Around the World in Eighty Days was the first film I saw on a big screen, or at least half-saw, as my parents, sitting in the front seat of our Plymouth, blocked my view. They’d taken us to King Center Twin Drive-in, five-minutes from our house. When you arrived and found the best available viewing spot, you parked your front wheels on the crest of the raised ground. Walking to the concession stand was like surfing a small set of waves. A metal speaker was cradled atop an iron pole next to the car. The speaker was to be attached to the side window glass, half-rolled up. They didn’t always work, and if not, you kept driving until you found one that did. Parallel rows of cars stuffed with people faced the screen, waiting to be entranced. To me, there was a festive glamor about it all. I ignored the screams of inappropriate laughter, smokers walking in front of our view, the honking horns and the loud drunken arguments. I was swept up in a tsunami of wonder. The idea that all these different people came together to forget their ordinary lives and enjoy the same story was spectacular.
*
Films and filmmaking have played a huge part in my life. Brenda Carmichael, a lithe young blonde woman I’d lusted after for a year, broke my heart because I couldn’t see the deeper meaning in 2001: A Space Odyssey. The first time my brother and I bonded was in London after seeing and enjoying Truffaut’s Day for Night. I extended my stay in NYC so I could see Eastwood’s Bird. It enflamed my passion for jazz. I’ve seen hundreds of films, but an experience that comes back to me now, was the first time I saw a movie alone.
I was young, maybe nine or ten, when my mother dropped me off at the cinema. There were matinees on Saturday and my mother had some errands to do in town. I would have preferred to see Jason and the Argonauts but the only screening that fitted the time slot my mother allowed was South Pacific, a musical celebrating war’s happy moments. It was enjoying a second life. Given the choice of going shopping with my mother or seeing South Pacific, I chose the latter. Seeing a movie on my own was the fun part, more than what I saw.
“When the movie finishes come straight out,” she told me, after she’d bought my ticket. “I’ll be waiting in the car. No wandering around.”
“Can I get some popcorn or a drink?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“You’re just here to see the picture, that’s all. We’re not made of money,” my mother reminded me.
The theater was almost empty, it being an afternoon screening of a movie that had already been out for a couple of years. I chose a seat in the middle, the best seat in the house. Once the lights dimmed, the credits rolled and the movie began, an adult man came and sat next to me. He had a large carton of popcorn. Even with all the empty seats, he wanted to sit next to me. I knew not everybody liked to see movies on their own, or maybe he was after the second-best seat.
He had a friendly smile. “You don’t have any popcorn.”
“Nope, we’re not made of money.”
This made him chuckle. “Would you like to share mine. I bought too much.”
I really didn’t like people talking to me while I was watching a movie, but I didn’t want to be rude either. The smell of his popcorn was melting my resistance. “If you don’t mind,” I told him.
He put the popcorn between us. “Help yourself.” He seemed a bit jittery, looking from the screen then to me. I returned his smile.
We may have been mid-way through the movie, the popcorn was almost gone, when he put his hand on my thigh. His eyes were on the movie, but his other hand was buried in his pants. I hadn’t noticed him loosening his belt. The man groaned, looked at me and started crying, which didn’t make sense since the actors were singing “Happy Talk”.
“I’m sorry,” he told me, before he got up and walked out. He left his popcorn.
My mother was waiting in our car, and I got in.
“Did you like the movie?” she asked, starting the car’s engine.
“Happy talkin’, talkin’, happy talk, talk about things you like to do…” The lyrics weren’t that hard to remember and there were two hands talking to each other. I was demonstrating when my mother noticed some popcorn on sweater.
“There’re crumbs on your clothes. Did you eat something?” she wanted to know.
“It must have been on the seat,” I told her. I didn’t want to explain something she wouldn’t understand. My mother wouldn’t believe I could make friends so easily.
.
Marc Rosenberg has written seven feature films, producing three. He’s worked with Miles Davis, Daniel Radcliffe and Jeremy Irons.
.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles
Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International
Borderless 