Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe - The Movies – Sam’s First Kiss

Episode Date: March 7, 2025

“Of all of the theatres, in all the complexes, in all of the towns, she walks into mine.” This week on the pod we’re at the movies, basking in the light of the silver screen. We have Stuart McLean’s Ode to the Movies, recorded at the glorious Capitol Theatre in Port Hope; including a fascinating story about a celebrity interview (with Peter O’Toole) from Stuart’s journalism days. And we have a story about Sam and Murphy’s movie theatre adventures.  Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

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From the Apostrophe Podcast Network. Hello, I'm Jess Milton and this is Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe. Welcome. We have family movie night every Friday night at our house. It's something we all look forward to. For sure, it's Annabelle's favorite night of the week. And I think that goes for the rest of us too, especially now that my kids are getting older and we're starting to find more movies that we all enjoy. I'm loving showing them some of my favorite films from when I was a kid. Back to the Future, The Princess Bride, Muppets Take Manhattan.

That's what we're talking about on the show today, the movies. We're going to bask in the flickering light of the silver screen. We're gonna start with a script from Stuart, a script all about the movies with a surprising celebrity story from his days as a journalist. And then in the second part of the show, we have a Dave and Morley story about Sam and

his friend Murphy at a movie theatre. But let's start here. Here's Stuart McLean with his ode to the movies. From the Capitol Theatre in Port Hope, Ontario, it's the Vinyl Cafe with Stuart McLean! Thank you. Thank you very much. Thank you. Well, what a delight to be here. Thank you very much.

Thank you. Well, what a delight to be here in this little gem of a theater. They showed the first film here in 1930, and they're still doing that, over 80 years of movies. This is one of the very first theaters built in North America for talking movies. That's why we came here today to Port Hope and here to the Capitol Theater, because that's what we are talking about today, the movies. I've never been what you'd call a big movie guy.

I love the movies, but I am cinematically handicapped. I always fall silent when I land in conversations about actors and directors and that sort of thing. So before we go one minute more, I would like to declare myself exquisitely unqualified for what we're about to do. Before we begin, I'd like to offer my apologies and this apologia.

My film inadequacies run deep. Blame that as I do most of my deficiencies on my parents. It chose to bring me up in Montreal, a great city for many things. Radio for instance, yeah. It's a wonderful radio city. And look at me on the radio. But it's not a city for the cinema. In fact, growing up in Montreal meant growing up

in a city bereft of movies, at least if you were a kid. There was, you see, in January 1927, the Laurier Palace Theatre fire. It was a Sunday matinee. There were 800 children in the theater watching a comedy called Get Em Young. And there was a smoldering cigarette. Smoke filled the hall and as it did, so did panic.

One of the two balcony exits was locked. The other one opened inwards, and when the smoke cleared, 78 of the children were dead. Roman Catholic Church, which essentially ran Quebec in those days, was not a big fan of the films. And in the aftermath of that fire, the Archbishop of Montreal campaigned to close the city's cinemas, arguing that movies ruined the health of children, weakened their lungs, troubled their imagination, excited their nervous system, hindered their studies, over-excited their sinful ideas, and led to immorality.

Archbishop didn't win the war. The cinemas remained open, but he won a battle. They were closed to children. For 33 years from 1928 until 1961, it was against the law for anyone under 16 to go into a Montreal movie house. As a boy, I was banned from the movies. In those days the movies did all their advertising in the newspapers, denied a seat in the theatre. I sat instead at the breakfast table and like anyone presented a plate of forbidden fruit, I hoovered up all those movie ads. In those days, the movie section and, more importantly, the ads went on for pages, lurid posters, each one more exciting and enticing than the next. I wasn't a Catholic, and already the Catholic Church had nudged me into two of the seven

cardinal sins. I was guilty of both lust and envy. Even in the face of this prohibition, I did manage to see a few movies before I turned 16. In fact, between 1957 and 1961, when the prohibition was set aside, I saw precisely eight movies a year. I saw aside, I saw precisely eight movies a year. Saw them in the summer at the country club near our cottage. The club, a ramshackle place on the edge of black marijuana, ran a sort of cinematic children's speakeasy. That's the nature of prohibition. Movies shown every That's the nature of prohibition. Movies shown every Wednesday night through July and August cost 25 cents. The poster advertising the next week's film and every bit as good as those newspaper ads

