Mesmerized and tantalized at the old Columbia Theater

Christopher Lee's "Dracula" never really gave me the creeps. Yet, I admired his tenacity.

Though the urbane bloodsucker  always managed a decent body count for 90 minutes or so, I knew by that by the end, the erudite, sanctimonious Peter Cushing’s “Van Helsing” would drive a stake through his nemesis’ heart or boldly burn his towering rival into ashes with a crucifix. Game over for you, Chris, and your foul minions at Hammer Films, though I was always a bit sorry to his buxom, toothsome groupies bite the dust.

Growing up in Evansville, Indiana, in the early 1960s, Sunday was typically a day of much theater for me. It began early in the morning at Friendship Southern Baptist Church. One of the most gentle and congenial men I remember from that time was the pastor, Brother Elliott Williams. 

Soft-spoken and always joking, when he took to the pulpit he morphed and delivered a blend of Richard III and Sam Kinison, sans the cursing, yelping about burning lakes and the precious blood of the Lamb. As the service came to an end with altar call, he’d be nearly in tears while his wife Fanny and daughter Cathy played Softly and Tenderly Jesus is Calling on the keys. 

As you left the church Brother Williams would  pump your hand and grin. I always liked and still admire this man.

 

But in all honesty, the best drama that day was yet to come. For you see, many Sunday afternoons my brother and I and our cousins were treated to the latest attractions at the Columbia Movie Theater.

Here’s how plans usually went down: George and I would get home from church, change into some scruffy clothes and Dad would steer us to the theater to meet our cousins at about noon. Oddly, he always seemed to be in a big hurry to drop us off and get home, peeling away like a racer leaving the pits at Indy. Sometimes he would even stop the car so we could exit safely.

We were given roughly $1.50, each. Fifty-cents got you into the theater and you’d have a full buck to load up on the healthy, syrupy machine-colas, Milk Duds, popcorn, Raisinets, Lemonheads and other healthy choices.  

After plunking down our four bits to get in, we’d file into the lobby, scoping out the posters of coming attractions, looking for familiar faces, grabbing our first load of grub, and then file into the lower level to find seats. 

The balcony level was reserved for the older kids with dates – the proverbial making-out mezzanine.  Eeewwwww!!!!!

The pre-movie trailers always were goofy. One I remember was a warning about the penalties for vandalism, depicting some snarly-toothed teen punching a knife into a seat. A preview or two of next week’s movies. As the lights dimmed, the ushers would begin their rounds with their flashlights; these were guys with Brylcreem-slicked hair, toothpicks in their mouths and probably carrying switchblades. Then, the magic would begin with the main feature.

Endless Elvis: Always a cool guy a bit down on his luck engaged in some high-energy activity. Woos a chick or two, sings a few songs, finally meets whatever challenge – usually a care race or some tropical business enterprise. Can’t remember a flick that no matter the situation the “King” wasn’t thrown a guitar from off-stage to him. Viva Las Vegas. He never did appear in a flick with him buying the farm sitting on a toilet in some faded mansion.

Japanese King Kong and Other Menaces: The towering ape started out as an enemy. Became an edgy ally and transformed into a hero after whooping Godzilla’s scaly butt. They duo later teamed up to fight earth-bound and extraterrestrial mutants. Tokyo took more falls in these flicks than Nixon’s cabinet.

Spy Guys: Ah, the Cold War. Kruschev beating his shoe at the UN; Castro bellowing political one-liners like a Havana pimp; and JFK talking about a “New Frontier.” Forget all that diplomatic dreck. There was Dean Martin as Matt Helm,” the Grinch-looking James Coburn as Flint. And there was Bond… James Bond. The real one – Sean Connery. What prepubescent punk at that time cannot remember this? Ursula Andress walking onto the beach in the white bikini at the beginning of Dr. No. We whispered Yeeeeesssssss!

Endless Summer:  Frankie Avalon and Annette Funicello hanging out with their beach buddies in southern California. Why there’s “Deadhead,” sputtering hillbilly gibberish while the cycle gang leader, Eric Von Zipper, is  spacing  out after getting the mesmerizing finger to the temple. No, not that finger. Very convincing surfing scenes, too, with 50-foot waves chasing Frankie while he crooned love tunes to the former pinup Mouseketeer. If a summer movie title or advertisement didn't mention the words "beach, bikini" or "beatnik," it really wasn't of this genre.

War, What is it Good For?:  Absolutely everything in the early 1960s. Most of our Dads played roles in that tragic, unavoidable drama less than two decades before. Only seemed fitting we would be reminded and inspired  by such  tales such as Bridge Over the River Kwai (recycled from the 1950s), Battle of the Bulge, The Longest Day, The Dirty Dozen and a litany of small-budgeted films of that time. Those of us who a few years later went into the military realized why our Dads didn’t talk too much about their experiences. Cinema isn't real -- and war is too far unreal. 

The first movie always was followed by a serial or two – usually a vintage black-and-white Batman or a mottled Lowell Thomas travel adventure. The final feature usually brought Messrs. Lee and Cushing to the screen, or a cheaply made European horror fests, starring buxom ladies, lusty neer-do-well patrician punks, and a cast of thousands of every cliché and ilk.

Years later, after I became a father, I understood why my Dad was always in a rush to get home to Mom after dropping us off at the theater on a Sunday afternoon.

I miss that musty, old Columbia Movie Theater, the smell of the stale popcorn, and horrible whiffs of urinal cakes marinating in the boy’s restroom. The howls, the screams and the laughter shimmering from a screen showing us worlds that did not exist, but shared with us still. It was a good time and fun; a safe haven for kids whose dreams were beginning to spawn.

It was a great time to be a kid. And not a bad way to spend an afternoon after church.