danajohnhill.org | Hard Times Come Again No More

Historians sometimes speak of something called the long nineteenth century, beginning in 1789, ending in 1914, and bookended by the French Revolution and the beginning of the First World War. It can be a useful conceptual aid, and not unduly harmful, since, in any event, the idea of “the century” as an important unit of time is relatively arbitrary. And if, as an Americanist, I would choose to push the beginning of “the nineteenth century” up to 1814, I still concede that World War I appears to usher in a new age. All of this is simply to say that the one hundredth anniversary of the sinking of Titanic, which is hereby observed, is of peculiar interest to me.

Consider the popular image of the ship as a floating palace, with opulent ballrooms, elegant dining halls, grand staircases, and vast promenades, where passengers of different classes were kept separate, and where your class largely determined whether you survived the voyage. Almost all of the first-class female passengers survived, while many, if not most, of the female third-class passengers perished. Consider the spirit of hubris and optimism that caused its builders to provide lifeboat capacity for fewer than half the passengers under the best-case scenario. Given that some lifeboats were launched with as few as a dozen passengers, the picture becomes much more bleak. The same irresponsible forces were at play in other disasters of the era. The Iroquois Theatre fire comes to mind.

Titanic fascinates us because, in some ways, it stands as a metaphor for nineteenth century society. Beneath the ship’s splendid exterior were men and machinery, making it all work. And the photographs of elegantly-dressed passengers amid the splendor of Titanic’s luxurious rooms belie the tremendous danger that all were in, though they didn’t know it. Plus, shipwrecks are just fascinating in general. In 1750 Samuel Johnson wrote that “almost all the fictions of the last age will vanish, if you deprive them of a hermit and a wood, a battle and a shipwreck”. Shipwrecks make for good stories, and, as it has been commonly observed that nothing is more dramatic than real life.

I remember reading or hearing about Titanic when I was a small child. But I recall being spellbound when, in the mid-1980s, the wreck was located. National Geographic made a television special about the discovery, and I watched it with tremendous interest. They showed images of the wreck at the bottom of the sea, and it was like seeing a ghost. The ship’s bell, its wheel, the rail above the bow – it all astonished me.

Ten years after Titanic was rediscovered, I had largely forgotten about it. I mean, if I was asked a Jeopardy question about it I am sure I would have answered correctly, but I didn’t think about it often. So, when the film Titanic was released in 1997, I didn’t really care. All my friends went to see it. We refered to it as “Crytanic”. Mostly I just thought Leonardo DiCaprio seemed like a terrible over-actor. Then, in 1998 or 1999, I went to see the band NRBQ play a show in Tampa. They played a song that sounded made up on-the-spot, but that I remember to this day. It was a sort of list of all the stuff that was making headlines—indeed, the stories that wouldn’t go away—at that time. Prominently mentioned were “el Niño”, “Year 2000 Computer Disaster”, and, of course, Titanic. The verse went like so:

Monday, Titanic. Tuesday, Titanic. Wednesday, Thursday, Titanic.

Friday for a change, a little more Titanic.

Saturday, Sunday, Titanic.

That was a pretty accurate summation of public consciousness at the time.

I did eventually see the film, and my opinion of Mr. DiCaprio’s performance was confirmed. But Kate Winslet was fair of face, and the story was gripping. Friday night we went on a double date with a lovely couple, Michael and Mandy, and we saw Titanic in its newly-engineered 3D format. (I will say, for the record, that I do not like 3D movies. It never looks like real life because photography itself cannot mimic what the eye sees. That is, 3D films rely on a standard formula of shallow depth-of-field and selective focus. The director chooses an object in the frame to focus on, and the rest goes totally soft from the wide aperture. Often, he will adjust focus so that the a new object becomes the subject, while the other goes soft. Granted, our eyes do this all the time, but they do it instantly.  What the human eye can accomplish the lens cannot, and, too often, the 3D film looks like a Viewmaster slide.) Though it was not originally shot in 3D, the transfer was skilfully handled, by which I mean it was not obnoxiously done, with silly gimmicks, like chunks of iceberg seeming to fly out of the screen. With so many distant-perspective shots in Titanic, it seems like a logical choice to give it a go, and I admit it could have been a lot worse. My opinion of Leonardo DiCaprio has not changed. Why does he always seem like he’s acting in a high school play? And while Kate Winslet remains beautiful, I did not realize before that her character is supposed to be seventeen. I was not convinced. Though I still found the story compelling, many of the special effects look awful. I have criticized CGI for years, and in spite of substantial improvements in computer technology, CGI still does not look as good as traditional special effects with models. Nearly every film I have seen that uses a considerable amount of CGI has disappointed me. Both Incredible Hulk-inspired films looked terrible. Gollum in the Lord of the Rings films looked fake. Not quite Elliott in Pete’s Dragon fake, but close. And last night we watched Rise of the Planet of the Apes and it looked so cartoonish that I couldn’t decide which was worse, the special effects or the story. Both were nearly unwatchable. I am not exaggerating when I say that Dr. Zaius looked far more realistic in 1968 than Caesar did in 2011. The Titanic filmmakers used lots of models, and those look great. But the CGI effects, especially long sweeping shots of the ship’s deck and surroundings, look cartoonish. Indeed, in several instances, the computer-generated passengers walking along the decks looked like a video game. Grand Theft Auto: Titanic. Considering the film’s budget, that is disappointing. They would have done better to build a model on a set and use cranes to shoot it.

