LET'S NOT BE LONELY TOGETHER

Sun Jan 15, 2006

I didn't know what to expect in going to the Oak Street Theater this evening, all I knew was that I felt awful. For years I had been telling myself that this day was coming, that the Oak Street was too good to be true. And yet the little theater soldiered on, its schedule arriving every three months and then posted prominently on my refrigerator, on and on and on for ten years. Now, suddenly, this. It was like visiting someone on their deathbed.

There was a long, confused line in front of the theater as I pulled up and parked. Two lines, in fact: one for those who had bought tickets and were slowly marching in, and those of us who had to purchase tickets. Then there were the guys taking pictures; the staff trying desperately to keep some order (and doing not such a bad job of it), and people handing out the Staff Statement to those of us in both lines.

The Statement thanked us all for coming and then cut to the quick: the Oak Street was in serious trouble, there was, as far as they knew, no Executive Director, no Managing Director, or "any plans in place to hire for those positions". The staff was "unclear" and "unaware" of the ways and means to keep the Oak Street going, of ridding themselves of debt, of even producing the International Film Festival. If they were unclear, I, and no doubt many others, thought: how the hell would we ever know?

The idea, I guess, was that the Board of Directors would come and, in the words of the Statement, "share their vision". That sounded good: personally, I felt a mixture of depression and the usual fury when something you love is being taken away from you. I wanted answers.

So, too, did most of the packed theater. There was the usual crowd of misfits: I was certainly one of them, taking photos with my old digital camera that utilizes silver duct tape to keep it working, and sitting off in the front, just behind the board, by myself. There was a fat guy with a bottle of beer. A group of young filmmakers sat just behind me and complained about how the city of Philadelphia tried to arrest them for photographing a train. Many people brought their own digital cameras and were shooting away. There were patrons in sport jackets, jean jackets, mohawks and crew cuts. People were already barking amongst themselves, and there were a small number who appeared shocked: they hadn't heard of the damn meeting and were there simply to see "Citizen Kane".

Robert Cowgill was there—he is, for those of you not in the know, the past Executive Director and co-founder of the Oak Street—and dressed as usual in slacks and a jacket. In fact, I swear that he always wears the same outfit, like Einstein did, or Seth Brundle in Cronenberg's "The Fly". As usual, he seemed nervous: I always wondered why it looked like he had the butterflies before each show; this time he had a reason.

Just before the festivities, a few of the Board members showed up, looking as if they'd just returned from a dinner date at one of our city's finer restaurants. Already I was grumbling to myself: so these were the guys who weren't telling anybody anything. Bastards.

Perhaps the biggest surprise was the moderator: Peter Wagenius, a senior aide from R. T. Rybak's office. Wagenius was a small guy with a neatly trimmed beard, jacket, and a load of patience he'd probably built from years in a job like being a mayor's aide. He tried to get the show started right, tried to keep us all from shouting, but made an error, I thought, in trying to make it sound like the night wasn't going to be anything more than a brainstorming meeting to try and save this lovable old place. He mentioned it was his birthday the other day, and his pals, instead of buying him gifts, donated so much money to the Oak Street that they put a little plaque on a chair that read "Peter Wagenius' favorite seat" or some such sentiment. Why, wouldn't it be great if we could all do the same thing? What else can we come up with? he said, with a grin. I slumped down in my chair; frankly, I wasn't there to see "Citizen Kane" nor was I there to hear a pep talk on how to scoot my friends' butts into the empty seats at the Oak Street. For weeks now I've been frustrated, trying to get the Oak Street to give me advancing warning of films so that I could write them up for the Rake (where I freelance once in awhile) and even here on my own blog. Suddenly, I get word that this damn place I love so much is going to the dogs. At that moment, Peter Wagenius seemed like an assistant principal at a Friday afternoon Junior High pep rally. Which is to say, the last guy I wanted to hear from.

