Hertel Avenue is always mildly busy; cars honk, and the wind rushes by my face as people drive to and from their desired destination. The people traversing on foot have their heads slightly down, looking at glowing screens consisting of videos and news feeds, or rhythmically bobbing their heads to whatever songs are hitting their eardrums as they briskly walk down the bustling block. On the avenue itself: coffee shops, pizza places, and barbershops, all with neon signs displaying their names. It’s just another contemporary avenue in another modern city, with one exception: 1428, the address to the North Park Theatre.
As my hand reaches out to grasp the handle, I sense that the door is a bit heavier than one would expect. It takes just that extra bit of effort to enter, and that’s because once the door opens, I’m going back in time. Instantly, I’m hit with a sense of warmth as my feet hit the floor of the ticket booth area. It may be the lighting or my eyes adjusting ever so slightly from an outside environment to an inside one. Still, there’s a glow, a feeling of timelessness that hasn’t been dulled but rather maintained by the magnificent renovations. The ticket booth area feels spacious; there’s a sense of openness, even if you’re in line, as opposed to other theatres where it’s not so much a line but rather a maze consisting of rows of people and ropes that look like seatbelts. Once I get to the actual ticket booth, I’m pleasantly surprised I can see the whole person. There isn’t a row of people giving tickets. It’s just one person; there’s an intimacy in that a sort of personalization that only happens if you come here. I ruffle through my pockets for the asked amount, the ticket reaches my palm, and I’m off to the concession stand.
Interior renovations at North Park Theatre
I look forward to eating or drinking a locally made soda or cookie, but in all honesty, I see the old mainstays like Raisinets and M&Ms, and that idea goes out the window rather quickly. I point to a random soda that turns out to be delicious. So even though I didn’t support my city’s local business economy any further than buying a ticket, at least I can douse my guilt in an exotic flavor of peach soda.
Ornate artwork at North Park Theatre
There’s just one screen! I knew this before coming in, but seeing it in front of my eyes is, at the very least, mildly shocking. When finding a seat (which you can do on your own, they don’t make you pick a spot beforehand, which I appreciate), I noticed there’s a slight decline, which intended architecturally or not gives a sense that I’m going into something. Like I’m going deeper in time. Like the ticket booth area, there’s a sense of spaciousness. The theatre only seats 850 people, and it feels like it. The seats are retro style. Gone are the Lazy Boy-esque recliners with adjustable “kick your feet up and take a nap” options that make the sound of an awkward fart as the mechanized recliner squeals to its user’s desired position. Gone are the back warmers and tray and cup combo holders that are omnipresent in almost all theatres nowadays. Now looking for my seat, I’m reminded (rather forcibly I might add) of a time where theatre seats were created with one purpose only, to sit down.
Sitting in my seat several minutes before the film starts, I can’t help but take it all in. The high ceiling with a beautiful painting of something I can’t quite make out. The chandeliers. The fact that there’s a stage below the screen, an apparent remnant of the silent era where people would have to play live music for the film, because, well… it was silent. The steep decline I mentioned previously travels from the entrance door to the stage, evidently as a means for ushers back then to have the ability to check on the crowd. There are no stairs, no other exits. It’s all streamlined; one entrance, one exit, one straight line.
I try to get comfortable in my wooden chair, which I’m quite sure is made of the same wood clogs are made of. (Admittedly they have slightly more comfortable seats with some padding in them. I choose the least comfortable one because I’m a sucker for the experience). The lights start to dim. I begin to feel a sense of appreciation that a place like this not only exists but that I, along with the public, have access to it. Now to take the gamble on whether or not Terrence Malick’s A Hidden Life will be a luxurious visual masterpiece or a nap-inducing bore. Wish me luck!