went up on the clubhouse wall a week in advance. On Thursday night after Supper, I'd slip over to the club to check it out. The Wednesday night movie was the highlight of those summers. The movies arrived from Montreal on a greyhound bus. They came in big grey metal canisters. They were shown on a 16 millimeter projector with a lousy sound system. You didn't take a date or anything. There was no romance. Not even the romance of popcorn.

You just paid your 25 cents, sat on the floor, and watched the movies. Movies like The Pink Panther, Davy Crockett, carry on nurse. Not quite adult fare, but not quite children's fare either. I was 14 before I could go to a real theater. And when I finally got there, like other things from my early life, I was just in time to catch a glimpse of the sunset days of the previous era. They still had shorts before the features back then, mostly cartoons, but my favorite thing after the previews was the marching

voice of the movie tone news, albeit news repeats by my time. News of the Allied march on Axis territory or of the Lindbergh flight. A distant glimpse of some random and remote world rather than any up to the minute clip. But enough to give me a sense of how exciting the movies must have been before television, when people watched the news together rather than alone in their digital world. The theaters, of course, were still magnificent places back then, palaces really. The Capitol, the Loews, the Palace, the Seville near the Montreal Forum where the sound of music played for two straight years. These theaters were so monstrous and ornate, so enormous that the question of whether you wanted to sit up close or at the back

actually had meaning. Theaters as baroque as opera houses and in my memory anyway as big as football fields. The movies seem to reflect the theaters as if their form was a function of the architecture. Movies like Ben Hur, Lawrence of Arabia, and Mutiny on the Bounty were so ornate, they had intermissions with souvenir programs and long playing record albums and other ephemera all for sale in the lobby. I was mesmerized by Lawrence of Arabia, still am. It's the answer I give when I'm asked that inevitable question about my favorite film. Peter O'Toole is the only actor

whose work I have followed the way people follow these things. And as fate would have it, I met him once. I was making documentaries for the radio show Sunday morning, and it was arranged that I would him once. I was making documentaries for the radio show Sunday morning, and it was arranged that I would interview him. I was summoned to the King Edward Hotel in Toronto, where O'Toole was ensconced in his suite. We journalists, I wasn't the only one there, were lined up in the living room and taken one by one into the bedroom where O'Toole was sprawled on his king-size bed.

We were allowed 15 minutes each. I had spent two days in the library preparing for my 15 minutes. Mr. O'Toole, I said, I'd like to play a word association game with you. He blinked. Clearly no one had begun like this. I slyly read from a list of words that I had prepared, each one an allusion to some important milestone in his life, names, people, and places. After a few minutes of playing along at Don Don O'Toole that I was deep inside his head, And a look of worry crossed his face.

He stared at me and not without apprehension said, Who are you? Mr. O'Toole I replied, I'm the person asking the questions here. When my 15 minutes was up, he invited me to join him for lunch. I remember nothing of it except that he excused himself from the table and disappeared for a long time. At the time, I assumed it was to administer

some sort of medication. He seemed to me to be joyfully medicated. As I recall he asked me to meet him later but we never did that. He was out of my league of course. I had no business hanging with him. Years later when I saw his movie My Favorite Year, the one about the young man working as his handler, I loved it because for a few hours I was that guy. Perhaps my greatest moment involving the movies was also my worst. Happened in the spring that I was 15 years old. We'd been released from school to study for exams, something I didn't seem capable of

doing. Left alone to study, I schemed how I could sneak off to the movies instead. I had no money. So I gathered all my books, my most prized possessions, and I stuffed them into a cardboard box and I carted them to a secondhand bookstore on Sherbrooke Street. I sold them for a pittance and I used the proceeds to go to the films. I saw George C. Scott

