Some Like It Hot-Buttered by JEFFREY COHEN Read Free Book Online Page B

could reopen.
    When my father retired from the retail paint and wallpaper business, he probably didn’t expect to spend this much time immersed in the decoration of a rapidly deteriorating movie palace. Okay, movie house. Movie fixer-upper. But he had offered to help, in his typically genial way, and I had accepted as much to hang out with Dad as to get his expertise, which was considerably more expert than my own. I had pretty much given up painting in kindergarten when they switched us from fingers to a brush.
    I’d bought the Rialto slightly less than a year ago, and for six months after the transaction closed, I had prevailed upon friends, called in every marker I’d ever issued, downright blackmailed a few people, and when absolutely necessary, paid others to help renovate the place. I’d been intelligent enough to have a structural engineer come through before the closing, and while there were a few questions here or there (chiefly in the balcony), I was assured in writing that the place wasn’t likely to slide off its foundation anytime soon, and probably wouldn’t need much beyond the kind of cosmetic work you might expect in a seventy-year-old structure that hadn’t undergone much maintenance in the past decade.
    There had been beams in the ceiling that needed replacing; cracked (and, in some cases, missing) plaster facades; floors that needed to be sanded, filled, and refinished; seats that flat-out needed to be replaced; and the entire lobby (except the snack bar), from carpet to art deco ceiling, had needed to be completely redone, thanks to Hurricane Floyd’s trip through the area in 1999.
    My father, freshly retired practically at the moment I bought the theatre, was always there supervising, since the union workmen wouldn’t let him up on the scaffolds to do the work himself. He had spent forty years with painters, wallpaperers, carpenters, and contractors, and he had spent the same forty years owning a home that practically had to be rebuilt on the day he purchased it. My mother had complained about his constant work on the house when I was a boy, but never missed an opportunity to point out his handiwork to visitors. It was never fancy, but it showed craftsmanship and imagination. I was sure the family living there now appreciated his efforts.
    Maybe that was part of what had attracted me to the Rialto. Today’s theatres look like large college dormitory rooms: they’re square, functional, and impersonal. It’s a good thing they have a screen and seats, or you’d think you’d entered the largest police interrogation room in the world.
    The Rialto was built during a more creative age. Movies were being made by people who wanted to make movies, and were happy with the money that came in. Today, movies are made by people who want to make money, and are happy with the movies they make to achieve that end. There’s a difference, and it shows in the theatres as well.
    The over-the-top architecture evident in the Rialto wasn’t terribly unique in its day, but in today’s world, it is nothing short of astonishing. Plaster moldings and appointments around the auditorium (a uniplex) were only part of the deal. Lighting was discreet but impeccably placed to highlight the impressive features of the room, and there was a real, huge chandelier (which I’d had to have reinforced, as we were not planning on a nightly showing of The Phantom of the Opera ), and a cupola that held it, as well as paintings on the ceiling reminiscent of the frescoes of Rome, only less religious. Cleaning the paintings themselves had taken two whole weeks. You can’t just go up there with a huge bottle of Windex and expect that kind of thing to survive intact. I know that now.
    I unlocked the utility closet and started removing the painting supplies: ladders, drop cloths, brushes, rollers, buckets, and so on. My father pitched in with the smaller items, since I gave him a stern look that said “Remember your heart” whenever he