Lights! Camera! Popcorn!

It's time to raise the curtain,
It's time to light the lights,
It's time to get things started,
It's the Monarch's Opening Night!

It's been a busy couple of weeks, and during that time, I had the distinct privilege of picking gum off of 410 theatre seats. (Some committee members bring organization, networking, fundraising opportunities, and business savvy to the board; I bring other skills.) But at long last, the ceilings were painted, the bathroom sinks renovated, and the bare minimum of food safety requirements met.

Everything was as ready as it could be, there was nothing left to do but open the doors and see who would walk in. It was a gala event in the finest, with all the good members of the populace decked out in their formal apparel. I must admit, when it comes to black-tie crowds, I've never been much of a schmoozer. But this time, I tried to make an effort. And so, when one lady in a sparking blue gown came up to me, I straightened my hat and put on my best smile.

Ten seconds later, while gesturing to indicate the scope of the renovations, I clotheslined a concession clerk carrying a tray of popcorn. Kernels went everywhere, almost reaching the press photographers standing nearby. Fortunately, they were paying keen attention, and didn't let the mess obscure any of their pictures.

The lady in the blue evening gown wandered off immediately, but by the end of the evening, I'd volunteered to help sweep up another two (unrelated) popcorn spills, and I was good friends with most of the staff.

Like I said, I'm not a black-tie schmoozer, but I've got my strengths.

I must admit, I'm not really sure if that was the hard part or the easy part. Sure, we had to overcome insurmountable odds in order to get the place open, but now we've got any number of day-to-day crises on our hands.

Whatever it is, though, it's going to be fun.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a late showing of "Vertigo" to attend.

Lights! Camera! Action!

It was a perfect summer evening. As part of a fundraiser, the Monarch Theatre was showing classic movies in the park. Bring a lawn chair, bring a donation, and re-live that drive-in experience. The initial response had been very encouraging.

This evening, it was the 1999 film of "A Midsummer Night's Dream". Shown in the middle of a forest on a midsummer night, it was pretty much the perfect choice. The audience seemed to agree -- over a hundred people showed up, which was more than we had realistically expected. Perhaps the only thing that could have been better was the absence of those storm clouds in the distance. On the other hand, even though a few flashes of lightning were tracing the sky, but we were so far away that we couldn't hear the thunder. No problem. Besides, the lightning was behind the audience, so they didn't notice it.

I was content to let things proceed, even when the clouds got a little darker. There still wasn't any rain, right? Our manager was worried, though. Soon, she made the call. She rounded up the A/V guys, got them behind the stage, and then turned on the microphone to cancel the show.

And then, as soon as she told the audience, a gust of wind swept in and threw down the movie screen. The A/V crew was already there to help (and I was up there a second later), but the audience got the hint: they departed quickly, quietly, and in an orderly fashion.

Which was just as well, because a minute after the last car left the parking lot, some branches blew across the transformer behind the park, and shorted it out. Giant arcs of electricity, taller than the trees, shot out overhead, while their crackle and hum drowned out all conversation. Flames licked at their sides before they finally settled down, only two erupt twice again, before tripping a minor blackout in the city.

Next week, I think we're showing Back To The Future.

And worth every penny.

Before settling down in the Hat, I shuffled across a fairly large swath of the prairies. Each time, the classic conundrum presented itself: how do I become part of the community? In a place like Swan Hills, the answer was "don't worry, your very existence is a boon to us." In Edmonton, the answer was "don't worry, just get out once in a while and appreciate what's already there." In Grande Prairie, the answer was "don't worry, your bizarre work hours will keep you from ever attending two consecutive Saturday afternoons, anyway."

Medicine Hat, though, required a different tact. It required... participation.

I sought volunteer organisations. For instance, I'm a board member for Praxis, a committee dedicated to encouraging science education in classrooms. Neat stuff, right? Bob MacDonald, science fairs, chemistry magic shows, and all that. However, the last meeting was dedicated to writing up confidentiality agreements, and finding a computer that could read our 1994 club policy documents from an AppleWorks file on 3.5" floppy. Also, there's the slight problem that I've never actually been inside any school in Medicine Hat. So, maybe this isn't the best match for me.

But then, I wandered past the Monarch. I've blogged about it before; an arthouse theatre with shoddy projectors and lousy service that honestly deserved to be shut down, as galling as it was to have only a single mall multiplex serving the entire city. That building's left a pang in my heart for two years... but now, it's getting renovated. And, what's this? They need help? I fire off an e-mail to the contact, asking what the plan is for the Monarch. She responds with a huge list of plans, projects, guidelines, and dreams, but in the middle is one crucial detail:

No talking chihuahua movies.

Really, that's all they needed to say. And so, I spent yesterday covered in dust, scraping plaster off the walls of a 100-year-old movie theatre, getting it ready for that glorious day when its doors open up once more. I don't know if I'll be taking tickets, popping popcorn, or sweeping floors that day, but I can guarantee: This is how I become part of the community.

So, yes, it's been a good weekend.