OUT OF THE BLUE

I didn’t watch the Academy Awards. I knew that I hadn’t seen a single nominated film. Nor were more than a few actors’ names familiar. Their outfits indicated star quality more than their names. Names of the designers, that is. I felt a pang, especially since most gowns/jumpsuits/pant outfits were downright ugly.

Then, on a wave of “background” music, I was transported to the days when most movies were entertainment, not films or art — when Wednesday night “dinner and a movie” became a ritual for parents who could get a babysitter. When the experience was a rite of passage — a first date for 10th-graders. Will he hold your hand? Will it be slick from buttered popcorn? Remember, no mammoth soda or you’ll be running to the little girl’s room.

All gone with the wind, so to say.

Technology has enriched our lives in so many ways that I feel guilty dumping on it. Still, it has also taken away certain events including . . . the movies. When coming attractions were announced in full-page ads in Life magazine, which revealed a classification, be it Western, comedy, mystery, war, romance, thriller, history, cartoons. Animal stories were always tearjerkers. You could count on a two-hour duration. Four-letter words, absolutely not. Same for nudity.

The theater would be on the main drag, with a marquee protruding from the entrance like the Sunrise Theater. On it, the movie title, maybe a descriptive adjective. “Blockbuster” comes to mind, attached to James Bond flicks released in the 1960s.

On weekends get there early, stand in line and hope for two seats together. If you missed the first 10 minutes no problem, because with run-on showings you could see the beginning two hours after the ending.

First off the newsreel, the coming attractions, hopefully a cartoon, often Roadrunner. Some big cities had all-newsreel theaters popular during pre-TV World War II.

The ticket booth was free-standing, stranded in a covered space where the line formed. Cash was the only tender, and kids got in for a dime.

The larger Southern theaters wafted an aroma that wasn’t just popcorn. Once through the set of doors into the lobby we were hit by a blast which, pre-residential AC, seemed reason enough to watch a mediocre flick. In fact, on an especially steamy day, management hung a “COOL INSIDE’’ banner from the marquee, sometimes obstructing John Wayne or June Allyson, Doris Day or Burt Lancaster.

Ah . . . movie stars. Teenage girls had faves. Most of these glamour pusses, postmortem, are memorialized in a concrete Hollywood sidewalk. Mine was Gregory Peck: looks, talent, intelligence, charisma, he was the total movie star package. As an adult I shifted to Daniel Day-Lewis after a regrettable fling with James Bond.

DDL brings up the maturation of movie — sorry, film — plots. Sure, films outgrew the “movie’’ definition long before Lewis copped the 1989 Academy Award. But My Left Foot was different, as were “foreign film” think pieces unrelated to an IMAX sensory overload.

A movie with a strong and relevant plot plus solid acting doesn’t need too many frills. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest comes to mind. I know every word of The Godfather.

Oops. I’ve gone uppity when all I mourn is a midweek movie preceded by the Wednesday meatloaf special. I want to laugh out loud or shed a quiet tear. I want to forget my troubles and be transported, with the transit mode being an 8-cylinder rig with whitewall tires. Leave out the bare bits and gimme a gritty story, something I can relate to.

Because when the water gets too deep I just want to buy a little pink ticket . . . and watch a movie.