------------------------------------------------------------------- Living Hell - Volume #2, Issue #8 ------------------------------------------------------------------- July 17, 2002 ============= Special Essay Writin' Fool Edition! =================================== Contents ======== o World Without Movies o License Plate Covers o The Night The Inmates Howled (teaser) World Without Movies ==================== Fourteen months ago, I stopped going to the movies. Went cold tur- key, as they say, opting out of a years-in-the-following routine of watching and reviewing two to three films a week. 'Twas a ritual initiated every Wednesday, when the coming weekend's releases were announced. I'd spend Wednesday and Thursday forming "attack strate- gies" for Friday through Sunday's movies, with factors ranging from running time-- would I be breezing through an 85-minute "quickie" or suffering a nearly three-hour epic?-- to geographic proximity, e.g. enough of a "buffer" between same-day screenings of different films at different theaters. It wasn't always a last-minute scramble, mind you, as most movies opening on a given Friday-- or, occasion- ally, on an given Wednesday-- were known about ahead of time. I had a hunch of what was coming week to week, thanks to Web-based release lists I consulted. I also called the theaters, asking if they were booked for a particular film and, more importantly, if it was show- ing on the best screen in the house! (More notable releases were marked on my personal calendar and for *highly* anticipated titles-- e.g., a seasonal blockbuster, a "Batman" movie, etc.-- I'd even take a vacation day.) Since the *specifics* of particular showings were rarely known be- fore midweek, my *weekend* plans invariably were "up in the air" un- til Wednesday. Or later. And which wreaked havoc with my personal life as friends and girlfriends didn't entirely understanding this "repeating limbo" I kept placing myself in. The merciful exception to the "Wednesday Rule" was when a "sneak preview" was attended for a coming weekend release. Advanced screenings negated the need to see a particular film on Friday or Saturday or Sunday, thus freeing precious free time. Unless, of course, I opted to screen an *addi- tional* movie on a particular weekend. Plus I got to see something for free. (Even matinee prices add up over time!) Unfortunately, said "sneaks" also their downsides. Unlikely sparsely attended Fri- day afternoon showings-- my preferred choice-- Tuesday or Wednesday or Thursday night screenings were usually packed, requiring a half- hour's early arrival to ensure decent seats. Plus armrest-sharing with the Great Unwashed, with the odds always favoring the evening's most odiferous stranger sitting *right* next to you. (If memory serves, a friend and I once rubbed something mint inside our nos- trils to counteract a nearby nicotine cloud. Might've been cold medicine...) Thankfully, my last years of sneak-peeking included "press seats," which were roped-off ahead of time and negated the need for early arriving. But those weren't the only problems. Most "sneak peeks" are sponsored, by one or two or three local media companies, usually radio or television stations. Translation: de- layed starts, due to shouted announcements, cornball cheerleading, and the requisite "shout outs" to attendee viewers slash listeners. And a giveaway or two, typically t-shirts or ball-caps, as well as pins, posters, drink holders, drink cups, sweatshirts, snow globes, cassette tapes, compact discs, and paperback books. (You should *see* my closet, friends...) Some were awarded to trivia winners-- which, when film-related, I was prone to winning-- others were tos- sed to the hungrily waiting crowd. (Was *is* it about free stuff that makes us lose all sense of propriety, anyway?) All this errata was a terrible "time eater," delaying the start of films by five or ten or sometimes fifteen minutes. Add a thirty-minute early arriv- al, plus ten minutes of trailers-- trailers that you've *already* seen ten times over-- and an entire *hour* gets wasted on top of the feature film's running time. (One solution utilized more recently: arriving "late," e.g. missing most of the "previews," but still put- ting butt in chair in time for the opening credits. Now, as to the matter of base predictability of opening scenes and the necessity of seeing versus skipping, we'll leave that for later essay...) Thus began my movie weekend, with Friday, Saturday, and sometimes Sunday