By F.T. Rea
At the end of the first year (1972) of the Biograph Theatre's operation in Richmond, we -- the management -- could easily see that our midnight shows' grosses were carrying us. Fortunately, our well-attended midnight shows had made up for the disappointing performance of an eight-week program of venerable European classics at regular hours.
Running over October and November, that ambitious program had included a few well known French New Wave films and ten titles by the celebrated Swedish director, Ingmar Bergman. The same package of art house workhorses had played extremely well up at the Biograph in Georgetown. Which underlined what was becoming a painfully underestimated contrast in the two markets.
Somewhat surprisingly, over much the
same period of time, the Richmond Biograph had done great business with a long run of "Deep
Throat" (1972), screening at midnight only on Friday and Saturday nights. Playing
on a twin bill with Luis Buñuel's famous short film, "The Andalusian Dog"
(1929), the odd pairing of notorious films brought in over $30,000 in 17 weekends. That was more
money than what had been the production budget of "Deep Throat."
So, facing a new year, gears were shifted into an experimentation mode. In a departure from what had been the D.C. Biograph's style, we tried giving the double features of old movies and selected second-run American films a rest. Over the early spring of 1973, a series of mostly imported first-run movies was booked.
The centerpiece of the European first-run festival was the premiere of the
Luis Buñuel masterpiece, “The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie” (1972). True confession: I was in love with the film. In
what David Levy (the most active of the owners) and I then regarded as a coup -- gambling it would win the Best
Foreign Film Academy Award -- we strategically booked it to open in Richmond
a couple of days after the Oscars were to be handed out.
Well, Levy and I had guessed right, “The Discreet Charm...” took the
Oscar. Levy loved the film, too. However, money
had been put up in advance to secure a print, which was in demand,
because it was doing brisk business in most other cities. In Richmond,
it didn't earn enough in box office to justify the amount advanced to
the distributor.
Then the rest of the first-run foreign flicks in
the
festival flopped. The one-year-old cinema’s management
team was more than a little bummed out. Actually, we were stunned by the
extent of our
miscalculation. The failure of “The Discreet Charm...” and the festival
that surrounded it forced a serious reassessment of what had been the
original plan to more or less mimic the D.C. Biograph's method of
programming.
Ultimately,
the
successful Georgetown Biograph simply couldn’t prop up its struggling
Richmond counterpart forever. Thus, to
stay alive, the Fan District's Biograph needed to make some adjustments
in its
booking philosophy, pronto. However, as an independent, the problem was
that big movie theater chains had all the power. When it came to access
to popular Hollywood first-runs, or even first-run imported product
expected to draw big crowds, an independent cinema in a medium sized
market had to sift through what titles the booking agents for the chains had skipped, hoping to find what might be a
picture that could be cleverly promoted.
After much fretting on the phone line between "M"
Street and Grace Street the Faustian deal was struck -- a new film was
booked that had been made by the notorious director of “Deep Throat,” Gerard
Damiano. Significantly, this time the picture's distributor imposed
terms calling for “The Devil in Miss Jones” (1973) to play as a
first-run picture at regular show times, every night, rather than as a
midnight-only attraction.
At this point no one could
have anticipated the series of events we were setting in motion by agreeing to expand
the availability of contemporary “adult movies” beyond the midnight hour. As we
hadn't been promoting our midnight shows in the same way we did our
regular fare, for the first time the title and promotional copy for a
skin flick was included on a Biograph printed calendar program.
Then an aggressive young TV newsman took Biograph Program No. 12 to Richmond's new Commonwealth’s Attorney, Aubrey Davis. The reporter asked Davis what his office was going to do about the Biograph’s brazen plan to run such a dirty movie, especially in light of the then-freshly-minted Miller Decision on obscenity by the Supreme Court. (Miller basically allowed communities to set their own standards for obscenity.)
Eventually,
the provocateur got what he wanted from the prosecutor -- a quote that
would fly as an anti-smut sound bite. Other local broadcasters jumped on
the bandwagon the next day. By the mid-summer evening “The Devil in
Miss Jones” opened in Richmond it had already become a well-covered
story.
Once again, I saw what publicity could do. Every show sold out and a wild ride began. Matinees were added the next day.
On
the third day all the matinees sold out, too.
By the fourth day, the
WRVA-AM traffic-copter was hovering over the Biograph in drive time,
giving live updates on the length of the line waiting to get into the
theater. The airborne announcer helpfully reminded his listeners of the
upcoming show times.
Well, that did it!
