I have been meaning to send along my own thoughts and memories on
the
fire at the Rialto, and feel enough time and contemplation has passed to
actually sit down and put words to paper (so to speak, in today's
computer world). My memories of the theater are vast and very fond (but
then really, who that has ever lived in Deer Lodge NOT been affected by
or have memories of the Grand Ol' Lady that was our beloved Rialto?) for
a number of reasons. First, my family owned for many many years the
building that stands to the right of the theater, the Mitchell Block,
and so many of my early years were spent down there, and of course with
the theater as well, just by nature of proximity. The Hansens and the
McGillises were good friends in my early years, and one of my earliest
jobs was hosing off the pigeon poop in front of both of our buildings.
Not a typically glorious memory to be sure, but eventually I started
working for Harold Hanson inside the theater as well, and I know it was
our family's friendship that allowed me early access to what was for a
young pre-teen boy a magical and mystical place.
Taking tickets, selling candy, popcorn, and soda, changing the posters
in the front (remember when they were big enough to fill the entire
space? Not those little weenie posters they make now), and of course
climbing out the window of the second floor office, down onto the
marquee with a handful of huge heavy (for a young lad) metal letters,
the title of the next magical movie written out in Harold's neat
handwriting so the title was not misspelled, which would, of course,
require a return trip out, which was nasty in the winter. And of course
there was only ONE ladder down on the marquee, so we would always have
to crawl under the sign itself to be able to change the other side.
Which, of course, was why young people were always utilized for this
job. And of course there was cleaning the theater the day after movies,
using our giant blower to move all the discarded candy wrappers, spilled
popcorn and empty pop cups to the front to be swept up. Make sure all
the half filled pop cups were picked up, or the blower would leave a
sticky mess that would have to be mopped.
And as we grew older (I say we because I was fortunate enough that my
best friend through school, Mike Jensen, was also working there with
me... how much of a joy is that, to share a job with your best friend?),
we were eventually allowed to actually run the projectors themselves,
those big, monstrous machines that threw out light and magic onto the
screen, noisy, carbon rod run behemoths that spit out movie after movie
to enchanted audiences. Don't we all remember hanging out in the lobby,
waiting for Mr. Hansen (And we all call him "Mr. Hansen", don't we...?
Not 'Harold') to come out of the ticket booth and enter the little
projection booth, closing that big bank-vault type door (at least to my
memory), knowing we better make our purchases because the lights were
soon to go down and the magic was soon to begin.
My reward? I was able to enjoy free movies during a time of life when
movies are the most magical of all... when the scary movies are the
scariest, when the comedies are the funniest, and when the magic is most
real. I was also given free run of that glorious Ol' Lady... all the
secret nooks and crannies that few even knew existed, the storage closet
upstairs that held props from a bygone era (as old as vaudeville
perhaps?) and a collection of old posters that would catch a fair price
on eBay today from the days of Marilyn and James Dean and Cary Grant and
etc and etc. One day finding myself in the highest reaches of that
palace, actually looking out and down through the lattice work above
those beautiful chandeliers, the height dizzying, thrilling, enthralling
for a young lad to be able to look down at an angle that seemed almost
Godlike, that I knew very very few had ever seen. I was given free
access to the balcony when many of my peers were not allowed up there,
and enjoyed many a movie from that prime location with my best buddy
Mike. What a glorious first job it was, and how I so regret growing
older and moving on to the world of 'real' employment. I have never had
a job that paid less, or that I enjoyed more. It did not add a whit to
my Social Security, but the growth of my imagination has never been matched.
It was with great pride I learned my mother had helped with the
restoration of that Grand Ol' Lady over a decade ago, and with extreme
sadness that I share with all of you the images and stories of what has
befallen her. It is certainly true what has been echoed, that even if
rebuilt it can never ever be the same again, for we all know that things
just aren't made like that anymore. Yet I know, based on my knowledge
of the community of Deer Lodge, that if anyone can even come close to
restoring our beloved theater to even a fraction of it's previous glory,
it would be you folks. You hold history and community pride close to
your hearts, and having come from that heart I can feel your anguish and
grief. And having come out with my own share of grief, I know that
eventually that does pass, and I have no doubt that a new Rialto will
eventually exist. No, it won't be the same Grand Ol' Lady, but we all
have enough memories of Her to get Her close. Godspeed Deer Lodge, but
take your time and do it right. It took 85 years to build all those
memories, and there's no need to try to force her reconstruction. There
are shoebox complexes everywhere and are a dime a dozen, but there's
only one Rialto. Maybe when it's back on it's feet, it should be
renamed the Rialto-Phoenix Theater.
---Greg Pomeroy, Buffalo, NY
