Defending Freedom of Speech

Note: In the 1982 I appeared in Richmond's district court, standing proudly on a freedom of speech defense. In June of that year I had been charged with a misdomeaner for defying the City of Richmond's new law against posting unauthorized notices on utility poles. 

On the witness stand, I told the judge that as manager of the Biograph Theatre I had been putting flyers promoting movies on the Fan District's utility poles for 10 years. I showed the judge a hundred handbills designed by various artists promoting movies, live entertainment and variety of other causes. My attorneys elicited testimony from VCU professors (art and mass communication) who spoke about the cultural role of such posters appearing regularly in the area adjacent to the campus. 

Leading up to 1982 my experience had taught me that, in general, powerful people were doing all they could to shape the direction of our culture by steering the flow of information presented by television, radio, newspapers, and glossy magazines. All those forms of media were expensive to produce. Which means the wealthy class rules format decisions.  

Thus, when it comes to spreading political ideas around, or ideas about art, or music, or you name it, people with a lot of money have a built-in advantage. They own the periodicals and broadcast networks. And, the expensive commercials presented by those vehicles are always designed to encourage particular consumption patterns in the marketplace. The thing was, handbills, which also transmitted ideas, were existing pretty much outside the control of the ruling class. 

However, since the handbills stapled routinely onto the Fan District's utility poles weren't being posted by rich guys promoting big money schemes. So, the messages carried by most handbills were not based on notions cultivated in an advertising agency's focus group. Surely, I testified, the messages carried by humble handbills were worthy of some measure of scrutiny in a campus community. 

Well, the judge looked at the evidence and listened to the testimony. The courtroom was packed with artists and rock 'n' roll musicians. Anyway, the awkward prosecutor lost the case when he posed the wrong question to a savvy art professor. What follows tells the story about that trial.  

This clipping is from Throttle's July 1982 issue.

To crack down on the posting of unauthorized notices on fixtures in the public way, the City of Richmond tweaked its City Code. With a particular focus on the Fan District, policemen began pulling handbills promoting rock 'n' roll shows off of utility poles and charging the person(s) they saw as responsible for posting the flier with a misdemeanor.

Plus, the cops threatened to also bust any other entities they thought would benefit from the handbill's message with violating the new statutes. So, in theory, a club owner and band members could all be busted for posting the same handbill where it ought not to be.

*

On June 28 of that same year, David Stover, a professional photographer and part-time usher at the Biograph Theatre, admitted in court he had posted a promotional handbill on a utility pole. The General District Court judge, R.W. Duling, ordered him to pay a $25 fine.

It should be noted that in the early-'80s Richmond’s live music scene was probably the liveliest it had been in decades.

Stover’s misdemeanor conviction surely sent an obvious message to his band, The Prevaricators, that they needed to find another way of spreading the word about their gigs.

In the weeks before Stover’s court date others in local bands had been fined for committing the same crime. The convictions made most clubs and bands suddenly afraid to depend on a what had been a reliable, essential tool to promote their shows.

As the manager of the Biograph, I had also been using the same sort of handbills on a regular basis for 10 years to promote that repertory cinema’s fare, in particular the midnight shows. In the last few years advances in xerography had made the cost of a short run of little posters much more affordable. 

My instincts were to not accept a ban on that traditional, integral avenue of promotion without putting up a fight. It felt to me like the City of Richmond was not only trampling on my freedom of speech rights, it was trying to undermine the Fan District's nightlife scene.

In other words, I suspected they were unhappy about the content of some handbills. Given such thinking, I decided to go on stapling Biograph fliers to preferred utility poles and just let the chips fall as they may.

It wasn’t long before one afternoon a uniformed policeman showed up at the theater with a flier for “The Atomic Café” in hand. That was the movie we were playing at that time. The cop told me he had removed it from a pole in the neighborhood. 

When asked, I admitted to putting it up. He issued me a summons. It wasn't an unfriendly exchange. 

It seemed to me then that the crackdown had been spawned in a pool of resentment some property owners in the Fan felt toward VCU’s growing presence. I supposed it was easy for them to figure that the university's art school was partly to blame for the band scene and much to blame for the posters trumpeting that scene. 

Note: Due to procedural delays, it took over four months for my day in court to arrive. Which was fortunate, because I used that time window to assemble what would be my case -- both the argument and the evidence.

*

It should be remembered that in 1982 the look associated with punk rock -- how the anti-establishment kids dressed, as well as their art -- was grievously off-putting to some cultural conservatives. The same went for the sound of properly amplified contemporary rock 'n' roll music. Thus, in a larger sense, this episode was part of an all-too-familiar culture clash being warmed over from the 1960s.

Consequently, the leaders of the Fan District Association of that era were determined to rid the neighborhood of the handbills that promoted edgy happenings in their Fan District. Conveniently, City Hall proclaimed that outlawing handbills would help with the growing litter problem in the city.

All of which made me start reading about similar situations in other parts of the country. In particular, cases that involved using existing fixtures such as utility poles, as kiosks. I found some useful precedents that backed up my thinking. Plus, with a fresh passion I began to study political art and outlaw art, in general, down through history. 

Scheming about how to present my argument in court filled my head for the next four months. First, I wanted the court to see an essential context -- our society tolerates all sorts of signage on utility poles, because the messages are considered useful and the practice works.

Then, I wanted to convince a judge that once you considered all the handbills in the neighborhood around VCU, as a whole, it could be seen as an information system. It was a system that some young people were relying on for useful information, just the same as others might rely on newspapers obtained from a box sitting on public sidewalk. 

After all, what right did the newspaper company have to block any part of the public sidewalk with its box full of information, including a lot of advertising? What allowed for that?

One person might read the entertainment section in a local newspaper. Another person might look to the utility poles in their neighborhood, to read the posters touting live music shows or poetry readings. Some would trust the information found in a newspaper. Others might put more faith in the handbills posted on certain poles they walk past regularly. 

