[Granville-Hough] 7 Apr 2009 - Mize, Hollyood and Saratoga

[Trustees and Executors for Granville W. Hough]

  For today, I have one of Harold
  Hopkin's delightful recollections from the late 1920's,
  written in the 1970's.

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  Mize, Hollywood, and Saratoga


    By Harold Hopkins

 A few nights ago I handed over a ten dollar bill  for the (grand) 
children to go down to the  shopping center theater and see one of 
Hollywood’s latest stings.   This hush money silenced the usual 
electronic caterwauling from various parts of the  house and gave me 
time to think about  how it was when the cinema first baited its hook 
for suckers at Mize, Mississippi, many decades ago.
 
Life was not so sophisticated then.  Cinema at Mize was presented from 
time to time by successive invasions of hard-bitten motion picture 
operators who came to town for a week or two weeks and pitched their 
circus type tents on a large vacant lot right by the railroad at the 
center of town where the track crossed the road that goes south from 
town to the  (Sullivan's) holler.  One of these  large tents probably 
could have  held most of the population of Mize.  They were fastened 
down by  ropes tied to steel stakes made from old automobile axles   
driven into the ground and the  tent's center poles were steadied from 
outside by long guy ropes stretching some distance away from the tent.   
The seats inside were a scaffolding of backless wooden benches where  
one quickly forgot one's  discomfort upon becoming absorbed in the story.
 
We called it  the Picture Show, because we hadn’t got the word that 
others  called it a movie.  Movie Star  was also an unfamiliar term.  We 
called the male star the Main Player,  and the heroine the Main Player’s 
Girl. Most of us knew  names such as Tom Mix and Yakima Canutt from 
reading their names on the colored  posters in front of the tent, and we 
also knew the name of any  horse that was able to do simple arithmetic, 
whinny on cue, or use his teeth to untie the ropes with which the 
outlaws tied up the Main Player in half the picture episodes.   The 
casting and plot seldom got so thick that you had to wonder who was who 
or what they were up to, even if you were  unable to read the printed 
dialogue or narrative that flashed on the screen about every third or 
fourth camera shot. The Picture Show  of those days called for  plenty 
of improvisation by all, including the viewer.
 
For instance, the screen action stopped and the lights were turned on at 
least seven times during a feature presentation.   This was the number 
of reels that had to be changed during each performance and no 
proprietor could afford two alternating projectors. It was the same when 
the film broke, as  it did frequently.  There were no commercials, but 
some proprietors took advantage of the lull to peddle little boxes of 
salt water taffy at inflated prices.  After a few minutes of film 
threading, rewinding, or patching, and if nothing else went wrong, the 
show would  continue and you were once again galloping up the gulch.
 
A part of the excitement when the lights came on, particularly after the 
first reel or so, was to look around you to see who  had slipped into 
the Picture Show under cover of darkness. Slipping or sneaking into the 
tent was an art brought to perfection by teen age boys in Mize who had 
made a close study of the strategy and tactics involved. Essentially, it 
consisted of lying in wait in a ditch or behind weeds or shrubbery 
outside, then when the lights went off and those inside the tent were 
adjusting their eyes to the darkness, you lifted the side flap of the 
tent, slid under on  your belly, groped your way to an empty seat, and 
quickly adjusted yourself to the make believe taking place on the screen.
 
 The   Picture Show's crew consisted of  the operator and usually  two 
or three others, either hired men  or members of  his family, who  
pitched the tent, ran the admissions gate and the projector, sold candy, 
and kept the equipment in running condition.  Some of these pioneer 
showmen had led rather hectic economic existences and generally were far 
more worldly wise than the people at Mize.  But all of them seemed to be 
well aware that some of the boys at Mize would attempt to  slip under 
the tent flaps to view the celluloid fantasies, perhaps  from similar 
experience they'd had in other towns where they'd traveled.
 
The operator was   smart  enough to realize that some of the boys were 
sons of the town’s sturdiest citizens and put up only a token defense 
against slipping in, hoping there’d be enough paid admissions to turn a 
profit. But a few operators, perhaps facing installments on their 
equipment or maybe in hock to Hollywood for film rentals, would get 
bitter and vindictive against the practice of slipping  into the show 
and would work at ways to frustrate the slippers.  Those of the crew 
that could be spared would be stationed beside the tent flaps to spot 
the slippers, then would hustle out  these embarrassed youths they 
caught to the general delight of the paying audience at this extra 
entertainment.
 
I’ve forgotten the name of one of the toughest operators but I won’t 
forget what happened to him.  Let’s call him Jake.  Jake was determined 
that nobody would see his Picture Show without paying the necessary  
quarter admission.  He’d spent some time working out elaborate and 
effective systems or devices to foil the slippers.  He met improvisation 
with improvisation, trick with trick. And he succeeded.  In a few days 
Jake brought slipping into his show to a standstill. He had won. He 
knew  how to  handle these country boys.
 
So Jake couldn’t help but smirk a bit when Saturday  night came and the 
town’s entertainment seekers lined up  outside his tent with their 
quarters. He spotted a face here and there that he remembered catching 
earlier.   But a few  of the gamest  slippers were missing.  Had they 
decided to stay home?
 
Not exactly.   Several were hidden in the ditches outside, waiting for 
the evening train.  As it  puffed to a stop, they quickly unhooked 
several of the  longest of the tent's guy ropes from the steel stakes 
and retied them to the side of the train.
 
Inside the Picture  Show viewers had nearly filled  the tent and the 
evening's  dramatic  offering was set to begin.  Since there was no 
sound track for the Picture Show the huffing and hissing noises of the 
train nearby didn’t bother the audience.  The opening shots flashed on 
the screen and the audience settled back to watch.  The train outside 
was getting ready to depart for the junction village of  Saratoga a few 
miles  up the track, from which it would head to points north and west. 
It began to  huff as it gathered steam and moved slowly away.
 
Just then the tent collapsed and was pulled along up the track, leaving 
tiers full of showgoers sitting there under the starry sky.  Of course 
the train's engineer soon noticed that something wasn’t right and 
stopped the train before it reached the  Clear Creek trestle west of 
town. Here the tent was unhooked  and Jake and his crew recovered it.  
And folded it.  And slipped out of town before the Sabbath dawned. And 
never came back.
 
The time was not far ahead when the Picture Show would add sound and 
Hollywood would be churning out stories that became more and more 
extravagant and more and more difficult to believe. But for a few  
minutes there at Mize  long ago a few boys dreamed  up an ending for a 
picture show that matched Hollywood at its wildest.