by F.T. Rea
With Notes by Rebus
The Intro
Note from Rebus: By the end of the initial year of the Biograph Theatre's operation "Have a Good Time" had been established as the movie theater's slogan/motto and I had become the Biograph's official cartoon spokesdog.
Note from Rebus: By the end of the initial year of the Biograph Theatre's operation "Have a Good Time" had been established as the movie theater's slogan/motto and I had become the Biograph's official cartoon spokesdog.
If you're
wondering what my name means, a "rebus" is a puzzle that uses graphic
symbols for the sounds of syllables. For example, if the viewer sees
a line drawing of an open eye. Then a plus sign. Then the
letter “C” and another plus sign, followed by the letter “U.”
Decoded, that rather simple rebus puzzle means, “I see you.”
If I look vaguely familiar, but you can't place why, you may have seen one of my breakthrough appearances in comic strips in the Commonwealth Times’ special all-comics issues of Fan Free Funnies in 1973. Maybe not. In the illustration above, that's me as I appeared in a Richmond Times-Dispatch OpEd piece published in January of 2015.
First at the Biograph, then afterward in countless projects, including the SLANT, I’ve worked for the guy who wrote the stories that follow my comments here. F.T. Rea, who goes by Terry, likes to say he keeps me around because I’m a lucky charm.
If I look vaguely familiar, but you can't place why, you may have seen one of my breakthrough appearances in comic strips in the Commonwealth Times’ special all-comics issues of Fan Free Funnies in 1973. Maybe not. In the illustration above, that's me as I appeared in a Richmond Times-Dispatch OpEd piece published in January of 2015.
First at the Biograph, then afterward in countless projects, including the SLANT, I’ve worked for the guy who wrote the stories that follow my comments here. F.T. Rea, who goes by Terry, likes to say he keeps me around because I’m a lucky charm.
OK, I know Rea is a little superstitious, but I think it has more
to do with real charm. Although his memory is getting more fuzzy
every day, Rea is still smart enough to know that most folks have
always liked me better than him.
As usual, I told him to put more funny stuff in these stories. But Rea rarely listens to me these days. Mistake. Now that he sees himself as more of a writer than a cartoonist, take it from me – he doesn’t spend all that much time at his old drawing table, anymore. Another mistake.
As usual, I told him to put more funny stuff in these stories. But Rea rarely listens to me these days. Mistake. Now that he sees himself as more of a writer than a cartoonist, take it from me – he doesn’t spend all that much time at his old drawing table, anymore. Another mistake.
Anyway, since
the mid-'60s Rea had felt drawn to the bohemian nightlife
scene on West Grace Street. He started hanging out in the beer joints down there when the beats were still setting the tone. Later, as the Biograph Theatre was being built -- in 1971 -- well into the hippie era, a few of his friends were already in business in that little commercial
strip of West Grace Street. Thus, when Rea was hired to manage the Biograph he was delighted to be offered a role in what he already saw as a happening nightlife scene.
In
the fall of 1971 the chance to
become the Biograph Theatre's first manager was offered to me. That
opportunity blossomed some five weeks before my 24th birthday. Of
course, I accepted and soon the role fit like a glove. In those salad
days promoting the Biograph and protecting it from whatever threats came
along became an overshadowing mission.
Naturally,
memory-wise, opening nights for important first-run
movies and a few of the parties, stand out because of the
colorful stories they spawned. Consequently, in some cases my memory of a
particular occasion may lean more than it should on how I've told the
story, or heard it told.
More about those stories later, but
when I pause to remember being in that building, I frequently recall
being alone at my desk in the second floor office. Maybe reading
about films, old and new, or writing a radio commercial. Alone at my
drawing table, designing a program or handbill. For what it's worth I
can still feel the mood of sitting in the dark auditorium in the
after-hours, alone.
My bosses called our method of operation “repertory cinema.” Now the term seems to be interchangeable with “revival cinema” or "calendar house." However, when I managed the Biograph, “repertory” was intended to mean an appitizing smorgasbord of good movies, old and new. As we weren't part of a theater chain, we had little clout with the distributors. So we were often obliged to scramble to book whatever product we could to fill the screen.
When we opened, my bosses and folks supposedly in the
know in Richmond all seemed to be buying the wishful thought that
the little bohemian commercial strip the Biograph was part of was
about to become a second Georgetown. So on that first day of
business, I had no sense of how different Richmond would prove to be
from D.C., movie-market-wise.
Yes, dear reader, there was a lot to be learned.
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