Moreover, the only reason privately owned utility poles had ever been allowed to impose on public property, in the first place, was that electricity and telephone lines had been seen as serving the commonweal. So, why not use the bottom of the same poles as kiosks?   

Somewhere along the line, I told my bosses it would cost them nothing in legal fees. A couple of my friends who were on the theater's softball team, who were also pretty good lawyers, would handle the defense.

To gather plenty of good examples of handbills to use as evidence, we had an art show/contest at the Biograph (see flier above). On October 5, some 450 fliers, posted on black foam core panels, were hung in the theater’s lobby. In all, there were probably 40 or 45 artists represented. 

A group of friends acted as impromptu art expert judges to select the best five of the show. Naturally, there was a keg of beer on hand to grease the wheels of progress. Two of the handbill art show judges from that night also served as expert witnesses at the trial. They were: Gerald Donato and David Manning White. 

Donato was an art professor at VCU; White was the retired head of the mass communications department at VCU. The best 100 of the handbills from the show were later taken to court as evidence.

One of Phil Trumbo’s Orthotones (later Orthotonics) handbills was named Best in Show. Most people who knew much about the handbill artists in the Fan probably would have said Trumbo was top dog, so it was a popular decision by the judges.

*

Thus, on November 5, 1982, I witnessed a fascinating scene in which an age-old question — what is art? — was hashed out in front of a patient judge, who seemed to thoroughly enjoy the parade of exhibits and witnesses the defense attorneys put before him. The room was packed with observers, which included plenty of gypsy musicians, film buffs and art students wearing paint-speckled dungarees.

Trumbo testified at the trial as a handbill expert, to explain how to make a handbill and why they were used by promoters of entertainment. He also described how the music and art associated with the bands and clubs were all part of the same milieu.

My defense attorneys attacked the wording of the city's statute I was charged with violating as “overreaching.” They asserted on my behalf that it was my right to post the handbill, plus the public had a right to see it. The prosecution stuck to its guns and called the handbill, “litter.”

The judge was reminded that history-wise, posters predate newspapers. Furthermore, we asserted that some of the cheaply printed posters, a natural byproduct of having a university with a burgeoning art school in the neighborhood, were worthwhile art.

At a crucial moment Donato was being grilled by the prosecutor. The Assistant Commonwealth’s Attorney, William B. Bray, asked the witness if the humble piece of paper in his hand, the offending handbill, could actually be “art.”

“Probably,” shrugged the prof. “Why not?”

The stubborn prosecutor grumbled, reasserting that it was no better than trash in the gutter. Having grown weary of the artsy, high-brow vernacular being slung around by the witnesses, the prosecutor tried one last time to make Donato look foolish.

As Warhol’s soup cans had just been mentioned the prosecutor asked something like, “If you were in an alley and happened upon a pile of debris spilled out from a tipped-over trashcan, could that display be art, too?”

“Well,” said the artist, pausing momentarily for effect, “that would depend on who tipped the can over.”

Donato’s punch line was perfectly delivered. The courtroom erupted into laughter. Even the judge had to fight off a smile.

The crestfallen prosecutor gave up; he had lost the case. Although I got a kick out of the crack, too, I’ve always thought the City’s mouthpiece missed an opportunity to hit the ball back across the net.

“Sir, let me get this right,” he might have said, “are you saying the difference between art and randomly-strewn garbage is simply a matter of whose hand touched it; that the actual appearance of the objects, taken as a whole, is not the true test? Would you have us believe that without credentials, such as yours, one is ill-equipped to determine the difference ordinary trash and fine art?”

A smarter lawyer might have exploited that angle. Still, the prosecutor’s premise/strategy that an expert witness could be compelled to rise up to brand a handbill for a movie, a green piece of paper with black ink on it, as “un-art” was absurd. After all, any town is full of bad art, mediocre art and good art. Name your poison. 

Maybe the better question to have asked would have been about whether the art is pleasing to the eye, thought-provoking or useful. Then any viewer can be the expert witness. However, when it comes to great art, maybe it still depends on who tips over the can.

*

The next day the story about winning the handbill case was draped stylishly across the top of the front page of the Richmond Times-Dispatch. Here are excerpts of that article:

‘Atomic Café’ handbill case is still clouded
By Frank Green
Sat., Nov. 6, 1982  

...Richmond District Court Judge Jose R. Davila Jr. dismissed a charge yesterday against Terry Rea, the manager of the Biograph Theater, who allegedly posted handbills advertising the movie “The Atomic Café” on some utility poles in the Fan in June…

…The case concerned the seemingly simple issue of the allegedly illegal posting of a handbill. But before it was over, the proceedings touched on topics that included free speech, soup cans, and nuclear energy, and invoked the names of such diverse personalities as Andy Warhol and the city‘s public safety director.

Rea’s attorneys, John G. Colan and Stuart R. Kaplan, argued the city’s ordinance was unconstitutional because it violated Rea’s right of freedom of speech…

…“The city, GRTC, VCU, churches, the Boys Club and all the candidates use the public’s utility poles to post their signs. They know as well as the general public that there is nothing pretty about a naked pole. Handbills pose no danger to anyone. Is free speech only for some?” Rea asked in a handbill he had printed up before yesterday’s trial.   

Later that Saturday Richmond’s afternoon daily, the Richmond News Leader, carried a story about the trial. Here are excerpts of that article:

Art or litter? Judge rules handbills not in ‘public way’
by Frank Donnelly
Nov. 6, 1982

One man’s art may be another man’s litter, but the real question was whether it blocks the “public way.”

Terry Rea, manager of the Biograph Theatre in Richmond, was charged in June with obstructing a city sidewalk when he posted handbills on utility poles in the Fan District.

Rea’s attorneys, eliciting testimony on mass media and art from several professors at Virginia Commonwealth University, argued yesterday that the city law limited their client’s freedom of speech.

However, Richmond General District Judge Jose R. Davila, Jr., said the issue came down to whether the posters obstructed the public way, and he ruled that the commonwealth’s attorney’s office failed to prove they did.

