Afterthoughts

The Future. Someday, when I get in the mood, I think I should tell more stories: the screening rooms at SUNY at Buffalo, various other experiences throughout and beyond New York State, various other experiences in Albuquerque. I should also tell the stories of the two theatres I failed to rescue from the bulldozers. That’s when I first saw, in person, how corrupt most politicians and judges are. That’s also when I learned that it is impossible to reconstruct history from official documentation, because that documentation is all faked. Better yet, I should tell the story of the one theatre I actually did rescue from the bulldozers. There was a large group of people advocating for rescuing that theatre, but not one of the people on that committee knows that I was the person who tipped the scales in their favor. If you were to mention me to them, they wouldn’t know who you’re talking about. I’ve never met them. They’ve never met me. And I’ve never even visited that theatre, though I want to, and would if I could ever arrange a trip. As time goes by, and as legal threats diminish, I’ll have many more stories to tell. If I don’t tell these stories, nobody will ever tell any stories, and then 200 years from now, when future researchers want to get an idea of what it was like to go to the movies, they will be frustrated by the silence and secrets that we left behind. They will wonder, in print and aloud: “Movie-going was one of the primary pastimes of the twentieth century, and so why are there no accounts of daily life in a cinema?” Okay, future researchers, here is your one and only account! I hope, for your sake, that the films still survive. Absent the evidence, your accounts will be all wrong. If you have to rely, for instance, on the script of The Cocoanuts rather than on what little remains of the butchered film itself, you will find it dreadfully horrid and you will think that we were all a bunch of morons devoid of taste. Ditto with finding only descriptions of Buster Keaton or Harry Langdon or L&H, rather than the films themselves. You’ll think they were pathetic if all you have left are verbal accounts. A description of Fellini’s or Pasolini’s movies will convey nothing but tedium, whereas the movies themselves are magical. I hope the films survive. I strongly doubt that they will, but I sincerely hope that they do.

Morale. Remember the union projectionist at the Sunshine who did not understand that longer lenses result in a smaller picture on screen? Remember the union projectionist at the Lobo who cropped all films to 1:1.85, even though he had lenses and apertures for 1:1.66 and 1:1.375 in his lens cabinets? If you read my essay on Monty Python, you will recall that he stated he did not know what those lenses and apertures were for. When I told him they were to show different formats, he did not believe me. When I asked if he had noticed that the film he was running that day was severely cropped, often to the point of being incomprehensible, his response was, “That’s because it’s a sh__ty movie.” Remember the union projectionist at the Screening Room Twin who knew he had the proper lenses and apertures, but simply refused to use them? Remember the projectionists who skipped film at every change-over? Remember the non-union projectionists who did not know what green prints were, who did not know about lubricating prints, and who cleaned film gates with flat screwdrivers? Two of them soon afterwards became union projectionists. If you attended films in Albuquerque in the 1970’s and early 1980’s, you might have noticed that framing was almost always an issue, that cropping was almost always an issue, that motorboating was sometimes an issue, that hotspotting was sometimes an issue, and that there were almost always noticeable jumps at reel joins and reel changes. If you read my essay on Monty Python, you will recall that in booth after booth after booth after booth, I saw projectionists leave not just a single frame on the leader and tail when splicing films onto larger reels or platters. I saw them leave a foot or more, and I also saw them, for no reason at all, chop another three or four feet off of each beginning and ending and toss it into the garbage can. When it was time to take the film apart and put it back onto 2,000' shipping reels, they would not peel off the splicing tape. Oh no. Never. They would chop another foot or two or three on either side of the splice, and toss all the film in the middle into the trash. If I had seen only one projectionist do that, I would have put that down to a unique case of bad practice. That was not a unique case. I saw it happen repeatedly, not in all cinemas, but in too many. Those were union projectionists who did that. That’s why, after a film had traveled to just two or three cinemas, there was a good half-minute deleted at every reel change.

