by F.T. Rea
Intro:That particular campy send-up of old science fiction and monster flicks is by far the most significant midnight show attraction of all-time. As such, it needs its own chapter in any proper chronicle of the times at the Biograph Theatre in Richmond, Virginia – a repertory cinema I managed from its early-1972 opening until my departure in mid-1983.
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| This photo of Larry Rohr riding up the aisle, during a midnight screening of the "The Rocky Horror Picture Show," was shot on Mar. 1, 1980. |
"The
Rocky Horror Picture Show" (1975) was adapted from the British
kitsch-celebrating, gender-bending stage musical, “The Rocky Horror
Show.”
The play, written in the early-1970s, opened in London in 1973. Its thin plot cashed in on that time's freedom
to pursue pleasure, expressed by the hippies' popular trope
– “if it feels good, do it.” Two years later the film adaptation was released.
Yet, to Fox's distribution department in 1975, the
movie was just weird. It was weird in a way that made it too difficult to pigeonhole,
marketing-wise. That factor couldn't have helped in the promotion of its
first-run engagements, which were disappointing. Its weakness at the box office eventually prompted Fox to give up and put it on the shelf.
At Midnight Only
While “Rocky Horror,” the
film, became popular in the USA during what might now be seen as the punk era, it
wasn't really all that connected to the aesthetic of punk's defiant nonchalance.
Style-wise, its music, written by the play's author, Richard O'Brien,
was sort of a bubble-gum knockoff of 1950s rock 'n' roll, fused with a
measure of 1970s glam rock.
Overall, as pop music goes, the songs probably didn't
expand any boundaries. Nonetheless, in the context of the movie the
music had it own charm.
As a movie musical, "Rocky Horror" was surely no worse than a good deal
of the Hollywood musicals of the 1950s and '60s.
Anyway, it didn't
please the critics all that much, either. So when Fox took it out of release,
no one could have
anticipated the one-of-a-kind cult following it would eventually gather
as a midnight show. No one saw its unique cult film status coming.
Note: “The Rocky Horror Picture
Show”: 100 minutes. Color. Directed by Jim Sharman (who had also
directed the play). Cast: Tim Curry (as Dr. Frank-N-Furter), Susan
Sarandon (as Janet), Barry Bostwick (as Brad), Richard O'Brien (as Riff
Raff), Patricia Quinn (as Magenta), Nell Campbell (as Columbia), Meat
Loaf (as Eddie), Peter Hinwood (as Rocky).
A little over a year later, the second life for “Rocky Horror” is
said to have begun at the legendary Waverly Theater (now the IFC Center)
in Greenwich Village. At midnight screenings, a few audience members
with the nerve to do it, began calling out sarcastic comeback lines to the film's action and
dialogue. The funniest remarks were appreciated,
imitated, then eventually topped by an attendee at a subsequent
screening.
Thus, the audience reaction that became a thing, wasn't originally some adman's brainchild. It just
happened.
It should also be noted that midnight shows
had been popular in New York City since the late-'60s. As well, they had
been running at selected hip cinemas in other cities and some college towns for a
good five years or more. Basically, if a midnight screening went well,
it would be held over to the next weekend, which was a departure from
calendar house programming. So the midnight show format had already been
developed when “Rocky Horror” came along.
In the
Richmond Biograph's first couple of years of operation midnight show
screenings frequently helped keep the lights on. Some of the midnight
show features that were popular enough to run for multiple weekends then
were: “Performance” (1970); “Reefer Madness” (1936); “Deep Throat”
(1972) w/ “The Andalusian Dog” (1929); “Night of the Living Dead”
(1968); “El Topo” (1970); “Putney Swope” (1969); “Magical Mystery Tour”
(1967). Routinely, they were promoted using handbills (small posters) and radio
spots that ran on WGOE-AM.
During 1977 at the Waverly the role
the audience played in the midnight shows enlarged to make the
screenings into events with costumes and choreography, as the
traditional wall between the screen and the viewers continued
dissolving. When that unprecedented interaction phenomenon jumped from Manhattan to other markets where “Rocky Horror” was
playing as a midnight show, such as Austin and Los Angeles, it became even more puzzling.
By the winter of
1977/78 “Rocky Horror” was playing to enthusiastic crowds in several
cities. Yet, curiously, it had not caught on at others. What would
eventually become a popular culture marvel was still flying below the
radar for most of America.
