TCM Day 1: The fun begins

For my opening-night attraction, I had my choice of four films: Love Crazy (a 1941 screwball comedy starring William Powell and Myrna Loy that I’ve seen a million times and is, I think, not their best, despite the presence of Jack Carson), Some Like It Hot (making a reappearance; it had screened in 2010), a film I find incredibly overrated and not all that funny, a documentary about a cache of “lost” films that had been found in a small town in Canada, and Jezebel, a good picture, but one I didn’t need to see again. 

No, not even if you throw Donald MacBride and Gail Patrick in the deal

The big attraction, for me, was In the Heat of the Night, with scheduled pre-film appearances by Sidney Poitier, Lee Grant, director Norman Jewison, and producer Walter Mirisch. All of them are 90 (except for Mirisch, who is 95), so it promised to be a rare treat. Showtime was 6:30, but it got later and later and later, all of which I chalked up to the age of the participants. Finally, at 7:15, the hosts came out and introduced the guests, except for Poitier, who was in the audience (but reportedly not well enough to speak). I had planned on watching some of the movie before heading over to the Egyptian, but the panel started so late and went on so long that I had to leave before the movie actually started. Despite its length, the panel was interesting, except for the awkward moment Ben Mankiewicz, who was emceeing, asked Grant if she thought Poitier should have won the Oscar over Rod Steiger. Grant dealt with it well, but was obviously uncomfortable.

Mr. Poitier at the screening

The reason I was anxious to get to the Egyptian was that they were screening a nitrate print of Hitchcock’s 1934 The Man Who Knew Too Much. This was a pretty big deal. For those who don’t know, nitrate film was originally what all movie theatres showed. It’s composed (among other things) of cellulose nitrate and silver, which allows it to have a greater range and depth of colors and greys; blacks and whites are sharper and more defined. The problem is that cellulose nitrate is, basically, an explosive, so it’s got to be handled carefully—to the point where projection booths need to be fireproofed and projectionists trained in how to handle it—especially since, if it does catch fire, it doesn’t go out. Even dousing it in water doesn’t do anything.

 Nitrate burning

I’d seen a lot of nitrate in the 70s and 80s at the various revival houses in Los Angeles (and everything was either 16mm or 35mm in those pre-digital days), and even the Stanford Theatre in Palo Alto shows the occasional nitrate print. This was a big deal, though, because the Egyptian Theatre had just undergone an extensive renovation in order to show it, and these were going to be the first nitrate screenings at the festival. On top of that, I’d never seen the picture, so I had to go. The fact that Martin Scorsese was going to introduce it was only icing on the cake.

The problem with the screenings, though, was that, since these are all original prints from the 30s and 40s, they’re pretty beat up, with lots of scratches and splices; there’s no way to repair or restore them because they’re, well, nitrate and you can’t upgrade the material. (You can make prints on safety stock and improve those, but you lose the advantages of nitrate.)

Now, all that said, I should have had a blast, but (despite the reports of a lot of my colleagues) I just wasn’t that impressed with the presentation. Frankly, I didn’t see that great of a difference in picture quality (there was some, but not enough to make a big difference), and the quality of the print was distressing. The picture itself was great, but I came away disappointed in some regards.

To tell the truth, the most impressive thing about the film was Peter Lorre’s performance. It was his first English-language film, and he allegedly was performing his dialogue phonetically, which you would never have known.

 C'mon; who wouldn't want to see this guy?

The party was scheduled for 9:00-12:00, so leaving that late (11:15) was probably foolhardy, but I hadn’t grabbed dinner and assumed there’d be food there, and I wanted to see if anyone I knew was there. I headed for the assembly area outside the Roosevelt to see no buses, no filmgoers, no nothing. After a moment, I saw one of the buses returning from the W, but couldn’t figure out where it was stopping. Someone else who’d been at the Hitchcock came up, and we figured out where to go (which was wrong) before the bus stopped at the spot we’d originally been waiting. Some folks got off (at least one of whom I knew) and we persuaded the driver to take us to the W (where he had to go anyway to pick up passengers). We rode over quickly, walked past the guards (who were surprised to see anyone desperate enough to arrive that late), and took the elevator to the roof.