Fonda Complains. I recently learned about a movie shot largely in New Mexico, a movie entitled The Hired Hand. Since it had a New Mexico connection, I purchased the Blu-ray from Arrow Video in England. I just watched it. Anybody who does not understand why I’m in love with New Mexico would, I think, come to understand upon watching this poignant movie. It is easily one of the greatest movies I have ever seen. Universal Pictures, which financed and distributed it, did not agree. Universal falsely advertised it as an action flick, gave it minimal promotion, let it meander around the country for a few years, and then withdrew it from release, presumably when the few prints wore out. In one of the supplements on the Blu-ray is an audio recording at the National Film Theatre in London from September 1971, as Peter Fonda and Warren Oates were being interviewed on stage. Someday I should transcribe Peter Fonda’s exact words, but in the meantime, here is the gist of some of his comments about the IATSE & MPMO. He thought they were running a racket, forcing producers to hire fifty people rather than the needed five. He thought they were also a bunch of vandals, who deliberately jammed the cameras during takes. Finally, he got so fed up with the cameras forever jamming that he pulled out his .38 caliber and fired a bullet at a camera that had just jammed. He sent it back to the supply house with a message explaining that the next camera would not jam. The crew got the point, and the next camera did not jam. When he made his next movie, illegally with a non-union crew, the cameras never once jammed. He also had some words about the film labs. When The Hired Hand was sent to London for a preview screening for the critics, two of the reels were printed so light that there was hardly an image at all, just a white screen with a few shadows. He was convinced that was intentional, just so that the critics would give it bad reviews. He managed to get replacement reels flown in. Then he had some words for the MPMO projectionists. He was convinced that they intentionally ran films out of frame, that they intentionally bungled change-overs, that they intentionally inserted false cues into reels, that they intentionally damaged films. He was horrified at the condition of the prints after they had been returned to the distributor. They were no longer projectable. He regarded the IATSE as nothing but a bunch of saboteurs and cons. He had no use for the Directors Guild of America, either, as he regarded it as merely a country club. I find it difficult to reject his conclusions, but I can add that much of what he regarded as vandalism was, in fact, just sheer incompetence.

Critics. As a rule, I have little use for critics, but I would have fallen in love with critics had they only understood these problems and written about them. Can you imagine? “Stay away from El Inepto Arts Cinema until they stop chopping out the beginnings and endings of reels.” “Join our picket line in front of Dummkopf Fine Arts Cinema until they install the proper masking and lenses.” “Avoid Il Cinema Stupefazione until they service their leaking machines.” “We refuse to review any further films at Knucklehead Movie Heaven until they cure that motorboating.” “We critics have all agreed to boycott Cheapskate Movies until they send their staff to intensive training.” “We refuse to accept ads for Nizzy Noodle Dream Screen until their projectionists start making change-overs properly.” That’s what critics should have been doing with their time and their influential positions. How many problems could have been solved with just a few lines in the local daily. Yet I defy you to find a critic anywhere on the planet, past or present, who could recognize or understand any of these problems.

How Can You Tell the Difference? Actual conversation, from memory (this was not in Albuquerque): An old-time dues-paying MPMO projectionist and I were talking about the non-union projection booth where I was working. I asked if he knew the whereabouts of used lenses, affordably priced. Ours were all old and damaged, especially the ones that BadNews sprayed with degreaser, I explained. He asked which focal lengths we needed. I answered, “Four inch for Silent and MovieTone; three and a half inch for Academy; three inch for 1.66, 1.75, and 1.85 (we adjust the masking); and four and a quarter inch for anamorphic.” He was stunned. “You drive me crazy! Why do you have so many?” “Because different films are different formats, that’s why.” “Why don’t you just run everything at 1.85?” “NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!! I want to do it properly!” “How can you tell which aperture you need?” “Just look at the frames. You can see if there’s an intended crop, and you can see where it is.” “I don’t know how you can tell the difference.” “Just look at it! It’s obvious!” “I can’t tell the difference.” That was a professional MPMO projectionist, who had been active since the 1940’s, I think, but I was hardly surprised. I admit that the MPMO pros knew lots of stuff I didn’t. They knew wiring, they knew plastering, they knew plumbing, they could repair seats and floors and cars. I made no claims to that knowledge. I wanted to learn, but there was no opportunity. Yet I did know about cinema and theatre, both theory and practice, and, ideally, I should think any projectionist would be required to know the same. The same goes for the bosses. It was more than frustrating to work for a boss who never understood a single sentence I said about technical needs. Frustrating? Exasperating! Infuriating! It actually became difficult for me to restrain myself from screaming at the top of my lungs: “Don’t you even know the first g______ed thing about your own g______ed profession?!?!?!?!”

