“We’re out of what?” I asked.  

​“Popcorn,” sighed Dean. 
 
At the St. George Theatre, a 2,672-seat Staten Island movie palace we kept open for the better part of a year beginning in 1976, popcorn was (strange comparison?) our life blood. And if indeed it was a kind of plasma, that Sunday afternoon we badly needed a corn transfusion.
 
There was at that time, in our community and many other towns and cities in the United States, a sisterhood of theaters, most with single screens;“twins” were the rare thing still, and the multiplex was at least a decade in the future. In Staten Island, there were around eight mostly single-screen houses, including our local Paramount Theatre, the only other palace on the island, a high chrome Art Deco wonder, with suggestions of the Chrysler Building in its facade. 
 
In the summer of ’76, the glory had mostly passed from palaces, once first-run houses, but now, even on a good night, likely two-thirds vacant and lucky to be showing some or another shop-worn classic. So it was with us and with our sister, The Paramount, fighting us for the same sorry trickle of customers. Rivals, sisters, it was one and  the same thing. 
 
One warm summer night earlier in the year, an usher from the Paramount had showed up with two fifty-dollar bills begging for “...singles and quarters, man...we’re out.” Change to a small business of any kind, especially on the weekend, is never given lightly — especially in those days of abbreviated banking hours. All the local banks closed at three on Friday, and that was it for the weekend. We crossed our fingers that we had enough change to make it to Monday, and gave him a heavy sack of rolled coin.
 
Now we were out of popcorn, another — almost equally vital — kind of currency. A brief call to the Paramount’s manager, and one of our staffers was on his way to pick up all the “pre-pop” we wanted. 
 
“Pre-pop," I muttered.  “...oh well, beggars can’t be choosers.”  We were concession snobs, queens and kings of fresh popped corn with real butter, Kosher hotdogs on homemade rolls. If Michelin had awarded stars to theater concession stands, we’d have had at least four. Still, we were grateful.
 
Within 30 minutes, our messenger returned to the lobby with four enormous clear plastic bags of commercial pre-pop. I began to shovel the stuff into the warmer, while Paullie melted Odell’s (clarified) butter to top it off. Whew! — back in business. There was no scent of popped corn on the air, but, although sales of corn were down, I consoled myself with the notion that the audience was probably too stoned to notice there was only pre-pop. 
 
The following morning a truck rolled up with ten five-pound tins of kernels. We knew right away what we had to do. It took over four hours, but we popped enough corn to refill each of the clear plastic bags, and that very afternoon drove them down the road to the Paramount, where they were (no pun intended) warmly received.
 
Afterthought:
What became of The Paramount?  Neither of our palaces would make it to 1978 showing movies; such was the fate of single-screen houses in the mid to late seventies. 

But like the St. George, our Deco neighbor still stands, a testament to luck and low real estate values on the north shore of Staten Island. The Paramount endured the usual twists and turns of post-movie theater transformation: The Paramount Nightclub, a rock concert hall (featuring The Ramones, Squeeze, even the B-52’s), becoming at last a storage facility for a local sporting goods store that occupied, eventually, all the storefronts in that block. This last may have not been such a harsh fate. Basketballs and hockey sticks are benign cargo, and the sporting goods mogul, Steckman’s, had to keep the theater’s roof repaired to ensure that his stock stayed dry. Unluckier shuttered palaces — Loew’s Kings, for example — suffered terrible damage from unrepaired roofs.

The sun is always setting on a drive-in theater somewhere.
 
At Thanksgiving dinner in 2018, a friend who had studied abroad in India happened to mention over turkey and cranberries that she’d been to a drive-in in the sub-continent. Drive-ins not in the U.S? Who knew? I did some research, and discovered how world-wide this very American institution really is. 
 