As the spring of '78
approached, Alan Rubin, one of my two bosses at the Biograph in
Georgetown, asked Fox once again about booking it for Richmond's
Biograph. It was already playing at the rival Key Theatre in Georgetown,
because Rubin's ex-partner, David Levy, had beaten him to the punch.
Alan was told there still weren't any prints available.
Then,
during a trip to Los Angles in May, I heard about the elaborate
goings-on at the Tiffany Theatre to do with “Rocky Horror.” Upon my
return to Richmond I told Alan and his partner, Lenny Poryles, what I'd
learned about its growing popularity in LA. Subsequently, during a
conference call with one of the guys at Fox, Alan, Lenny and I were told
there was just no enthusiasm at his end for the picture’s prospects in
Richmond.
The Deal
To be fair, in those days Richmond was
generally seen by most movie distributors as a rather weak market – not a place
to waste resources. Besides, no one at Fox seemed to understand why the
audience participation following for the picture had blossomed in the
first place, or more importantly – what was making the movie's cult
following catch on in some cities, but not at all in others. So they
were holding off on ordering any new prints. Which meant there was no
telling how long we might have to wait. It does seem funny now to recall
how unconvinced the Fox folks were they had something that was new and
old rules didn't apply.
Alan, Lenny and I continued
our telephone conversation after the distributor's representative got
off the line. That led us to agreeing to a plan: We would offer to front
the cost of a new 35mm print, some $5,000, as I remember it, which
would stand as an advance against standard film rental fees. There were
two provisos: 1. The Biograph would continue hold the exclusive rights
to exhibit “Rocky Horror” in the Richmond market as long as we held onto
that print. 2. That I would promote it as I saw fit, creating my own
materials, rather than rely on Fox's standard press kit stuff (which I
was accustomed to doing when situations called for it).
When
we called the Fox distributor's office back, it went smoothly. With
nothing to lose, they went for the deal. After all, if anything, the
Biograph had earned a reputation for being a pretty good venue for midnight
shows.
Next, for research, I questioned a couple of
publicity people at Fox a little more about how it had been promoted in
various situations. Strangely, there was no consensus about what had
prompted the successes or failures. However, Fox had encouraged a few
exhibitors to call for attendees who would recite certain lines and
dance in the aisles, etc. But when they tried to prime the pump in that
way it hadn't worked.
After viewing the film, I decided
it would be better not to over-promote it. That way there would be less
risk of drawing the sort of general audience which might include too
many unsatisfied customers – folks who might leave the theater
bad-mouthing it. My strategy called for first getting the attention of
the kids who had already been seeing “Rocky Horror” screenings at the
Waverly or the Key, as well as a few of the most determined of local
taste-makers who must see anything edgy first, so they can opine about
it.
Accordingly, at WGOE's studio I produced a radio
commercial using about 20 seconds of the film's signature song, “Time
Warp.” The only ad copy came at the very end with a tag line. The
listener heard my voice say, “Get in the act … midnight at the
Biograph.”
There was no explanation of what the music
was, or what the 30-second spot was even about. At that time the
soundtrack for “Rocky Horror” still hadn't become all that well known.
The hook was that the spot didn't offer listeners as much information as
they expected, which hopefully added somewhat to its underground
allure. The same less-is-more approach was used in the print materials.
The Floor Show
“The
Rocky Horror Picture Show” opened in Richmond on June 30, 1978. It drew
a decent crowd, but it was well short of a sell-out. Some of those who
attended did occasionally call out wisecrack lines. Most did not. As I
recall, a handful of people dressed up in costumes. As hoped, over the
next few weeks a following for “Rocky Horror” steadily grew, as did the
audience participation.
At the center of that
following was a troupe that became the regulars who turned midnight
screenings into performance-art adventures. John Porter, a VCU theater
major, emerged as the leader of that group; they called themselves the
Floor Show. Outfitted in his Frank-N-Furter get-up, Porter missed few,
if any, midnight screenings for the next couple of years.
Plenty
of crazy things happened in dealing with the “Rocky Horror” audience
twice a week. There was the Saturday night an entire full house was
thrown out, because some bare-chested roughnecks had run amuck. They
were hosing down the crowd, using our fire extinguishers. Fights were
underway. So after a stern warning from me to the crowd, to stop-or-else
did no good, I pulled the plug. One by one, they all got their money
back.
Interestingly, after that night we never had much
trouble with violence to do with “Rocky Horror” again. The Floor Show
kids helped to monitor the situation, to make it uncool to go too far.
