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Exxxtasy Show, July 16-18, Chicago
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CINEMA SEEN - "Welcome to The Margold Zone!" By William Margold The recent protracted Independence Day period was made slightly more tolerable by an almost endless visit to THE TWILGHT ZONE, thanks to the SCI-FI Channel presenting a three-day marathon of episodes from Rod Serling's early 1960's masterwork. One of Mr. Serling's warm and richly recurrent themes was our eternal longing for a more peaceful, dare I say, a more innocent time, when our eyes were wide, and our hopes were high, and our daydreams were the playgrounds of our young and mischievous minds. Indeed, life was recess 24 hours a day. But then the bell of responsibility rang. And we became adults. And our daydreams became bills to pay. And watching sunsets began to hurt our eyes. I tried to create my own "Twilight Zone" experience a couple of weeks before re-discovering, courtesy of the sagacious and solemn Serling, that the past (as in Willoughby---just the mention of which should exact gentle nods from the graying heads of Twilight Zone faithful) is exactly where it belongs...and where it should stay! Desperate for anything even slightly related to reliving my childhood film-going adventures---when cowboys roamed the screens, and when the streets of Santa Monica were my home on the range---I wound up suffering through a woeful Western from director Walter Hill called BROKEN TRAIL, which had been made for airing on AMC, but was being shown as a "special" event at the Aero Theatre in Santa Monica. Located on the now-trendy 1300 block portion of Montana Ave., the Aero had been a picture pleasure pasture for me as far back as the early 1950's, when, after a good meal at Callahan's near Euclid (a fancy name for Thirteenth St.) and Wilshire Blvd., my mother and I (when we were "getting along") would spend at least one evening of the weekend in the cozy confines of the quaint neighborhood movie house. So...seeking to capture a double-dose of my youthful daze...I retraced 50 years worth of time-flashback steps by first dining at the very friendly Callahan's. The half-pound ("a meal in itself") hamburger special, although essentially violating my delightfully successful diet, was remarkably tasty. And as a gesture of trying to stay healthy good faith, I avoided their very tempting French Fries by convincing the aging gracefully waitress to give me "extra salad"---which I then proceeded to smother with their excellent 1000 Island dressing. Hmmm! Like the very comfortable (and comforting) timeless Callahan's, visiting the Aero, which has become part of the extremely honorable and exceptionally admirable www.americancinematheque.com film history program, is one of those rare opportunities to partake of a genuine (although slightly gussied up) single screen "little" movie establishment. The odor of freshly popped corn emanated from the inviting doorway. The box office silently guarding the entrance looked the same. Perhaps Rod Serling as well as a fellow named Thomas Wolfe were both wrong...and I could go home again! But once inside, the years caught up with me...in more ways than one. Perhaps my dining transgressions (that 1000 Island dressing was the culprit) had bloated me out of proportions, but the seats (and I tried many of them) were cramped and uncomfortable. Of course, I was no longer that scrawny 12 year-old from 1956, either. And, my legs don't bend like they used to. And I found myself lumbering up the stairs to the men's room, rather than bounding up them, like I used to. However, I don't seem to remember having to go upstairs to relieve myself at the Aero back in 1956. Which, of course, bodes ill for two reasons: my memory cells might be burning out, and aging, cranky/creaky body parts have made having to relieve myself a more constant need. And, the ho-hum horse drive images, punctuated by way too few violent moments, that were rendered sluggishly by Robert Duvall and Thomas Haden Church, did very little to make the movie-watching portion of my evening more comfortable...or comforting. The highlight of the evening took place when Walter Hill, whose "Warriors" and "48 HRS" are among my fun time film-viewing favorites, sat in front of the reverential (way too tolerant, but perhaps also equally desperate to recapture their youth, and the westerns therein) audience, and talked about making "Broken Trail." If only the end result had lived up to Mr. Hill's rascally endearing presence. It was well after 11pm when "Broken Trail" finally ended, and after yet another climb up those damn stairs, I staggered out into the cool, ocean scented Santa Monica night air, still relatively full of a good meal, but also still incredibly hungry for a good western. Thankfully, I had a handful of advance DEADWOOD episodes at home courtesy of HBO, and early the next morning, my hunger was abated (somewhat) by the mesmerizing machinations of a writer named David Milch, whose proudly profane work searingly "speechified" by Ian McShane (as Al Swearengen) and sassy Paula Malcomson (as Trixie) ranks right "up there" with the best stuff of Serling. And I certainly hope you understand what I mean by "up there." end NOTE: Originally published in LA Xpress, July 13, 2006, issue. |