Kinda like this, but without the people in the pool

The party takes place on the roof of the hotel, half of which is covered, the other half being the swimming pool. I did a quick reconnoiter, grabbed a drink at the bar (these were gratis), and started walking around the pool, looking for any familiar faces and/or food. I saw none of the former, but some of the latter. (Desserts at the pool end, sliders and meatballs at the covered end. This latter was the mother lode for your obedient servant.) I grabbed some food and walked around, eating, drinking, and looking at the view (and trying to figure out what behemoth of a structure they’re building next door; whatever it is, it’s going to be gigantic) before figuring that they were about to close and I wasn’t going to see anyone I knew, anyway, so only about 15-20 minutes after I’d arrived, I headed back downstairs, got on a bus, and went back to the Roosevelt.

From there, it was a quick walk to the hotel, when I made my lunch for the next day, watched a little television (very little; sleep is always at a premium during this weekend), and went to sleep to prepare for a day of six movies, starting at 9:30 am.


*I am reminded of the period when that lot was a parking lot. I was seeing something at the Pantages (Camelot with Richard Harris replacing Richard Burton?) and wanted to avoid the parking fees, so I parked someplace from whence my car was towed. (I further confess I’d completely forgotten this until a friend reminded me of it a few months ago.) It cost an arm and a leg to get it back (probably more than the car was worth, actually), and made for an unforgettable adventure—despite my forgetting it.

 

Unfortunately, it wasn't a very good production

(But you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear)

 

The Festival begins - even if it takes me a while to talk about it

As I start to get into the meat-and-potatoes of my festival experience, I realize that there’s a risk I’m going to say something about films that people love that I wouldn’t see on a bet. All I can say to ward off any potential hurt feelings is that, first, it’s all a matter of taste, and second, as I’ve often said on these pages, for every movie I can’t stand, there are a million folks who utterly love it, and for every movie I couldn’t live without, there are millions who would step in front of a bus rather than see it.

“Ya pays yer money, and ya takes yer cherce.”

I got into LA Wednesday afternoon, and after doing a quick check-in and reconnoiter of my room (short version: decent-sized studio, but virtually no wifi [this really wasn’t an issue, since I had it on my phone, and was basically there to sleep]), I bought a ticket for that night’s Dodger-Padre game, took the subway to Union Station, and then the shuttle to the game. The Dodgers won, 3-1, in a pretty good game. After the game, there were no shuttle buses for the longest time (almost as though they hadn’t expected they’d need them), and when they did come, I was stuck with a group of drunken bros, who spent most of the trip trying to pick up a woman, despite the presence of her boyfriend. When I got off the bus, I congratulated her for her patience and fortitude. (And no, she was not a lion at the New York Public Library.)

 Yes; those are their names

Thursday was a beautiful day, and while, under normal circumstances, I might have spent the afternoon down south, visiting my old haunts and my parents’ cremains, I chose to stick around Hollywood. In years past, I’ve had my pass mailed to me, but I realized that, this year, it would have been sent when both Pidge and I were in New York, and no one would pick it up for a week. I called TCM and they were able to pull the envelope off the pile at the last minute, so I had to pick it up at the Roosevelt, along with my gift bag and other swag. (Two posters, a coffee mug, a Blu-Ray of Sullivan’s Travels, two pairs of socks, and some other odds and ends.

I took the bag back to my hotel, dropped it off, then went to my first program of the day, a panel commemorating the life of Robert Osborne. Osborne was the face (and heart and soul) of TCM until his death one month before, and the festival was dedicated to him. I got to the program late, but still heard some great stories about him and his effect on people. (I’d met him once or twice at early festivals, and found him nothing if not kind, polite, and genuinely interested in other people.)