All that said, we had a splendid time with Mandy and Michael, and the sinking of Titanic is still fascinating, even a century after it happened.

Filed under: Film, Friends, History, Musings on April 15th, 2012 | No Comments »

Yesterday I wrote about the fire at Satchel’s that wrecked the kitchen there and forced a shut-down for some time. Yesterday was also the day Satchel started an online fundraiser to help pay his employees until the restaurant can reopen. He hoped to raise $20,000 in two weeks. He raised that much money in twenty-four hours. That’s how much Gainesville loves Satchel’s. He posted on Facebook tonight that he feels like Jimmy Stewart at the end of It’s a Wonderful Life.

 

Filed under: Current Events, Film, Gainesville on March 3rd, 2012 | No Comments »

A popular and hilarious YouTube music video begins, “Come on down to Clevelandtown, everyone”.   Last month, my father and I did just that.

It sometimes seems as if everyone in America has roots in Ohio.  I have several friends who were born and raised there, but I had never been, and was quite eager to know what that state–the textbook definition of “middle America”–looks and feels like.  Moreover, in recent years, my growing fascination with industrial America has made Cleveland especially intriguing to me.  How, I wondered, did a place with such a prominent working class reputation come to have one of the best orchestras in the world?  What inspires people to endure such brutal winter weather?  What does it feel like to be in the “Rust Belt” at a time when manufacturing is dying in the country?  Meanwhile, an exhibit at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum made a visit to Cleveland in 2010 essential.  And though I would have liked to visit in a less frigid season, my schedule did not permit it.  So I traveled to Cleveland in December.

It has been decades since I traveled with my father, and this seemed like a perfect opportunity.  I met him in St. Petersburg the night before our early morning flight.  We had to leave the house at 5:30 Wednesday morning, but the traffic at that hour is minimal, and the lines at Tampa International Airport were as short as they probably get.  We were anticipating an adventure in the new full-body scanners the TSA has introduced nationwide, but not only did we not get screened, but “nobody even touched my junk”, my dad said.

The sun had barely risen when we were flying north along the western coast of Florida, over Tallahassee, and on to Atlanta.  We could see Stone Mountain as we made our descent.  Our layover there was brief, and we were soon soaring high above the Appalachian Mountains en route to Cleveland.  The skies were mostly overcast, so our first view of Ohio came only as we were about to touch down at Hopkins Airport.  We landed in snow, and when we exited the plane we walked down steps onto the tarmac before making our way into the terminal.  I must say that Hopkins Airport is not Cleveland’s most impressive monument.  It was rather bleak.

Thinking back on a recent trip to New York, where the Crowne Plaza offered free transportation, I thought I ought to call and see if our hotel might pick us up at the airport.  “What’s the best way to get to the hotel from the airport”, I asked.  “The best way is a taxi”, replied the girl at the desk.  In hindsight, I ought to have asked what was the most practical or affordable way, because a cab cost $33 plus tip.  Still, the twelve-mile ride was comfortable, and the driver took us directly to the front door of our hotel.