in The Flim Flam Man, which was the perfect show for a schemer like me. I loved it, but deeply regretted selling my books, especially the autobiography of the World War II journalist Quentin Reynolds, a book which was partially responsible for awakening the journalist in me, such as it is. I regretted the sale of that book for years and then years after returned to the bookstore on a whim and found it. The very copy I had sold them,

my name written in it and I bought it back. A happy ending that could only happen in a movie. I've had many happy moments in movie theaters, many. I remember going to see E.T. in a small town movie theater in the great state of Maine. In the middle of that movie, something compelled me to look around. I still remember the sea of glowing faces. Everyone was connected to the film. And by extension, to each other the whole

theater swept joyfully away together. The joyful opening of all those early Bond films, back when you could keep track of which ones you'd seen and which ones you hadn't. That moment in Wait Until Dark when the guy lunges out of the closet with the knife and everyone in the theater screamed as one. Movies have shocked me, disturbed me, and delighted me. It brought me to both tears and a laughter. They have taken my breath away. I go to the movies, we go to the movies, and we buy our popcorn, and we sit there waiting for that magic moment when the lights dim. And when they do, we hand the movie

magicians that age-old invitation. Tell me a story. That was Stuart McLean back in 2012 talking about the movies. We recorded that at the Capitol Theatre in Port Hope, which, as Stuart said there, was built as a movie theatre. It's a beautiful room, an atmospheric theatre, and one of the very first movie theatres built for the talkies. We're going to take a short break now, but we'll be back in a couple of minutes with more about the movies, so stick around. You know that one piece of jewelry that works with everything? I have two of those, and both of them are Majuri. Minimalist, playful, and great to layer.

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So go ahead, play, mix, stack, repeat. Shop in store, in app, or at majuri.com. Welcome back. Story time now. Music Welcome back. Story time now. This is Stuart McLean with Sam's First Kiss. So, Murphy had told him exactly where to be. They'd gone over it again and again. You go past the theater, said Murphy, and then the coffee shop and the shoe store, and then there's an alley on your right. And I go down the alley, said Sam.

That's right, said Murphy. And there are three fire exes down there, said Sam. And I go past all three and around to the back. And as soon as I turn the corner, there's a door, said Murphy, on your right. It's a brown door said Sam. Redy Brown said Murphy and I wait there said Sam. I wait by the door and that's where he was now waiting in the alley behind the theater beside the Redy Brown door although he would have described it as a rusty door himself. It was a Thursday. It was July. Just about noon. The first features were an hour

in. He wasn't supposed to be there for 20 minutes. He was early because he didn't want to be late. On the way over he had run into Lila Douglas. Lila was Willow Cassidy's best friend. Willow was a girl in Sam's class. He hadn't seen Willow since school got out. Spent most of July trying to bump into her. Biking by places where girls might be, the pool, the park, the library, nothing had worked. This afternoon he was going to bike right by Willow's house, except Murphy had plans for him. There was a bang and he jumped. The sound of metal against metal. One of the fire exits, an usher wearing a white shirt and a red jacket came around the corner carrying a big bag of garbage.

He threw the bag in the dumpster. When the usher spotted Sam, he stopped and stared at him. Looked Sam up and down. So what Sam did was he turned and walked away in the opposite direction as if he couldn't have cared less about the rusty door. He came back five minutes later. The coast was clear, so he knocked on the exit twice like Murphy had told him and he said the password softly. opened the pod bay door, Hal. Nothing happened. When the door finally did open,

Sam almost missed it. In his defense, Murphy hardly cracked it. Anyone could have missed it. And in his defense, when he did notice, he played his part perfectly. He ran back to it, gave it a tug, and he slipped in. Well, okay. He forgot to check if anyone was watching. But no one was watching. So that worked out okay.