Porter’s leadership was a key to keeping it fun, but not out of control.
For his part, John was given a lifetime pass to the Biograph.
There
was no stranger episode than the night a man breathed his last, as he
sat in the small auditorium (Theatre No. 2) watching “F.I.S.T” (1978).
Yes, that lame Sylvester Stallone vehicle was hard to watch, but who
knew it could be lethal?
Sitting upright in an aisle
seat the dead man’s expressionless face offered no clues to his final
thoughts. His eyes were open. He was about 30, which was my age.
The
rescue squad guys jerked him out of his seat and threw him onto the
floor. As jolts of electricity shot through the dead man’s body, down in
Theater No. 1 “Rocky Horror” was on the Biograph’s larger screen
delighting the audience. Walking back and forth between the two
auditoriums, absorbing the bizarre juxtaposition of those scenes in the
same building, was a strange trip, to say the least.
A brief item about the death appeared in the newspaper. It said he had been in bad health. Don't remember his name.
Looking
on the bright side, after six-and-a-half years of showing screwball
comedies, French New Wave films, rock 'n' roll movies, film noirs, and
so forth, the Biograph had earned the chance to have what any theater
needs to become fully-fledged – a ghost.
Chasing Dignity
On
one of those busy nights early in the run of “Rocky Horror (I can't be
sure of the date) a battle broke out in the middle of West Grace Street
in front of the theater. Rocks, bottles and whatnot were flying back and
forth between two factions of young men. Both squads consisted of four
or five participants.
As I later discovered, the fight
was between members of a VCU fraternity and an Oregon Hill crew. The
most alarming angle of the fraught incident was that it was unfolding a
perilous 30 yards from the cinemascopic, all-glass front of the
Biograph.
Yikes!
The box office had just closed and
the cashier was in the midst of count-up duties. At the same time a
small group of friends was in the lobby. Some of them were my Biograph
Swordfish softball teammates. A few of us were playing a pinball
machine. As the manager of the theater I felt obliged to fend off the
danger. Accordingly, I asked the cashier to call the cops.
I opened one of the twin exit doors, to step onto the sidewalk and yell at the kids. In so many words I told them to scram. As an added incentive I mentioned that the cops were already on the way.
Well, that was good
enough for the frat-boy team. They scampered off.
Meanwhile,
rather than pursue their enemies, the Oregon Hill gang promptly switched
over to aiming their missiles at me. A rock hit the curb. A tumbling
bottle shattered on the sidewalk, which prompted me to duck back inside.
A
second or two later an incoming piece of red brick crashed through the
door's lowest glass panel. It struck my right shin. That particular
moment of this story stands out sharply in my memory.
There
were seven, maybe eight men running in the impromptu posse of employees
and pinball players that went after the scattering hooligans.
However, my focus was totally on the guy who had plunked me. I chased him as he headed west. Suddenly hemmed in by three of us in a public parking lot at the intersection of Shafer and Grace, he faked one way, then cut to the other. When his traction gave way in the gravel paving he stumbled to regain his balance.
That was when I tackled him by
the legs. The others in his group got away.
With some
help from my friends – two of them held his arms – we marched the
brick-thrower back toward the theater. During that trek I suppose there
was some conversation. Don't recall any of what was said, but something
the captured culprit said as we passed Grace Place (an excellent
vegetarian restaurant) provoked one guy in my group to punch him in the
jaw without warning.
One of the policemen in the
assembled group of cops in front of the theater sarcastically
complimented the puncher for his prisoner-escorting “technique.” Shortly
thereafter the punchee was hauled off in the paddy wagon. Back in the
lobby I told the puncher he had overreached in hitting the kid
unnecessarily, especially while he was helpless.
Caught
off-guard by my reaction, my softball teammate laughed. He disagreed,
saying essentially that his summary punishment would likely be the only
price the guy would ever pay for his assault. Another in the group
quickly agreed with him. Others saw it my way, or said nothing.
Then
we probably resumed the ongoing pinball game. More importantly, it's
quite likely I went across the lobby to the theater's refrigerator in a
closet and pulled out enough cans of cold beer to say, “thank you” to
each member of the posse.
They had helped protect the
Biograph from a menace. And, yes, it was satisfying to have at least
caught the one who had just bloodied my shin. The next day I got a tetanus shot.