The Radisson Gateway is nothing special to look at from the outside.  Really, it is rather unassuming – the sort of place you wouldn’t notice if you drove by.  Indeed, the Radisson is so plain that I forgot to take a picture of the exterior.  But it was as clean as could be, and, truth be told, quite conveniently located.  We arrived around one o’clock, and even though check-in was not until 4:00PM, the clerk found us a double room ready on the spot.  Room 323 was huge, with high ceilings, crown molding, and two Sleep Number beds.  Though it lacked a closet, it did have a substantial wardrobe for us to hang our coats.  The water pressure in the shower was powerful, and the hot water was instant and endless.

After getting situated, my dad and I set out for our first destination, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum.  To get there we headed east on Huron Avenue, then north on Ninth Street.  Cleveland impressed us immediately with its grand old buildings.  While many newer skyscrapers of glass and steel have risen downtown, along with oppressive mid-century failures, the old stone masterpieces are still there, too, including a handsome cathedral, an old bank, and myriad buildings with elaborate architectural details.  Some were being restored, others were neglected, and, sadly, many had likely been demolished long before we arrived to make way for uglier buildings and parking lots.

As we walked up Ninth, which slopes down to the north, a dark grey feature appeared on the horizon.  At first it seemed oddly blank against the snowy sidewalks and open streets of the city.  Then it became clear that it was Lake Erie, looking fierce and menacing, like a body of water moments before a terrible storm begins.  Far from shore I could see white-capped waves that contrasted sharply with the still, frozen surface of the lake nearer the shore.  Indeed, along the harbor, the water was frozen in irregularly-shaped chunks that gave one the impression they had been distinct icebergs smashed together by force, though, of course they weren’t.  The outside air temperature was twenty-five degrees, which was hardly distressing at all until we passed an open intersection and park, where the wind came howling down the avenues from the west.  Then it was positively frigorific, and hands needed to remain in pockets lest they freeze.

We arrived at the steps of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum at about 2:30 in the afternoon, and it felt delightfully warm inside.  The building, designed by I.M. Pei, has a distinctive sloped glass front facing south that allows a substantial amount of light on an otherwise dark December day.  The clerk at the ticket counter to the left of the doors told us the museum was open until nine o’ clock that night.  I asked him about how much time we’d need to really see everything, anticipating that we might benefit from two-day passes if, as I’ve experienced at many museums, I take my sweet time to look at everything.  “No”, he said, “four hours is plenty of time”.  So my dad and I just bought single day passes, which cost $22 a piece, making it the most expensive museum I have ever visited.  We deposited our jackets at the coat check on the lower level, where they also collected my camera, since no photographing of the exhibits is allowed.  You will have to use your imagination as I describe what we saw.

In tall circular glass cases in the lower lobby, assorted electric and acoustic guitars were arranged in random order.  They belonged to an assortment of musicians famous and obscure.  The one I liked best there was Johnny Cash’s ancient Gibson J-200 with his name inlaid on the fretboard in mother-of-pearl.  A small collection of automobiles was parked nearby, including ZZ Top’s Eliminator and Joan Jett’s first car, a sleek black Jaguar she bought before she even had a driver’s license.

Museum staff collected our tickets as we entered the main exhibit space.  The first things we saw were cases full of Jim Morrison artifacts, followed by Jimi Hendrix’s childhood drawings, photos, and clothing and instruments from his rock star days.  Those were fairly substantial collections.  The rest of the downstairs exhibit space devoted less space to any individual or band.  Clothing appears to form the bulk of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum’s collection.  Every corner is filled with outfits worn on stage or in music videos.  Some seemed simple enough, but a vast majority were elaborate or unusual.  I enjoyed the impression of scale suggested by the clothes.  Mick Jagger and David Bowie, for example, must be small gentlemen, indeed, while Jimi Hendrix must have been a large fellow.  Stevie Nicks must be downright miniature: her tiny gypsy outfits were displayed.  There was a decent display of Elvis objects, including his fantastic bejeweled white jumpsuit, and a car he had given to a member of his Memphis entourage.  The sign below it explained that Elvis went to a Cadillac dealership and spent nearly $200,000 on cars for his friends.  While there, he bought a car for a lady who was just in browsing at the time.  What a guy.  The $1,400 check from the first mortgage payment he made on Graceland was there, as was the receipt for $1,300 for the mansions distinctive gates.  Representing the Beatles were several costumes, including their famous collarless suits, and the vibrant yellow-green military-style uniform John Lennon wore on the cover of St. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, complete with fanciful medals, epaulets and the royal coat of arms  on the sleeve.  The costume appeared to be in impeccable condition.  Nearby were Lennon’s distinctive round-framed National Health spectacles that he wore from around 1967 until 1973.  The Rickenbackers Lennon and George Harrison played on many early Beatles records were there, too.

