Visiting To Hell You Ride

Chapter 29
Visiting To Hell You Ride

It was in 1979, at age 19, that my father took us on a trip, another one of those terrifying, traumatizing trips that my father sadistically enjoyed taking us on. This trip, though, was different, and I partly liked it, because, despite my father’s standard obnoxious and ceaseless bouts of volcanic temper, his overflowing hatred, his nonstop put-downs, well, hey, I got to see Telluride (To Hell You Ride) for the one and only time in my life. It was gorgeous. It was like an enchanted fairyland from a childhood dream. Everywhere we went in that tiny little village, we watched sticky fingers stealing stuff, from everyone, from everywhere, for no reason, all the time. I guess that was part of the local culture. In the course of our peregrinations, we walked by the Sheridan Opera House. I was dying to take a look. Towards the end of the day, my father miraculously acquiesced. It was probably about nine o’clock at night that we approached the building, but the door was locked. Inside was a showing of a movie called Coming Home. We waited until the show was over so that I could sneak up the stairs to the second-floor opera house. Above us, overhanging the sidewalk, was the projection booth, obviously a late add-on, and its window was open. That is how we caught the sounds of the final 15 minutes or so of the film, which were pouring forth from the booth’s monitor. I committed to memory the eloquent sentiments of the main character as he was so heart-rendingly holding forth: “F*** YOU! F*** YOU! F*** YOU! F*** YOU! F*** YOU! F*** YOU! F*** YOU! F*** YOU! F*** YOU!” and on and on he continued like that. Brilliant. Who wrote that lovely script? Insightful, moving, contemplative, thought-provoking. Whoever wrote that probably won the year’s Shakespeare Award for scintillating dialogue. At last, I understood: This is why we abandoned William Congreve. This is why we abandoned Eudora Welty. This is why we abandoned George Bernard Shaw. This is why we abandoned Laurel & Hardy. This is why we abandoned Charlie Chaplin. Of course! We were all blessed with something infinitely superior these days, something deeper, richer, something that truly moved us. It all made sense now.

Suddenly, the booth’s monitor stopped screaming. The contented hundred or so members of the audience murmured delightedly down the stairs. As soon as the first one opened the door to exit back into enchanted fairyland, I squeezed my way in past everybody, up the stairs, and I entered the minuscule auditorium, which was as magical as the village itself, with a very tiny stage that had bulbs lit all along the proscenium.

This image, the first I have ever seen of the Sheridan, violates my memory. My memory is surely wrong. I remember a smaller stage with a wider auditorium and nontraditional seating. I do not remember a horseshoe balcony. Well, hmmmm, maybe I should draft a blueprint of my memory and patent it.

I walked into the booth, and, if memory serves, the projectionist was a bit of a hippy, long hair, black beard, and he was happy to have a visitor. He told me a bit about the place, and he mentioned the owner’s name, Bill Pence, and said something that I found ominous: Pence changed the name of the company every few months. I wish I could remember the equipment. All I can remember are the Brenkert picture heads, and I remember them only because they were different. Yes, the guy there did know a tiny bit about silent films, because the Sheridan ran a silent-film festival each year. Ooooooooooooo. My heart was fluttering. So tantalizing! I so much wanted to attend, but I couldn’t, because I had no money and no transportation. Darn! He showed me a Silent aperture, which was a bit odd, because it was not factory-made, but home filed, which meant that the picture went out from the protruding area into the flattened area. Hard to describe. I would need a photo, but I don’t have one. Yes, he knew that silent films were run at different speeds, and yes, the Sheridan could do that. He showed me a knob on the front of the Brenkert, not far from the lens. He told me that knob somehow altered the speed, but he said that he never adjusted it himself. Somebody else came in and set the speed for each film. I was puzzled, because the speed control could not possibly have been on the picture head, but on the sound head — unless, of course, the picture head were to be disengaged from the sound head and driven with a different motor. I was totally confused. I knew that I had better get back outside to my family who were waiting on the sidewalk below, else my father would have another one of his tantrums, and so after maybe five minutes I dashed out again to rejoin my family, who, typically, had zero interest in taking a look at an old theatre. Or, actually, now that I think about it, they were probably relieved to have me gone for five minutes, and that was why they waited outside.

About a decade later, when I got to know Jim Card, he told me that, years ago, he had chanced upon a “jewel” of a theatre called the Sheridan Opera House, and he decided to start a silent-film festival there. Small world?

The only somewhat pleasant dreams I ever have take place in To Hell You Ride, where I again visit that abandoned and decayed mill up in the hills. Magical.