But then Cowgill, as if sensing this wasn't going anywhere, politely butted in and tried to bring the meeting to focus. "This theater," he began, "is an act of romantic faith in our culture. However, faith is not enough. If there's a romantic side that wants to keep the Oak Street, then there has to be a pragmatic side as well."

Cowgill entreated us not to demonize anyone: what was the point? The theater was in debt and all the bickering and backstabbing wouldn't do anything but make us feel better, and bitter, and wouldn't solve anything.

But then staffers Emily Condon and Adam Sekulker wandered up to speak, again interrupting Mr. Wagenius, who was trying his level best to moderate and keep a lid on the emotions, but who could only nod and fold his arms. Emily said, "We come to this theater to watch movies and not be lonely. And it's wonderful to be here and not be lonely with you." She looked as if she was going to cry. As she and Adam heaped praise on all of us for coming, suggesting that it was theatergoers like us that kept it alive, the grump in front of me shook his head and kept saying "No!" and then grumbling to the Board members. That turned out to be the legendary Al Milgrom, who walked up and began to add his own voice to the complaints.

By now, the whole thing became unglued. Tim Grady, who's the treasurer on the Board, got up to try and get a word in: he did, which only riled the crowd. As I watched him flailing up there—and I'll credit him for keeping his composure—it occurred to me this whole thing was a tangled mess. No one had told the Board this was coming; no one, including the staff who set up the meeting, knew it was going to happen, either. How could anyone come up with answers? For now, one group of volunteers was furious at another group of volunteers and the patrons, like myself, were both trying desperately to figure out who to blame and who to run to for answers. And we would get no satisfaction in either desire.

Mr. Grady had to contend with questions like: "Can't we just get out of this capitalistic bubble and look for someone to endow us with enough money so we can keep going forever?" or a belligerent Iggy Pop look-alike shouting "Tell us the truth!" and then refusing to accept any answer. One of Cowgill's original partners bellowed out that Cowgill wasn't to blame. One suggested this gem: to sue former director Jamie Hook for damages (thus throwing lots of money we don't have after a guy who probably doesn't have any money himself). Another volunteer, who'd been with the organization since its inception, tried to get his moment at the mike, was turned away and then, as he left, shouted to Grady: "You're a liar! Why did you have a developer come here?"

At that, Grady looked defeated. "We're trying to get a loan. The banks won't give us a loan. We're trying other sources."

Theoretically, there will be a meeting in the near future, when Board members and staff members and filmgoers like myself can prepare good questions and thoughtful answers and not feel crowded by Orson Welles breathing over their shoulders (you could have much worse). When I asked if it was true that the theater was done for after this week, Al promised that the movie "Illusive Tracks", a Swedish film that had sold out at the International Film Festival (twice, I guess), was coming in another week. "And if you don't like it, I give you my guarantee you can see the next thing we show!"

As I said, it was a mess. But it was a heartbreaking mess, of people arguing and hoping and trying so desperately to hold on to something so God-damned important they were going to dig into their meager funds in the hopes that this silly little dream factory—with its recycled red seats, flaking paint, lousy popcorn, and fantastic films—can keep going for another year. And make life not such a grind every now and then.

Finally, Wagenius was given the go-ahead by both the Board and the staff to quash any more questions and get the show on the road. I couldn't help but feel a heavy anxiety fall on me. I had wanted so badly to be able to feel as if great change had just fallen upon the theater, or that someone would be crucified verbally. The Board, though, didn't deserve that, nor the frustrated questions hurled at them, for which there weren't any quick answers. Then again, they do owe us some information. Like kids watching their folks divorce, all we could do was listen. And wait.

As I stood to leave, Wagenius, still optimistic, chimed, "Why not stay and watch the film?" Tons of us were leaving, having come just for the meeting (though I paid full fare, and then some). As if, in a last desperate attempt to remind us of what we were missing, a moviegoer yelled out, "I love 'Citizen Kane'!"