I blew myself out of the water last Sunday. It was late afternoon that I learned the Oscars were on that night. I hardly go to movies anymore. I’ll watch tons on streaming services, but, the last flick in a theater I saw was more than two years ago — the Bob Dylan biopic, “A Complete Unknown.” The movie before that? It was “Meg 2: — The Trench.” No. It wasn’t a documentary on Meg Ryan’s breast enhancement procedure. It was about the uber-shark, the megalodon. My daughter and I love really awful movies about giant, civilization-gulping creatures.  

I am a child of the cinema. Pretty much, they helped save my early life, and, like salt to popcorn, were a key ingredient in forming my creative life. I grew up on double and triple features, along with cartoons, newsreels, previews of coming attractions and fresh, hot popcorn not cooked with mystery WD-40 but actual, dairy-product, churned cream. When I was a boy, Newhall’s American Theater was sanctuary. The constructors of that 1941 cinema house had cleverly built an airshaft connecting the big popcorn maker at the concession stand directly into the air conditioning ducts and into the auditorium. A few minutes before intermission, an usher would throw a switch, sending a warm breeze of fresh, hot popcorn aroma into the theater. I remember buying a bag of popcorn for a dime. Today? A large tub is a car payment.  

I went to see Pat Boone in “State Fair” — get this. Eight. Days. In. A. Row. To my joy and annoyance, I can still........

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