And now he was inside, squinting in the dark theater hallway. Murphy, nowhere to be seen. So Sam did what he was supposed to do. He turned left like he was supposed to and went down the hallway to the men's room. Murphy appeared three most four minutes later. He was holding out a ticket stub. He said, here in case anyone asks. Sam gazed at the stub and smiled. Murphy grabbed both his shoulders, gave him a shake,

and said, Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Sam, who didn't get the reference, put the ticket stub in his pocket and said, that was amazing. An usher came out and everything. Five minutes later they were in the lobby, in the arcade at the back on the left behind the candy counter, the side with all the pinball machines, not the driving games,

standing beside the claw machine, the crane. They're leaning against the glass case, staring at the pile of prizes at the mountain of plush toys. See, said Murphy. See it? Murphy was pointing at the very back. Sam was shaking his head. Under the little panda, said Murphy.

Oh, there. Barely sticking out of the pile of stuffed animals. The corner of a Noriko 16. It has the touch screen, said Sam, and Nexus 2. Murphy nodded. My precious, he said. My precious. Murphy had begun to circle the game. We have to move the panda, My precious. Murphy had begun to circle the game. We have to move the panda, said Murphy, and probably the basketball. One of those miniature souvenir basketballs. Murphy, who had returned to the front of the machine, had his hands on the joystick.

He was pushing it left and right. Murphy said, we move that panda and the ball. We have a clear shot. Sam said, no one ever wins these games. Never, they're rigged. Murphy said, yup, they're rigged. The difference between you and me and everyone else is, I know how they're rigged. Murphy had been coming to the theater every day for a week. Instead of watching movies, Murphy had been studying the game. It's a giant slot machine, said Murphy.

It's programmed. It pays off every 100 games. Every 100 games the claw holds on. The rest of the time it's programmed to drop the prize on the way to the shoot. I'm waiting for the hundredth game. Sam said, so why do you need me? Murphy said, well, you're going to guide me in. I still have to get the claw on the target. See the mirror on the back wall? I keep over shooting. And so they sat there, behind the candy counter and the pinball games where they could watch the game and no one could watch them. Murphy had a paper. Every time someone played the game, he made a mark on his paper. How much have

you spent so far? said Sam Sam. Well that's hardly the point said Murphy. What's the point said Sam. The point said Murphy is getting a Noriko 16 for a quarter. But you spent way more than a quarter already said Sam. They were like a pair of detectives on a stakeout. And like detectives everywhere, they were starting to get on each other's nerves. It was three o'clock. Murphy looked at his paper.

Sixty-three down he said. Thirty-seven to go. This is ridiculous said Sam. It This is ridiculous, said Sam. It's called delayed pleasure, said Murphy, and you just picked up the marshmallow. And as I've explained more than once, the ability not to pick up the marshmallow is an indicator of future success. In just about everything, you should restrain yourself.

I'm trying," said Sam. Try harder, said Murphy. But it was hard. What number are we at? asked Sam. And he asked that once too often. We're at the same number we were five minutes ago, said Murphy, peevishly.

Why don't you go watch a film? I'll come and get you when it's time. And so Sam stood up and he walked away and as he did Murphy said, enjoy your marshmallow. And there he is now in one of the cinemas with his feet up on the chair in front of him, working on a box of buttered corn, using his tongue to pull it into his mouth, like a horse with a feed bag. Sitting there amongst the sticky mess of the ones who had been there before him thinking that Murphy was right about movie theaters. The last place in the world where littering is socially acceptable. Sitting there waiting for the film to begin wondering if he had time to get more butter,

went out of the blue, Lila Douglas and Willow Cassidy waltzed in and sat down right in front of him. He brought his feet down and looked at the back of Willow's long dark hair and he said, of all the theaters and all of the complexes, in all of the towns, she walks in a mine. He was pretty sure the girls hadn't spotted him, but as the lights dimmed, Lila turned and smiled. Hey Sam said Lila, what are you doing here? And then the most unbelievable thing in the world happened. Lila Douglas and Willow Cassidy stood up. They stood up and they walked back and they sat beside him. He was at the movies and there was a girl on either side

of him and the one on his right was Willow Cassidy. Out in the lobby, Murphy had finally made it into the 80s. He checked his watch. A couple of theaters would be turning soon. He yawned. He stood up and stretched. With any luck, he'd hit a hundred plays within the next half hour. Meanwhile in the theater, Sam had stopped watching the movie. He and Willow were holding hands. Well, not technically holding hands. Their hands were touching. He's not sure what it began. He missed the transition from not touching to touching, but ever since he had noticed he'd stopped following the movie. Sam had never held a girl's hand before. Never ever.