It
wasn’t long after that night I found myself poring over a 1931 essay by
F. Scott Fitzgerald, “Echoes of the Jazz Age.” Here is the last
paragraph of that evocative piece:
“…Now once more the belt is tight and we summon the proper expression of horror as we look back at our wasted youth. Sometimes, though, there is a ghostly rumble among the drums, an asthmatic whisper in the trombones that swings me back into the early twenties when we drank wood alcohol and every day in every way grew better and better, and there was a first abortive shortening of the skirts, and girls all looked alike in sweater dresses, and people you didn’t want to know said ‘Yes, we have no bananas,’ and it seemed only a question of a few years before the older people would step aside and let the world be run by those who saw things as they were — and it all seems rosy and romantic to us who were young then, because we will never feel quite so intensely about our surroundings any more.”
During that reading, seated at my desk in the theater's office, it
hit me that the shattering of the Biograph's glass door had been the
sound to accompany the hippie era ending. Its trends, causes and
distinctive styles had arrived in the late-'60s and they soon would
be seen as nostalgia. In some ways the hippie decade had been similar
to the Roaring ’20s.
Moreover, it seemed then that the peace-loving,
pot-smoking, anti-establishment elements of my generation hadn't
changed the world all that much in any enduring ways. Ending the Vietnam
War and getting rid of Nixon just hadn't solved as many problems as
our slogans had promised.
In the summer of '78, it
was also time to admit to myself the neighborhood surrounding the Biograph was
getting meaner. Which made little sense, even at the time, since it
was adjacent to VCU's burgeoning academic campus. Still, for whatever
reason the university didn't seem to care about it then, or for years after
this.
A month later, in General District Court, I agreed
to a proposal to drop the assault charge, providing the brick-thrower
was convicted of a misdemeanor for breaking the glass and that he
would reimburse the Biograph for the cost of the repairs. A payment schedule
was set up.
As we spoke several times after that day in court
I came to see the 19-year-old “hooligan” wasn’t really such a
bad guy. His payments were made on a timely basis. With his last
payment he asked for the name of the man who’d punched him.
While
withholding the name, I agreed with him that regardless of my
friend's intentions his adrenaline-fueled punch had mostly been a cheap shot.
With the money aspect of the debt paid, we shook hands.
Debt
and Irony
About a year later, during a Wednesday matinee the Biograph
cashier, Gussie Armeniox, was counting a stack of one dollar bills
when an opportunistic thief bolted in and snatched them from her hands. Although I
was only a few feet away, behind the candy counter in the lobby, my
back was turned. When I looked around, it was alarming to see the
robber scurrying out the front door.
Gussie's wide-eyed, frightened look was unforgettable. It boosted the intensity of the sense of violation. As I got to the sidewalk the thief was already a half-a-block away.
Nonetheless, in spite of his foot speed it turned
out he wasn't so good at avoiding capture. Instead of just running to
the west, to put plenty of distance between us, he ducked between the
buildings, trying to hide. He did it a couple of times, then, when I
would find him and get close, he'd take off again.
During the
chasing and searching I received some unexpected help from a total
stranger. A young man slammed on his brakes and jumped out of
his pickup truck. After that reinforcement it took less than five
minutes to corner the thief in the men's room of a fast food
restaurant. By then a policeman in a cruiser had showed up.
Fortunately, that meant I didn't have to go into that men's room to
drag the perpetrator out. The cops did it for me.
Of course,
I thanked the volunteer and asked him why he’d stopped to help out.
He told me he knew I was the Biograph’s manager, because a buddy of
his had pointed me out to him. His friend?
It was
the same Oregon Hill street-fighter I’d tackled a year before. My
assistant thief-chaser said his friend told him the story about the
broken glass and the assault charge being dropped. Then he said I'd
dealt fairly with him. Consequently, a favor was owed to me.
Before
he got back in his truck, my collaborator said that in his
neighborhood the guys tend to stick together. Thus, he had supported
me in my time of need, because of his friend’s debt. I was grateful
and flabbergasted.
It now seems to me the sort of obligation
he felt and acted upon has been evaporating out of the culture for
some time, maybe since the time of this chase scene. The thief turned
out to be a repeat offender, so the judge gave him six months for
stealing 37 dollar bills.
Looking back on this story what
connects those two chase scenes has become increasingly more
satisfying. No doubt, that’s partly because in dealing with bad
luck and other ordinary tests of character, too many times I’ve
done nothing to brag about – even the wrong thing.
Maybe in
this two-part adventure I came close to getting it right. In my view,
both chases had something to do with pursuing justice and preserving
something. Dignity perhaps.
