The mile square hamlet of Roosevelt had but one movie "palace," located on Nassau Road (aka Main Street) a few blocks north of
the small, quaint mom and pop "downtown" shopping area, and it was aptly named the Nassau Theater, built in the early 40s. [Our parents called it
"The Itch."] The marquee, short, but proud, jutted neatly out over the sidewalk and contained as much feature titling as space would allow. [Had
DeMille's The Ten Commandments been released as Moses And The Ten Commandments, the marquee would have read: Moses And The Ten.]
Flanking the entrance were the requisite colorful feature posters, under glass, advertising evening shows. This was adult stuff, naturally.
For the kids, though, monthly flyers were circulated by the management, usually from July to September, announcing all the upcoming, double-bill horror matinees. That, alone, was enough to cause near pandemonium. In the early 60s we didn't care a fig if the films were not quite recent vintage, or Italian imports, or just pure garbage (which made watching them all the more fun); it was all exhilarating, something to chatter about and to look forward to. And, besides, school was out, eighth grade was over, the weather was sublime... and we were free!
Waiting outside the theater on a warm Saturday afternoon in a line strung the length of nearly a block was part and parcel to the growing excitement. Here's where the real buzz started and the adrenalin pumped. The latest horror information was exchanged and, sometimes, a few editions of TERROR (probably #4 which was released in May, '64) were sold or passed along. And as we stood there, the quintessential smell of the old movie house wafted out sinuously, and those closest to the entrance eagerly embraced the collective consciousness of an atmosphere dim within, the musty odor of old carpeting and woodwork, the fading walls with their tarnished sconces, the lingering scent of the night before.
When the doors opened, the gang of us, the majority boys, barely able to contain our burgeoning enthusiasm, walked in, single-file, to the very, very small lobby area, paid our thirty-five cents to the cashier crone on the right, who inevitably looked askance at the horde of pubescents so damned anxious to see "devil films," and who had probably been selling tickets since the theater premiered. Then in an about face, we turned, walking a few feet over to the candy counter (of course). After many minutes of deciding, we bought our snacks (e.g. Bonomo's Turkish Taffy, chicken corn, pop/soda, etc.) and, clutching our goods, turned right, again, had our tickets torn in half by an equally matronly ticket-taker, and then proceeded through more doors into the very, very small theater (capacity, maybe, two hundred fifty?). Most of us stopped at the popcorn machine with the glass, Robby-the-Robot-see-through glass top. For five cents, we got a decent-sized box. [The boxes were in a holder attached to the vending machine.] And if you shook the machine a tad, you got some dregs out of the probiscus chute (with the protective metal lid--- which we rattled as well--- just in case). It was glorious.
And August of 1964 was just such a time.
That Saturday's matinee: Werewolf In A Girl's Dormitory and Carnival of Souls, neither of which any of us had ever heard of.
We were fired up as the rather tattered red curtain parted and the white screen, now somewhat yellowed, appeared. The house lights dimmed. We shifted restlessly on the ancient, squeaky fold down velvet-covered dark red seats. The anticipation was palpable--- a low murmuring energy blanketing the theater--- the air charged--- as we awaited the "Coming Attractions."
And what happened next was a first, I'm sure, in the annals of the Nassau Theater.
In the dark of the theater, the sound of a projector starting is riveting, the beam of light flowing out, seemingly in slow motion above, reaches the screen in a fantasy-reality nexus. An image appears.
It's a lake nestled in a forest. Tranquil, quiet. Then, slowly, a woman's head appears from the water, her shoulder-length blonde hair slicked back, face dripping; she is beautiful, stunning. We horror fiends don't know quite what to make of this, but our collective consciousness does. Slowly, the figure rises from the water....
Suddenly, a man's voice blaringly intones: "No film could be as daring, as evocative! In the midst of nature's bounty comes a woman so alluring, so seductive, so dangerous in her desire... that her name could only be.... LORNA!!!!"
Needless to say, when Lorna emerges high enough to have her breasts floating on the water, the image of these ten foot mammaries bobbing precariously sent us into wild, mass cacophonous hysteria. It was absolutely uproarious: Laughing, shouting, hilarious vulgarity, popcorn boxes, candy boxes, Popsicle sticks, you name it, hurled at the screen. Lorna had already emerged, waist high, with her ripe proclivities surging forward before the attending matron was able to ascend the steps to the projection booth to advise the projectionist. Too late; we were nearly uncontrollable.
At this point, the manager scurried to the front of the theater and in no uncertain terms warned us to "SHUT UP!" We did, and quickly. This was the early 60s. For the most part, kids respected adults; and, besides, we had already paid our thirty-five cents. The "cool" double horror feature was worth the calming down, albeit slowly. Oh, but what fun it was!