Fast-forward to now. Wondering if the drive-in renaissance on this side of the pond is also taking off on other shores, I snooped around this morning and found, according to the BBC:
 
The UK, which only had three drive-in cinemas before the pandemic began, and none of them permanent, now has 40 sites offering a drive-in movie experience, including a cliff top in Cornwall. More drive-in cinemas are opening in Russia and Germany, and ticket sales are booming in South Korea. In Brazil, a football stadium has transformed into a drive-in.
 
The world appears to be re-inventing itself, in cars! So Here’s a re-cap of my original TG conversation from two years ago, with the occasional bracketed comment from me, today. Not only am I nostalgic for the conversation, but for the closely-packed table and fear-free dining. May it come again soon. 
 
My friend reflected on her time living with an Indian family,
 
“When I was staying with a local family, we packed poori and dhal and beer and chutney and other edibles and went off to catch a little Bollywood....”  Amazing! While I was struggling to run a 2,672-seat movie palace, the St. George Theatre in Staten Island, she was sitting under the Indian stars, eating Tandoori and knocking back a couple of Taj Mahals, Shah Rukh Khan dominating the screen. 
 
I’d always assumed drive-ins were a strictly American phenom. We’re the car culture of the world; only in America would a man — whose (obese?) mother couldn’t fit comfortably into a standard movie house seat — think to invent a theater where she could stay in the family car, eat popcorn and watch the flick in private. The man whose mother that was, Richard Hollingshead, was a movie fan and  sales manager at his father’s company, Whiz Auto Products, in Camden, New Jersey. He patented his idea, which became Park-In Theaters in 1933. 
 
Back to Thanksgiving. While I was deep in conversation with my friend about the plots of Indian films, my husband, at the other end of the table, was having a parallel conversation with another friend, a British ex-pat, who noted that there are two drive-ins in the U.K., and he’s been to neither. He’d like to go to a drive-in anywhere, soon. Perhaps this will happen for him, with more than ten drive-ins within two hours of New York City. [Note: that number has jumped to 18 since the Pandemic began.]  
 
As to their number in the U.K., there are [were] three drive-ins, one in Manchester, one in Liverpool and one in London. The one in London sounds like a real send-off of all things American; according to the London TimesDriving column, “As we pull up at the ticket office an usherette on roller skates slides up to our door. Dressed in classic American-style garb, she explains how the screening works: attendants will guide us to a space; we should switch off the headlights to avoid dazzling or flattening the battery; we may run the engine, if necessary; be sure to tune in to the film’s FM frequency on your stereo; flash the hazard lights if you need any refreshments…”
 
The Drive-In Film Club in Brent Cross Shopping Centre in North London is [was] reminiscent of the drive-ins of my youth, the Oakley and the Montgomery, in Cincinnati, (both long gone). Who could imagine car-hops with food? or usherettes on roller skates? We hoofed it to the snack stand in my day, and, from what I’ve seen of revived American drive-ins, people still make their way there on foot — or send the kids. How else to get them out of your hair for a minute? Other drive-in theaters in the U.K., which would include the Route 66 (yes!) chain, are owned by the same outfit. Route 66 has screens in Manchester, Liverpool and, soon, in Leeds. Don’t miss the previous link if you want to read about how insane Brits are these days on the subject of remaining in their cars. [I’m sure that’s MORE insane now].The Liverpool Route 66 is only one feature of a 24-hour attempt on the part of one London Times reporter to remain in his car for a whole day, eating, stopping for coffee, going to a bank and a dry cleaners, and, yes, a movie, followed by napping in a tony part of London. He even profiles a type of disposable urinal. [Note:  I know about these, having acquired a few for long Pandemic drives].
 