already set aside for whatever films weren't "sneaked" during the week. Thus *also* began an increasingly honest amount of re- sentment regarding same. See, most people "become" a movie critic because they love watching films. So they watch *lots" of them. Or maybe *all* of them-- all of whatever lands in local theaters, mean- ing good, bad, *and* ugly. The "Dude Where's My Cars?" The "Scary Movies." The Adam Sandler starrers. And no matter the leanings of a particular reviewer, as your "numbers" climb into the hundreds or thousands, it becomes impossible to avoid a shift in perspective. Simply, the more movies you see, the more you *know* about movies. And, thus, the more readily you recognize flaws. On a good day, e- ven the most odious of films could be enjoyed on some sadistic lev- el. On not-so-good-days, such suck-fests simply glazed the eyes. The mind wandered, the buttocks grew restless, and, at least for *this* former film critic, the temptation to walk out grew stronger and stronger. (Here, have some numbers: in 1994, I walked out of one movie. In 1995, out of four. In 1996, out of four. In 1997, out of nine. In 1998, out of 11. In 1999, out of 19. In 2000, out of 32. In 2001, a partial year, out of 5. See a pattern here?) Expectedly, this inevitable "critical shift" also affects a person's *base* enjoyment of movies. Slight flaws can become glaring, over- exaggerated distractions. Or, on the flip side, below-average films might strike a chord and be seen as far *better* than objectively deserving. Yours Long Suffering attempted to sidestep this problem by assigning less-partial letter grades. Ergo, no matter if I gush- ed nor ranted in my *written* comments, I could still provide an "objective assessment" with the letter grade. Of course, this con- fused readers to no end, each wondering why I seemed to genuinely love or hate so many "B" or "C" films. If it all sounds horribly bleak-- the slow-draining of a long-savored pleasure, rest assured that "great movies" still retained their power to amaze. And not just beloved old "classics" but those all-to-rare *recent* "A" ef- forts like, oh, "Chicken Run," "The Straight Story," and "You Can Count on Me." So, no, endless reviewing wasn't entirely an exercise in diminishing returns. Rewards were reaped both big and small-- an honestly great movie once every two or three months, or just a really good *scene* in an otherwise exceptionally unexceptional film. Plus, I derived no small pleasure from the mechanical acts of writing, reviewing, and self-editing movie reviews. Equally enjoyable were the routine tasks of running a Web site. (So sue me, I enjoy certain repeti- tive, detail-oriented tasks...) Most fun of all, though, was the mail. Fan letters, which I'd read and usually respond to. Compli- ments were sweet, succulent strokings, but nowhere near as much as fun as the disagreements. Or outright blasts. So much fun, in fact, that I compiled and posted *compilations* of the most colorful missives every couple of months. (With sardonic asides, of course, by Yours Parenthetical.) Then came the waiting. Following the posting of the reviews on Sun- day or Monday, I'd wait to hear from friends or family members who were mailed personal copies, hopefully chuckling at some in-joke or odd comment targeted at them. (Writers write for *remembered* read- ers, says me.) I'd wait to hear from the error-checkers and proof- readers and other obsessive types who were so good at finding typos, misspellings, and factual errors. (For filmographies and the like, I relied largely on the Internet Movie Database. Fabulous site.) And every now and then, I'd discover that the *wrong* review had been sent and would hastily resend or repost the correct one. (In earlier years, truth be told, I also wondered about the "critical consensus" and, after watching and reviewing a movie, would ask my- self "am I the only one who liked / didn't like it?") So passed the years of an Internet-based movie reviewer. No pay. Little glory. Some gratis, notably in the form of sneak-preview pass and a handful of "screener" tapes (or DVDs) at the end of the year. Got some major minor recognition. And one helluva weekly writing exercise. Eight years and around 1200 reviews, pursued every. single. week, even when on vacation. Even when on trips. And *especially* on holidays, when multiple major releases collided at the cineplex. And then one day in May, 2001, I'd had my fill. Just like that. I posted a couple announcements, notified a few