The
following morning a local circuit court judge asked us for a personal look
at what was clearly the talk of the town.
Management cooperated with
his honor’s wishes and the 35mm print was schlepped down to Neighborhood
Theaters’ private screening room, at 9th and Main Streets, for the
convenience of the judge. (Perhaps he didn't want to be seen entering the theater?)
As Judge James M. Lumpkin
later admitted in court, he hadn’t been out to see a movie in a theater since sometime in
the 1950s. Consequently, this particular moving picture rubbed him the wrong way.
Literally red-faced after the screening, the outraged judge stood looking at
Levy and me like we were from Mars.
Maybe Pluto.
Judge Lumpkin
went back to his office and promptly filed a complaint with the Commonwealth’s Attorney. And he also set a
date, two or three days later, for a hearing to halt any further showings
with a Temporary Restraining Order.
The following day I staged a hastily assembled press conference in the
Biograph’s lobby, to make an announcement. It seemed every
news-gathering outfit in town bought into the premise and sent a
representative. It amazed me when they all acted as if what I thought
was obviously a publicity stunt
was making bona fide news, because it served their purpose to play
along.
After Dave DeWitt -- my collaborator in making radio spots, who was then representing the theater as its ad agent -- laid out the ground rules, I read a prepared statement for the cameras and microphones. (No record of this performance is known to exist.) The gist of it was that based on demand -- sellout crowds -- the crusading Biograph planned to fight the TRO in court.
Furthermore, the first-run engagement of “The
Devil in Miss Jones” would be extended -- it was being held over for a
second week.
During the lively question-and-answer session that
followed, when Dave scolded an eager scribe for going too far with a
follow-up question, it was tough duty holding back the laughing fit that
would surely have broken the spell we trying to cast over the
reporters.
The TRO stuck, because Judge Lumpkin decided his complaint was righteous
and he held all the say-so. “The Devil in Miss Jones” grossed about
$40,000 in
the momentous nine-day run the injunction halted. It should be noted
that, technically, the legal
action initiated by Lumpkin was against the movie, itself, rather than
anyone at the
Biograph. Which obviously suited me just fine.
The
trial, itself, opened on Halloween Day. Lumpkin served as the trial judge too. In my naivete, I
was surprised and perplexed that the person whose original complaint to the
Commonwealth’s Attorney had set the whole process in motion could then
hear the case, too. Objections to that affront to justice fell on Lumpkin’s
deaf ears.
On November 13, 1973, Lumpkin put all on
notice: If anyone dares to exhibit this “filth” -- that's what he called it -- to the public, they should stand by
for criminal prosecution. So it was that on that very date “The Devil” was banned
by a judge in Richmond, Virginia. The local press liked that angle.
The
plot to answer the judge's decree was hatched in early January of 1974
in the theater's office on the second story, next to the projection booth. Having
finished the box-office paperwork, or whatever, I was browsing through a newly acquired 16mm film catalog.
As it was
after-hours, the scent of recently-burned marijuana may have been in the
air when a particular entry -- “The Devil and Miss Jones” -- jumped off
the page. It was instantly obvious to me the title for that 1941 RKO
light comedy had been the inspiration for the banned X-rated movie’s
title -- “The Devil in Miss Jones.” And, speaking of inspiration, a cartoon light bulb over my head flashed brightly.
It should be noted
that the public had yet to be subjected to the endless puns and
referential lowbrowisms the skin-flick industry would eventually use for
titles. This was still in what might be called the seminal days of the
adult picture business. Culturally, a blur existed in
the line between edgy underground films and outright porn. The somewhat
oxymoronic term, "porno chic," was then in currency. That era didn't last long.
The
prank's plan called for using the theater's upcoming second anniversary as
camouflage. Early on, DeWitt and the theater’s resourceful assistant
manager, Bernie Hall, were in on the brainstorming in the
office. Then, in a deft stroke -- suggested by Alan Rubin (also an owner) over the phone
-- a Disney nature short subject, “Beaver Valley” (1950), was added to
the birthday bill, to flesh it out ... so to speak.
The risky stunt’s
biggest problem was security. The whole scheme rested on the precarious
notion that the one-word difference in the two titles, which spoke of
the Devil's proximity to Miss Jones, simply wouldn’t be noticed and considered. It was
something like hiding in plain sight. We plotters convinced ourselves that people would see what the hell what
they wanted to see.
The staff was made to fully understand that the slightest whiff
of a ruse would mean our little prank's undoing.
Thus, absolutely no one outside our group could be told anything. No one!