The
Exploding Motorcycle
On Friday, March 1, 1980,
with its 88th consecutive week, “Rocky Horror” established a new
record for longevity in Richmond. It broke the record of 87 weeks,
established by “The Sound of Music” (1965), during its first-run
engagement at the Willow Lawn Theater.
To celebrate Porter
and I dressed in tuxedos to stand before the full house. He held up a
“Sound of Music” soundtrack album and I smashed it with a hammer.
It went over quite well. Now, thinking of how late in the evening it was, I am somewhat amazed that John trusted me to wield that hammer safely.
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| The record-breaking ceremony prior to the screening. |
In a nice touch to underline the special night‘s theme, a couple
of the regulars came dressed as Julie Andrews. The late Carole Kass,
the Richmond Times-Dispatch’s sweetheart of a entertainment
writer/movie critic, wrote up a nice feature on what was basically
hokum.
That same night Larry Rohr rode his motorcycle through
the auditorium’s aisles at the point in the movie when Meat Loaf’s
character in the film, Eddie, rides his motorcycle. Rohr’s careful
but noisy rides happened only on a few special occasions, such as the
record-breaking night. We were lucky nothing bad ever happened.
A
few months later, I had a dream that the motorcycle exploded and blew
the roof off of the theater (like a cartoon!). The nightmare scared me so much the
motorcycle rides were discontinued. Anyway, that's what I told people
about why we stopped. Yes, now it seems crazy as hell
that I ever facilitated such risky shenanigans. Maybe I was
somewhat carried away by the aforementioned wide-open permission that went
along with the '70s.
With no more motorcycle rides, various
Floor Show members sometimes rode a tricycle up and down the aisles. The way
members of that group adapted playfully to whatever was said or done
in previous weeks was an integral aspect of the fun. They were like
players in a story that had new chapters being written for it, on the
fly, each weekend.
However, while “Rocky Horror” had an
underground cachet in the first year, even the second, eventually its
status began to go sour. That was especially so in the eyes of the
staff and Biograph regulars who hung out there. The rice, toast and
all sorts of other stuff that got tossed around had to be cleaned up
each and every time by the grumbling janitors, who naturally grew to
detest the movie. To keep the peace they got “Rocky Horror”
bonuses — a few extra bucks for their weekend shifts.
Once
into the winter of 1980/81 the turnout for the screenings of “Rocky
Horror” began a gradual withering. By then many of the originals
had stopped coming every weekend. Much of the audience seemed to be
made up of sightseers from the suburbs. The fast crowd in the artsy,
black leather jacket scene were ignoring it, although the movie was still
doing enough business to justify holding onto that original print.
In the summer of 1982 “Rocky Horror” celebrated its
fourth anniversary at the Biograph. That same summer, for Program No.
60, I booked a six-week festival offering 12 RKO double features.
The Biograph's record-setting midnight show run of
“The
Rocky Horror Picture Show” ended on June 25, 1983. Although it had
helped pay the rent (set at $3,000 a month), no one was happier to see that
well-used
35mm print shipped out than those of us who had been warped by the
“Rocky
Horror” experience for five long years.
Outro:
In the Biograph lobby I always got a kick out of
listening to enthusiastic new film buffs tell me why the old movie he or she had just watched was cool. Still
cool!
Of course, in agreeing with them I was mostly just doing my job. Anywhere, any
time, stimulating a greater appreciation of good films made in
previous times was an integral part of the Biograph Theatre manager's job. In a way, I've
never gotten over feeling like it's my duty.
Speaking of time warps, here are the
titles for that 1982 RKO fest, listed in the order in which they
played: “Top Hat” (1935) and “Damsel in Distress” (1936);
“The Hunchback of Notre Dame” (1939) and “The Informer”
(1935); “King Kong” (1933) and “Mighty Joe Young” (1949);
“Suspicion” (1941) and “They Live By Night” (1948); “Sylvia
Scarlett” (1936) and “Mister Blandings Builds His Dream House”
(1948); “Murder My Sweet” (1945) and “Macao” (1952); “The
Mexican Spitfire” (1939) and “Room Service” (1938); “Journey
Into Fear” (1942) and “This Land Is Mine” (1943); “The Thing”
(1951) and “Cat People” (1942); “The Boy With Green Hair”
(1948) and “Woman on the Beach” (1947); “Citizen Kane” (1941)
and “Fort Apache” (1948); “The Curse of the Cat People”
(1944) and “The Body Snatcher” (1945).
