By CP Staff
By Ed Huyck
By Ed Huyck
By Ed Huyck
By Ed Huyck
By Ed Huyck
By Ed Huyck
So I'm thinking about moving to Hollywood--the "dirty town," as River Phoenix called it. He died there, and I was born there, although the enormous hospital tower where spirit became flesh is now painted a shocking turquoise and has a sign as big as God on top that reads, "SCIENTOLOGY" in electric lights. It's amazing what the insecurity of life in the entertainment industry at the end of the millennium will create. It'll turn the personal and professional neuroses of thousands of remotely intelligent people into cash, and that cash into white neon glowing in the night under a cement-white sky.
But premillennial insecurity doesn't just create big blue cult compounds. It also builds "stadium seating" gigaplexes like the 16-screen Lakeville Theater. (Not Lakeville "Cinema" or "Multiplex": In Lakeville, Minn., circa 1998, "Theater" apparently means just one thing.) Last Friday, at the whim of my sleep-deprived and possibly misanthropic editors, I spent 10 hours inside that outpost of the dirty town--sitting in the dark, picking caramel off my teeth, and consuming six versions of the same movie. It was unreal.
The Lakeville Theater's lobby is a grand, airy creation, with ceilings two stories high and wall-mounted TVs showing what looks like children's cable. It doesn't, however, have the gratuitously gluttonous vibe of Mall of America. Built on something like a human scale, it's reminiscent of a small train station; you buy your ticket, enter the lobby, and wait until the "porters" start seating. And that's appropriate: Moviegoing is Americans' preferred form of travel. And travel, for us, is a form of sleepwalking. We like to see pretty, happy dream-people when we go to Jamaica, and we want the same in our movies.
The rest of the building is closer to a high-school corridor: A long, eggplant-colored hallway runs perpendicular to the lobby, forming a T, with doors every few yards leading to the 16 movie theaters. (Think also of the hall of magic doors in Yellow Submarine, where the Beatles played hide 'n' seek.) The theaters themselves are much larger than I expected, though the stadium seating isn't nearly as impressive or IMAX-like as it sounds. (According to management, the between-row rise is about 12 inches.)
When you attend the first matinee of the day, it feels as if you've sneaked in for a private screening. The place is empty but for three or four apparently unemployed, jolly fellow truants; the carpets are immaculate; the staff is slow and cheerful. Walking the artificially darkened hallways feels like a minor infraction against nature; sitting in the dark is definitely naughty. And when you stay for a second and third (or fourth) movie, you begin to think you run the joint. I started walking that muffled corridor feeling like a happier version of the kid in The Shining. "It's mine, all mine! Those ghost-operated bathroom sinks and scary self-flushing toilets--mine! What's behind this creepy portal? Eek! Max Von Sydow!"
Most of all, though, you feel safe. The interior space is so dim, chunky, and supersized, you could almost believe you're holed up in some bunker. The millennial doomsday the Scientologists predict could be dawning outside and you'd feel just fine. The dark horses of the reign of terror might be galloping by; enemy militia could be rounding up the unbelievers, and interrogators firing up the hot lead enemas. But you'd be secure with a year's supply of popcorn and a selection of movies about the golden days of the late 20th century, when everything was still possible if we only believed.
Pleasantville seemed a suitable way to begin the Lakeville binge, especially since its spiritual mother, The Wizard of Oz, was playing down the hall. But this film is more like a Twilight Zone episode that has metastasized. It uses colorization gimmickry to draw a cute metaphor for the sexual and cultural revolution of the 1960s: A hotsy-totsy girl from the '90s descends on a black-and-white Beaver-ville, and her ferocious pheromones contaminate everyone. Formerly white kids turn "colored" (thunk!) and start playing Miles Davis on the diner jukebox. Mom masturbates for the first time and the tree out front bursts into flames. One thing leads to another, and suddenly the oppressed and beautiful colored people must make the black-and-whites see the truth: If we can only get in touch with our feelings, starting with lust and anger, we'll see that inside we are all people of color.
Yes, after all these years, black people are still carrying the emotional and spiritual baggage for whites, even when there isn't a black face in the entire cast (or the theater). And it's not just Pleasantville. Cuba Gooding Jr. does it for Robin Williams in What Dreams May Come (though, judging from poor Annabella Sciorra's parade of headgear, What Wigs May Come is more like it). In Living Out Loud, Queen Latifah does the job for Holly Hunter, though her regal stature and quiet centeredness belie any sense of servitude. (Living Out Loud was by far the finest film I saw at Lakeville, by the way.)
Strangely, in one scene of Living Out Loud, I spotted behind Holly Hunter an actress with bizarrely gorgeous gams--who turned out to be one of my best girlfriends from years back. Dear, sweet, intelligent, soulful Paige is trying to make it as an actress in Hollywood. She works at a Gen-X gift store by day and spends a fair amount of time recovering from the deaths by cancer of both her parents. She's too scared at the moment to go on auditions, but got this gig through her sister in order to get her union card. Three days' work for five seconds of film. Sitting alone on the job in Lakeville, I saw my Paige sitting alone at her job in Hollywood, and I wished I could call her down off the screen or step inside with her. But Lakeville isn't Pleasantville.