Ervin attends the movies – SC Times

I had never seen the Dakota Theatre movie projectors until one day when I was a ninth-grader and Walter Sayler, the owner, asked if I’d like to make extra money running the projectors.

The first time I climbed the stairs and stepped into the projection room with its giant steel door and thick cement walls, I was overwhelmed, stunned by the size of the machines.

I would be operating these monsters, taller than me? Impossible! And immediately I was brought up short being warned of the dangers: with a short jaunt into carelessness I could get electrocuted; or momentarily light-blinded; or crack the reflecting mirror costing thousands; or burn the film; screw with the sound; insert the wrong reel – goof up the movie for a hundred restless people below.

The booth contained two identical giant Simplex Peerless movie projectors, seven feet high with upper and lower reel containers. Behind, the round fat main body housed brilliant arc rod lighting.

On the plus side, being in charge of such expensive, dangerous and complicated machinery increased my self-confidence. I felt like an adult. I was being trusted. Plus movies were free. Paid to do homework, or read books by Ray Bradbury.

I started working as projectionist, running shows like “Last Train From Boot Hill,” “Spartacus,” “The Ten Commandments” and lesser ones like “Zotz,” which required handing out plastic tokens that said “Zotz.” 

As a perk, before and after movies I could stand in the lobby greeting people, and glow in their comments about my basketball skills in games we’d played that week.

Each movie consisted of five or six rolls of 2,000 feet of 35mm film on a 20-inch metal reel, 22 minutes, weighing 15 pounds.

Each Thursday evening I fast-forwarded through the reels to detect tears, and repair them, and spliced the cartoon and previews together.

One evening I brought my friend, Ervin, up to the projectionist room. Ervin was 24 years older, his brain frozen at age 13 when he fell off a hay rack and cracked his skull on the edge.

Ervin stepped into the high-ceilinged booth as into a cathedral, his eyes huge as they rested on the pair of seven-foot-high projectors. “That‘s what makes the movie,” I said.

“But but but Biddee!” he said. “They’re so big! So big!” He gazed at me with awe. “You do this all alone?”

I nodded. He gaped when I pulled out a reel of film from its metal box. “So big!” he said.

I loaded the film and started it. Agape, Ervin stared out as the movie scrolled onto the screen. I showed him how everything worked. “Ooh, Biddy,” was all he said, wringing his hands.

At movie time, with a buzz I ignited the arc rods, started the film, waited eight seconds as it ramped up, opened the douser and activated the sound.

The arc light reflected off the large concave mirror, out through the moving film and lens and out onto the giant screen. Like a miracle, Daffy Duck and Porky Pig and Bugs Bunny began to perform their shenanigans.

With two minutes left, a bell warned me to prepare for the changeover. With eight seconds remaining a round cue appeared in the upper right corner of the screen, the signal to start the second machine. Seven seconds later a second cue allowed me one second to switch over. Done right, the movie was seamless.

I felt privileged, and loved being a movie projectionist. Even did it in my college town.

Twenty years later, my brother Ron attended a movie at Dakota Theatre. He waved at Ervin and sat down. During the show, the projectionist missed a switchover. Film flapped and the screen went white. Ervin glared up at the projectionist booth and yelled, “Heyyy!  When Biddee Vossler was projectionist, stuff like that never happened!”

Ervin the stalwart. Loyal to the end. Another gift in my fortunate life.

This is the opinion of Bill Vossler of Rockville, author of 15 books including the e-book “Nature’s Way: Writings on the Wild.” He can be reached at [email protected].

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