Movie nostalgia

When I couldn't find a friend to join me at the movies on a recent Monday afternoon, I decided, as I often do, to go by myself. As I entered Theater 14 in the megaplex, I stood in momentary disbelief when I realized that not only did my friends have something else to do, apparently so did everyone else in Vista and the surrounding communities. The theater, except for me and the camera's whirring, was empty. I wondered how long the complex could stay open if this were typical, and then struggled with the even more pressing problem of how I would drink my contraband soda if I couldn't become invisible in a crowd.
 Having my pick of seats, I chose a center spot in a row where I could put my feet up if I so desired and sat back to watch the monotony of candy advertisements, movie star quizzes and fascinating Hollywood facts. As I waited to don my 3D glasses for the feature film, the thought of this new-old fad sent me into a spin of nostalgia.

 All of sudden, I saw myself on the outdoor theater lawn at Lake Winola, Pennsylvania. Wrapped in blankets with my friend Nancy, whose parents owned a lakeside cottage, we settled in to watch the latest in 3D with our red and blue glasses. Sunburned from our day motoring around the lake in her family's outboard or canoeing carefully among the lily pads at one secluded spot where fishing was best, we laughed about boys, ate popcorn and screamed at whatever monster might leap from the screen. One of our favorites, though not in 3D, was Vincent Price's "The Fly," which prompted the loudest screams of all. For weeks, we devised play situations, and even a few pre-teen crank calls, where we could huskily whisper, "Heeeellllp me, heeellllp me!" We knew all our friends had watched as Price morphs into an insect after experimenting with scientific transference. We knew they lived in fear. We capitalized on it.
  We also loved "The Blob," especially watching the slimy monstrosity grow redder and redder as it wreaked havoc in the community. We sang, "Beware of the The Blob . . . it creeps and leaps and glides and slides across the floor, right through the door . . ." and collapsed into paroxysms of laughter to cover up our nervousness that this creature might enter our bedrooms at any time.
 I loved movies as a child. My father often took me, and I remember walking down the street holding his hand, feeling secure and loved, eagerly awaiting whatever might unfold on the screen. Oddly enough, the film "Sayonara" stands out in stark relief in my memory. Why this would appeal to a child, I'm not sure, except to say I already apparently was developing a sensitivity concerning racial bias. My heart broke when Red Buttons and Myoshi Umeki committed suicide rather than face separation.
   I must have wished, as I saw this movie many times over, that somehow the romance would turn out differently. I wished it again years later as the love between Tony and Maria in "West Side Story" ended in disaster. Little did I know that I would experience my own real-life drama concerning an inter-racial relationship during my college days. No one died in my case, except for a piece of my heart.
   I also cried each time I watched Melanie's death scene in "Gone With the Wind". The ominous aura created in the candlelit room as she begs Scarlett O'Hara to watch over Ashley, apparently naively unaware that Scarlett has lusted over Ashley from the beginning, both disturbed and entranced me.
 Just as I began to realize that I must not have seen many comedies in my childhood, the theater darkened. A few more patrons had come, and we put on our glasses to watch the Mad Hatter, the Cheshire Cat, Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee all become larger than life in the 21st-century adaptation of "Alice in Wonderland."
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