The exhibit which I traveled half way across the country to see was upstairs in its own separate area, and it was amazing.  “From Asbury Park to the Promised Land” featured dozens of Bruce Springsteen artifacts, from clothing and furniture to instruments and notebooks full of handwritten lyrics.  The Teac four-track cassette recorder Springsteen used to record Nebraska was on display, as was the keyboard-operated glockenspiel that always sat atop Danny Federici’s Hammond Organ, and which features prominently in so many classic Springsteen songs.  The most amazing object, of course on display, of course, was THE Guitar, as the fans call it: Springsteen’s Fender Telecaster that, in fact, is a 1950s Telecaster body with an Esquire neck.  This is the guitar Springsteen played almost exclusively from the early 1970s until the mid-eighties – the guitar you see on the cover of Born to Run.  It is beat to hell, and there isn’t a trace of lacquer left anywhere on the fretboard.  The body is so well-used that the wood is worn down an eighth of an inch in places.  It’s the accumulated wear associated with proving it all night, every night, for decades.  I was thrilled to see it.

My father and I were starving when we left the museum, but, bizarrely, there appear to be no restaurants near the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.  We knew, though, that eateries abound in the Gateway district where we were staying, so we ventured back that way.  We both felt compelled to try a cozy looking place on Prospect Avenue called Vincenza’s Pizza.  Though it was 5:30, the restaurant appeared almost deserted.  I was overjoyed to see that Chicago-style pizza was on the menu, and was cheap, to boot.  We ordered a whole pie, and enjoyed our Cokes while we waited for it.  When it arrived we were astonished by its size.  It proved far too much food, in spite of the fact that we hadn’t eaten anything that day but a few cookies on the airplane.  We had a quarter of the pizza left to take back to our hotel.  The entire bill, with drinks, came to barely $17.

I wanted to pick up some extra soda to take back to the hotel, so we walked around the corner to a CVS.  Inside I found my normal one-liter bottle of cola that I buy every day at work for almost a dollar less.  Milk cost over a dollar less per gallon.  Gasoline was about the same price as it is in Florida, but other commodities seemed absurdly cheap in Cleveland.

The next day we made our way by taxi to the Tremont district south of downtown.  Our destination was the house featured in the now-classic holiday film A Christmas Story.  There, in a humble working-class neighborhood, near the intersection of 11th Street and Rowley Avenue, sat the house, immediately identifiable.  Two other houses across the street are used as a ticket office/gift shop and a museum for the film.  We purchased our tickets ($8 each) and joined a tour that had just begun.  The guide explained that that house was the one used for all exterior shots in the film, and for any interior shots in which the outside can be seen through the windows.  So, when the Old Man is admiring his “major award”, what you are seeing is the house in Cleveland.  I was amused to find that Ralph’s lie about getting injured by a falling icicle could just as easily have been true, since icicles lined the roof of the house.  The backyard was enclosed by a short wood fence, beyond which lay the vast Industrial Valley.

My father and I were both impressed by the authenticity of the whole place.  Not the house-turned-movie set, but the neighborhood itself.  It was made of streets like millions of others in the northern United States, with two and three story homes spaced closely together.  At the corner adjacent to the Christmas Story House was a small neighborhood tavern, where, one imagines, neighborhood people stop for a bite and a drink after work.

Wishing to explore more of the the real Cleveland, we decided to walk a bit.  We strolled north up 14th Street, crossing over Interstate 490, past Lincoln Park, where children were enjoying the snow, and continued until we ran out of sidewalk before the Cuyahoga River.  We passed neat old apartment buildings, grand old churches coated with soot, an abandoned art gallery, and more than a few empty old houses.  Cleveland, of course, has been hard hit by the decline of manufacturing that only escalated with NAFTA in the 1990s.  Though it’s meant to be funny, the line in the “Hastily Made Cleveland Tourism Video” that says, “this train is carrying jobs out of Cleveland” is mostly true.  Cleveland, like much of industrial America, is losing jobs.  Still, as our taxi driver James told us, if you can find work, Cleveland is a place where, “for very little money”, a person “can live very well”.

