Category: default || By jt3y

Over the holidays, I decided to use one of my days off to go to the movies. Specifically, to see George Clooney's biopic of Edward R. Murrow, Good Night, and Good Luck, since I already have practically every book ever written about the Murrow/Friendly era at CBS.

(On the one occasion when I actually had an "office" as a reporter --- something like Les Nessman's "office," to tell the truth --- I had a framed picture of Murrow on the wall. I thought it would help inspire me and my co-workers to work as hard and as ethically as Murrow ... until someone asked me if it was a picture of my grandfather. It turns out they didn't know who Murrow was. Sic transit gloria mundi, Ed.)

Unfortunately, Good Night was only playing at one movie house in the area, which for the purposes of this Almanac I will call the "Hamster Hill 5," because I don't want to get my keister sued. The reason why will become apparent in a few minutes.

The Hamster Hill 5 is owned by a company that likes to portray itself as the only movie theater chain in the Pittsburgh area that shows "artsy" pictures, and that's true --- to a point. But it shows darn few of them, and it usually shows them on dimly-lit screens in theaters that are, to use a favorite phrase of my friend, the late Larry Slaugh, "upholstered toilets."

The Hamster Hill 5 is no exception. The carpets and upholstery at Hamster Hill were installed at least two owners ago, and so were the candy and popcorn, while the lobby decorations consist of several broken video games from the 1980s, and the entire theater smells like the inside of a wino's raincoat. (Or rather, um, at least what I imagine the inside of a wino's raincoat smells like. Sure, that's it.)

Anyway, a check on the Internet revealed that Good Night was showing at a 12:25 matinee at the Hamster Hill 5, which would save me several dollars off of an evening showing, so I drove into Picksberg to see it. The city neighborhood where the theater is located is notoriously hard to park in, but I did find a space, and I got to the ticket window at 12:30. (Since the previews usually eat up five to 10 minutes, I assumed I was OK.)

"One for Good Night," I said.

"Oh, I'm sorry," the lady said. "That movie already was supposed to start."

"Well, that's OK," I said. "I'm sure I didn't miss much."

"No," she said, "it was supposed to start at 12:25, but since no one was here, we didn't start it."

"Can't you just start it now?" I said.

"Oh, no, that would throw our whole schedule off."

Steam curled from under my collar, but I stayed civil. "When is the next show?" I asked.

"2:45."

"I might as well buy one ticket for 2:45, then," I said.

I went into the office for a little while, did some work, and then went back to the Hamster Hill 5 at 2:35. That gave me plenty of time to stop and buy a small Diet Pepsi (warm, and flat, $3) before the show, and I opened the door to the auditorium as the previews started.

Now, you know how some theaters have "Dolby surround sound"? This one had surround sound, all right --- that of 1,000 flatulent elks being dragged around a gravel parking lot by riding lawnmowers at full throttle. The previews were playing, but all we could hear was an ear-splitting "R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R!" If we had just had picture and no sound, it would have been tolerable, but this was torture.

I turned around, exited the auditorium, and went to the projection booth: It was filthy and no one was in sight. Another patron walked over to complain to the ticket seller.

"Are you sure the sound isn't supposed to be like that?" the ticket seller said, clearly unmotivated to do anything. Once we assured her that we weren't seeing The Flatulent Elk on a Lawnmower in a Gravel Parking Lot Story (which I understand Adam Sandler has optioned for a scheduled Christmas 2007 release), she promised to call the projectionist.

Time passed. The previews ended. The ticket seller lifted not a finger, so far as we could tell. The auditorium emptied, and people began milling around in the lobby, complaining to the candy-counter clerk and the ticket seller.

She promised that the projectionist was on his way. I sipped my Diet Pepsi and watched, through the smeary little window in the door to the auditorium, as the opening credits rolled on Good Luck.

More time passed. The complaints became more vocal. The projectionist is coming, the ticket seller said again. "Where the hell is he coming from?" someone yelled. Someone else demanded to see the manager. "He is the manager," she said.

After about 10 minutes, someone came ambling down the hallway, entered the projection booth, and yelled an obscenity. Suddenly the noise ended and the sound cleared up. And then he stopped the movie.

The ticket seller walked up the stairs to the booth, and they conferred quietly. Then she came back down.

"You can all have a pass to another movie," she said.

"We don't want to see another movie," someone in the crowd said. "We want to see this movie. Just re-start it."

"We can't," she said, "it would throw off our schedule."

This place is great with schedules, I thought. Sure, they never actually show anyone any movies, but they do maintain their schedules.

"How much longer is this movie here?" I asked.

"Tomorrow is the last day." I had to work the following day.

That Good Night is a black-and-white film set at CBS in the 1950s was appropriate, because I was now ready to do a full-blown Jackie Gleason-style rant --- slam my hand on the counter and start threatening to send people to the moon. I'd now killed most of a sunny day; paid to park; paid three bucks for a flat, warm Diet Pepsi; and returned twice only to be told that because of the incompetence and general laziness of the theater employees, I wasn't going to see the movie.

"I'd like my money back," I said.

"But the passes are good for six months," she said.

Now, can you imagine wanting to see anything else at the Hamster Hill 5 at this point? I can't. If Jesus Christ himself were appearing in Auditorium 4 at 12:25, 2:30, 4:45, 7:15 and 9:40, I think I'd wait for the DVD.

"My money back, please," I said.

So I exited the theater, five bucks and half a flat Diet Pepsi in hand, just as students were being dismissed from the high school up the block, which meant that traffic had come to a virtual standstill.

(Incidentally, the same chain that owns the Hamster Hill 5 recently closed one of its other theaters --- and one of its nicer ones, though it had the same surly management and the same half-comatose employees. Word is that the theater, built in the '30s, is going to be demolished for an office building. Because Lord knows that Western Pennsylvania doesn't have enough half-empty office buildings. Way to support "artsy" films, fellas.)

I suppose I can catch Good Night, and Good Luck on DVD in a few months. Still, I think there's something to be said for seeing a movie on a big screen with a live audience.

But if that movie is at the Hamster Hill 5 --- or any of the remaining theaters owned by the same company --- the something I'm going to say is, "no, thanks."