The reason drive-in theaters are on the rise in Britain is [or was, in 2018] so is gridlock; which is a clue to why India, with its growing population of drivers, has [or had at the time] four drive-in theaters. The largest one, which happens to be larger than any other drive-in theater I know of, is the Sunset Drive-In in Ahmedabad, with, they claim, space to play to 6000 people for a single showing (665 very crowded cars). Screening mainly home-grown fare from Bollywood, the Sunset doesn’t actually require a car for admission. Pedestrians stand under a special covered area despite winter temperatures as high as 30 degrees Celsius (86F). [Presumably, this custom may have been temporarily altered out of deference to Covid]. The world’s only beach-side drive-in, the Prarthana, is located in Southern India, and includes “on-site dining.”  The STBL, on the coast in Northeast India, got four stars from UdaY, who noted, “You can visit here with your four wheeler directly to the outdoor theatre to watch the movies. Both indoor & outdoor also available here. For outdoor they also provide chairs and fans just beside to your four wheeler. Food zone; snacks ; other amusements for kids are also available here...Try to visit this place at least once for a different chill outs.” There’s apparently [or was at the time] a brand-new drive-in in Mumbai. Which theater did my Thanksgiving guest have the pleasure of visiting? And was she in a car?
 
I found [at the time] only one mention of a drive-in in Europe, in Cadiz, Spain, but in Fort Mitchell, a naval base, so I imagine, from the name (Flix Cinema) that it must be American. There are [were] lots of outdoor cinemas in Paris, Barcelona, Locarno, Vienna, and other European locales, all of them for pedestrians. [How this has changed!] 
 
Where else are drive-ins on the rise? China, of course.  With a burgeoning car culture, you can bet that the two drive-ins I could find evidence of that are available to Chinese movie patrons, are likely to spawn more. For a trip to the Maple Motor Theatre in Beijing, check out this YouTube video, which includes an interview with Wang Qishun the owner and founder. He always loved movies, and then he loved cars. It became his life’s dream to “...let our friends and other car owners watch movies in their cars like Americans.” He’s done that, and now he’s going for a chain; there may already be as many as ten drive-ins throughout China, he speculates. 
 
I love drive-ins. There are currently 305 drive-ins in the U.S., but this figure seems inaccurate, as the United Drive-In Theatres Association still lists Alaska as having none, while the BBC mentions one!  In any event, this continues to make us the drive-in theater Mecca of the world; still nothing compared to the 4,000 that squeezed in cars in the late 1950’s. Currently, there is at least one drive-in in almost every state. Find one near you.
 
Despite the fact that drive-ins world-wide are likely indicators of global warming on the rise, I understand why people in India, China and the U.K. are warming (no pun intended) to them. As Nick Frow, Director of the Drive-In Film Club in London, observes, “Your car is your kingdom, basically. You can do exactly what you want when you want to do it in your car. You want to rustle your sweet packets? Want to talk to your missus, or the family in the back? Brought a baby and it wants to cry or needs a feed? No problem. It’s perfect.” 
 
I gather that rustling sweet packets has to do with candy, though it has a slightly sexy sound to it; but then drive-ins have always been great places to fool around. The steamed-up windows provide perfect sanctuary. Here’s to the Oakley in Cincinnati, scene, in my life, of several passionate dates, and these days the site of a retirement home. I wonder if any of the residents upstairs revisit nights they recall having in cars, down on ground level, half a century ago?
 
Afterthought:
Here’s the link to the BBC article in its entirety. Deals with a lot more than movies, BTW.  In Europe, art museums are hosting drive-through exhibits. What’s next?

Close your eyes. You are walking down the aisle of a theater.  A uniformed someone just tore your ticket. There is  no social distancing, which is fine, none necessary. It’s sold out. This is not a “virtual” experience. This is your imagination, much better, richer, more dangerous. Let the dream side of your mind furnish the details. In my particular fantasy, the theater is an amalgam. First it’s the R.K.O. Albee, Cincinnati’s most lavish movie palace, where, as a child, I saw Around the World in 80 Days and 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. The chandelier suspended above me is like a gem on an upside-down pillow of silk. But wait, it’s changed. Suddenly I’m at the Mt. Lookout, a small neighborhood place where my sister works selling popcorn. I’m around nine years old; I always sit in the back row on the left next to the aisle. I like going to the same seat every Saturday, makes me feel secure. Then it’s just a few short steps out into the lobby for a free refill on popcorn. Earth Vs. the Flying Saucers is on the screen. I hide under the seat when it’s clear the saucers are about to hit the Capitol dome. 

