6 of 10

by Kathleen Richardson

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In the 1950s, when theaters, downtown and drive-in, thrived in New York's small towns, Saturday morning matinees were popular and the youngest of us attended en masse while our parents remained at home-mom cleaning the house and dad handling the outdoor chores.

Movies weren't rated or age restricted until the Motion Picture Association of American's film ratings were set in place in 1968. Up to that point, it would be parents' responsibility to decide which movies were suitable for their children. That would not, however, stop a determined youngster from telling parents of one destination, such as a friend's house, while actually heading for another the movie theater. Then, as now, the more forbidden a movie was, the more it appealed to us.

We would arrived early, and march up and down the theater aisle in an effort to spot and stake a claim on the best seat in the house. The bravest of us wanted to be dead center in the front two or three rows where we craned our necks upward and held our eyes wide open as we strained to see the entire screen. Others of us chose seating far enough back so that we could take quick action if and when something on the screen alarmed us. We didn't know exactly what was coming. We didn't want to know. Yet, we had to know.

Theater seating was comprised of hard, thin wood. Individual "chairs" were linked together and a spring mechanism forced the seats to remain upright as long as they were unoccupied. One our favorite pastimes was to perch lightly on the front edge of the upright seat, then lift our feet and shift our weight so that we slid backward into place as the seat came down with a bang.

Throughout the world news, the cartoons and the movie, we would giggle and boast of the impossibility of anything on that gigantic screen scaring us.

At the moment we realized we were about to be shocked, whispers would cease and intakes of breath would echo throughout the theater. The weakest of us would crouch on our knees on the theater floor, taking hesitant peeks through the inches of space between two seats in front of us. Some of us even had the added protection of our hands in front of our faces so we could slowly, carefully part our fingers just enough to catch a tiny glimpse of the action on the screen. When the suspense or the visuals were too horrifying, we clamped our fingers tight again.

As frightful as we knew the movie itself might be, the newsreels and cartoons would often set us up for the shocks of the main feature. The world news was accompanied by dramatic music, usually featured imposing presidents and despots, and it often made the world seem a big, frightening place.

Cartoons weren't much better. No Mr. Rogers. No Captain Kangaroo or Mr. Green Jeans. No Sesame Street. This was animated characters-usually cute, fuzzy animals-fighting, blowing up, and threatening to eat each other. If the action didn't shock or impress us, the words certainly did. We learned many ways to criticize and insult. We, in turn, went on to shock our parents and society in general with our words and actions during the sixties and seventies.

Boris Karloff's Frankenstein (originally released in 1931), the Creature from the Black Lagoon (1954), Claude Rains' Phantom of the Opera (released in 1943 and marketed as "the screen's classic of terror"), Dracula (1931 version with the amazingly scary Bela Lugosi), and The Wolf Man (1941 with Lon Chaney Jr.) provided jarring blows to our equilibrium. They left a great deal to our imaginations. Young as we were, we couldn't conceptualize a lot, but whatever it was had us "quaking in our boots".

We had youthful hopes that all would turn out well in these movies. At the same time, we were kids and we wanted to be frightened. Both expectations were met.

We felt sorry for the Frankenstein monster, and we were impressed when he made friends with a little girl. Imagine our shock when she was suddenly gone from the picture. We knew the Black Lagoon creature was coming for the beautiful woman. But, at the moment he actually grabbed her, our hearts almost stopped.

When Elsa Lancaster was introduced to her prospective bridegroom in The Bride of Frankenstein, what we thought was a perfect match was heralded with her staccato shrieks.

Newer versions of these old shockers leave nothing to the imagination. We no longer need to think for ourselves. We no longer need to search our minds for what might be the details supporting what we are seeing. Now movie makers visualize every bit of murder, mayhem, blood, and guts and we, the viewers, are expected to sit back and enjoy.

Learn more about this author, Kathleen Richardson.

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