When I was a kid, my paternal grandparents lived in the very small town of Bamberg, South Carolina. Each summer, we would drive down from Indiana for a
week-long visit. After catching up with relatives, going to the library, visiting the folks at Pal Gas, hanging out at Murphy's Department store and
flipping through comics at Rexall Drugs, there was still plenty of time to kill. Only a few blocks away from my grandparents' house was the Little Theatre
on the main street of town. Getting a few bucks from my mom, I would often find myself, my brother and my cousin Bruce shuffling down the sidewalk to the
small, intimate theater.
It was there that I saw THE VALLEY OF GWANGI for the first time. Actually, since no one cleared the theater between shows, we would often stay and see the movie again, so I actually saw it there for the first, second, third and fourth times. And over the years, I saw other films there, too: HERBIE RIDES AGAIN, A BOY NAMED CHARLIE BROWN, HORROR HOUSE and BLOOD AND LACE. The space was small, the air was musty, but in the dark with a bucket of popcorn in my hands, it was magical.
As I grew older and came to visit, the theater became less kid-friendly and geared itself toward a black audience with blaxploitation pics like THE LEGEND OF NIGGER CHARLEY, BOSS NIGGER and NIGGER LOVER (there was a theme in titles back then). For the latter, I remember calling the theater to see what was playing and hearing a luridly garish voice on the message that was a bit disturbing yet strangely luring entice me with the movie's taglines ("Honky Mother! You ain't no soul brother!"). I wasn't 17 yet, so I didn't go, not that my mom would have let me see a film where the newspaper ad showed a very muscular shirtless black man carrying off a scantily-clad white woman anyway.
As time went by, the Little Theatre fell on hard times. It closed down, then re-opened a few years later as a dinner theater. This, apparently, was not successful, either.
A month ago, I travelled to Folly Beach, SC and my folks and I took a day trip back to Bamberg to see the old family homes and other sights. My grandparents' house was still there, but dilapidated with rotting floorboards and overgrown weeds. As my mom and dad chatted with my uncle and aunt, my hubby and I decided to walk the now cracked and broken sidewalk to the main street of town. I pointed out sights such as where my Great-grandmother Miss Hadwin lived and my Aunt Leen's place and how they didn't like each other. I showed him Aunt Dale's place and how we used to have pea shooter fights there. Then we came onto the main street and I froze. There was my Little Theatre, still looking a lot like it did, only boarded up. Ladders and workmen were criss-crossing the front of the building, one ladder stretched up to the sign.
I asked one of the workmen what was happening, and he said that the building had been sold and the new owner wanted the sign taken down. He didn't know what it would be used for, but it wouldn't be a theater any longer.
My husband snapped the picture you see above, and I thought it was ironic that in the decades since I've been back to this small town, the one day I returned was the day the building would for-never be a movie house again.
My thanks to the owners and operators of the Little Theatre. They will never know the impact their little theater had on me and how it shaped me forever.
DOCTOR 13
It was there that I saw THE VALLEY OF GWANGI for the first time. Actually, since no one cleared the theater between shows, we would often stay and see the movie again, so I actually saw it there for the first, second, third and fourth times. And over the years, I saw other films there, too: HERBIE RIDES AGAIN, A BOY NAMED CHARLIE BROWN, HORROR HOUSE and BLOOD AND LACE. The space was small, the air was musty, but in the dark with a bucket of popcorn in my hands, it was magical.
As I grew older and came to visit, the theater became less kid-friendly and geared itself toward a black audience with blaxploitation pics like THE LEGEND OF NIGGER CHARLEY, BOSS NIGGER and NIGGER LOVER (there was a theme in titles back then). For the latter, I remember calling the theater to see what was playing and hearing a luridly garish voice on the message that was a bit disturbing yet strangely luring entice me with the movie's taglines ("Honky Mother! You ain't no soul brother!"). I wasn't 17 yet, so I didn't go, not that my mom would have let me see a film where the newspaper ad showed a very muscular shirtless black man carrying off a scantily-clad white woman anyway.
As time went by, the Little Theatre fell on hard times. It closed down, then re-opened a few years later as a dinner theater. This, apparently, was not successful, either.
A month ago, I travelled to Folly Beach, SC and my folks and I took a day trip back to Bamberg to see the old family homes and other sights. My grandparents' house was still there, but dilapidated with rotting floorboards and overgrown weeds. As my mom and dad chatted with my uncle and aunt, my hubby and I decided to walk the now cracked and broken sidewalk to the main street of town. I pointed out sights such as where my Great-grandmother Miss Hadwin lived and my Aunt Leen's place and how they didn't like each other. I showed him Aunt Dale's place and how we used to have pea shooter fights there. Then we came onto the main street and I froze. There was my Little Theatre, still looking a lot like it did, only boarded up. Ladders and workmen were criss-crossing the front of the building, one ladder stretched up to the sign.
I asked one of the workmen what was happening, and he said that the building had been sold and the new owner wanted the sign taken down. He didn't know what it would be used for, but it wouldn't be a theater any longer.
My husband snapped the picture you see above, and I thought it was ironic that in the decades since I've been back to this small town, the one day I returned was the day the building would for-never be a movie house again.
My thanks to the owners and operators of the Little Theatre. They will never know the impact their little theater had on me and how it shaped me forever.
DOCTOR 13
