Singin' in the Rain on the big screen

Singin’ in theRain (1952) recently received a national limited release in cinemas around the country.  It’s a movie that revives that old-time enthusiasm and appreciation for the entertainer.  We have a lot of celebrities nowadays, but fewer multi-talented and trained-by-experience entertainers.

It’s often called one of the best movie movies ever made, and this may be only in part because  of its clever parody of the crisis in Hollywood when silent movies shifted to sound; in large measure it is because of the musical numbers which serve a dual purpose.  They certainly move the plot along, as is the function of a musical number, but each number is also a stand-alone piece that can be lifted from the movie and appreciated as a pure moment of vaudevillian showmanship.  Many of them are “big” numbers, like “Make “Em Laugh”, “Good Morning”, the “Gotta Dance” sequence, and the iconic title song number with Gene Kelly splashing in the studio soundstage streets.

The cinema audience with whom I watched the movie reacted to the big numbers with murmured, almost awed, “Wow, that was good.”

This, despite the audience not being what I would easily identify as a crowd of old movie buffs.  Indeed, though I do believe most were at least familiar with the movie—I judged that the majority of them were middle aged or senior citizens, with only a few younger parents with children—the overall impression I got was that most had perhaps not seen the movie in a very long time.  They seemed surprised by the plot turns. 

Of course, in any group of movie goers, some people will laugh in places we do not expect them to, and remain silent in other spots that we might think are uproariously funny. 

“Haven’t you seen that movie before?  Don’t you have it?” I was asked before I headed out to the warehouse-cum-gulag-styled-construction cinema, as I am in infrequent visitor there.  As any classic film fan can tell you, when it comes to seeing an old favorite on the big screen, as it’s meant to be seen—no, we really haven’t seen it before.  The colors are captivating.  I never noticed before the movie poster in the background during the scene where Gene Kelly, Debbie Reynolds, and Donald O’Connor are standing outside the theater—one of them featured William Haines.  Few non-classic film fans today will know who he was.  Did the public remember his film career in 1952 when this film was originally released?  Was this a tribute by the industry he abandoned because he refused to hide his homosexuality?

I noticed wrinkles in Cyd Charisse’s stockings when she drapes one beautiful gam over Kelly’s shoulder.

The most fascinating effect for me were the scenes set inside a theater, where the camera pulls back and we see row upon row of audience.  Watching this scene in a modern cinema that has stadium seating, it looked as if the last row of the movie “audience” was the first row in our cinema audience.  I felt as if were in the same theater as the movie characters, that I was in one of the back rows of the same theater.

I enjoyed the intro and outro by Ben Mankiewicz—which I think are very helpful for general public audiences not as familiar with classic films—and marveled along with the audience, his mention of Donald O’Connor requiring hospitalization after his frenetic “Make ‘Em Laugh” number, O’Connor’s being a four-pack a day smoker at the time.  (The recent passing of Debbie Reynolds also brought soft exclamations of appreciation when her name appeared on screen.)

The information served to underscore the effect the audience had of this being a celebration of the entertainer – someone whose work on screen is not necessarily only a product of special effects or any movie magic we have become accustomed to, i.e. a packaged performance in a modern movie that tries to impress us with “reality.” 

For this film, and this showing, the audience readily marveled at the talent and the exhausting work of the entertainer, not just as part of a splashy show, but as an individual who for that golden, ethereal moment, stands out from the piece.  A show stopper.

“Wow…that was good.”

**

Come back next Thursday when we trail the marvelous Jean Arthur in a silly romp through Depression-era Easy Living (1935).

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The audio book for Ann Blyth: Actress. Singer. Star. is now for sale on Audible.com, and on Amazon and iTunes.

Also in paperback and eBook from Amazon.

American Madness - 1932

American Madness (1932) reaffirms the decency and pluckiness of the American people even though filmed during the depths of the Great Depression and boldly addresses the financial crisis of the day.