Davila dismissed the charge against the manager of the theater but stopped short of finding the city law unconstitutional, which also had been requested by Rea’s attorney’s.

The city now must decide whether to find a better legal argument to defend the city law or to revise it, officials said. The law is used by the police to combat excessive advertising in the public way, which is defined as any place open to the public, such as a street or sidewalk.

“The poles were perfectly clean this morning,” Capt. Robert T. Millikin, Jr., said about the possible impact of the decision. “Between you and me, I don’t know what they’ll [sic] going to look like between now and tonight.”

For the last year, Fan District residents have complained to police about the unsightliness caused by posters on trees and utility poles, Millikin said... 

Rea said he always has relied on handbills as an inexpensive but effective way to advertise movies at the theater, which specializes in the showing of avant-garde movies...

...David M. White, a former VCU professor of mass communication and author of 20 books on the media, said handbills are a unique form of communication. The theater could advertise in newspapers but the cost was prohibitive, he said.

Jerry Donato, an associate VCU professor of fine arts, said that posters in the Fan District contained both art and messages. “The Atomic Cafe” posters, which contained the slogan, “A hot spot in a Cold War,” criticized the use of nuclear power, he said...

...Before the trial, Rea had argued, “The handbill posted in the public way is a unique and vital form of communication. Production and distribution is direct, swift and cheap.”

That message was printed on a handbill.

*

Three years later, Richmond once again passed new laws forbidding unauthorized fliers on utility poles. Another crackdown ensued.

This time it spawned a reaction from several of the Fan District’s handbill artists, musicians and promoters -- activists who called themselves the Fan Handbill Association.

Eventually, this political issue prompted me to design a two-page, twice-a-week "magazine," SLANT, which was made to be stapled to utility poles. There were cartoons, blurbs/brief articles and ads. And, I wrote about the handbill controversy. 

But that’s another story for another day.

-- 30 --

 

The New Wave

The New Wave: Post No. 1 by F.T. Rea

For lack of another name, I'm going to say the working title style name for the political movement I'm now envisioning the need for is the New Wave. Eventually, someone will probably think of a better name. 

In the meantime, paying an oblique tribute to what was a genuinely cool era in French cinema history works for me. And, in America's trashy culture, with cruelty thick in the air we breathe, couldn't we use a new wave? A fresh approach?  

 
Moreover, doesn't it also seem unlikely that the solutions for this nation's most vexing political problems are now incubating within the ranks of either of the USA's major political parties?

So, to start with, I'm saying that any new party, organization, or movement, would surely be better off navigating without having to lug around any of the two-party system's heavy baggage. After all, the MAGA Party's predecessor, the establishment Republican Party, hasn't had a fresh idea in decades. At the same time, the Democrats -- regardless of their good intentions -- frequently have a hard time getting out of their own way.

However, please note: Democratic Party candidates should absolutely still get our votes, since they are nowhere near as dangerous as the wretched MAGA Party. Which means there should be ample room under the New Wave's big tent for anybody who is anti-Trump. Anybody!

Furthermore, New Wavers should recognize that in today's murky political milieu the plain truth stands out. So, both searching for the truth and telling the truth are essential. Which means New Wavers should consistently strive mightily to consistently believe in the reality they perceive before them with their own senses. 

Moreover, one of the particularly awful things the MAGA Party (previously known as the Republican Party) has done recently is to cook up heaps of bullshit propaganda designed to make ordinary good citizens stop believing in what their own eyes and ears tell them.  

Thus, when everyone knows the prices in grocery stores, coast-to-coast, have been steadily going up, Trump scowls into camera lens and coughs up another greasy batch of lies: The wannabe king declares that prices are actually going down. Claims people are telling him, "Sir, food prices are dropping like never before! Like no other time in grocery store history."

With regard to how its messaging, and communications should proceed, the New Wave needs to be nimble and savvy. Consequently, here's the New Wave's first message: We welcome all who are ready to hop on the anti-Trump bandwagon. All.  

Post No. 2 is coming soon. Stay tuned...

-- 30 --

Carlos the Crab-folder/Monologist

In April of 2001 Carlos Runcie Tanaka, a Peruvian sculptor, happened to be in Richmond’s Fan District for a few days. In case you don't already know it, Tanaka was/is a star in the international art world. Let me tell you, after watching the sculptor fold and crease pieces of paper in a local bar, I’ve got two words of advice for Tanaka -- "show business." 

Yes, I thought, and still think, he should combine the origami with his considerable talent for yarn-spinning and develop a routine to perform for an audience. Read on. 

*

Like so many tales, this one began with Happy Hour: The Baja Bean was a Fan District watering hole. It was located in the basement of what was originally a schoolhouse that looks like a stone and brick fortress. A typical crowd of mid-week regulars was assembled. 

There were some 20 of them situated around the three-sided, horseshoe-shaped bar. The group was maybe equal parts white collar, blue color and no collar. When then-chairman of Virginia Commonwealth University’s sculpture department (the late) Joe Seipel came in the room, with Carlos Tanaka at his side, twinkly-eyed Joe was smiling more broadly than usual. 

Seipel, who enjoyed telling a good story, also loved to present a cool visiting artist to his pals at Happy Hour. It was sort of a tradition left over from the Texas-Wisconsin Border Café (1982-99) -- a nearby eatery/saloon which Seipel once co-owned. Joe (who went on to become Dean of VCUarts) introduced Carlos to those of us in the room who hadn’t already met him. 

In his career Tanaka has done much traveling, owing to his acclaim as an artist. At an art confab somewhere in South America he had met and gotten to know Seipel, plus a couple of other members of the art faculty at VCU’s world renown fine arts school. Then they arranged for Carlos to come to VCU as a visiting artist/scholar. That’s how a Peruvian artist ends up in The Bean at beer-thirty.