folks, and stopped going to the movies. Just like that. Oh sure, I've been back. Maybe a half-dozen times. Even saw "Spiderman." By my heart hasn't been in it. My attention too easily wanes and I'm bored after an hour. Or less. Nor have I been watching new movies on *tape*. They don't interest me, either. Only the "old- ies" have made my play lists-- favored favorites like "Blazing Sad- dles," "Revenge of the Pink Panther," and "Airplane!" Sold most of my film books. Cancelled most of my movie magazine subscriptions. And *attempted* to turn that voluminous amount of energy into some- thing more compelling. Fourteen months later, the results have been relatively successful. Instead of compulsively attending and reviewing movies, I'm compul- sively collecting fire models, acquiring fire books, and researching histories of local fire departments. I still open Friday's paper and turn straight to the movie listings. The phantom limb hasn't *completely disappeared*. I'm still writing, too, mostly humorous and topical stuff. And, where Movie Hell Dot Com was once updated every week, Legeros Dot Com now bears the brunt of my focused ener- gies. I was even given a DVD player for Christmas and have since discovered the stress-releasing benefits of replayed comedy. Like Mel Brooks first appearance in "Saddles," Sellars as Clouseau as La- trec in "Panther," or the airplane crew "on instruments." Nearly a world without movies. I've even become calm when visiting the gro- cery story, finally insulated to the oppressive barrage of video posters promoting ill-remembered movie titles. Nor do I cringe any more when browsing Blockbuster. Bad movies fade. Bad experiences are forgotten. And only beloved friends remain. Like Striker. Or Kato. Or Heddy. That's Hedley. License Plate Covers ==================== Don't know if they're legal, but they sure seem an effective defense against revenue-generating schemes involving cameras, traffic sig- nals, and flash photography: http://www.phantomplate.com/techinfo.html The Night The Inmates Howled ============================ "Gentlemen, you may call me a sentimentalist, if you will, and an idealist, if you desire, but it is not upon these grounds that I am appealing to you now," says State Fire Marshall Sherwood Brockwell at the last North Carolina Legislature, concluding his latest appeal for protective measures. "I am appealing to you as a business pro- position. As sure as you live, if fire ever breaks out in institu- tions like the State Hospital without an adequate sprinkler system, it's a goner I tell you, for you'll never be able to stop the fire." The State Hospital For The Insane is the preferred text of the for- mer Raleigh Fire Chief and first head of the department, when the RFD became paid professionals in 1912. He has "begged, beseeched and implored" successive legislatures to install sprinkler systems in such institutions and, as entertainment at Rotary and Kiwanis luncheons, he has carried his appeal all across the state. Nor is he above "pleading on bended knee" to budget commissions and legis- lative bodies, some members of which have tears in their eyes when he's finished. But still no sprinklers at Dix Hill. And thus the exquisite irony in April, 1926, when Brockwell lent his seasoned hand at Raleigh's biggest fire in years. At the State Hospital. Saturday, April 10. The headlines of the five-cent "Raleigh Times" trumpet "President of China Deposed," "Cake Eater To Pay Penalty In Electric Chair," and "When Is A Pound Of Shot Worth Almost $2,000?" (The latter's subheading reads "Faulty Scale Weight Case Reaches Su- preme Court.") Advertisements ask "Tired? Run Down? Eat SHREDDED WHEAT, contains all the vitamins" and "Have you ever heard the statement 'Oh, I don't want to go there for luncheon, I know their menu by heart-- I want something different.' Our policy is to change the menu. CAROLINA CAFE." There's a dirigible over France, some dead British airmen, and one "Lieutenant MacReady" who failed to break some record after having reached "an altitude of 34,000 feet." And, at 12:55 p.m. that day, the first alarm for a fire at the In- sane Asylum. Flames are discovered "bursting from a small window in the attic at the center of the north wing of the main building." The wing that houses the men's wards. [ To be continued ] Copyright 2002 by Michael J. Legeros ------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------------------------   Home Search Mike Legeros Copyright 2023 by Michael J. Legeros