The
Biograph announced, via a press release on DeWitt’s ad agency letterhead,
that its upcoming second anniversary celebration would offer a free
admission show. The titles, “The Devil and Miss Jones” and “Beaver
Valley,” were listed with no accompanying film notes or explanation. Free birthday cake
would be available, while it lasted.
Somehow, a rumor began to circulate
that the Biograph might be outmaneuvering the court’s decree by not
charging admission. The helpful rumor even found its way into print -- the
street gossip section of The Richmond Mercury. I don't know if they knew
what was really going on, or not.
The
busier-than-ever staff fielded all inquires, in person or over the
telephone, by politely reciting the official spiel, which amounted to:
“We can tell you the titles and the show times. The admission will be
free. No further details are available.”
The evening
before the event the phones were ringing off the hook. Reporters were
snooping about. One, in particular, stuck around trying to claw his way
toward the key to the mystery. He knew something was up. In the lobby, as I manned my familiar
post near the turnstile, in a whisper, he said: “It has
something to do with the title, right?”
Uh-oh! He was getting too close. To fend him off I decided to take a chance.
So,
talking like one spy to another, I told the newsman that what was going
to happen the next day would be a far better news story than a yarn
about spoiling it the day before -- that is, if there really is a trick
of a
sort in the works. Gambling that it would work, I asked
him to leave it alone and trust that once it all unfolded, he wouldn't
regret it.
Fortunately, he agreed to say nothing and he kept
his word. I promised not to reveal his cooperative role. Thus, the
reporter's identity remained a secret until his death in 2015. Now I can
write that it was Don Dale, who eventually became a longtime publicist
for the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts.
Up until the box
office opened, no one else outside our tight circle appeared to have an
inkling of what was about to happen. Amazing as it may sound, the
caper’s security was airtight. It was absolutely beautiful teamwork!
On the day of the event the staff decorated the lobby with streamers and balloons. We laid out the birthday cake (made by Wendy Andriot). Naturally, we tested the open keg of beer, just to make sure it was OK for the patrons waiting in line to drink.
By the way, to avoid a problem with the Commonwealth's
Attorney's office, I called Davis that afternoon. Put simply, I told him
what was going on and assured him I wasn't trying to embarrass him or
the police department. He thanked me for the heads-up. And, I asked him
not to tell anyone about it.
Nonetheless, spurred on by hopes the Biograph was about to openly defy a court
order, by the end of lunch time -- say 2 p.m. -- the line along Grace Street was already
reaching westward to Chelf's Drug Store on the corner -- which meant about 500 people.
It was suggested to me that we could eventually have a
riot on our hands. What would happen if we lost control of the
situation?
Well, nobody knew. That’s exactly what made it so exhilarating!
My collaborators on the staff for that one-of-a-kind night on the job were:
Bernie Hall (assistant manager); Karen Dale, Anne Peet and Cherie Watson
(cashiers); Tom Campagnoli and Trent Nicholas (ushers); Gary Fisher
(projectionist). Some dressed up in costumes. Trent wore a Nixon mask; in case trouble broke out, he
wanted to be able to take it off and disappear into the mob.
The
box-office for the 6:30 p.m. show opened at 6 p.m. By
then the line of humanity stretched about three-quarters around the block; so I was told.
It took
every bit of a half-hour to fill our 500-seat auditorium. We turned away
at least six or maybe seven times that number.
The sense of
anticipation in the air was electric, as the house lights in the
auditorium began to fade. Outside, on the sidewalk, many of those who
couldn't get in to the first show stayed in line for the second show at 9
p.m.
Then the prank unfolded in layers. Some caught on and
left while “Beaver Valley” was running. Most stayed at least through the first
few minutes of “The Devil and Miss Jones.” Only about a third of the
crowd remained in their seats through both movies. Why not?
Afterward, there were
lots of folks who said it was the funniest prank that had ever happened
in Richmond.
Of course, a few hard-heads got peeved.
But since admission had been free, as well as the beer and cake, well,
there was only so much they could say.
Even though
those in line for the second show were told about the hoax angle by people
leaving the first show, the second show still packed the house. By then,
it seemed a lot of people mostly wanted to be in on a unique event, to see
what would happen and be able to (honestly) say they were there.
Note: There are plenty of people who've told me they were there, but I've suspected they weren't. So, over the many years since then, I've had folks tell me all sorts of things about that night that just didn't happen. However, truth be told, the rush that came from living in the eye of that event’s storm of activity was quite intense.