Note: One of Tanaka’s grandfathers was British and the other was Japanese. Both men married Peruvian women. In 1996 Carlos was among the hostages taken by the Tupac Amaru in a bizarre incident in Lima, Peru, at the Japanese ambassador’s home. Nonetheless, his horrific experience as the hostage of hell-bent terrorists for 50 days apparently had done little to diminish Tanaka's sense of humor.

Eventually, someone in the bar asked him about the crab-folding thing. Bingo! Someone else promptly supplied Carlos with a blank sheet of paper. 

For the next 20 minutes the crab-folder told stories, made observations, ad-libbed and entertained everyone on hand. Nothing else was happening in the room for that spell. The product of the process was an intricate paper crab made from a single, ordinary piece of white bond paper.

Looking at the crab was fun; it almost seemed cute. For a crab. 

But watching the artist fold the paper, over and over -- each fold exactly where it had to be -- as he served up his colorful patter, was a rare treat. Then, to the utter delight of the guy who had supplied him with the sheet of paper, the crab-folder/monologist gave it to him.

Applause!

Of course, someone else had to have one, too. Then another. 

In that happy hour session Carlos folded four or five paper crabs. He never ran out of offbeat stories about drinking, playing practical jokes, making art, fools in high places, and so forth. 

Note: The upbeat Carlos Tanaka never mentioned the dark time in which he was a hostage. I found out about that later.

The next time I saw Carlos in The Bean, a couple of days later, he gave me a paper crab as a souvenir (as shown above). Soon afterward he went back to Peru. As he’d been away from his studio for months, traveling and lecturing, he said he was glad to be going home. I haven’t seen him since, but we've kept in touch, via the Internet.

Occasionally, I have seen his name associated with a big art happening in South America, the USA or Europe. Nonetheless, whenever Carlos is ready to take a break from the sculpture gig, I still say a lucrative career in show biz as a crab-folding monologist awaits.

*

OK, I’ve probably already spent way too many of my personal allotment of hours in bars. So while it’s easy to say many of those hours were wasted, every now and then something genuinely unusual has happened, out of the blue, that has prompted me to say -- “I’m glad I was there.”

If nothing else, such times have provided fodder for a story to tell at a subsequent Happy Hour. Like our ancestors who also gathered in pubs, we listen to stories and sometimes we learn something worthwhile. All so we can recount the worthiest of those stories about what seemed remarkable, or funny, or at least somewhat unusual. 

So, I've done my duty by telling this story. If you like, pass it on. 

Note: To see a gallery of Carlos Tanaka's work click here.

-- 30 --

The Head on a Pole Solution

Note: The first version of this piece was written several years ago. That was well before a certain bully began his first campaign to become president. So, this whimsical piece was not and is still not about one particular American plutocrat. 

*

OK, if I could show you, in just a couple of minutes, how to solve a good many of the most vexing problems society faces today -- without it costing the taxpayers a nickel -- wouldn't you be interested in hearing more about it?

Of course you would. Read on.

This solution calls for one public execution a year. Its purpose would be to fund cures for diseases, to fund free educations for everyone, to even prevent wars, all the while also erasing America's daunting debt problem. To accomplish all that just one person would be put to death by the federal government each year. Although I'm ordinarily opposed to capital punishment, this plan is different from anything that we've seen before. 

Here's how this exception would work: First, we would make a list of all the American billionaires (This would have to include those living in and doing business in the USA). Each of their names would be put on a ballot. 

Each American citizen, 18-or-older, would get to vote -- free of charge -- for the person they see as the absolute worst citizen-billionaire in the USA. The ballots and ballot boxes would be put in convenience stores all over the country. 

The same ballots would be available online, as would virtual ballot boxes. Maybe we should make available to citizens 16-or-older. All year long, we the people, would all be eligible to vote once a month -- 12 votes per year. 

The billionaire who gets the most votes for being the most despised billionaire of the lot would be arrested wherever he or she is hiding by the head on a pole SWAT team. Upon the last second of December 31st, America's billionaire loser of that year would be executed by guillotine, somewhat as pictured above.

Chop!

Naturally, America's cities would bid on the right to stage the execution, sort of like the Olympics. The mammoth Annual Payback Party that would surround the event would mean big budget commercials would run in the live telecasts of the whole shebang -- cha-ching! Most of that money would go directly into the Social Security trust fund. Thus, the monthly payments to retirees could be increased.

The rest of the money generated by the event could go into a special fund to buy a six-pack of beer for the holiday season -- via downloadable coupon -- for everyone who participated in the voting process in December. As the blade falls, at midnight, millions of those free beers could be opened simultaneously to celebrate our ability to solve problems using democracy. Afterward, the billionaire's head will be put on top of a tall brass pole -- the People's Payback Pole -- for all to see, where it would stay for one year. 

Then, for the next new year the next billionaire's severed head would go up in a different city. Out of respect for the old head, it would be turned over to the billionaire's family, once its required year on the pole is done. 

Meanwhile, the rest of the American billionaires would feel more than a little inspired to solve their own dilemma. Accordingly, they would have a couple of easy-to-understand choices to prevent their own head from being picked to be on display next.

• Turn enough money over to the federal government or legit non-profits, to simply escape the list of eligible billionaires. The money given to the government could go toward building a fast-train national railway system.

• If they choose to remain a billionaire, then they need to use their money to do lots of good works to curry favor with voters. 

So, if you are a billionaire, let’s say you’ve got a cool $50 billion. Then you could choose to give away $49.1 billion to get off the hook. Or, you could take a chance on targeting a few billion to curing cancer. Or, you could throw money at feeding orphans, or on bringing peace to the Mideast. Maybe you’d pick all the musicians in a state and pay their rent for one whole year.

Smart billionaires would naturally buy lots of ads in magazines and newspapers, to tout what good deeds they’re doing, in order to increase their chances of keeping their own heads attached to their respective bodies. So, this deal could save our favorite inky wretches from extinction, too.