Oddly, just before he noticed it, he'd be wondering how one might go about that. Did you ask? Did you say, do you want to hold hands? Or did you just do it? And if so, how did you do it? And why didn't he know this? Surely everyone else knew this. He felt like an explorer making his way through a murky forest without a compass.

How come he didn't have the compass? And that's when he noticed their hands were touching ever so lightly. But touching, no doubt about it, had he done this? He didn't mean to. Was it possible that his hand was acting as an independent agent? Or had Willow done it? He hadn't thought of that. And more importantly, now that he was aware of it, what should he do about it? What he wanted to do was move his hand closer, ever so slightly closer.

Would that be harassment? He sensed that Willow was looking at him. Don't look. Don't look. Don't look. Don't move a muscle. Just breathe. Keep your eyes on the screen and breathe, breathe in, breathe out, lean forward, concentrate. Maybe he should move his hand, not far but which way, maybe away. So they weren't touching but just a couple of centimeters away so they were still in range. See if she followed. His whole body was tense. He'd stopped breathing again. He sucked in a lung full of air. Okay, wait, what was that? Something had just happened. What just happened? Willow had just said something. Willow Cassidy, who was

sitting beside him in the theater, was talking to him. Lila wants a drink, she said. We'll be back in a moment. And the girls stood up. And Sam felt like everyone in the theater was looking at him. And so he leaned forward, his chin in his hands, thinking if he stared at the screen, they would lose interest. It seemed like an eternity before Willow returned. He didn't actually see her come back, just sensed her settle beside him. He didn't look, kept his eyes on the screen. But he had a plan. He was going to go for it. He was going to reach out and hold her hand. He was going to count to five and on five he was going to do it.

One. He began to move, moving his hand, intending to rest it on the arm of the chair. Why was he scratching his cheek? How did that happen? Two, come on, move. Three, he dropped his hand down onto the arm rest, and he felt Willow's hand move back. Hurry, hurry! He had to hurry. Don't let her get away. Four, five, come on do it, do it. Six. He reached out and he grabbed Willow's hand. Oh my God, he did it.

Oh no, she was trying to pull away. He tightened his grip. He had to let her know that he meant it. He was squeezing her hand as tight as he could. It worked. He could feel her relaxing. He was holding her hand. He was holding her hand. He was in a theater with Willow Cassidy and they were holding hands. He was, she was, they were. Okay, calm down. Something was happening. Willow was patting his arm with

her free hand. What was that supposed to mean? What was he supposed to do now? He reached out and he did the same back to her and now she was tapping his shoulder, oh my gosh they were making out! He was making out with Willow Cassidy! He was making out with Willow Cassidy. Okay, not technically making out. Not yet. But they were about to, any second now, he could feel it. He was about to get kissed.

Sam had never been kissed before. He couldn't believe this was happening to him. All he could think was, why wasn't Murphy here to see this? Here we go, thought Sam. And he shut his eyes and he turned towards Willow. I love you, he whispered. And then he leaned closer and then he felt a hand on his face pushing him away. And he opened his eyes and he was staring at Murphy.

It was Murphy's hand he was holding. It was Murphy he was about to kiss. Sam yanked his hand free. He jumped up. Sorry, sorry, sorry, he said. And now everyone in the theater was looking at him. He sat down. Murphy reached out and put his arm around Sam's shoulder. Murphy pulled Sam close to him and whispered in his ear, Murphy said, it's okay. Love means never having to say you're sorry. Love means never having to say you're sorry. Murphy said, come on, it's time. On their way out of the theater, they passed Willow and Lila coming in.

Willow said, I got your popcorn. Are you leaving? Murphy affected his best Austrian accent and answered for him. Murphy said, he'll be back. And so they swaned back around the candy counter, back to the game that had brought them there. And Sam stood on the side the way they had practiced. Okay, he said, looking at Murphy. Okay, said Murphy. And then he smiled and he rubbed his hands together and he said, play it Sam.