Hollywood has the reputation of producing fantasy films during this period to take us away from our troubles, but really there were just as many hard-hitting and bravely realistic films that unflinchingly examined the perils of everyday life among a population with 25% unemployment.

“It is what it is” is a saying common today, and this is the attitude adopted by the characters in this movie with the foreboding title.  They see things the way they are and they scramble to survive.  It was the worst year of the Great Depression, but the presidential campaigns of Herbert Hoover versus Franklin D. Roosevelt get no play in this story, nor any mention of “someday this will all be over”.  Nobody’s waiting for someday; we’re just waiting out today, and yet this is not a movie of weary acceptance, but of vigor, humor, and if there is little optimism, there is at least a belligerent refusal to succumb.

Pat O’Brien plays a bank clerk in a large New York City bank.  He opens the vault in the morning in a long sequence, a process of many steps, while fellow tellers wait to enter and remove rolling steel cases with all the money in it.  Director Frank Capra uses this imagery masterfully.  They laconically talk of $25,000 transactions for the bank, but when O’Brien asks a fellow teller if he can borrow ten bucks, he is told, “Sorry, pal, didn’t you ever hear of a Depression?”

The scene is both an ironic image of water, water everywhere but not a drop to drink—which must have driven poor audiences crazy, and also sets up the plot of the story.  The bank will be robbed, and Pat O’Brien will be the prime suspect.

Sterling Holloway, with that slow and sticky as honey Winnie the Pooh voice and the impossible mop of hair as his trademark is another teller. He self-importantly milks his story, being the one who discovered the vault had been broken into and a guard killed.  Black humor is the order of the day.   Later Holloway tells O’Brien, “I’ll be seeing you in the breadlines.”

Photo from Stars of the Photoplay, 1930

But this is no gangster movie; it’s a message film, as so many movies during the Depression and distinctly about the Depression were message films.  Walter Huston is the bank president, who built this business from nothing.  Though he has a board of directors, it’s his bank.  He picks and chooses his deals, he loans to people he trusts rather than who have a good credit rating.  He is no airy optimist who sees only good in people; he can spot a no-good person in a minute.  He is stubbornly independent, and this makes his board crazy.  They are trying to take power from him and merge with another bank.

“Talk is you’re too liberal,” his chief antagonist accuses him in an angry moment.

“Yes, and I’m going to going to continue to be liberal.” he answers.  When he rolls off a list of names of small businessmen he’s made loans to—to the chagrin of the board of officers—it reads like a who’s who of the “huddled masses yearning to breathe free”: Manny Goldberg, Tony Rosario, Joseph McDonald, Alan Jones.  The script writer is pointedly including an ethnic smorgasbord as a demonstration of Walter Huston’s lack of bigotry as much as his fiscal liberality.

“Character.  It’s the only thing you can bank on, and it’s the only thing that’ll take this country out of the doldrums,” he says.

Sometimes in movies of this period, the big businessman is portrayed as a bad guy, and sometimes as a pie-in-the-sky dreamer of well-intentioned but almost moronic innocence.  Huston is neither.  He’s a savvy banker, and a great guy who treats his employees like pals, and even rescued Pat O’Brien from his life as an ex-con, trusting him with handling the bank’s money in his teller’s job—but Huston is not a man without fault.  He is impatient, brusque with those who oppose his solitary command, and so intently focused on his business that he neglects his adored wife.  This will lead to trouble.

Interestingly, pretty nearly all the action in this movie takes place in the bank.  It is a marble temple of columns and mahogany, where a large staff, from male tellers in suits to the secretaries, receptionists and telephone operator, and uniformed guards, are on the payroll and serving the public with polished shoes and brave smiles. Not an ATM in site.  It’s gloriously opulent in architecture, décor, and human service in a way banks now are not.  It lends confidence as much as money.