Buffalo. That reminds me of the evening that Patrick Fagan gave a lecture about Buffalo’s theatrical history. That was at the Buffalo & Erie County Historical Museum, a gorgeous building originally built to tie in with the Pan-American Exposition of 1901. He did not write his own lecture. It must have been some students or minimum-wage interns who hastily wrote it for him, and they based it on nothing more than a few newspaper articles. As Patrick was telling his story, people in the audience interrupted him to correct his statements. Patrick, with a warm smile, said that people who worked in the theatre he managed, Shea’s Buffalo, remained loyal even after they left to take jobs elsewhere. For instance, one technician who moved to Chicago said he had found lots of dimmers that were available, and that Shea’s Buffalo could certainly use. Should he send them over? Patrick said, “Of course!” He told us, “Well, I’m not a technical person. I don’t know what a dimmer is, but if he thought we needed them, we’d take them.” I cringed. Shea’s Buffalo is one of the most famous theatres in the US. With well over 3,000 seats, it is the prime entertainment venue in Western New York, host to Broadway touring companies. How on earth could its manager not know what a dimmer is? That’s like the president of an electrical company not knowing what a bulb is. That’s like the president of a car factory not knowing what a steering wheel is. That’s like the president of a construction firm not knowing what a foundation is. That’s like a book publisher not knowing what a page is. There are certain basics that the manager, the board of directors, the president, the CEO, need to know, and “I’m not a technical person” is not an excuse! My conclusion: I was glad I didn’t work there. I would go crazy there. I would have horrible bursts of temper, and I do not like to have bursts of temper. In truth, though, that’s no different from pretty much any theatre or cinema. The people at the top don’t know the first thing about their own businesses. And they don’t want to know. They have so little interest that they would be incapable of learning, and they would instantly fire any staffer who tried to explain.

Stratification. I just remembered something else. Sometime in the early 1990’s, I attended the George Eastman House for screenings of recently rediscovered early Russian silents. One particular night, those screenings were held at the small Curtis screening room, which, as nobody realized, cropped all silent films. The apertures were filed not to .6796" × .90625", but to .6000" × .90625". That was awful, but nobody in management knew the difference. They were all blind to the cropping. Yes, it was the managers and the archivists who could not see that glaring fault. So, on that night, there were two guys sitting right behind me, approaching retirement. I did not converse with them, but I enjoyed eavesdropping on their conversation. They were both projectionists, who were, at the time, working at Kodak, running test films. They exhibited a mixture of bemusement and irritation at the new crop of managers. Said one to the other, “There was a time when, if you needed help, you just called the manager, and the manager would help you, he could teach you. Now managers all come out of business school, and they don’t know anything. They don’t even know where the GO button is.” I had to chuckle to myself. What they said was all too true. (By the way, the larger Dryden screening room had a thousand faults, too. When I mentioned them, the managers wanted to skin me alive, and they denied every allegation I made, not with facts, but just with denials. I stopped attending. In the interest of honesty, I should mention that, a few years later, some friends drove me over again, twice, once to see Serge Bromberg present one of his wonderful “Retour de Flamme” shows, and once to see The Docks of New York, a dazzling print right off the camera neg, but some idiots slashed cue marks all over the frames at the end of each reel. Horrid! I was stunned — STUNNED — to see that most of the projection defects had been corrected. Best of all: No more strobe with the silent films when slowed to less than 24fps! I was impressed. Really. I was impressed almost to the point of stupefaction. Since nobody else on staff was available to hear my compliments, I mentioned to the box-office gal how impressed I was by the improvements, but she had no idea what on earth I was talking about.)

Cluelessness. With their needed equipment gathered up and taken away, projectionists were no longer able to do professional work, and they must have felt defeated. From what I can determine, the reign of the clueless projectionist must have begun in the 1960’s, which would make sense. Their older colleagues had been demoralized by managers who knew nothing about cinema and cared even less. The new breed of manager made no effort to train projectionists, and so in no time at all, cluelessness was rampant. Why should the MPMO wish to train its members if its members would never have access to the appropriate equipment? So a lot of the training stopped. Almost no projectionist in my lifetime knew why older films were recorded and mixed differently from newer films, or knew what to do about that. Almost no projectionist in my lifetime was aware of the Silent and MovieTone formats, or was aware that different studios and different countries at different times used different formats. What the projectionists knew was simple: Put the film onto house reels, put the reels onto the machines, and turn the machines on. That’s not much training. They also damaged every film they touched.

What They Know. How little do cinema managers know? When the series coördinators chose to include The General and Pandora’s Box (two of the greatest movies ever made, by the way), the cinema manager booked them through his usual agency. Now, this cinema manager was a third-generation or maybe fourth-generation cinema guy. His grandpappy was running theatres at the turn of the century, if not earlier, and cinemas beginning in 1915, if not earlier. So this guy should have known something. When he showed me the list of upcoming movies for the series, I had to ask: “Why did you book The General and Pandora’s Box in 16mm?” His response: “They’re silent films. Sixteen is all they had in those days.” Was there something wrong with my hearing? He couldn’t have just said what it sounded like he just said — but he did. I put him in touch with Rohauer and Kino, and he booked 35mm prints of those two movies, to my tremendous relief.

