and knees. On the day I was there, there was a huge ragged leak in the ceiling with plastic tubs underneath to catch the drips.
The man who took my ticket is happy to be moving to a new theatre on Burrard and Smithe. "It's swanky!" he says. "Swanky is good," I say. But the fact that the Capitol Six has gone so precipitously downhill makes me a little sad. There was a time, when every snack bar was busy, and every theatre packed with punters. But then movies used to cost $2.50 on Tuesday. Man, I am old. My eyelids are falling down the same way the theatre seats are cracking, time the great leveler marches on.
When The 6 closes it will join the ranks of Vancouver movie theatres since passed, including Royal Center which is now a food court. I still miss Royal Centre even though it wasn't much of a theatre, more like many little living rooms with screens. I liked it despite the fact that there were pillars in the middle of rows of seats, because they played any number of strange art house films, and often if you went in the middle of the day, there was no one there but you. Vancouver Centre is gone. The Fine Arts, the theatre that used to be out on West Georgia where The Gods Must be Crazy played for approximately 120 years is long gone. And now The Park Theatre as well. It closed on Sunday. The last time I saw a film there, every person who walked in the theatre asked the manager whether something or someone else would keep the place open, to which he dutifully informed them, that they were a number of parties who had expressed interest. Whatever that means, your guess is as good as mine.
The old days
I am old enough to remember when the Stanley on Granville was still a movie theatre, though mostly what I recall is standing in line out on the street, waiting to get inside. I also remember a time, when I opened the paper and realized I'd seen every film that was currently playing. Those days are gone, and maybe that's for the best. When you're younger, your judgment or taste is not always what it should be, if you find yourself thinking, "Have movies gotten a lot worse recently or is it just me?" It's probably it's a bit of both. If you take small children with you to something like Robots, for example they may emerge from the theatre tootling in piping tones, "That was AWESOME!!" whereas you will be bemoaning the fall of modern culture where there are no new ideas, just an endless rehash of already slung hash.
Theatres come and theatres go, but mostly they go. And now it’s the Capital Six's turn to darken the houselights.
Twenty years ago, the notion of six theatres in one building boggled my imagination, Wow!!! Bright lights, big city. Since it's been here the almost 20 years I've lived in Vancouver, I have spent many days and evenings and so on sitting in the dark, staring at the screen. One summer, in a somewhat misguided attempt to take my sister's mind off a broken heart, we saw every film that was playing including the vehicular homicide that was Madonna's Who's that Girl, Jaws: The Revenge, and Howard the Duck. After seeing these, she forgot all about her sadness and decided that she wanted to kill me, her helpful sister, instead.
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Drunk or sober
So yes, I paid good money to sit through Howard the Duck in the theatre, but I tell you it was in pursuit of a higher cause because nothing takes your mind off a broken heart like the sight of a talking duck from outer space, or Michael Caine being eaten by a mechanical shark, it simply doesn't get any worse than that, which has the odd effect of making you feel a little better about your own life. At least that's not you up on the screen. Over the years I have gone to movies for many reasons, often alone, so that I could watch things in secret. My Jean-Claude Van Damme years. I've gone drunk, I've gone sober. Although unlike many other people, I have never gone stoned. Upon hearing that the Capitol Six was closing a friend of mine said, "But that was my stoner theatre!"
Some of the film going experiences that mark you are the ones you're least prepared for. For example, during a particularly bad breakup I got a pass to see a film with Geena Davis and Susan Sarandon, something called Thelma and Louise. I went because it was free, and when Louise pulled out a gun, and shot a would-be rapist, I felt the back of a head blow off, because killing men seemed like a really good idea at the time. Where and when you see a film can have a major impact on your feelings about it. Sometimes you go back, wanting to recapture that initial thrill. Nothing has come close to seeing Aliens in Theatre Number 1 at the Capitol Six. It was so huge and dark, that you could virtually feel, the blackness around you rustling with xenomorphs, creeping up behind you and your bucket of popcorn.
On this last, and probably final visit, the movie won't start, and when it does, the framing is all wrong, there are a few quiet groans, but the nice man at the door gives everyone coupons "to make up for trouble we had there at the start." The people who work at the theatre all seem remarkably cheerful, maybe it's just me that feels sad. The movie Beauty Shop, is full of sassy black mamas, 'oh no you di'nt', and fried cat fish, but even Queen Latifah's magnificent bosoms fails to cheer. I feel like a little bit of my history is passing, a tiny little piece, but it is going nonetheless.
Thanks for the memories
All you have left eventually is memories, a movie screen in your brain that features flickering, scratched images from your life. Many movies about movies have made this link explicit whether its the sappy Italians in Cinema Paradisio, or introspective Chinese in Farewell, Dragon Inn. To paraphrase John Prine, "Old trees just grow stronger and old rivers grow wilder every day, but old people (and theatres) just grow lonesome. Waiting for someone to say hello in there oh. . . ."
Over the years, with friends, boyfriends, family, and now my own kid I have gone to the movie theatre. And even now when I walk in, and the lights go down, I feel comforted. Thank God, I am at the movie theatre. I am home.
Dorothy Woodend reviews films for The Tyee.