The head cashier, played by Gavin Gordon, is involved with gangsters, to whom he owes $50,000 from gambling losses.  To square things with them, he agrees to fiddle with the timed lock on the vault so they can sneak in, in the middle of the night, and rob the bank.  To plan his own alibi, he cozies up to Walter Huston’s neglected wife, played by Kay Johnson, takes her out for the evening, and brings her back to his apartment.  She is more interested in a fun evening with someone to talk to, not an affair, and when he gets too amorous, she is embarrassed and backs away.  At that moment, Pat O’Brien interferes.  He suspects their relationship and wants to protect the boss who gave him a second chance.

Photo by Ruth Harriet Louise from Stars of the Photoplay, 1930

There is a tense scene of confrontation, and a gun drawn, but both O’Brien and the wife leave, neither realizing the bank is about to be robbed in five minutes.  O’Brien, by virtue of his criminal past, will be accused of orchestrating the job and he will not confess to the cops where he was when the job went down—getting his boss’s wife away from a dalliance in other man’s apartment.

A dual plot of the bank’s solvency runs along with the news of the theft the next morning, and a scene that steamrolls through the rest of the movie concerns the public’s trust of the bank.  A few come to make transactions, and when they notice the cops doing their investigation, rumors spread of the bank’s insolvency.  More and more people spread the gossip on the phone and in whispered, then screamed conversations on the street.  A full-blown panic occurs, and a mob of customers floods the great marble lobby of the bank, a sea of bobbing heads and urgent, angry shouting.  Lots of extras got work that day.  It’s an exciting, fast-paced sequence of events.  Capra doesn’t just film the mob as an inhuman mass—he picks out the individuals and never fails to show us inside the soul of the common man.

An elderly woman begs for her money, fearful of going to “the old ladies’ home.”  No social safety nets (this is before FDR).  She’d be lucky to get into an old ladies’ home.  The only other alternative was a Hooverville in a park or under a highway bridge.

Mob mentality is ugly and stupid, and frightening.  The bank’s board of directors, though understandably horrified, nevertheless are pleased to use this as an opportunity to pry Huston from his seat of power.  They wait for him to fail, so they can sell their shares of the bank and complete the merger.

Pat O’Brien endeavors to rescue his boss. He shouts two conversations at once into two candlestick telephones to alert the small-time businessmen who have loans with the bank to come and help. He and his girlfriend, played by Constance Cummings, who also works at the bank, man the phones like election campaign workers.

Finally, the cavalry comes in the form of the aforementioned small businessmen: Manny Goldberg, Tony Rosario, Joseph McDonald, and Alan Jones, and all their like who got their loans from Walter Huston.  It’s a It’s a Wonderful Life ending with the men pushing their way through the chaos and announcing in defiant voices that they are depositing thousands of dollars, that they will put their faith in Huston. 

The panic is over.  The board of directors have a change of heart, as armored cars arrive and guards carry in sacks of money. People cheer as at a football game, and leave in relief.

But Huston’s troubles are not over.  Though Pat O’Brien stubbornly will not tell the cops he has an alibi for the time of the robbery—because it would implicate the boss’s wife and shame his benefactor—nevertheless the cops put two and two together and go after head teller Gavin Gordon.  There is a chase in the bank, through employees’ lockers in the cloakroom.  Gordon has a gun.

But the news about Huston’s wife gets out, and Huston is devastated, on the brink of suicide.  His wife attempts to console him.

Pat O’Brien is exonerated.  The panic is over, but, just as in the days after the stock market crash of 1929, the time has come to settle in, calm down, and figure out what to do next.

The ending is less exuberant than we might expect ordinarily, but it is more comforting.  Pat O’Brien keeps his job, he and his girl will marry, and Huston has patched things up with his wife.  He is not going to neglect her anymore, but will start on a second honeymoon and travel to Europe on the great liner, the Berengaria.

A footnote that the movie does not refer to, but that we may note here, is that the R.M.S. Berengaria, as we noted in this previous post, sailed from London to New York that very week of the great stock market crash in October 1929.  It was the first ship to have a special salon for trading stocks over the shortwave radio.  Millionaires passed the time during the sea voyage keeping up with the news of their investments.

They left England millionaires, at least.  They docked in New York, paupers.