Accordingly, crime rates would plunge. The research for new green-friendly technologies would be fully funded. Better recreational drugs with no hangovers ought to be developed. Every kid who wants a new puppy would get one. And, last but not least, publishers would have plenty of money to pay freelance writers and artists decent fees for their work.

To sum up: Each old year would end with the execution of just one person selected fairly as the most deserving of a final chop. So, each new year would start out with a visible symbol atop that People's Payback Pole, showing everyone -- including billionaires -- why we should all strive to be good to one another. 

-- 30 --

Drake the Flake

On Nov. 8, 1992, the revenge-driven crime spree ended when the man I remembered as Drake the Flake blew out his brains with a .32 caliber revolver. In the 11 hours before taking his own life Lynwood C. "Woody" Drake III had shot and killed six people, wounded a seventh and beaten his former landlady with a blackjack.

It had been over 20 years since I last saw him in 1972. It was in the lobby of the movie theater I then managed, the Biograph Theatre. Still, when I saw the AP photo of him in the Richmond Times-Dispatch 33 years ago (in 1992), Drake was instantly recognizable.
 
More about Woody Drake later, but it should come as no surprise to most film buffs that sometimes there is a dark side to the business of doing business after the sun goes down. Some regulars saw the Biograph (1972-87) as a movie-themed clubhouse. Then again, movie theaters attract all sorts of people who are pretty much hiding from reality. 

*

Although nearly everyone who worked at the Biograph during my almost-12-year-stint as its manager was on the up-and-up, there were a couple of rotten apples. As I hired both of them, I have to take the blame there. But those are stories for another time. 

Some of my favorite people worked at that cinema in those days, but mostly at night. Then there were the customers. Plenty of them were fine, but this piece isn't about them. It's about troubled times. 

One man died in the Biograph. His last minutes among the living were spent watching "FIST" (1978), starring Sylvester Stallone. The man died in an aisle seat in the small auditorium -- Theatre No. 2.

Yes, the movie was bad, but was it really THAT bad?

At the time I was 30 years old. The dead man was about my age. His eyes were open. As the rescue squad guys shot jolts of electricity into his heart, his body flopped around on the floor like a fish out of water. Meanwhile, down in Theater No. 1 "The Rocky Horror Picture Show" was on the screen delighting its usual crowd of costumed screwballs. The juxtaposition of the two contrasting scenes was surreal.

There was the night someone fired five shots of high-powered ammo through one of the back door exits into Theatre No. 1. Five bullets came through the door's two quarter-inch steel plates to splinter seats. This all happened just as the crowd was exiting the auditorium, at about 11:30 p.m. 

No one was hit and it seemed no one even caught on to what was happening. Later the police were baffled, leaving us to speculate as to why it happened.

Another night, a rat died in the Coca-Cola drain and clogged it up. Not knowing about the rat, and thinking I knew what to do to clear the clogged drain, I poured a powerful drain-clearing liquid -- we called it "Tampax Dynamite" -- directly into the problem.

Soon a foul-smelling liquid started bubbling and backing up all over the lobby's carpet. A flooding mess ensued. The disaster ran everybody out of there on a busy Saturday night. We had to replace the carpet. Oops.

*

Back to Drake: The 1992 news stories reported that Drake, who fancied himself as an actor, had compiled a long list of people he intended to pay back, someday. Drake wore theatrical grease paint on his face when he committed his murders. As the cops were closing in on him Drake punched his own ticket to hell.

From what I found out, Drake's childhood was straight out of a horror movie. Apparently he was always a problem to those around him. The photo above -- it was a publicity shot he used to apply for work as an actor -- ran in the Richmond Times-Dispatch on November 16, 1992. What follows are excerpts of a piece I wrote for SLANT a couple of weeks later.

...The November 16th edition of the Richmond Times-Dispatch carried Mark Holmberg's sad and sensational story of Woody Drake. As usual, Holmberg did a good job with a bizarre subject. In case you missed the news: 

Lynwood Drake, who grew up in Richmond, murdered six people in California on November 8. Then he turned the gun on himself. His tortured suicide note cited revenge as the motive.

An especially troubling aspect of Holmberg's account was that those Richmonders who remembered the 43 year old Drake weren't at all surprised at the startling news. Nor was I. My memory of the man goes back to the early days of the Biograph Theatre (1972). At the time I managed the West Grace Street cinema. So the unpleasant task of dealing with Drake fell to me.

Owing to his talent for nuisance, the staff dubbed him 'Drake the Flake.' Although he resembled many of the hippie-style hustlers of the times, it was his ineptness at putting over the scam that set him apart. Every time he darkened our door there was trouble. If he didn't try to beat us out of the price of admission or popcorn, there would be a problem in the auditorium. And without fail, his ruse would be transparent. Then, when confronted, he'd go into a fit of denial that implied a threat.

Eventually that led to the incident in Shafer Court (on VCU's campus) when he choked a female student [Susan Kuney] who worked at the Biograph. That evening he showed up at the theater to see the movie, just like nothing had happened. Shoving his way past those already in line, the cashier-choker demanded to be admitted next. I told him he couldn't come in at all. 

An argument ensued that became the last straw. Drake the Flake was physically removed from the building, tossed onto Grace Street, and banned from the Biograph.

The next day, Drake made his final appearance at the Biograph. He bolted in through the lobby's exit doors and issued a finger-pointing death threat to yours truly.

Although I tried to act unruffled by the incident, it made me more than a little uncomfortable. In spite of the anger of his words, there was an emptiness in his eyes. In that moment he had pulled me into his world. It was scary and memorable.

Using a fine turn of phrase, Holmberg suggested that, "Whatever poisoned the heart of Woody Drake happened in Richmond..."

If you want more evidence of the childhood poisoning, take the time to look him up in his high school yearbooks (Thomas Jefferson 1967/68). I did, and right away I noticed that same empty expression in his eyes.

