Again the Cinema Sharing Struggle ...

If I Like It, Why Shouldn't Everybody?

If you show someone a movie, let alone show a movie to a group, you own that movie, at least for purpose of credit or blame depending on where opinions land. There is burden to having an intense interest that others do not share. A scene playing tad slow to you will seem tenfold that to guests, few if any having asked to be put through such ordeal. Actors overact? Mount the scaffold, as you must answer for it. I’ve had reaction anxiety since ten-years-old running 8mm to other ten-year-olds. Who wants rap for wasting other folk’s time? Hardcore movie buffs are not necessarily to be trusted for taste. I approached at least half-dozen neighbor boys for accompany to Castle of Blood in 1964, none taking bait despite avowal that here was most horrific of horrors, result me at the Liberty alone for a first time ever. It would not be the last. The Alamo coming back in 1967 saw assure for half a seventh grade that it was a must-not-miss, four or five taking a chance to satisfaction of all, but later The Greatest Show on Earth was no sale no matter my guarantee it was a pip. Risk and maybe-or-not reward persist to present day. Ann and I over the holidays watched, or rather she submitted, to nine features: Witness for the Prosecution, The Apartment, San Francisco, Hot Saturday, The Lady Eve, Frenzy, The Big Clock, Libeled Lady, and The Thin Man. I sweated each out. Response was generally good until sour note struck by The Thin Man, which we had seen twice before, though 2022 found it “not so sharp as the last time.” Boring her with analysis of what might have gone wrong and why, I right or not concluded that coming on heels of Libeled Lady (which Ann called best of the nine) created expectation of wall-to-wall comedy, which The Thin Man for all of merit is not, being in large a mystery to ploddingly work out. So what had The Thin Man become? A great movie suddenly not so great anymore? She had liked it in the past. Did I program carelessly? Quest seems forever after “safe” choices. Is there a film alive to please everybody for always? If so, I haven’t found it.

Turn over floor then to Dan Mercer, him having traveled fifty-year road with me since we met at alma mater Lenoir-Rhyne in Hickory, NC. Dan gives rich testimony re night The Black Cat played at Monroe Auditorium in autumn ’73. I’ve reprinted his thoughts below, in part culled from 5/31/2021 response to a GPS column entitled “Critics --- Get to Know Your Audience.” Primary concern Dan addresses is how will 1973’s crowd react to a feature thirty-nine years old at the time (like age-equivalents Ghostbusters or Gremlins unspooling today): As I was sitting at the campus auditorium showing … I was almost frightened that the crowd of students, who did not know (The Black Cat) and could not be expected to, would treat it with derision. The mood established by the film was so delicate that it could be rent by a single chuckle or sarcastic comment. The film began, playing to an audience that seemed interested in it, at least initially. There was a moment early on, as Lugosi and the young American couple played by David Manners and Jacqueline Wells are riding on the train, when Lugosi reaches out to caress the hair of the sleeping Wells and Manners looks on, neither startled nor offended, but contemplative. Had the audience been other than entirely engaged with the film at that point, here is where they would have mocked it. But they were entirely engaged by it, swept away by its mystery and sadness, and would remain so until the very end. I, too, was thrilled by their reaction and so proud of them.

Being also there that night (my 16mm print), I worried too of rent by a single chuckle as Dan described. Relief that none came was palpable. No two audiences being alike, a next time for The Black Cat might have brought an irreverent house down. You just could never tell. I spent days toting Sherlock, Jr. on 8mm from one indulgent English class to a next, instructors curious enough to let me run it, classmates relieved not to hear teacher teach. This was daytime play in high-ceilinged rooms with windows tall as in a cathedral, so light poured forth no matter shades let down. Bad enough I was shooting small gauge across thirty-foot expanse, grain dispersed like rain entering gutters. Sherlock Jr. is famed for dream scenes of Buster amidst camera effects and wow chases, getting there a march through set-up with him accused of stealing a watch, me on edge for having stole valued time of watchers impatient for Sherlock Jr. to “get good.” Whatever their response, I would press Keaton upon further groups, always a voice whispering maybe this time he'll click. Came eventually to a point where like a playwright or director of stage doings, I’d stand clear of the audience and wait instead for comments going out. Lesson hammered home then and often after: Never make promises your movie may not keep.

Best experiences were ones where none of responsibility was mine. The Carolina in Winston-Salem ran the Janus King Kong in March 1971 (Uncensored! cried ads), first out-of-town distance I drove. Mesmerized for three views, I wanted to impress upon my mind how the audience absorbed each one. Would they laugh … jeer … and if so, when? First forebode was sailors fleeing the brontosaurus, camera undercranked so they resembled Keystone Cops, this after Bruce Cabot saying “I guess I love you” to Fay Wray, tipping his hat forward post-kiss. Laughter at Bruce/Fay was OK for it being affectionate mirth. This ’70 crowd understood King Kong was a very old movie and so gave quarter. I could relax for anonymity midst nearly full houses and not being liable for anyone’s disappointment. Dream of time travel often finds us “back then” when classics were new and we experience them with first-ever timers. Closest I came was Deja vu of The Tall T at a tiny-town theatre filled with former front-rowers and offspring they brought to breathe air that was great westerns, an only occasion where time’s threshold was seemingly breached, cherry atop being fact I was mere one of fulsome lot with enjoyment again not incumbent upon me. It was like being with Sullivan’s Travels chain-gang as they watched Pluto, merely present as opposed to “presenting.” 

Nature of a viewing event can relieve pressure, like where there’s gather for a party or cookout and your flicker is mere side dish, less critical than deviled eggs or who won at horseshoes. These were shows I liked for being incidental to fun, like ring toss at a crowded county fair. My brother had Christmas feeds for which 16mm was novelty projected in dark space apart from mingling, guests free to wander in/out to entertainment not crux of being there. Such was context for Meet Me in St. Louis, White Heat, among others. I noted specially those who sat for a whole thing. Note mine were non-challengers, as opposed to something of sort like You must watch Lightning Strikes Twice … It’s late King Vidor! Classics are enjoyed most where big deal isn’t made of them. Son of Fury around a same epoch (early eighties) played to an outdoor crowd inert from day spent swimming, more immersed in eats than problems of Tyrone Power, points to me for filling 98 minutes sat on grass (Disney’s Ichabod Crane as warm-up). Again, not the film that must pass muster (rather mustard itself a priority), Son of Fury but coda to jollity (site by the way was Camp Susan Barber Jones, closer-by prototype for years-before Parent Trap-ish week). Are we best served by least attention (by others) on stuff we like? Maybe it’s better to let oldies creep in upon cat feet and surprise whoever arrives not expecting to be enriched. Someone else bring horseshoes and deviled eggs, and maybe I’ll again take a chance.