Huston’s bank evidently weathered the Crash.  The movie ends with another long, ponderous sequence of Pat O’Brien carefully opening up the vault for another business day.  Shoulder to the wheel, literally.

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Tomorrow, Turner Classic Movies is presenting a day of Debbie Reynolds films to commemorate her passing and celebrate her movie career.  One of those films will be Singin’ in the Rain (1952).  Come back next week for a discussion on the recent big screen showing nationwide of Singin’in the Rain.

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The audio book for Ann Blyth: Actress. Singer. Star. is now for sale on Audible.com, and on Amazon and iTunes.

Also in paperback and eBook from Amazon.

The House I Live In - 1945

Have a look at the short The House I Live In (1945).  We start a new year of blogging today, and a new era tomorrow.  We're going to accentuate the positive this year, look for hope in the darkness, and maybe finding it in each other. 

I'm with Frank, I don't like Nazi creeps, either, especially ones that call themselves Americans.  But there is yet an overwhelming tenor of decency and fairness and compassion in this country that even the worst monsters among us can't defeat.  I like the way he grins, looks the mob of kids in the eye ("you have to be carefully taught") and calls them Nazis, hoping they'll challenge him.

"Religion makes no difference, except maybe to a Nazi or somebody as stupid."  Great line.  Lump the Nazis with stupid people.  Call a spade a spade.  Trample all over their self-superiority.  There were plenty of people in this country who would have seen this short in the theaters in 1945 and thought that Hollywood was overstepping its bounds, preaching a liberal message. 

To borrow another classic movie reference, the bad guys are coming into town at high noon tomorrow.  Let's meet them at the train.  Don't forget to grin when you challenge them by calling them Nazis or somebody as stupid, and hit them with unwavering, unrelenting truth.  They hate that.  They have no defense against truth, except more lies, and we've heard them all by now.  If they cannot feel shame for their words or their deeds, then make them feel aggravation that respect, let alone cooperation, will be denied them.  Let them know the apologists and excuse-makers among them will be held equally accountable as the instigators.  Force them to look into the mirror of their depravity. 

And don't forget to grin.

This year we'll be covering a lot of movies with plucky heroes - in classic films they come in the form of the average joe, the little guy - and they come to us in comedies as well as dramas.  We'll be spending a good part of the summer with musicals - an art form as unabashedly exuberant as any known to man. We're going to examine this house we live in, and clean it up a little.

See you next Thursday, when we'll discuss a plucky Pat O'Brien who helps to stop a run on Walter Huston's bank in the coincidentally named American Madness (1932). 

Requiescat in pace - Debbie Reynolds

For her wonderful talents, for her humor, for her dedication to the preservation of Hollywood film history, and for her heartbreak at the loss of her daughter, we pay tribute to Debbie Reynolds, but we do not say goodbye.  We can still visit Tammy, and Molly Brown, and all the rest of them.  They, like her memory, will always bring a smile.

End of an Era - Classic Film Fan Series - Final Episode

There are many issues under discussion today among classic film fans: the discovery of lost films, the expense of restoration, and most especially: what constitutes a classic film?

This last issue is, oddly, the most contentious.  It is often divided among age groups (though not always) that a classic is a movie made during the period of the studio system, i.e., from the early days of the twentieth century through the 1960s.  I have maintained that a classic film is one made before 1965.  I am not in favor of turning the word “classic” to mean something good, or beloved, or timeless (some of the best classic films are “dated” and this makes them valuable for study) but rather as it pertains to film, should only be a label to categorize a movie by its era.  Is a Three Stooges short better than The Godfathermovies?  Of course not. 

If someone enjoys Rocky (1976) better than they enjoy Golden Boy (1939), does that make Rocky the classic film instead of Golden Boy?  No.  Rocky is an Oscar-winning film from the 1970s.  It carries its own prestige.  But it is not a classic film.

