The Pen in Hand Guide to the Movies: Magic Under the Stars

RoyBuchanan, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons

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By Geoff Carter

Whenever I’m near my hometown, I go past the site of the old Starlite Drive-in, which they torn down a while ago. I still miss the sight of the titanic blue structure towering on the horizon, and always remember the place where I spent a significant part of my youth. The Starlite was a public theater but going there was also very similar to watching movies at home today. At the drive-in, we were sequestered in the privacy of our cars; today we can hunker down on our pit sets and La-Z-Boys and watch pretty much the latest in Hollywood fare from the comfort of our own homes. In both places, we were in a familiar place, we were comfortable, and we could be ourselves. Today, even though we have a veritable cornucopia of viewing choices—and can now binge out on a series at home, I still sort of miss the drive-in theaters. In some ways, they were best of both worlds—public and private.

Back in the day, my mother would pack me and my four brothers into our Volkswagen to head out for an evening of double-feature fun at the Castle Drive-In near Minocqua, Wisconsin. We would usually pack one or two grocery bags full of homemade popcorn, chips, cookies, soda, and other treats to munch on during the shows. The typical movie fare ranged from B movie horror shlock like Blood and Lace or Horror House to American International horror flicks like The Pit and the Pendulum, Theater of Blood, or The Oblong Box (all Vincent Price vehicles, of course—and don’t forget the Dr. Phibes series.) We were too young to judge how schlocky they were and too enthralled to care. We loved them for what they are—sheer bloody entertainment.

One night, without quite realizing what she was getting into, my mom took us to a bill featuring Women in Cagesand Big Doll House, steamy dramas about tough girls in prison. She wanted to leave after the first twenty minutes, but my older brother and I persuaded her to stay, telling her our younger brothers would be asleep before the good parts. The same sort of thing happened when my father was still alive. He took us all to see a Matt Helm double feature that my mother also felt (after the opening credits featuring a woman playing sensuously with a boa) was a bit of an adult portion for us. Again, she got talked out of her apprehensions about our tender sensibilities. She needn’t have worried; we were goners by that point, anyway. 

Going to a drive-in movie was not—usually—about experiencing great cinema (although it did happen sometimes—I saw The Godfather and Bonnie and Clyde for the first time at a drive-in). It was also quite different than going to a regular sit-down movie theater. A person or a couple or a young family could come and enjoy a movie in the privacy of their own car. Now they can do it at home, but somehow in the car—maybe because we were young—it seemed a lot more of an adventure.

We didn’t have to sit in a theater and be quiet during the movie (although Saturday afternoon matinees were an exception to that rule) and had the freedom to get out and wander around the premises if we wanted. Some theaters had little playgrounds right under the screens. Some had regular seats like bleachers near the snack bar. It was a paradise for antsy kids. 

In their heyday during the fifties, some drive-ins offered heating tubes that would come right into the car to keep patrons warm during the winter. They were positioned next to that little speaker hanging on the post before most drive-ins modernized and began broadcasting the sound on radio. The heaters allowed viewers to enjoy the drive-in experience even in the dead of winter. Some theaters featured up to five different films during their dusk to dawn shows, although—even though I’m sure there were some who had the stamina to do it, I never knew anyone who stayed the entire ten hours. 

Later, during high school, when we were semi-grown and were able to drive our own cars to the drive-ins, the experience took on entirely new dimensions. It was a place to go with our high school buddies and/or dates. One memorable night at the Victory Drive-in near our home, we saw Five Fingers of Death and Enter the Dragon, our first experience with the Kung-fu movie genre. My friends and I spent the night karate chopping the roof of my mother’s car. Luckily, no serious damage was done. 

Another night, we were cruising around in a friend’s car and decided to stop into the Starlite where there was a triple feature playing: Candy Stripe Nurses, Night Nurses, and Private Duty Nurses. There was no karate chopping that night. The movies had our full attention. I had seen Playboys and other skin magazines before this, but this was my first exposure to the soft-core skin flick. I was spellbound. In this day and age of ubiquitous porn, this probably sounds naïve, but the world was different then. We were more innocent. 

There were certain unwritten traditions for going there. Even though there were discounts for maybe ten dollars admission per carload, we would still try to sneak people in by packing them in the trunk or hiding them under blankets in the backseat. It was a place to bring your steady to make out or to stash a couple bottles of Boone’s Farm or Ripple (cheap wines to the uninitiated) and have a little party. We also, on more than one occasion, tried to sneak a car in through the exit, but were invariably found out and chased right back out—our own mini-version of a Hollywood car chase.

The drive-in theater was a strange mix of the social and personal. It could be a family event. When my brothers and I were very young, our parents would put us in pajamas before going—they knew we wouldn’t last the night. We could be as loud or as obnoxious or as loud as our parents could stand, just like at home. We’d eat homemade goodies, and maybe—if we were good—we’d get a treat from the snack bar. Many times, my brothers and I would hang out in the way back and play while our parents watched the movie.

Years later, as teens, we could hang out and watch the latest, drink cheap wine, make out, or—gasp—simply enjoy movies together. I had an old Volkswagen van that I used to park sideways at the drive-in. We’d open the side doors, grab a couple of speakers, and lie on an inflatable mattress to watch the movies. It was the best of all worlds. 

While cinema is a recognized art form defining the intricacies of human experience, it is also one of the most accessible of the popular art forms. It also used to be one of the most social. Back in the day, you had to sit in a crowded theater with a group of strangers and watch a film on a forty-foot screen. You couldn’t talk, change the channel, or trim your nails. Now you can do all that—and more—thanks to home viewing. 

The drive-in theater was an odd hybrid between the two. It afforded the privacy of a car and the social aspect of being with a group of strangers—in their cars. While sharing communal moments of surprise, shock, or amazement during a feature was out of the question, the drive-in did have its moments. I remember during intermissions (and those hokey snack bar ads), a person would blow their horn. This was invariably followed by another, then another, then another, until there was a cacophony of beeping and blaring. It was an acknowledgement and probably the equivalent of a nod to say hello, an assurance that we were not alone during this cinematic experience.