After the second show emptied out,
gloating over the utter success of the gag, as the staff and assorted
friends finished off the second keg, was as good as it gets in the prank
business.
Meanwhile, thoroughly amused reporters were
filing their stories on what had happened at the Biograph. The next day,
wire services and broadcast networks picked up the story. At 814 West
Grace Street we returned to business as usual with an Andy Warhol double
feature.
A
few days later, NPR’s All Things Considered went so far as to compare
the Biograph’s second anniversary prank to Orson Welles’ mammoth 1938
radio hoax. Which was fun to hear, but I had the good sense to tell the
interviewer that in comparison our modest stunt was "strictly small
potatoes." Congratulatory mail came in from all over the country.
Later that same month the staff went back to work on "Matinee Madcap"
a 16mm film project in production. Trent Nicholas shared the
directing credit with me. The rest of the staff and several of the
Biograph’s regulars appeared as players. The plot, calling for a
good deal of slapstick chase-scene footage, conveniently set all the
action in the movie theater.
Although post-prank
life seemed to fall back into a familiar routine, big changes were
on the horizon. With Watergate revelations in the air and the
Vietnam War winding down, the interest in politics and social
causes on American campuses began to evaporate. VCU was no
different. In the spring of 1974 “streaking” replaced anti-war
demonstrations as college students’ favorite expression of defiance.
Six
months after the theater’s second anniversary splash, the same
month that Richard Nixon resigned the presidency, the Biograph closed
down for a month, to be converted into a twin cinema.
With construction workers toiling 24 hours a day that accomplishment remains a story of extremes, all to itself. The middle-of-the-night Liar's Poker games with 15 guys playing were outrageous. After the construction work was completed, with two projection booths and a hallway between them, automating the change-overs from one 35mm projector to the other, was essential to controlling costs.
Among other things that change necessitated switching to Xenon lamps -- high intensity bulbs that could be automatically ignited by switches -- to replace our out-of-date, manually-operated carbon arc lamps. Anyway, I got to see the same scene projected with the two different lamps.
The verdict? The old light was whiter and the picture sparkled more. The new
light had a slight yellow cast to it.
After the twinning of the theater I couldn't
watch the movies through a window in my office, anymore. That window
was a much-missed advantage to the one-screen setup. Moreover, with two screens to fill the manager’s job became more
complicated. It wasn’t always easy to rent
enough worthy product to fill two screens. The repertory “mission” became
increasingly blurred over the next few years.
As the edgy punk style
began replacing the hippie culture that had ruled the Grace Street
strip for the better part of a decade, none of us who were working
at the Biograph Theatre had an inkling that the zenith of the
repertory cinema era, nationally, was already in the rear-view mirror.
*
Eventually
I got over 100 letters, cards, etc. Some were mailed to the
theater, others dropped off. Most were supportive, but not all. There
were a few letters that were quite entertaining. So, I collected
the best of them in an cardboard box, figuring they might be useful down the
road.
Into the same box went clippings about the
tumultuous run of “The Devil in Miss Jones” and the Biograph’s
news-making days in court. Later on, several stories about the
prank from various newspapers from out of town were tossed in.
Then,
about a year after the hoopla, the prankster suddenly changed his
mind. Caught up in a spell of melancholia -- caused in some part by a slipped
disc that was dogging me at the time -- I sat in my office festering
over the idea that no matter how hard I ever worked to put over
the greatest art films, most people in Richmond would simply ignore
them. By then, I could well understand why movie distributors generally considered Richmond to be a weak market.
A year of
prank-driven atta-boys had suddenly added up. Frankly, I‘d had my fill of
it. The annoying thought of being known mostly for my connection to
a somewhat creepy, even pretentious, unfunny porno movie wasn't setting well
with me.
At 26, perhaps I already suspected the
Terry Rea of the future might develop an embarrassing tendency to
wallow in nostalgia. Boom! Just like that, I decided to play a trick
on my future-self, by deliberately throwing away those artifacts
I’d surely want back … some day.
Perhaps the
bitter need my precious Biograph had developed to show trashy
movies, in order to be allowed to also show important movies,
grossed me out a little extra on that particular winter’s
afternoon.
Walking away from the dumpster and
crossing the cobblestone alley behind the theater, I laughed at
what I had just done. The memory of that peculiar moment is still retrievable ... but getting less so, as the years pass.
Today, thinking about what an effort it took just to keep the Biograph's
doors
open and the light on the screen during those salad days, now it seems
like it was all an elaborate stunt … pranks for the memories.
-- 30 --
No comments:
Post a Comment