Thrillpeddlers say farewell with flourish

Fans of the company and fans of the bizarre shopped for some of San Francisco’s weirdest theater pieces.

Russell Blackwood stood in front of a South of Market chain-link fence in the Sunday sun and squinted at the small crowd lined up before him. The group of 15 or 20 were the first in line to dig through Blackwood’s treasures and hand over a few bucks for the Bay Area theater impresario’s most prized possessions. “This is a social occasion as well,” beamed Blackwood despite his heartbroken eyes. “It’s like an open house!”

We’d never even shaken hands, but I felt like I already knew Blackwood. I’d spent Friday morning, Feb. 24, on the phone with the co-founder of the Thrillpeddlers Theater Company, and within five minutes of talking, Blackwood had pulled me into his roller coaster of emotions and enthusiasm. After more than 10 years at its theater space on 10th Street, a venue known as the Hypnodrome, the theater company is graciously moving on to allow its beloved landlords to sell the building.

“Oh, it’s driving away, Beth,” said Blackwood over the phone as a truck carted away a dumpster full of Hypnodrome props and junk. “It is headed to landfill. Holy cow!”

There are few things in the Hypnodrome that Blackwood regarded as useless enough to get tossed. The vast majority of costumes, props, supplies, and bizarre odds and ends were sold in a weekend-long rummage sale, where fans of the company and fans of the bizarre were able to shop for some of San Francisco’s weirdest theater pieces.

Thrillpeddlers was formed in 1991 to focus on the Grand Guignol genre of theater. Grand Guignol — for those who don’t follow obscure, mostly dead categories of French performance art — is a type of horror play popularized in the 1890s and early 20th century. Blackwood has been a die-hard fan since his teen years.

As one might imagine, the props and costumes created for a ragtag San Francisco independent theater company’s tongue-in-cheek underground horror plays are rather ridiculous.

The Hypnodrome’s theater and stage had been transformed into a prop warehouse for the rummage sale. Handwritten signs plastered on the walls — above a glow-in-the-dark 8-foot penis, a leopard-print throne and a tray full of dirty dishes — read: “Everything 50% off.”

Half of those in attendance seemed to have shown up just to say farewell.

“Oh, this is so sad,” said a woman as she ran up to Blackwood and dived in for a 60-second-long hug. “I just wanted to say goodbye.”

A few of Blackwood’s students popped in to pay their respects as well. Thrillpeddlers ran a family-friendly summer “Creepshow Camp” for kids that had access to the Hypnodrome’s immense and ghoulish stash of supplies. “I’ve never been allowed to see one of your shows,” confessed a teen to Blackwell during another long hug.

Blackwood, 50, lives over by San Francisco City College. He’s the only member of the theater company who has been able to build a full-time job with the Thrillpeddlers, and he’s not even close to figuring out what he plans to do next. “This was such an earthshaking change for all of us,” said Blackwood.

Raised in Kansas City, the campy theater king speaks every sentence as if he’s performing to the back row — even though the back row of Blackwood’s treasured 45-seat theater has already been hauled away. He’s warm and affectionate, and looks a little bit like comedian Michael McKean. During part of the rummage sale, Blackwood joined his family of Thrillpeddlers and danced to a B-52’s record.

Friends and strangers picked through wigs, costumes, body padding, books, Christmas lights and food from the building’s pantry. All the while, Blackwood remained ever positive. “To get to see hard-core fans get mementos,” he said, smiling with all teeth and sincerity, “it’s a lovely thing to get to do.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” one of the Thrillpeddlers announced. “We’re going to turn out all the lights and admire all of the things in here that glow in the dark!”

The Hypnodrome was plunged into darkness as an array of masks, signs and that 8-foot prop penis glowed green. Everyone cheered, Blackwood loudest of all. The lights were flicked back on and shopping resumed. A man debated purchasing a rather realisticlooking rat while someone else admired fake blood stained onto a costume. Blackwood had a fun story for every piece, a long hug for every visitor.

“He’s a phoenix,” said Blackwood’s mentor, Will Huddleston. “He’s in ashes now, but he will rise.”