The slide changes again. This time I’m in New York City, all grown up, It’s 1969. This theater is one of the old houses on Broadway — they blur a little bit in memory, though they were all grand, if a bit tarnished. In this fantasy, the house hasn’t been twinned yet. I walk down a center aisle strewn with unswept popcorn. Most of the bulbs in the chandelier still work. We take our seats in the front row for 2001, a Space Odyssey. Clouds of weed smoke form their own Milky Way.

Finally, I’m in Staten Island, the most “outer” of the boroughs, farther, to a Manhattanite’s perceptions, than the most distant galaxy. I’m running my own movie palace, the St. George Theatre, two blocks from my house. 

What on earth has impelled me and my husband to rent those 2,672 empty seats?  We have a great staff, friends who’ve kicked in money, and some fifteen or so dedicated teens, not to mention a handful of older neighborhood men, who help keep the peace.  It’s 1976, a desperate year, the year before the city itself almost declares bankruptcy. We’re as hard up as the city, but young and full of plans. We love the theater and give all our energy, time and money to keeping its doors open and at least one movie (Taxi Driver, Dog Day Afternoon, The Man Who Would Be King and a couple hundred other titles) on our giant grape soda-stained screen. We had thought to turn the place into a rock palace, but in Staten Island? Who are we kidding? Although we boast on our expensive new answering machine that our neighborhood next to the ferries is “lower, lower Manhattan,” nobody takes the boat to find us, except the head projectionist from Radio City Music Hall, our friend Bob Endres, who signs on to run spot from our booth during the occasional live show. 

If you were entertaining parallel theater fantasies in your own mind, while I ran mine, they might have taken you to The Uptown, Philadelphia’s answer to NYC’s Apollo, or the long-ago razed San Francisco Fox. Or even the Kimo in Albuquerque with its Pueblo architecture and decorative effects. There’s actually a canoe in the lobby.

Question is, after this pandemic is over, will there be any aisles left to walk down? Any screens — larger than a bedroom  flat screen or a laptop — to watch together? Live performance? — even Broadway is silent. 

I continue to predict we’ll all fly out of the house eventually, especially if Pfizer knows what it’s talking about. When that happens, we’ll be sitting shoulder-to-shoulder again in the dark — almost as good as sex! 

To quote Adam Clayton Powell Junior, shunned by an angry U.S. Senate, “Keep the faith, baby.”
 
Afterthoughts:
1. 2001: a Space Odyssey was not an instant success. Execs thought it was boring, but stoners, meanwhile, found the ultimate flick to turn on to. "In Harper’s, Pauline Kael observed, ‘The ponderous blurry appeal of the picture may be that it takes its stoned audience out of this world to a consoling vision of a graceful world of space.’”

2. Not every theater is dark and vacant right now: a few small-town movie houses are commendably, hanging in there, like the North Park, in Buffalo.  And then there are drive-ins, especially in the sun belt, having their revival moment.  

3. I originally conceived of this fantasy as “Theater of the Mind,” then researched the phrase, only to discover it refers to early radio.

Dear Reader,
By the time you read this, one of several things will have happened in these “United" States. Perhaps, it’s changeover day — as it was, every Wednesday morning at the movie palace I helped to run in 1976, and to which this blog is perpetually dedicated.  Film canisters for the outgoing movie were ready in the lobby for National Screen Service to pick up, exchanged for the new feature. Perhaps, on the other hand, the fates have chosen to keep the current nationally-distributed presidential feature for another (interminable--in my opinion) four years.... Yet a third, anxiety-producing possibility, is that we don’t know what movie will be showing on Pennsylvania Avenue!!! In any case, it seems fitting to offer a reprise of the post I ran Wednesday, November 8, 2016, just four years ago. I observed at that juncture,” Standing now on the other side of what has been a momentous national divide... What could be more American (or soothing?) than grand old theater organs?” Life goes on, let the music play.
 
