THE
MIKE
DURRETT
SHOW
Today's Episode:
Shining the Light on Dinosaurs
Dateline: 06/01/98
The call of the wild. I shuffled through the newspaper and saw the advertisement. Godzilla, the big galoot, telepathically shouted to me, "Come! Come! Bring cash! Come! Come!"
A few minutes later, we were in the car cruising into the sunset to see the dinosaur. And here's the nice touch; we were going to a dinosaur. We would be watching Godzilla at a drive-in theatre.
Exiting Attractions
The once popular American pastime of outdoor movie viewing from the back seat of a bad Chevy has been in decline since, believe it or not, around 1955, when there were as many as 4340 open-air locations. By 1987, that figure had dropped under a 1000. Today, the number seems to be anybody's guess (mine is seven to eight hundred), as some seasonal operations won't be reopening this summer and others are missing in action.
The drive-in theatre, as a breed, is a dinosaur, unfortunately. These animals have fallen victims, among other factors, to rising real estate prices, daylight saving time logistics hindering early risers, poorly maintained and managed theatres, the proliferation of the R-rated movie, the decline of the family film, television's blanket growth, and an insidious little item known as the video cassette.
There are a few blips of hope for the drive-ins, though. In recent years, some older locations have subdivided, inserting additional screens, to the financially necessary detriment of the viewing experience; plus, an occasional site has reopened after a long period of dormancy; or, as the lucky residents of Argo, Alabama, are discovering, a completely new facility has been built from the ground up.
The overall future of the ozoners is bleak -- search them out, go
while you still can, and make some memories. There is nothing as enjoyable as a good movie under a cool, clear
sky, at a properly operated moonlit theatre.
Our Feature Presentation
We inched up the lane, humming the TV main title music from The Flintstones. The long string of cars and mini-vans moved ahead and we found ourselves alongside the box office window.
"Two for Godzilla, please; and thank you so much," I gushed. I can be a crackingly polite little guy when I want to be.
"Nine-fifty," the cashier said.
"No, sir," I said. "We're supposed to go right on in; so, if you'll show us the way --"
"Nine-fifty," he repeated.
"Sign," I pointed. "See that sign, sir? It says very clearly, 'Children: Under 12, Free.'"
"You have no children," he said.
"Exactly! We have under twelve children."
I looked at him. He looked at me. I looked at him. He looked at me. I looked at him. He looked at me.
"From the town of Bedrock," my wife hummed.
I looked at him. He looked at me. He looked at me. He took an extra turn.
"Go on," he said, defeated.
We were in! Victory is sweet.
"Way to go, Fred," my wife said.
"Thanks, Wilma."
I maneuvered the car up, over, down, up, over, down, across the inclined parking hills to the front ramp, center. I parked, squeezing our vehicle in between a pick-up truck full of yelping tots tossing wienies into a Sterno wok, and a teenager straddling a folding lounge chair with a hand full of his date in his left and a romantic citronella bug bomb in his right. He was giving me ideas. Winky-wink.
"Honey?" I asked, rascally.
"Yes?" she cooed in that breathless way she sometimes gets with me -- and tonight, I didn't think it was her asthma.
"Remember our first time at the drive-in?" I recalled. "When we snuggled... and smooched... and swapped arias?" She lowered her eyes, prepared to eject into my bucket seat, slinked closer, hurriedly loading puckers into her facial apparatus.
"Yes-ss...," she trailed off. I could barely hear her.
"Well, as long as you remember! Where's the bug spray?"
She looked at me. I looked at her. She spritzed me soundly, two cans. I felt a pint of repellent drip and splash onto my floorboard.
"Sweetie?" I said. "Give me $800." She produced our snack wad and I was off to the refreshment center.
I decided against the corn dogs. How many of those coveted wooden collector's sticks can you fit into a bank box, anyway?
I chose to eat light, settling for the small big-as-my-head Pepsi and the
butt-sized bucket o' salt, lightly popcorned.
It's Showtime!
I returned to the car, fumbling in the fresh darkness. The movie started, and the picture was dark, too.
"What? No cartoon?" I blatted, as the feature credits rolled faintly on the screen.
"Fred, you are the cartoon," Wilma reminded me.
"Oh, yeah, I forgot," I whispered.
The major drawback of drive-ins for me is the dim projection. For technical reasons, it's very difficult to get enough light to properly brighten the open air screen image. I had difficulty following the plot because I couldn't make the pictures out.
"I can't make-out, either," said Wilma.
I knew Godzilla was a heavily-loaded special effects flick; but I forgot what that meant. These spooky movies always take place at night. Most folks think it's atmosphere in order to make the story scarier. Nope, the low light hides the cheesy effects. You're less likely to notice the big monster is a marionette, if it's too dark to see his strings. Add the cinematography's dimness to the projection light deficit and I was lost.
I was having trouble deciding if Godzilla were some sort of reptile. I caught a few rumors at the candy counter that he might be a bit oversized. I could see nothing. I got out of the car and walked thirty paces to underneath the screen. I struck a match, held it up. Still couldn't see the dinosaur.
Back in my seat, I listened to loud, loud monster noises and crashing sounds of objects breaking, like shattered windows, exploded bombs, and, maybe a pie plate. Yes, I definitely heard a pie plate hit the ground; as I'm guessing this Godzilla chap was what -- a nuisance?
Suddenly! I saw it! Something hideously scary! A mosquito the size of a four-slice bagel toaster flew in through the car window and out through the opposite side. Maybe he smelled our repellent, or was just shortcutting to the wienie tots.
I finished my popcorn and soft drink, and was working on a box of God-Nilla Wafers, when I recognized the large room on the movie screen. A room at Madison Square Garden, of all places, filled with giant, 10-feet tall eggs, dozens, maybe hundreds of them. It was like an Easter egg hunt at Delta Burke's house.
"Let's leave, Fred," my wife said. "I can't tell what's going on; and, besides, I'm hungry."
"Sure, wanna stop at the drive-in diner and get a stack of ribs, like me and Barney?"
"Nope. I'm craving omelets. New York omelets."
Trailer
Our visit to the drive-in theatre took place on Saturday evening. Unknown to us, there was an ad placed in the Sunday paper announcing the permanent closing of the 33-year-old showplace. This theatre, located 30 miles from home, was the most recent drive-in built in Atlanta. In 1954, there were 128 drive-ins in Georgia. In 13 nights, there will be four. .
About Your Guide: Mike Durrett has had a lifelong love affair with drive-in theatres. He considers the coup of his existence to be the time he manipulated his mother to drive him to a double feature program of Munster, Go Home and The Ghost and Mr. Chicken. He remains disinherited.
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