Looking at a couple of Drake’s old TJ yearbook photos reminded me of a line in the movie 'Silence of the Lambs.' In reference to the serial-killer who was being sought by the FBI throughout the film, Dr. Lechter (a psychiatrist turned murderer himself) tells an investigator that such a man is not born; he is created.

A process made Drake like he was. So while we can avert our eyes from the painful truth, we basically know where the poison is administered to the Woody Drakes of the world.

Yes, we do. The assembly line for such monsters runs through their childhood homes. 

The story went that Drake liked to beat up women. After I literally threw him out of the Biograph and he disappeared, 53 years ago, several people came in and told us stories about various females the future serial killer had hurt.

Shortly before Drake ended his wretched life, he woke up a 60-year-old woman by smacking her in the head with a blackjack. She scrambled to hide under her bed, and she lived to tell the story.

-- 30 --

Kass 333

 By F.T. Rea

Note: In 2010 I wrote this piece for the James River Film Journal. Since then every time I think of this story, it makes me smile. It's a story I enjoy telling. 

Alan Rubin (one of the Biograph Theatre's owners) 

and Carole Kass in the lobby at the second
anniversary party (Feb. 11, 1974).
Photo by Gary Fisher.

Today I thought of Carole Kass, longtime movie critic at the Richmond Times-Dispatch. At the age of 73 Carole died in 2000.  

During my nearly-12-year stint as the manager of the Biograph Theatre (1972-83) I spoke with Carole nearly every week, often more than once. Usually it was on the phone. She also came to the theater regularly to review first-run pictures. She came to see movies she liked on her own time. Plus, she was there for various social occasions and for a publicity stunt, or two. In the process, over the years, we learned to trust one another.

The genuine enthusiasm and warmth Carole brought to her work as a film critic/entertainment columnist was uncommon. Those same traits were evidenced in other things she touched. 

 

Whether she was helping out a little independent movie theater with ink, or teaching cinema history to undergraduates at Virginia Commonwealth University, or volunteering to teach film production to inmates at the Virginia State Penitentiary, Carole always cared ... and it showed. Carole understood the special power that motion pictures have to lift people from the grips of their vexations and depressions, if only for a few sweet moments.

My last show-biz encounter with Carole took place in 1998, when she was part of the Jewish Community Center’s presentation of a live Joan Rivers show at the then-Carpenter Center. My job, as a freelance videographer, was to record the performance for the sponsors using two cameras; one for closeups and the other for a static wide shot.

Rivers’ topic was surviving tragedy. In spite of the heavy subject she was quite funny. After her prepared remarks, Joan answered written questions submitted by the audience, then asked of her onstage by Carole. They were comfortable with one another, so their impromptu performance as a team was nearly as good as what had gone before.

At that time, it was public knowledge that Carole was battling cancer. She joked with me that night about fretting over whether she would live long enough to do the show for the JCC. A few days after that performance I went out to her home in the West End for a visit. I wanted to shoot some stills of old pictures of her to insert into the finished video, to play over the sound of her introduction in the show. I was also searching for a way to tell her how much she had always meant to the Biograph’s survival and, in general, to the film-loving community in Richmond.

Typically, Carole was her modest self. In her view, she had only been a background artist, helping out. Then there had been her forced retirement from Media General a few years before, which had never set well with her.

A week or so later, I delivered a video tape to her at her home. It included Rivers’ talk to the audience and what followed. At the end of the tape there was a tribute to Carole that I had staged, shot and edited without her knowledge. While I was there, we chatted briefly, but I didn’t let on about the surprise.

Here’s what Carole didn’t know as she watched the tape: The R-TD’s then-executive editor, Bill Millsaps, had helped me out by asking all the writers to come outside for about 20 minutes to be the performers in a tribute to Carole. Others from Richmond's film buff community, including former staff members at the Biograph, were also asked to be on hand to be in the main scene.

At the shoot the cast was directed to walk around aimlessly for a while, then stand applauding in front of 333 W. Grace St., an entrance to the newspaper’s building that no longer exists. I had help shooting the scene from Jerry Williams and Ted Salins. They operated two of three cameras I used.

Later I edited the footage from the three tapes into a short piece, using music from the movie “8½” for sound; the imagery also imitated scenes in the movie, somewhat. That particular Fellini flick was one of her favorites. In the time that had passed no one had told Carole a word about it; it had been beautiful teamwork.

When she saw the tribute footage, watching it with pain as her only companion, Carole couldn’t fathom that all those people had actually been assembled, just to give her a standing ovation. When she called, she told me she had assumed I found the footage, somewhere, and spliced it onto end of the tape. 

Where had I found it? she asked.

With a measure of satisfaction I chuckled and informed her how the scene was actually set up. Well, she simply didn’t buy it!

Carole thanked me warmly, but added a gentle, facetious scolding for my trying to fool her about the mysterious last scene, shot in front of the old entrance to 333. She reminded me of my reputation as a trickster.

Later Carole telephoned then-television critic Douglas Durden, only to hear from her old friend (they sat at desks next to one another for years) that it all had been just as I said.

After talking with others at the newspaper, to gather the whole story Carole called me back to laugh, to cry and to apologize for not believing me. She went on to say that what had started out as a rather “bad day” for her — coping with the indignities of her medical situation — had been changed into a “good day.”

As my mother died of cancer in 1984, I could grasp what Carole might have meant by “good days” and “bad days.” Carole thanked me for that good day. I told her I’d had a lot of help.

It began with an idea for a gesture to lift an old friend’s spirits and let her know how much her colleagues and the rest of us appreciated her. The finished product, with Carole’s double-take reaction actually turned out better than I had envisioned. 

Which is somewhat unusual for one of my stunts. Back in the summer of 1998, I also gave a print of the tape to Saps, to say, “Thanks.” Naturally, the JCC got a tape. No one else has seen it, as far as I know.

And, dear reader, a good day is wished to you and yours.

 

Note: What is shown in the YouTube video above is just the 90-minute tape’s last two minutes and 39 seconds. Unfortunately, owing to the half-ass transfer process used the look of it is rough, but hopefully better than nothing.

