7:20 to Nowhere

The morning after I went to see "3:10 to Yuma" I would have loved to give you a review of the movie. The only problem is that I still had yet to see the last third of the film.

In what would be the first ever two part mini-series ever to be shown in a commercial movie theater, I had to essentially watch this western in two sittings. Here's how you achieve such a wondrous event:

I'm a little late coming to the appreciation party for this remake. With the Dodgers pushing daisies and my Bowl season equally interred, it's time for me to catch up on movies I had missed. The perfect Fall diversion. More than one person had told me how terrific this oater (Variety talk for a western) was. So, off I toddled to the Arclight with a friend for a looksee.

And what I saw I liked a lot. An old fashioned western with new fangled darkness. A great mix. And, then, suddenly, about one hour and ten minutes into the picture...

Whoop, whoop, whoop, whoop.

A strange sounding fire alarm started to sound in my auditorium. And, in this age of excessive caution and fears of terrorism, the audience did what I totally expected.

They ignored it. And, after a few moments, it stopped. Back to Messrs. Crowe and Bale.

Whoop, whoop, whoop, whoop.

Some of the patrons now turned in their seats to see where the sounds were emanating from. I am betting more than one of us actually thought it was a weird noise coming from somebody's Black Berry and that it was time to fling said device against the far wall of the theater. After a longer period, the noise stopped again. We return you now to our program of Wild West killings.

Whoop, whoop, whoop, whoop, whoop.

Now, one or two people take the time to get up and walk into the lobby. Interestingly enough, they don't return. Perhaps they got sucked into some sinister hole of Gummy Bears and Raisinets. More people leave. More people don't come back. Meanwhile, on the big screen, Russell Crowe has just stabbed somebody in the neck with a dinner fork.

Whoop, whoop, whoop, whoop, whoop.

This goes on and off for about ten minutes. Meanwhile, theater personnel are about as scarce as Arab taxicab drivers in Manhattan on 9/11. Now, one of the things I love about the Arclight is the usually copious customer service. Before every screening, there is an usher who addresses the audience with regard to theater behavior (bizarre that this is now an accepted practice) and that he or she will regularly check in to see how the picture is running. On this night, our usher must have been on perma-break. He was about as visible as Amelia Earhart.

Finally and mercifully, the picture stopped running. That was the clue for everyone to start filing out of the screening area. Of course, outside, everyone else was filing out of their respective auditoriums as well. It was like the day before Thanksgiving at LAX. Again, there is no announcement, no notification, no nothing. I see the goofy kid who had sold me my buttered popcorn earlier and asked him for details. I might as well have asked Cletus from the Simpsons to explain the true meaning of life. In his dumbest and, at the same time, snarkiest manner, he advised me that the theaters were being evacuated. Duh?? Did he think I was wondering why all these people were suddenly headed to the bathroom to wash their hands? I moved on from this numbskull who should have his minimum wage reduced even further.

I wish I could tell you what was going on at the Arclight that night, but nobody got any details. You heard it was a computer malfunction. You heard it was a smoke alarm. You heard it was a delayed reaction to Y2K. But, with regard to actual accurate information, you heard nothing. It was a thoroughly organized evacuation...with no real destination in mind.

Of course, this also meant that you had 15 different audiences all leaving the Arclight garage at once. And, of course, the parking personnel, who are challenged by an up and down direction on good days, manuevered most cars into gridlock that made the Long Island Expressway look like the Autopia ride at Disneyland.

Yet, I was so engrossed in the film that I had to go back the next day and finish it up. I learned almost 24 hours later that it was indeed a computer malfunction in the fire alarm system. My ticket stub got me in free to my return showing. And I spoke to a manager on duty who said there would be extensive meetings to discuss "crowd engagement" during unusual circumstances. And I also threw Cletus the Candy Counter guy under the bus while I was at it.

I saw the last third of "3:10 to Yuma" and heartily recommend it to all. Jack Riley (Mr. Carlin from the Bob Newhart Show) was sitting two rows in front of me. The film works wonderfully, even if it comes with a day long intermission.

Dinner last night: Honey Chipotle Chicken Crispers at Chili's for a good cause. All money yesterday at this restaurant chain went to St. Jude's.