If cinema managers had known even the first thing about cinema, and if the MPMO had been a real union rather than a racket, no set-ups would have been removed from any cinema, and automation and platters would have been recognized as the junk that they are and would have been laughed out of existence. Platters would have been outlawed at the federal level, or perhaps even by the International Court of Justice. Instead, the MPMO collectively slit its own wrists, strung its own noose, prepared and drank its own Kool-Aid. Cinema owners and all of Hollywood argued that this worthless, destructive technology had made projectionists obsolete. The MPMO did not know how to respond, except by giving in, and that is why there is no more MPMO. Cinema owners were thrilled with platters, because no projectionist was needed. After all, they reasoned, all a projectionist did was change reels and rewind. With platters, there were no more reels to change or rewind. Whoopee! Just have the popcorn kids run up and hit the PLAY button and all would be well. I’d like to wring their necks. If a cinema cannot afford to pay one projectionist per screen, then the cinema should close down. In defense of cinema owners and Hollywood, though, we need to keep in mind the obvious: The popcorn kids were no better and no worse than most dues-paying MPMO projectionists. The MPMO and its projectionists, by refusing to demand adequate equipment, by obeying management’s orders to run films improperly, and also through their carelessness, ineptitude, absence of education, and their terrible presentations, brought about their own demise.

Showmanship. In my experience, with but perhaps the single exception of Tom Harryman, cinema owners and managers knew nothing of showmanship. Most knew nothing of the technical side. None knew anything of the artistic side. They knew only how to be severe and threatening. Showmanship, though, forget it. Their knowledge of that was nonexistent. They thought showmanship consisted merely of the movies or stage shows that the booking department chose. The movies and the stage shows are the smallest part of showmanship. Showmanship begins with the atmosphere of the building. Showmanship consists of grounding the staff’s knowledge of every aspect of theatre management, and founding that knowledge on a rock. Showmanship consists of the entire staff being enthusiastic, warm, and welcoming. Showmanship consists of cultivating a repeat audience. Mrs. A knew something about showmanship, even though she probably didn’t realize it. Showmanship consists of love — love for the audiences, love for theatre history, love for cinema history, and a deep knowledge of that history. Showmanship consists of giving audience members a feeling of ownership of the theatre or cinema. Showmanship consists of knowing regular audience members by name. Showmanship consists of involving the audience in the theatre or cinema.

Pile-Ups. I never had a major pile up, because I was quick on the draw. What is a pile up? Glad you asked. I wish I could find a YouTube video of a pile up in action, but, alas, I cannot. A pile up is when the take-up reel stops turning, which causes the film, running usually at 90 feet per minute, to pile up in the sound head. In just two or three seconds, the film will flood all the empty space in the sound head, and, with no place else to go, it will start wrapping around the sprocket wheels, which pushes the pad rollers away. That will cause a heck of a lot of damage, not just to the film, but to the machine as well. If the projectionist does not shut off the motor IMMEDIATELY and slam on the brake, there will be a disaster. The audience will be in the dark for five or ten minutes, as the nerve-wracked projectionist attempts to pull the film out from between the sprocket wheels and the pad rollers, which is darned near impossible because it’s so bloody tight and cramped. If you don’t stop the machine IMMEDIATELY, there will be no way to repair much of the film that has suffered a pile up. You just end up chopping 20 or 30 feet out of the movie, which really causes a great deal of guilt. So, now you’re wondering why a take-up reel would stop turning. Yes? Usually, that is because the projectionist was stupid enough to plop a shipping reel onto the take-up spindle. (I am guilty as charged. I learned my lesson.) The shipping reel looks okay, but it is not. It will warp out of shape as the film winds on, expanding in width, and it will get stuck against part of the machine and won’t be able to turn anymore. Another prob is simply when a take-up belt snaps, which, yes, does happen. I had, I guess, maybe two pile ups in my time — I cannot remember at which cinemas or with which films. I caught them in time and was able to rescue the film. I witnessed another projectionist have a pile up, and he was not quick on the draw. Ouch! What a mess! I am the one who cleared the mess for him, and my heavens was it difficult to unwind the film that was jam-packed between the sprocket wheels and the pad rollers. I was worried that the arms of the pad rollers might have snapped or bent, but, fortunately, they had not. Another split second, and they surely would have. The next day, I spent hours attempting to repair that length of film, and I ended up deleting maybe 100 frames altogether. Yikes! If I had had a sprocket-repair machine, I could probably have rescued all of it. That is why I would never leave the booth while the film was running. Other projectionists were much more cavalier about things and had no qualms about stepping outside for a breather. Not I.