I’m sure many classic film fans will read the above sentence and their heads are even now exploding in anger.  Sorry, but the point isn’t that your opinion is as good as mine, or that mine is as good as yours.  The point is to get beyond opinion and draft some sort of objective criteria so we may catalogue, describe, and share our information on classic films with future generations without muddying the waters about what we mean.  History has, for the most part, clear demarcation on eras:  the Jazz Age, The Restoration.  Art has clear demarcation on eras based on prominent style:  Impressionism, Dada, Modern Art.  Do we call an impressionistic painting Modern Art because it was painted in the 1960s?  No.  It’s an impressionistic painting produced in the 1960s.

This is the twelfth and final post in our year-long monthly series on the current state of the classic film fan.  We began this series musing on the unlikely campaign of Donald Trump. Our last post in November brought us to the stark and devastating realization that fascism is alive and well in America.  That’s quite a journey, one I had not expected to take.  Our movies, old and new, whether they address social issues or present fantasy, are a clear barometer of our pop culture, which makes them so important for study.

The label “classic” should be the least of our problems in our mission to promote these films, but if we can’t agree on even that, we won’t agree on which films to be worth saving.  We won’t be able to save them all.   

But to be honest, I must confess that my own definition of “classic” as films made before 1965 is only partly an objective assessment; in part, it is also a reflection of my age.  I was born in the early 1960s, and so when growing up in the 1960s and 1970s, the movies made in these decades were not classic; they were new.  In my middle-aged woman’s eye, they will always be in that vague category of “new”.  (With the same prejudice a younger fan will consider a 1970s movie as “old” because it was made before they were born.  The criteria is personal, and not objective.

When The Sound of Music (1965) was first shown on television in 1976, it was a monumental prime time event—but not because it was a “classic”, but because it was a modern blockbuster.  That will seem ludicrous to younger fans, I know.  When I was growing up in the Baby Boomer’s joyous embrace of “Nostalgia”, the old movies we resurrected were just old (and some not very old at that).  Nobody called them classic films.  Classic was a label that came much later, like Film Noir.  Nobody called it Film Noir when I was growing up.  We were not a cadre of geeks—pop culture was still in the backwash of the Golden Age of film, which was still the gold standard of entertainment.

These movies were shown on every channel (even if there were only four channels) at any hour of the day.  The stars and character actors and bit players of those old movies were, for the most part, not retired and they were still working on television.  They were still part of popular culture.

The deaths of Judy Garland and Bing Crosby rocked mainstream society—not just old movie buffs.  Conversely, we had not yet entered the age of deep mourning for the loss of anyone connected with classic films as we are today, when it seems that each year we cling to the fewer and fewer left, and it is we, not they, that do not go gentle into that good night.  Today our classic film fandom is one part celebration of discovery, and one part mourning the “in memoriam” reel.

Baby Boomers were spenders and collectors, and most of the books, posters, kitsch, VHS and DVD classic film releases were meant for their consumption.  Younger generations will take over, and their exploration of classic films, their expression of their fandom will take different forms.

But there will be less of them. 

We’ve discussed in previous posts in this series that Turner Classic Movies is, with few exceptions, the main source of classic film viewing in this country.  Current discourse on whether TCM is diluting its brand by showing modern films to the detriment of classic film programming (while recommending wine from the TCM Wine Club) will be a moot point if younger generations do not even subscribe to cable television, as seems to be the case.

Many younger people get most of their entertainment online, and most of what is offered them through streaming and download services are modern films.  Their choice of viewing becomes narrower as they veer towards only current movies and TV shows.  They will be exposed to little that does not already interest them.  TCM’s venture into streaming cannot yet replace the range of its network offerings.

The Warner Archives release of films to the home market is very welcome, and we may continue to wonder if Universal will ever get on board, but even these may have a limited future commercial exposure.  Future generations will not have developed an interest in them enough to make it financially worthwhile to producers of DVDs and Blu-ray, or streaming, in a world where future generations have not been exposed to classic films on a scale grand to begin with -- enough to once again make these movies a force in pop culture and consumerism.