 
Following that, I went back to the Roosevelt for the first round of the festival’s trivia tournament. Through a Facebook group, I’d joined a team, and we met for the first time there. Because the rest of the team was female and huge fans of William Holden, we were “The Holden Girls ( … and Dave). The questions ranged from “Embarrassingly Easy” to “Who the Hell Knows That?,” but we won and were ready to move on to the second round on Saturday. 

Me and "the Girls"

Stuck for something to do, I moved on to another trivia quiz, the annual “So You Think You Know Movies?” contest hosted by Bruce Goldstein of New York’s Film Forum. This is a tough, tough quiz, really focusing on the obscure, and it was made harder this year by the addition of questions that might have more than one right answer or no right answers at all. I was planning on watching, as I have in years past, but one of the staffers asked if anyone wanted a seat up front. I said yes, and found myself on a team with a fellow named Lee Tsiantis, who knew everything. I knew a lot of the answers (maybe one or two he didn’t, but that was about all), but I was outclassed by him. It was a relatively short quiz (15 questions? 20?), but we did well, I thought. The staffers collected the answer sheets (and there were a lot) and we waited for the final tally. When the scores were announced, our team won with 21 points (two teams tied for second at 15), but were disqualified because Lee had worked for TCM at one point. I was none too pleased, but good-naturedly so, and moved on.

The next order of business was the opening night party, so I went back to the room to change into my suit (“cocktail attire” is suggested, and I had to walk the red carpet and go the big opening night gala afterward). This party was when I first noticed how things were a little different this year. In the past, attendance had grown and grown to the point where things were starting to feel a little unwieldy. The staff never lost control of anything, but things were getting big. (There was even some speculation among some people I spoke to about whether they’d have to add another day to make sure everyone got to see enough and get their money’s worth.) The parties were always were done, though, with plenty of free booze and hors d’oeuvres, not to mention all the signage along Hollywood Blvd. All of that was missing thus year though, which was especially surprising to me, given at how much they’d jacked up the prices for the festival passes—and it was a significant hit. I don’t know if it was due to Time-Warner cutting back the budget or they were consciously making an effort to keep attendance down (and it did seem down—though I don’t know if that was due to the prices or an accrual attempt to keep things more manageable).

I’ve never been a good mingler, so the parties can be somewhat forced for me. I kind of wander around looking for people I’ve met in years past (fewer this year than usual). I spoke to a few folks, got caught up, had a drink (which was actually bought for me by someone I’d just met; she was very nice), then walked over to the Chinese for In the Heat of the Night. Here was another anomaly; and again, nothing major, but off just enough. For premieres at the Chinese, the westbound lanes of Hollywood Blvd. are blocked off, and a red carpet area and bleachers are erected. Celebrities and prominent guests are interviewed by the media, and everyone else slips past. The block between Orange and Highland is a long one, though, and there’s a crosswalk about halfway between. This year, the crosswalk was closed, meaning anyone going from the party to the theatres had a long walk ahead of them. It wasn’t terrible; just the first of many small annoyances that the festival would provide.

But I’ll deal with those in my next installment.

When is a classic not a classic?

Long-time readers may remember I’ve talked movies before. More in a general/historical/personal than critical context, but recent events have made me itchy to talk about them—or, at the very least, give my account of a recent experience.

All at the risk of mansplaining, I fear, but those are the risks.

I’m willing to take them.

Those of you who have followed my other blog know that I recently completed an epic 
seven weeks performing in New York (those of you who haven’t read it will find it here). After that trip, I flew home, spent twelve hours in Pacifica, and then drove down to Los Angeles for the TCM Classic Film Festival.

The Festival began in 2010 and I’ve been to all eight (so far). It’s basically an opportunity for fans of old movies (and that definition is flexible, as is that of “classic”) to binge-watch them in the conditions in which they were intended to be seen: on a big screen, surrounded by hundreds of others.

When it works, it’s great; even when it doesn’t work so well, it’s great. Each year, I’ve seen 18 movies in just over three days. (The Festival begins with a gala screening Thursday night, continues all day Friday and Saturday, and ends Sunday around 10:00 or 11:00.) People don’t believe me when I tell them how exhausting it is to sit in a theatre and watch movies, but it is. Honest.