Damage. I can think of only three times when I caused some damage to a film, and I still feel awful about it. The first one I related above (Outrageous at Don Pancho’s). That bothered me, and now that I found my notes about it, it bothers me even more. The other two times, though, made me heartsick and I still feel guilty about them. That’s two times out of thousands of shows, though. Maybe that would not bother me too much if those were typical Hollywood movies, of which thousands of prints were available. In each case, though, I damaged the only print in circulation. That’s what makes me heartsick. For one print, I walked away from an open rewinder at the wrong time. Stupid. Incredibly stupid. That destroyed maybe four seconds at the end of a reel. For another print, I snapped the film, and a tape splice put things right, without any loss of footage. In the greater scheme of things, that’s pretty minor, but still, though, darn!

Change-Overs. Just for the record, just because nobody else will ever document this anywhere: Change-overs could be a pain. As mentioned above, if a print has played at even one cinema prior, there is footage missing at the beginning and ending of every reel. Also, different movies place the cue dots differently. In some movies, the cue dots occur one second early, to give a slow projectionist time to react. In some prints, the cue dots are even earlier than that! In other movies, the cue dots occur just a few frames before the end, which is not enough time to react. So, here is a movie I saw but did not project: Yellow Submarine. There are four cartoon characters on screen, tossing a ball around from one to the other. The change-over occurs right in the middle of a ball toss, as the ball is in mid-air between two characters. (Some of the cartoon characters in that movie are copied from Maya art, by the way. ¿Interesting, que no?) Here’s a movie I did run: The Little Mermaid (the 1989 Disney version). The print came with instructions, which were entirely wrong, except for one warning, namely, not to change over to the next reel until we could hear a character finish saying, “Now let me see.” Yikes! The character finishes saying that on the very last frame of the old reel. The only way to make a proper change-over was to switch to the next reel as late as possible, but to switch only the picture, and to let the sound remain on the old projector until those words were finished. That was the result of horrible editing. How that edit passed quality control is beyond me — unless, of course, there was no quality control. Mind you: Yes, I could make change-overs accurate to the frame. How? By marking the leaders exactly to the frame, and by adding extra cues with a grease pencil. I actually did that for a few weeks. That was certain, because I knew what the damaged last frame of each reel looked like, and I knew what the damaged first frame of each reel looked like, and, at each change-over, I got both on screen, without any black leader showing up in between. After a few weeks, I was a nervous wreck, wobbling jelly, in an emotional crisis. That was just cutting it too close. I needed to skip five or even ten frames at each change-over. Really, I did. Another movie I ran: My Stepmother Is an Alien. As Kim Basinger is walking up a sidewalk, there is a change-over right in the middle of the shot! Even if the print were brand new with not a single frame missing, and even if the projectionist were to add additional cues with a grease pencil (which I did), that change-over could not possibly be seamless. There would be a jump in that action, or at least a subtle change in the illumination, no matter what. Professional film editors know to keep reel changes away from such moments. What happened at the studios to cause these films to be so awkwardly recut? My only guess is that the studio heads ordered changes at the last minute, which necessitated that reel breaks come at different places, and that there was no footage to spare at those reel changes. Even assuming that, though, that was just horrible editing and inexcusable. Oh. And there’s a Pasolini movie called Medea, which I did not run, and which I am glad I did not run, because it would have given me a heart attack. The beginning of a later reel is identical in every way to the beginning of a previous reel! Had I run that film, I would have sworn that I had mistakenly put on the old reel by mistake. I would have shut down the show and tried, sweating bullets, pulse racing, to see what on earth I had done wrong. It was an Italian production, though, and that’s why the editor was okay with opening two different reels in exactly the same way. You see, in Italy, there was only a single projector in the booth. Films were shipped on 1,000' cores, which the projectionist would cement splice together onto 7,000' house reels. Then there was an intermission printed onto the end of a reel: “FINE PRIMO TEMPO.” Stop the machine. Intermission. Concessions. When the audience were all back in their seats, the projectionist would begin the second large reel, which would open with a title on screen: “SECONDO TEMPO.” Zo, an Italian projectionist would not find such a duplication troubling at all, because there was no possibility of loading the wrong 1,000' reel. Anywhere else in the world, though, projectionists must have died on the spot. I have more about the history of change-overs here. My heavens! Intelligent people write about the history of the Khazars or the history of the Vinča or the history of the Apaches. What do I write about? The history of change-overs. Good grief! I should be ashamed of myself.