It has been noted that the collectibles market is currently depressed because the Boomers, who were tremendous consumers and are now at a point of downsizing in their lives, are not finding buyers for their “stuff.”  Younger generations are not interested.

We classic films buffs naturally attempt to share our love of these movies with younger friends and members of our families.  That will have a huge influence in their lives, and is a great gift to them.  But this is not the same as being exposed to classic films not as a special event or peculiar hobby, but as mainstream entertainment—something not just their parents are talking about, but their friends as well.

I had suggested in an earlier post in this series to teach classic films in school.  Another way to broaden the exposure of these movies to younger viewers might lie with the Internet, where they turn anyway for their entertainment.  We’ve seen how TCM and others are streaming and making available films for download, but these are still paid services.  There may still be another and more effective way to get new classic film fans.

YouTube, Internet Archive, and other free Internet channels.

Paramount has already set up a channel currently showing 91 of its classic films for free viewing.  The beauty of YouTube is not only is it free, but the operation is such that the viewer is immediately exposed to a number of other similar choices.  We’ve all spent hours on YouTube, not intending to, just because we were looking for something particular and got sucked in to watching several other videos.  The search engine is also effective.  YouTube has the power to expose us to old movies and old TV shows we had not known existed.  It is a smorgasbord of video pop culture history.

The video quality on YouTube obviously does not lend the best viewing experience—it’s not like sitting in a restored Art Deco theater watching a shimmering nitrate film—but it’s something free and easy to obtain, to spread the experience of enjoyment and knowledge of old movies, and is a channel that younger generations already know about and use frequently.  Classic film buffs—and the corporations which have a library they’d like to monetize—would be well advised to create new fans by building up in them a taste for their product.

The Wizard of Oz (1939) would be forgotten today had it not been shown yearly on broadcast television for a couple of generations.  Its popularity spawned VHS and DVD releases, toys, games, books, clothing—a variety of merchandise that came in the wake of its popularity, which came in the wake of its familiarity.

It’s a Wonderful Life (1946) would be forgotten today had it not been shown yearly on broadcast TV, and became so popular that not only is it firmly established in pop culture, but the copyright, which had lapsed, was scooped up again, making it once again a valuable product.

We see the same scenario with A ChristmasStory (1983), which is not a classic film, but has become a beloved Christmas tradition, and again, firmly part of pop culture, with annual showings on the cable network TBS, which runs a 24-hour marathon every Christmas.  Because of this we can shout out lines from the movie.  Houses on the street where it was filmed have been turned into tourist attractions.  You can buy the iconic lamp, for heaven’s sake.

The popularity came with familiarity: an audience was not found, or mined, or marketed to—it was created from scratch.

The Boomers grew up watching movies on free broadcast television, became classic film fans in an era of a nostalgia craze fueling it.  However, the movies they watched were fading prints cut up for commercials.  The art houses showing them on the big screen were few and far between.  The only media by which favorite films could be owned and shown at home whenever they wanted was with 16mm film, a screen, and a projector.  Despite these challenges, an army of old movie buffs kept alive their interest enough for the media conglomerates to have a built-in consumer base when the technology developed to produce films on VHS and DVD for a new, huge home market.

To say that classic film fans have it easy today by comparison is not entirely true.  Yes, they have a better quality video experience, a large assortment of movies available for the home market, but their challenge is twofold:  having the money to purchase product that is continually being improved, restored and re-released (how many copies of our favorite films can we own?); and second, just being exposed to these films on a scale that enables them to digest them as part of their American heritage.

This last notion is, I think, something on which we need to focus more attention.  I am concerned not only on the astounding idea that a nation so passionately devoted to defeating fascism should recently embrace it—fascists used to be the bad guys, on that we could at one time all agree—but if a younger viewer cannot absorb a movie in the context of its era, then all the message, the art, the power, or even the technical beauty of a classic film will not penetrate their sensibilities.  They will consider classic films to be remote, incomprehensible, and merely weird relics of a primitive age.