And the films, of course, were terrific. [Carnival of Souls has gone on to be a cult classic.] A memorable experience, obviously.
And, now, for your viewing pleasure, here's........... LORNA:
For the kids, though, monthly flyers were circulated by the management, usually from July to September, announcing all the upcoming, double-bill horror matinees. That, alone, was enough to cause near pandemonium. In the early 60s we didn't care a fig if the films were not quite recent vintage, or Italian imports, or just pure garbage (which made watching them all the more fun); it was all exhilarating, something to chatter about and to look forward to. And, besides, school was out, eighth grade was over, the weather was sublime... and we were free!
Waiting outside the theater on a warm Saturday afternoon in a line strung the length of nearly a block was part and parcel to the growing excitement. Here's where the real buzz started and the adrenalin pumped. The latest horror information was exchanged and, sometimes, a few editions of TERROR (probably #4 which was released in May, '64) were sold or passed along. And as we stood there, the quintessential smell of the old movie house wafted out sinuously, and those closest to the entrance eagerly embraced the collective consciousness of an atmosphere dim within, the musty odor of old carpeting and woodwork, the fading walls with their tarnished sconces, the lingering scent of the night before.
When the doors opened, the gang of us, the majority boys, barely able to contain our burgeoning enthusiasm, walked in, single-file, to the very, very small lobby area, paid our thirty-five cents to the cashier crone on the right, who inevitably looked askance at the horde of pubescents so damned anxious to see "devil films," and who had probably been selling tickets since the theater premiered. Then in an about face, we turned, walking a few feet over to the candy counter (of course). After many minutes of deciding, we bought our snacks (e.g. Bonomo's Turkish Taffy, chicken corn, pop/soda, etc.) and, clutching our goods, turned right, again, had our tickets torn in half by an equally matronly ticket-taker, and then proceeded through more doors into the very, very small theater (capacity, maybe, two hundred fifty?). Most of us stopped at the popcorn machine with the glass, Robby-the-Robot-see-through glass top. For five cents, we got a decent-sized box. [The boxes were in a holder attached to the vending machine.] And if you shook the machine a tad, you got some dregs out of the probiscus chute (with the protective metal lid--- which we rattled as well--- just in case). It was glorious.
And August of 1964 was just such a time.
That Saturday's matinee: Werewolf In A Girl's Dormitory and Carnival of Souls, neither of which any of us had ever heard of.
We were fired up as the rather tattered red curtain parted and the white screen, now somewhat yellowed, appeared. The house lights dimmed. We shifted restlessly on the ancient, squeaky fold down velvet-covered dark red seats. The anticipation was palpable--- a low murmuring energy blanketing the theater--- the air charged--- as we awaited the "Coming Attractions."
And what happened next was a first, I'm sure, in the annals of the Nassau Theater.
In the dark of the theater, the sound of a projector starting is riveting, the beam of light flowing out, seemingly in slow motion above, reaches the screen in a fantasy-reality nexus. An image appears.
It's a lake nestled in a forest. Tranquil, quiet. Then, slowly, a woman's head appears from the water, her shoulder-length blonde hair slicked back, face dripping; she is beautiful, stunning. We horror fiends don't know quite what to make of this, but our collective consciousness does. Slowly, the figure rises from the water....
Suddenly, a man's voice blaringly intones: "No film could be as daring, as evocative! In the midst of nature's bounty comes a woman so alluring, so seductive, so dangerous in her desire... that her name could only be.... LORNA!!!!"
Needless to say, when Lorna emerges high enough to have her breasts floating on the water, the image of these ten foot mammaries bobbing precariously sent us into wild, mass cacophonous hysteria. It was absolutely uproarious: Laughing, shouting, hilarious vulgarity, popcorn boxes, candy boxes, Popsicle sticks, you name it, hurled at the screen. Lorna had already emerged, waist high, with her ripe proclivities surging forward before the attending matron was able to ascend the steps to the projection booth to advise the projectionist. Too late; we were nearly uncontrollable.
At this point, the manager scurried to the front of the theater and in no uncertain terms warned us to "SHUT UP!" We did, and quickly. This was the early 60s. For the most part, kids respected adults; and, besides, we had already paid our thirty-five cents. The "cool" double horror feature was worth the calming down, albeit slowly. Oh, but what fun it was!
And the films, of course, were terrific. [Carnival of Souls has gone on to be a cult classic.] A memorable experience, obviously.
And, now, for your viewing pleasure, here's........... LORNA:
