Reeling in the years

A Stamford Advocate ad from April 23, 1927 promoting the opening two days later of the Springdale (later State) theater on Hope Street in Stamford. The movie theater closed on Labor Day.

I always sit near the front at movie houses, but I didn’t need to turn around to read this crowd.

It was, so far, a silent movie, as images flickered onto the State Cinema screen without a sound.

I turned to my companion and offered a freshmen sociology lesson.

“Watch, no one will get up and tell anyone in the lobby the sound is off. Everyone expects someone else to do it.”

I waited a few moments, then lit the fuse for “Mission Impossible.”

I scrambled at a significantly slower pace than Tom Cruise. The theater worker thanked me and had the sound on before I was back munching on Snow Caps

You only get these kinds of moments at a neighborhood theater. Back in 2002, “Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets” was vexed with a different curse. A young theater employee meekly, and charmingly, informed everyone individually that there wasn’t enough time to remedy the issue and screen the rest of the picture. I charmlessly bellowed the news to save time.

It was tempting to keep my mouth shut and let my final experience in the State be at a silent movie (the MI plot would have made just as much sense). It would have been appropriate given the theater opened Monday, April 25, 1927 with Lon Chaney’s wordless “Tell it to the Marines.”

Days after its debut, the stage hosted a minstrel show. It closed on another Monday, capping off Labor Day weekend with “Crazy Rich Asians.” It seems fitting that the last picture show was a rare studio flick featuring an all-Asian cast, a reminder that after nine decades years a wide gap remains regarding minority representation in the performing arts.

“It was the same as any other weekend,” said Richard Freedman, the theater’s owner. “It didn’t seem appropriate to celebrate that we were closing.”

Still, it hit home when I drove by the Hope Street theater Tuesday night to find the typically glowing teal and scarlet lights extinguished and the marquee blank.

I’ve seen more films at the State than any other theater. Almost 30 years ago, I lived nearby and routinely went there before starting 10:30 p.m. shifts at Greenwich Time. Slightly more humane shifts (6 p.m.) allowed me to see afternoon classics screened for seniors. I caught films from the 1930s (“Swing Time”); the ’40s ( “It’s a Wonderful Life,” as it was meant to be seen); the ’50s (“Rebel Without a Cause”); the ’60s (“My Fair Lady”); and the ’70s (“Star Wars”).

Freedman recalled that his father, Joel, had a collection of 35-millimeter films he could screen as long as there was no charge, so he offered matinees for seniors and children during breaks from school.

“One year he showed ‘Gone With the Wind’ the day after Christmas ...” I began.

“... and the place was packed,” Freedman said, finishing the thought.

My family and I couldn’t even sit together, the only time I saw that happen at the State.

“The State was always a stepchild,” on the local movie landscape, Freedman acknowledged.

I once asked my mother and her best friend where they went to the movies as teenagers in New Rochelle, N.Y., in the mid-1950s. They surprised me by replying “Stamford” in harmony.

“That’s where all the best movies were,” Mom explained.

Advertising in the Stamford Advocate for the theater’s premiere suggests owners hoped to draw film-goers from beyond Springdale. A crude illustration traces routes from Greenwich, New Canaan and Darien.

Among the heralded features were an “exceptional” orchestra, “comfortable upholstered chairs,” (which Freedman says were likely not replaced until his father took over the facility in 1987) and ventilation. A news story details a crew of five ushers clad in white and a uniformed man to sell tickets “over the running boards of automobiles.”

Freedman deserves credit for keeping the doors open, particularly given it was never a passion (“What the hell, I’ll try it myself,” he recalls reasoning when taking it over from his father). But years in the red forced his surrender.

Still, he insists the integrity of the theater’s “living history” be maintained by future owners (“What do you do with a big open space with sloped floors and no parking?” he asks, making the worst pitch imaginable).

Locals have expressed regrets at the closure, occasionally with the exasperating aside that “I never went there, but ...”

He’s heard suggestions to save it by following the trend of serving food during films. I’m reminded of the guy who scarfed down fried chicken from a paper bag behind me during “Gross Anatomy” on a winter night in 1990.

Then Freedman adds a twist to the 91-year-old plot. He will fulfill an obligation for the State to host the JCC Film Festival from Oct. 28-Nov.11, meaning there’s still a window to see a movie there.

He also throws in a teaser worthy of an enigmatic post-credit scene at the end of a Marvel flick.

“Who knows? I’ve talked to a couple of people. There’s a chance it will open again, though not in its current form.”

It sounds like the closing words at the finale of a Saturday afternoon serial circa 1942.

To be continued?