Thinking About Wes Freed's Mirthful Art

by F.T. Rea

Note #1: What follows this note is a portion of a work-in-progress about Wes Freed's art that I am penning. Hopefully, this preview of that article will stimulate more interest in Wes' fine art. Once I am done with crafting the piece, we'll see where it lands. Here goes... 

*

Artist/musician, Wes Freed (1964-2022), grew up on a family farm in Virginia's Shenandoah Valley, near Staunton. At Virginia Commonwealth University (in Richmond) he became a trained artist. Major: Painting and Printmaking. Minor: Sculpture. 

Freed's art consistently displays a natural confidence, particularly so with design. Which, in this instance means the eye-pleasing, harmonious arrangement of the elements in play. As for what his art is about, the images he created tended to radiate a sense of delight. It's easy to pick up the feeling that the artist enjoyed making the stuff. 

Moreover, Wes was an original, he wasn't copying anybody's style. Which is part of why his rock 'n' roll posters and other sundries have been sought after and collected by his fans and friends for a good many years.

 
Speaking of the collectible angle, Wes' art certainly has the necessary ingredients to be in demand. The foremost of which is that it's quite distinctive. On top of that, those whimsical Wes Freed-designed posters are authentic artifacts of an era's cool nightlife scene. That goes for the countless posters he designed to promote staged events. The album covers. The celebrations of particular show biz luminaries he regarded as "inspirations." And, in support of worthy causes that he cared about.

*

"The Art of Wes Freed" is the title of Freed's 2019 coffee table book. Throughout it he presents his story in pictures and words. The playful subtitle of the 160-page book displaying a trove of Freed's mirthful art is, "Paintings, Posters, Pin-ups & Possums." 

Stemming from recent sales of that book, as well as some prints and original pieces, it seems the value of his art is solidifying in the merch-collecting world. The fact that Freed's art has already been seen all over the USA for many years, due to his series of posters, album covers, etc. -- in particular, for the Drive-By Truckers -- gives it an advantage in the collectibles marketplace. So, best not throw away any of those old Capital City Barn Dance or Willard's Garage posters you've kept over the years. Some day, selling off a genuine piece of Freed art might pay the month's rent. 

The foreword of Freed's generously illustrated book was written by Patterson Hood (songwriter, performer and co-founder of Drive-By Truckers). Then, in the first chapter Wes tells of how he met and befriended Hood and the other members of the band (now celebrating its 40th anniversary). Lots of pieces of the art Freed created to promote DBT's shows and merchandise are displayed. Other chapters carry page after page of various other show posters, pin-ups and such.

Just for the record, Wes was truly an unapologetic possum fan. 

To be continued...

Note #2: The Wes Freed Memorial Scholarship.

Note #3: All rights concerning the words and art above are reserved.

-- 30 --

The Cheaters

Frank W. Owen is on the right.

When it came to sports and games, in general, my grandfather, Frank W. Owen, had zero tolerance for cheating. Period. He envisioned a clear code of honor for pursuits s such as baseball or poker. Not only must you never cheat, you had to always give the ballgame being played your best effort until it's over. 

Thus, good sportsmanship was essential. When it came to the real world, of course he knew the ready supply of cheaters, chiselers and weasels was inexhaustible. Nonetheless, the way he saw it, we can choose for ourselves to make the our games a better place than everyday life, fair-play-wise. 

The way I recollect him, my grandfather depended completely on his own view of reality. He didn't need for anybody to tell him what was what. If he had any doubts he hid them well. 

Speaking of my resolute grandfather, in 1916 the Richmond Light Infantry Blues were dispatched to Brownsville, Texas, to chase Mexican bandit/revolutionary Pancho Villa, who had crossed the border to stage a few raids on American soil ... or, so people said. To do the job the Richmond Blues were converted into a cavalry unit. My grandfather, seen at the age of 23 in the 1916 photo, was a member of that legendary outfit.

Following that campaign on the border, in 1917 the Blues were sent to Fort McClellan in the Alabama foothills for additional training. Then it was across the pond to France to help finish off the Great War -- the war that supposedly would end all wars.

The yarns I remember him recounting from his years in uniform were about singing gigs, playing football and poker, and various colorful adventures away from the battlefield. He apparently saw no benefit in talking about the actual horrors he'd seen. At least I never heard such stories. 

 

The piece below about my grandfather was published in Style Weekly in 1999. 

 

The Cheaters

by F.T. Rea 

Having devoted countless hours to sports and competitive games of all sorts, nothing in that realm is quite as galling to this grizzled scribbler as the cheater’s averted eye of denial, or the practiced tones of his shameless spiel.

In the middle of a pick-up basketball game, or a friendly Frisbee-golf round, too often, my barbed outspokenness aimed at what I have perceived as deliberate cheating has ruffled feathers. The words simply won't stay in my mouth, which means I can't resist noticing and citing a cheater in action any more than a watchful blue jay can resist attacking an alley cat.

The reader might wonder about whether I'm overcompensating for dishonest aspects of myself, or if I could be dwelling on memories of feeling cheated out of something dear.

OK, fair enough, I don't deny any of that. Still, truth be told, to this day I believe a lot of it goes back to one particular afternoon's mischief, gone wrong.

A blue-collar architect with the Chesapeake & Ohio Railway for decades, my maternal grandfather, Frank Wingo Owen, was a natural entertainer. He was comfortable in the role of being an emcee. Blessed with a resonant baritone/bass voice, he began singing professionally in his teens and continued performing, as a soloist and with barbershop quartets, etc., into his mid-60s.  

Shortly after his retirement, at 65, the lifelong grip on good health he had enjoyed failed him. An infection he picked up during a routine hernia surgery at a VA hospital nearly killed him. It left him with no sense of touch in his extremities.