I’ve been reading a lot of recaps and breakdowns of this year’s Festival, and wanted to add my own two cents. While I always have a great time, I felt this year was the least of them so far, and I want to explore why, and even (toward the end) get a little into the reception of the gender and racial politics of movies of the Studio Era—dangerous ground for an old white guy, I admit, but I’ll risk it in the service of trying to begin a conversation—and hopefully be exposed to opposing views.

When TCM first came along, I was actually glad that I didn’t have cable—and, when I did get cable, that I didn’t get TCM. My reasoning was that, if I was able to watch it, I would do nothing else. That assumption turned out to be pretty true. Once I did get it, it became my go-to station. Most of the programs on my DVR are from TCM, and it’s the first thing I check when I turn on the TV. (Except when they show Westerns—a genre I’ve never really responded to—or most war movies or fare of dubious quality, such as the current Dr. Goldfoot and the Bikini Machine. That film may be many things, but “classic” is not among them.)

 No. Just no.

Every year, when the dates for the Festival are announced (usually in November for an April Festival), there’s a mad rush for hotel reservations. The Festival is in Hollywood itself, in that it's one of the few locales in the country (if not the only one) that is able to host it, given the need for multiple screens in big theatres that are relatively adjacent. There are few of those that are convenient to one another left in major cities—certainly not New York, Chicago, or San Francisco. Even Los Angeles itself, with its host of movie palaces on Broadway, wouldn’t work, given the overall lack of nearby hotel rooms. “Hollywood,” as seedy as it’s become, still has some residual glamour, and offers theatres (the Chinese, the Egyptian, the Cinerama Dome, and even the El Capitan [when Disney consents to its use, as it did for two years]) with state-of-the-art presentation capability.

 How would you not want to see a movie here?

The flagship hotel of the Festival is the Hollywood Roosevelt, which is more or less across the street from the Chinese, but too expensive for my tastes (I think it runs about $400 a night, even at the Festival rate). I stay at a small apartment house-turned-hotel just in back of the Chinese, whose main advantages are location (it’s less than a five-minute walk to Hollywood Boulevard), price, and its kitchenettes. The first year of the festival (I’m going to stop capitalizing it), I was surprised to find that there were no food options that were remotely healthy. It was all the typical movie theatre fare of overprice popcorn, candy, and soda. I soon realized that, having a kitchen, I could pre-buy sandwich fixings and make food in advance, saving me money and allowing me to eat something that wasn’t just salt, fat, and/or sugar.

 A nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to stay there

Once the dates are announced, the wait begins to find out what films will be showing. In the first years, opening night was a big musical—A Star Is Born, Singin’ in the Rain, The Sound of Music—but the last two years have featured dramas: All the President’s Men and In the Heat of the Night. A few more are announced over the next few months, usually saluting guests or restorations or rediscoveries, until, finally, a couple of weeks before opening night, the entire schedule is released, usually to the distress of ticket-holders who now have to choose between two or three films they absolutely cannot miss, all in the same time slot.

Every year, until now, I’ve faced those Hobson’s* choices; what can I not miss? While there are always things I’ve seen before and will see again, I’ve learned over the years to choose things I’ve never seen before. (Of course, it’s also easier for me because I saw so many old movies in revival house in the 70s and 80s.) There are things I won’t miss, even if I’ve seen them—I was not about to miss King Kong in the Chinese, where it had premiered 80 years earlier, or Shall We Dance, an Astaire/Rogers musical that is my desert-island movie, or It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World in 70 mm at the Cinerama Dome, where I saw it in 1963 (after spilling a glass of milk on my sister at the long-gone Ship's restaurant across the street)—but I really try to see new things or things I haven’t seen on a big screen.

 "He just went sailin' on out there!"

This year, though, there was only one real tough decision (and it turns out that I made the right choice); the majority of the films were bland, dull, or really stretching my definition of “classic.”

But I’ll deal with that in the next installment.

*Happy, Lee?