James dropped us off at Public Square, right in the heart of downtown.  In the old days, that was the site of Higbee’s Department Store – the very place Ralph spies the Red Ryder BB gun he desperately wants.  Today the window is still filled with toys, but the department store is gone.  In its place is a tourism office.  We walked through the Square, past the statue of Moses Cleaveland (“he’s the guy who invented Cleveland”), past the Soldier’s and Sailor’s Memorial, past the wonderful statues outside the post office, past the Key Bank Building, and back to Vincenza’s Pizza.  The large deep dish pizza the day before proved excessive, so we opted this time for the medium, which was still ridiculously large, and absurdly cheap: $8 was the price of the pie.  With drinks our total was not much more than $10, which, for a sit-down restaurant is hard to believe.  The building that houses Vincenzo’s Pizza is itself an arcade of sorts, with a high glass ceiling, and dozens of small shop spaces.  Many of these, sadly, were vacant, but some contained jewelers, barbers, and a gymnasium.  It is an amazing building, but another arcade a block north defies comparison.

The Arcade, as it is called, was built in the late nineteenth century, which was, apparently, the true heyday of Cleveland.  Funded by insanely rich industrialists, the Arcade is an astonishing gem that surely cost a fortune, and could likely not be recreated today at any price.  The glass ceiling is several stories above the ground floor, which is flanked on either side by long balconies held up by elaborate ironwork.  No opportunity was wasted to feature highly-detailed brass railings or richly-ornamented lamp posts.   I’m not being mean when I say that the fanciest shopping mall you have ever been in sucks compared to the Arcade, at least in terms of beauty and craftsmanship.  Hats are a popular fashion accessory in Cleveland, and I was taken by a display of warm-looking knitted caps in a store window in the Arcade.  I went inside and picked out a matching set of hand-knitted wool hat and mittens for Miriam.  The sales lady was super nice, and talked to us for some time about Cleveland.  She expressed surprise that we would leave Florida in December to vacation in Cleveland, which, I suppose, is a legitimate source of confusion.

We left the Arcade and continued wandering, just admiring the architecture.  We passed the Federal Reserve Bank of Cleveland (indicated by a “D” on United States currency), with its allegorical statues of Integrity and Security guarding the door.  The Cleveland Metropolitan School District building was large, and we supposed that it must look beautiful in the spring when the ivy leafs out again.  A fabulous old building on East 6th Street currently being renovated–as evidenced by the contractor’s trailer parked out front–was apparently once distinguished by the words “NATIONAL BROADCASTING COMPANY” in large copper letters beneath a clock flanked by two carved stone eagles.

Occupying an entire city block, between St. Clair and Lakeside Avenues and bounded by East 6th Street and the open park space of the Cleveland Mall, the Cleveland Public Auditorium is one of the most impressive structures I have ever seen in my life.  The scale is simply massive, and the exterior is built of what I assume must be pale sandstone, with windows recessed into arched niches.  Carved into the stone along the top of the south facade are the words “1796 CLEVELAND PUBLIC AUDITORIUM 1928“.   Better still, the east and west facades bear the inscription:

A MONUMENT CONCEIVED AS A TRIBUTE TO THE IDEALS OF CLEVELAND – BUILDED BY HER CITIZENS AND DEDICATED TO SOCIAL PROGRESS, INDUSTRIAL ACHIEVEMENT AND CIVIC INTEREST – PATRIOTISM PROGRESS CULTURE

It’s absolutely fantastic – my idea of a perfect public building.

If the Cleveland Public Auditorium is impressive on the outside, Cleveland City Hall is magnificent on the inside.  It is, simply put, a temple – a temple to community and civic authority.  Through the Vatican-sized bronze doors, my father and I passed through the ubiquitous metal detectors, beyond which is an enormous lobby.  The arched ceiling rises several stories above the polished stone floor, and the entire room is lined with massive columns.  Two wonderful frescoes adorn either end of the room above balconies.  Even the mailbox is fancy.  We walked through the space in awe, then came to the far end, where, to our great surprise, we came upon The Spirit of ’76.  We left Cleveland City Hall quite amazed.  The building is, we discovered, Cleveland Landmark No. 1.