Once he got some of his strength back, he found comfort in returning to his role as umpire /referee of the ball games played in his yard by the neighborhood's boys. He couldn't stand up behind home plate, anymore, but he did alright sitting in the shade of the plum tree, some 25 feet away.

During the summer of 1959 he taught me, along with a few of my friends, the fundamentals of poker. To learn the game we didn’t play for real money. Instead, each player got so many poker chips. If his chips ran out, he became a spectator.

The poker professor told us he’d never let us beat him, claiming he owed it to the game to try to win, if he could, which he always did. Woven throughout his lessons on betting strategy were colorful stories about poker hands and football games from his cavalry days, serving with the Richmond Blues during World War I.

As likely as not, the stories he told would end up underlining points he saw as standards: He challenged us to expose the true coward at the heart of every bully. "Punch him in the nose," he'd chuckle, "and even if you get whipped he'll never bother you again." In team sports, the success of the team trumped all else. Moreover, withholding one’s best effort, no matter the score, was beyond the pale.

Such lazy afternoons came and went so easily that summer there was no way then, at 11, I could have appreciated how precious they would seem looking back on them. 

On the other hand, there were occasions he would make it tough on me. Especially when he spotted a boy breaking the yard's rules or playing dirty. It was more than a little embarrassing when he would wave his cane and bellow his rulings. For flagrant violations, or protesting one of his umpire calls too much, he barred the guilty boy from the yard for a day or two. 

F.W. Owen’s hard-edged opinions about fair play, and looking directly in the eye at whatever comes along, were not particularly modern. Nor were they always easy for know-it-all adolescent boys to swallow. Eventually, the day came when a plot was hatched. 

We plotters decided to see if artful subterfuge could beat him at poker just once. The conspirators practiced in secret for hours, passing cards under the table with bare feet and developing signals to ask for particular cards. 

Within the group, it was accepted that we wouldn't get away with it for long. Nonetheless, to pull it off for a few hands would be pure fun.

Following a Wiffle Ball game the customary post-game watermelon was consumed. While the table was being cleaned up I fetched the cards and poker chips. Then the four card sharks moved in to put the caper in play. 

Later, as he told the boys' favorite story -- the one about a Spanish women who bit him on the arm at a train station in France -- one-eyed jacks tucked between dirty toes were being passed under the table. To our amazement, the plan went off smoothly. After hands of what we saw as sly tricks we went to blatant, expecting to get caught. Needing to get caught so we could laugh and gloat over having tricked the great master.  

Then, gradually, the joy began to drain out of the adventure. Thus, with semi-secret gestures I called the ruse off. A couple of hands were played with no shenanigans. But my grandfather ran out of chips, anyway.

Head bowed, he sighed, “Today it looks like I can’t win. You boys are just too good for me.”

Utterly dependent on his cane for balance he slowly walked into the shadows toward the back porch. It was agonizing. The game was over; we were no longer pranksters. We were cheaters.

As he carefully negotiated the wooden steps, my last chance to save the day came and went without a syllable out of me to set the record straight. Although it was hard to believe that he hadn’t seen what we were doing, my guilt burned so deeply I didn't wonder enough about that thought, then.

Well, my grandfather didn’t play poker with us again. He went on umpiring, and telling his salty stories afterwards over watermelon feasts. We tried playing poker the same way without him, but it just didn’t work; the value the chips had magically represented was gone. 

Summer was ending and the boys had outgrown poker without real money on the line. Although I thought about that afternoon's shame many times before my grandfather died nine years later. For my part, when I tried to bring it up the words always stuck in my throat. I don't think either of us ever mentioned it.

Then as the years passed I grew to become as intolerant of petty cheating as F.W. Owen was in his day, maybe even more so. And, as it was for him, the blue jay has always been my favorite bird.

-- 30 --

Guns, guns, guns.

In 1985, after speaking to City Council about why all handgun sales should be recorded, and a few other sensible measures to do with firearms, I walked up the aisle with a better understanding of just why so many politicians are afraid to speak out against unfettered access to firepower.

The room was chock-full of gun nuts!

Suddenly it was apparent to me that speaking out publicly on that topic could actually get you shot by any one of those jokers, especially one of them wearing a bumper sticker.

A year or so later, I ran into Willie Dell at the 3rd St. Diner. We had become friends during the 1984 City Council campaign (both of us lost). She sat at a table with me, to chat and to help me hand-fold a fresh batch of SLANTs. When I told her about my discovery as the photo above was taken, she laughed knowingly at what had been my naiveté about gun nuts.

Her laugh said, "Of course!"

Photo by Richmond Times-Dispatch.

The walk ... ahh

.

Although Susan was certainly an attractive woman, she wasn't exactly the sort of striking brunette likely to grace the cover of a glossy fashion magazine. On the other hand, when she walked across an area, eyes tended to follow her.

Put simply, Susan had a great walk. Her gait wasn't particularly fast or slow, it didn't seem affected. Her slender limbs were long. Her wrists were loose. The sway of her hips was natural, not exaggerated. Her steps had a rather light-on-her-feet confidence, like a trained dancer. 

In a word, Susan "glided." She was a part-time cashier at the Biograph Theatre (in Richmond) for some five months during that repertory cinema's first year of operation (1972). She was a full-time VCU student. 

Although I can't recall anything unusual happening to mark the occasion, for some reason I clearly remember a brief scene in which I noticed that everyone -- maybe 10 people -- standing in the lobby seemed totally enthralled, watching her walk across the room. It felt like living in a movie. 

In those days I tended to collect such scenes for my imaginary movie. When something caught my eye I would commit it to memory, so I could one day put a scene fashioned after it in a film that I would make. While the movie was never made, some of those saved precious memories still linger.

In a lot of moving pictures that have a people watching an attractive woman walking scene, it's all about her projected sex appeal. Frequently it's played as campy. Think Fellini. Which is not at all like the scene I'm remembering in the Biograph's lobby. In my scene the woman is smooth and aloof. 

Think “The Girl From Ipanema” … ahh.