In practical terms, there is a real disconnect for younger viewers in what they see in classic films—for instance, the racism, the sexism (as if these things have ceased to exist in their modern world), among so much else that they are unable to accept in a film when they looking for images that affirm their own experience.  It becomes not just a matter of taste—“my classic is not your classic”—but actually being intellectually or emotionally unable to critique the art form.  Finding little they can relate to in it, it becomes as lost to them as if they had never discovered it.

Take, for example, this review of a new release this year for the first time on DVD of A Woman’s Vengeance (1948), a movie we covered in this previous post.  The young reviewer is, as with many Internet writing gigs, reviewing the product, which is the new DVD.  She is not really writing an essay on the movie, though she attempts to discuss the plot as part of her product review.  She sounds as if she were reviewing a new gadget or cleaning product.  She displays an ignorance of the film, the era, the actors and classic films in general as an art form.  As a result, her tone is flippant, dismissive, lapsing into vulgarity in the modern attempt at communication that tries hard to be clever, and her judgment on the product is based on whether she feels is it a worthwhile purchase.  This is the most shallow and sophomoric “film criticism” that can be produced (not counting IMDb reviews, which are frequently baffling in their obtuse triteness and often rife with errors), yet it is now the prevailing style on Internet product sites.  Future classic film fans, however many they may be, will be getting the bulk of their information from such product surveys (assuming classic film blogs are not still floating around on the Internet and the algorithms are kind to us to generate at least some traffic).

There are a lot of movies still hidden in studio vaults, university archives, and a basement or two.  Will future generations seek them out, donate to have them restored?  Will they see any worth in even pursing this?  If Lon Chaney’s London After Midnight (1927) is ever found, will future generations care?

Are we, the current classic film fans—from Boomers to Millennials—the last audience? 

There is, as those who have attended the TCM Classic Film Festival and other such events know a joyous and exciting social aspect among gatherings of classic film fans.  My hope is that many more of these festivals will pop up around the country, or just in the form of small regional clubs, so that it may be easier for fans to connect in person with others who love old movies.  This breaks barriers between generations and demonstrates the genuine camaraderie and inclusiveness that exists among classic film fans—even if we can’t agree on what a classic is.  How much the corporations cater to our interests, based on their ability to profit from it, will largely depend on our numbers and our demonstrated passion.  It will also depend on their ingenuity to create a market for their product.

One hundred years from now, someone just discovering Buster Keaton, Myrna Loy, or Humphrey Bogart will be captivated.  We know that.

But how many like-minded fans will there be left to share the joy?

This ends our year-long series on the state of the classic film fan.  I wish I could end it on a more hopeful note, but hope is a fleeting thing these days.  This will be my last post this year.  I have a new book to get out, and so I need some time.  I’ll see you back here on Thursday, January 19^th for a new year of blogging.  I hope to accentuate the positive next year and find some hopeful and inspirational moments in classic film to discuss.  We’re going to need them.

Until then, may I wish all of you who celebrate a Merry Christmas, a Happy Chanukah, and very happy and hopeful New Year.  Thank you for the pleasure of your company.

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Previous posts in this series are below:

Part 1 of the year-long series on the current state of the classic film buff is here: A Classic Film Manifesto. 

Part 2 is here: Cliff Aliperti’s new book on Helen Twelvetrees.

Part 3 is here: An interview with Kay Noske of Movie Star Makeover.

Part 4 is here: Evolution of the Classic Film Fan.

Part 5 is here: Gathering of the Clan at Classic Film Festivals.

Part 6 is here: John Greco’s new book of film criticism: Lessons in the Dark.

Part 7 is here: Tiffany Vazquez, new TCM host.

Part 8 is here:  Planet of the Apes at the Cineplex.

Part 9 is here:  Aurora & Classic Movies and More Interview.

Part 10 is here: A Canadian's Perspective: A Visit from Paddy Nolan-Hall.

Part 11 is here: Naïve Idealism.

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The audio book for Ann Blyth: Actress. Singer. Star. is now for sale on Audible.com, and on Amazon and iTunes.

Also in paperback and eBook from Amazon.