The next morning we had to depart for the airport.  Recalling the thirty dollar cab ride to the hotel, we opted to take the train.  It was windy and cold as we carried our luggage down Prospect Avenue to Tower City Center.  The train station is in the basement of a skyscraper.  I am ashamed to say I needed help from a Transit Authority worker.  I have been on trains and subways in some of the world’s great cities, and have managed to figure out the ticket-purchase procedure, but Cleveland had me baffled.  Still, with help we got our tickets: $4 for both of us one-way to the airport.  The train was a little late, but we had given ourselves ample time.  As the train left the station I got my last views of Cleveland.

At the airport we printed our boarding passes and passed through security.  I noticed a mounted display of all the cool stuff you cannot take on airplanes.  It was snowing again as the plane pulled away from the airport, and the skies were cloudy for hundreds of miles.  Finally, as we crossed the Appalachians we could see the land.  We changed planes in Charlotte, which has a beautiful airport, then were back in Tampa by the early afternoon. My dad and I had lunch together before heading to Uncle Tom’s house, where we relaxed until Miriam arrived from Gainesville and I went home.

The trip was a huge success and I will never forget it.  Indeed, I’d gladly go back.  People make fun of Cleveland, but I don’t know why.  It’s not Detroit.

Filed under: Cost of Living, Dana Heritage Project, Family, Film, Food, Musings, Travel on January 28th, 2011 | No Comments »

On a recent episode of the radio program City Arts and Lectures, the author Daniel Handler described reading a review of one of his books that declared it, “the penultimate novel from the penultimate novelist”.  He was justifiably taken aback.

What a coincidence, then, that today I read a Huffington Post piece about Steven Spielberg’s upcoming Abraham Lincoln biopic that includes the following sentence:

Mr. Spielberg curiously seemed determined to find an actor from across the pond to play this penultimate American president.

I wonder if anyone has told the twenty-six other gentlemen who have lived in the White House since 1869 that they don’t count.

Filed under: Film, Musings on November 22nd, 2010 | 2 Comments »

I am all for hasty generalizations, but a recent New York Times article makes a generalization so hasty that it contradicts even the most half-assed scrutiny.  In “What’s in a Film’s Title?  A Lot More Words”, Brooks Barnes writes that “never before have … compound [film] titles been so ubiquitous”.  Shrek Forever After, How to Train Your Dragon, Night at the Museum, and so on, are, according to Barnes, examples of studios extending the titles of movies to unprecedented lengths.  This is simply untrue.

I just looked through the “Classics” section on Netflix, and in an instant I came across the following: The Birth of a Nation (1915); The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928); Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937); Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (1939); The Treasure of the Sierra Madre (1948); The Best Years of Our Lives (1948); The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951); What Ever Happened to Baby Jane (1962); Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner (1967); Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1968); Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore (1974); and dozens of others, all on one page.  Those are all long, if colon-free titles.

But that isn’t the only thoughtless generalization Barnes makes.  He also writes that:

Elaborate titles can bring danger. “The more a title describes the story, the less effective it generally is,” said Dennis Rice, a marketing consultant who has held top positions at Miramax, United Artists and Disney. “You want people to know what they’re getting. But you also want to leave them wanting to learn more.”

If that’s true, explain titles like Mr. Blanding Builds His Dream House (1948), How to Marry a Millionaire (1953), and Mr Hobbs Takes a Vacation (1962).  Each of those titles tells you what the movie is about (and they are kind of long, too).  In more recent years, Snakes on a Plane (2006), and Hot Tub Time Machine (2010) each deliver exactly what they promise.

From what I can tell, Brooks Barnes was just walking to work one day, noticed someone changing the sign on a theater marquee, and thought, “Wow, that title won’t fit on there!  Titles must be longer than ever”.  Then he went home and wrote a newspaper article about it.  Did he consider that the signs for movie theaters now have to accommodate a dozen or more titles?   Meanwhile, old movie houses used to have great big marquees out front, where the feature’s title, and even its actors could be listed.  Watch this 1972 WTOG station ID featuring images of downtown Tampa at night.  At :30 you can see the front of the old Tampa Theatre, which on that night was showing The Legend of Nigger Charlie – proof that they not only had offensive movie titles back then, but long ones, too.

In an upcoming series of posts I am going to make my own generalization: summer is the season about which people have written the best songs. Stay tuned.

Filed under: Film, Musings on May 25th, 2010 | 3 Comments »