The Senator

What was once common in American cities and towns is now that rare jewel you feel fortunate to merely know about. The great American cinema. I'm speaking of the sort of palace that had one large screen, ornate velvet curtains that parted to reveal it, sparkling lobby, helpful ushers. The sort of place hardly seen anymore. I grew up with a few, including the Paramount Theater in Palm Beach, but it was a transitory time; a new era of the multiplex was dawning. Theaters became shoeboxes with smaller screens. Entreprenurial types salivated at the prospect of more movies, more showtimes, potentially more asses in seats.

Places like Baltimore's 70 year-old The Senator are very unusual these days, some 30 odd years after the multiplex first appeared. Not just the single screen, but the family run, for the love of it m.o. that make them special. These places are not viewed as cash cows, but rather venues where the thrill of seeing THE THIRD MAN or PERSONA on the big screen drives enthusiasm. Comparatively though, how many patrons out there are really interested? For the millions eager to spend ten bucks for G.I. JOE, there may be a few hundred, at best.

The Carefree, a local W.P.B. theater (originally built in the 1930s) that began unspooling art house in the mid-80s, demonstrated this for years. A handful of fans would come out for indies, foreign films, quieter fare. Especially memorable was a particular Monday night when a friend and I were informed that they would not show whatever we were trying to see unless there were at least 10 people in attendance. My friend and I actually went outside the theater and tried to convince passersby to come in and see the movie. It would illustrate the reality of the economic plight of such theaters outside major cities. The Carefree would eventually close over a decade later, after a hurricane destroyed the roof and repairs proved cost prohibitive. The place is boarded up, the poster for its final film, CAPOTE, still in the glass case. Philip Seymour Hoffman's languid expression seems appropriate enough as it gazes out over Dixie Highway. I have lots of Carefree memories I'll share in another entry.

Another local one screen, The Theater, seemed promising. It opened in the early summer of 2007. For months, lists of current indie films ran in this building that had once been an Episocopal church. Oddly enough, this building is right across the street from my old junior high school. Musical artists also graced The Theater stage. I had my one and only experience there in December of that year, viewing CONTROL, a look back at the band Joy Division's formation and beyond. I was one of 10 mere souls out for a bleakly beautiful two hours. The theater's owners had JD's Substance playing before the showing, a nice touch. Even better-a seat in the very middle of the auditorium was sectioned off with yellow "crime scene" tape. Attached to the seat cushion was a photo of the film's subject, the words at the bottom reading "Reserved for the Ghost of Ian Curtis." Not sure if he showed up that day; not too many others did, apparently. The Theater has not been open for a movie or live show since then. It just sits there. A shame.

When I visit big cities especially, I make a point to catch a film at a classic uniplex. New York? Gotta go to the Ziegfeld on W. 54th, a real gem of a place. L.A.? The NuArt in Santa Monica is nice, as is the El Capitan on Hollywood Blvd. When I was there in '99, I just had to visit the famous Cinerama Dome on Sunset Blvd. No matter that I had to suffer through WILD WILD WEST; it was still a sublime theater going experience. Incredible acoustics, 86' wide concave screen. Magnificent. These theaters are are also bastions of classic decor, right down to those golden fan wall lights to the glass ticket booths. Sometimes I wish I had been born a few decades earlier to enjoy the heyday of such things!

I was invited to the Senator to see a screening of Kurosawa's RASHOMON, a film so uniquely powerful, so classic. I leapt at the opportunity. When we arrived, I looked down to find a sidewalk comprised of chalked/painted documents of various premieres over the decades. Locals like Barry Levinson and Edward Norton had more than one film represented. For my money, this spectacle of tiles held its own with Mann's Chinese Theater's famous walkway. Old school, thick glass doors awaited as we entered the lobby, an appropriately dim, muted space, posters everywhere. Terrazzo floor. I also enjoyed seeing a replica of Han Solo frozen in carbonite in the Men's Room ( Han was directly across from a gigantic 3-D cutout for INDIANA JONES & THE KINGDOM OF THE CRYSTAL SKULL by the urinals). It was like Mr. Ford was on both sides, watching me relieve myself (at least Han's eyes were closed!). The audiotorium was large and also reeked of cinema's past. Literally; I love the smell of old theaters (when they don't pump that "Environmental Air" crap). A great golden curtain made way reveal our feature presentation. No trailers, of course. In all, The Senator is a true Art Deco landmark, through and through. I imagine Baltimore locals have many tales to tell.

The timing of this visit was also interesting, as the future of the Senator was and is uncertain. The day I visited, the theater was auctioned off, back to the mortgage holder, the city of Baltimore. So, for now, The Senator will live on. I hope for years to come. I was encouraged that night to see many younger folk, and to hear them debate Kurosawa on their way out. It's nice to be exposed to this after the many other times I have had to listen to galleries of pinheads and their idiotic commentary at the multiplexes.

What was also nice that night was to learn that some of these younger ones were regulars, while others also verbalized their admiration for the increasingly rare venues that one really has to search for anymore.