And then Murphy said, after I put the quarter in we have 30 seconds. After 30 seconds the claw goes to the shoot, it's automatic. And this is game 100 right? This is game 97 said Murphy, we have free practices. You ready? Sam nodded. Murphy put the first quarter in. Murphy said the center of the claw should be right over the panda's neck. As he was talking he pressed the joystick to the left.

The claw began its jerky trip across the mountain of toys. Stop, said Sam. Back a bit. Twenty seconds, said Murphy. Sam had his face pressed to the machine, his breath fogging the glass. Forward, said Sam. Back. Ten seconds, said Murphy. We're there, said Sam. We're home. Murphy said, there said Sam we're home. Murphy said there's no place like home and then he took a step back and he held his hands in the air palms out look at me and the crane began its tricky descent and the prongs flopped onto the panda and they opened and closed and raised into the air empty. Ninety-eight said Murphy, digging a quarter out of his pocket.

And so we must leave them. Two boys in the midst of great adventure. They have changed positions. Sam is on the joystick. Murphy is spotting. And look, Willow and Lila are walking towards them. Pay attention, said Murphy. Murphy's face is pressed against the glass. The claw has begun to move. Not yet, said Murphy, left. The girls are beside them now, standing by the machine, watching, watching Sam's hands on the levers.

Too far, says Murphy, go back. When you get to the heart of any matter, everything is measured with a microscope. For at the heart of any matter, it is the small things that count. But when the thing you are measuring is the space between a boy's heart and a girl's heart, there is no microscope to measure that. Okay, said Murphy, you're there, you're there. Round up the usual suspects.

Sam shook his head and gave the joystick one last touch. The claw shifted ever so slightly and then shuttered and began its descent. It's always the things that we can't have that we want. The prize behind the panel, the girl in the other room who doesn't know your name. Down the claw went. Down, down, down. I'll get you my pretty said Murphy. And your little dog too.

The claw flopped onto the belly of the bear and rested there for a moment. And then it started up again. This time it had the bear in its grip. This time the bear lifted unsteadily out of the pile of plush prizes and swung jerkily in the air. The four of them, the two boys and two girls, stared at it in wonder. Sam was beaming. The girls were clapping. Murphy was frowning. It wasn't supposed to work like this.

The claw was supposed to drop the bear and clear the way for the next try. But it didn't drop it. The panda was swinging to drop the bear and clear the way for the next try, but it didn't drop it. The panda was swinging in the air. The claw was hovering over the chute. Sam looked at Willow shyly. Willow was beaming at him. Stories never end like this. The boy never wins the prize.

The girl never gets the bear, but this one does. And Sam will tell it often over the years. The story about the afternoon he snuck into the movies and he won the panda in the Claw Game and he gave it to Willow Cassidy and she kissed him on the cheek. I don't understand said Murphy as they walked around the park after supper. I must have miscalculated or something. Something went horribly wrong. Nothing went wrong, said Sam. It was perfect.

It worked out perfectly. And if you want, we'll go back tomorrow and do it again. Applause That's the story we call Sam's First Kiss. All right, that's it for today, but we'll be back here next week with two more Dave and Morley stories, including this one. How much is a membership in your library, Emile? And Emile said, don't be crazy, Dave. Everyone knows membership in a library is free.

He said it patiently, as if he were talking to a child. So Dave filled out his name and address on a piece of paper and became a member in Emil's library. And he picked three books out of the shopping cart. And Emil said, you can't take more than two books out at once, Dave. Dave put the books in a drawer under the counter, or thought he did, forgot about them for a month until a meal appeared one morning and said, did you know your books are overdue? You owe five dollars in fines, Dave. That's next week on the podcast.

I hope you'll join us. Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe is part of the Apostrophe Podcast Network. The recording engineer is the usual suspect, Greg DeCloote. Theme music is by Danny Michelle, and the show is produced by Louise Curtis, Greg DeCloote, and me, Jess Melton. Let's meet again next week. Until then, so long for now.