04/15/10

Due to the slow, dull and awfully depressing film season (new Polanski flick not included), two weeks ago I began telling you the story of ScreenTime - a truly epic tale of great, history-altering achievements. I explained how, through my formative years, I went obsession to obsession - from baseball to basketball to film - eventually sticking with my endless love for actors, writers and, more than anything, directors. Our story left off at a pivotal moment in this development: my first job (not counting time spent as a golf caddy). 

At 5 p.m. on January 8, 1996, my 16th birthday, I worked my first shift at my first real job - popping popcorn and selling candy and diet pepsi. Magic.

The real perk of this job, of course, was the free movies. I went to everything. Absolutely everything. Twister was the first huge film I remember ushering for. I remember the sound being so loud and full that we couldn’t keep the theater doors shut. Soon after that Brian De Palma’s great Mission Impossible film came to town, which made me and my crew very happy. We must’ve seen that film 10 times. By June I experienced my first summer season firsthand, which, through June, was held high by The Rock and The Nutty Professor. The 16 year old version of me saw both films multiple times. And then, in early July, came mega-blockbuster Independence Day. I don’t remember much about the film, save for that it made our little theater so busy that we had to clean the lobby with a leaf blower in-between rush periods. It was nuts … and awesome. I miss those days very much and probably always will.

I quit this job eventually to work at record stores, two years later taking up a second job at the Holiday 8 theater - just as it was dying out. All along I was collecting VHS tapes instead of baseball cards and basketball jerseys and shoes. I had hundreds - likely even a couple thousand - VHS tapes. In 2001 I decided to finally get with the times, buying my first ever DVD - Stephen Frears’ great High Fidelity - before even buying a player. I paid $32.99 for it at a store in Bloomington and watched the movie on my computer a dozen times before finally getting the funds together to buy a real player. By the time I moved to Seattle in 2007 I’d gotten rid of my last VHS tape, the Criterion edition of Gimme Shelter. A sad day.

Today I kinda/sorta collect DVDs. I keep maybe 500 around, but no more. More than DVDs, I collect the work of my favorite directors - my best friends. I remember getting to know a girl in 1997. We talked about our interests and she swore she knew everything about film. She didn’t. She knew that saying “film” was cooler than saying “movie,” and she knew that Kubrick was God. But she couldn’t talk directors (outside the obvious) and knew little else, sticking with me just long enough to realize that I wasn‘t exaggerating when I told her that I usually watch at least two films a day (this has been true since 1996 or so).

I later took two film classes in college - one where I knew significantly more than the professor and one where I learned an awful lot. I’ve met some amazing film fans over the years, including a 67-year old man named John Harris in downtown Seattle who has never visited IMDB and owns every laserdisc ever produced for US markets. He’s never been on IMDB and will never need to go there, as he probably knows more than IMDB could ever tell him. He has absolutely devoted his life to two things: professional tennis and, more so, film. I’ve been lucky to meet maybe 10 others like John - and like myself - in my life, and have enjoyed, greatly, talking film (and life and art) with them. Talking film is my favorite thing to do, save for watching the movies themselves. And now I pen this column, write flawed screenplays and attempt to make low-budget movies of my own. These things make life better.

Thank you for reading my story and allowing me to indulge myself. Please don’t hesitate to send your own story to me at the below e-mail address. And, no worries, we’ll be back to our usual cinema coverage next week.

Written by G. William Locke