Amateur archaeologists that we were, and brief as our stay was, we never ran out of things to discover in our movie palace. A half-level beneath the St George Theatre stage, a group of us discovered a cramped area Dean likened to the “under-gun deck” of a frigate ship. Low-ceilinged, crowded, musty,  and full of junk, it seemed to be some kind of pit. "Over here," a friend called, gesturing with a flashlight. I could just make out the word ELEVATOR and a set of what appeared to be controls, below which lay a hydraulic mechanism riveted to the floor. An elevator? To where? Hell?  
 
“It’s not very deep,” Dean observed.  “There’s only one way, and that’s up!  
 
But nothing is stored down here,” he pointed out, “that anyone would want on-stage. What’s it for?”  
 
Having just read a little way into the movie palace enthusiast’s scouting manual, The Best Remaining Seats, I thought I had the answer, “It’s for the organ,” I said.
 
The St. George had once had a pipe organ, a 3/30 (3 manual, 30 rank) Wurlitzer which, like other organs of the era, rose from the depths on an elevated platform, stage right (left, as you face the proscenium). I recalled hearing something about a sale a few years back, when the owner of the building — our landlord with whom we’d already begun to have issues — got quick cash for a number of items — lamps, rugs and what-not. The Wurlitzer (1929 cost: $25,000.00) was probably the last to go. Silent since 1935 — when its last full-time organist, Andy Anderson, was fired to trim theater expenses — its new destination, according to local sources, had been Pipe Organ Pizza (see the menu above) in Memorial City, Houston, Texas, where it entertained pizza-eating patrons for at least a decade.
 
Eventually the pizza joint itself became an object of reverie, evoking this nostalgic query on a website of historic interest to Houstonians: Does anyone remember the pipe organ pizza at memorial city mall? It had the huge pipe organ and the 20's and 30's theme inside with pictures of all the old movie stars on the walls. 
 
It becomes impossible to trace the whereabouts of our Wurlitzer at this point. Like an aging Chevy in a junkyard, it may have been sold for parts, cannibalized to keep several other pipe organs going, a sad ending, far from home.  
 
With the theater’s exquisite acoustics, I can only imagine what all those pipes would have done to the place. 
 
Whenever it’s safe to travel again, try a journey to Suffern, New York, to the Lafayette Theater, to take in a flick and listen to Wurlitzer Opus 2095 installed there by the American Theater Organ Society. Although the Wurlitzer at the Lafayette isn’t the original house organ (removed in 1933 to accommodate an “air cooling system”), the organ currently residing in the Lafayette has a venerable history. It began its travels from its original home, the Lawler Theatre in Greenfield, Massachusetts, to the Rainbow Roller Rink in South Deerfield, Mass. Then it journeyed  on to a New York City Duplex owned by a noted theater historian, Ben M. Hall (the author, coincidentally of the previously-mentioned and much-revered tome, The Best Remaining Seats). It remained at his home until his death some three years later, passing at that point safely into the hands of the American Theater Organ Society, which Hall, BTW, founded. Traveling briefly to California, ostensibly to become part of a museum on the estate of Harold Lloyd, it returned back to New York City--that gig having fallen through. Some time after that, you may have heard it, if you went to the Carnegie Hall Cinema during its decade in that tiny (no longer extant) theater. It enjoyed a few years in storage, then came out of retirement in 1992, to what may be its permanent home in the restored Lafayette Theatre — where it has entertained weekend audiences ever since, or at least did so before the Pandemic, and hopefully will again. Such are the life and travels of a theater organ lucky enough not to be cannibalized.
 
Afterthought:
If you ignored the link above for the American Theatre Organ Society, click on it, and find a list of live sound links to theater organ music in a variety of places, mostly movie palaces.  Wish I’d seen the Nosferatu link currently listed, while it was still Halloween Eve...