photograph by chris mccoy
When you’re at a drive-in cinema, you’re naturally eager to see darkness fall. That’s when the fun begins: The projector beams, the images dance onscreen, and you’re transported.
But my favorite moment is just before then. As you’re gathering up your last concessions, strolling back to the car, or wrapping up stray conversations, you may notice the last glint of the sun, sinking behind trees and roofs beyond the looming screens. And the entire landscape of the drive-in becomes golden, the cinema itself a star in its own feature.
Those are the moments, before you’re engrossed in the movie, that can lead you to reflect on what an institution the drive-in is. And what a crucible for our memories it can be. Of course, drive-ins are famous for teenaged dates and steamed-up windows. Our managing editor, Frank Murtaugh, even had a first date with his wife-to-be at one, and, as he notes, “Drive-ins make the world better. Even when the movies are dreadful.” The memories are what stay with us.
I had a couple of drive-in dates in my high school years near Memphis, Nebraska. Going to Omaha was a big deal in itself. The dates, as I recall, were both nerve-wracking — burdened as we were with the pre-loaded expectations of a steamy cinematic encounter — and entirely innocent. Yet most of my drive-in revelries were with gaggles of other rambunctious lads, laughing at our own jokes in that juvenile echo chamber of the adolescent automobile.
Omaha has no drive-ins now, and I don’t mourn their loss, honestly, because my most treasured drive-in experiences came later, when I was a young father, here in Memphis. I recall those times whenever I return to the Malco Summer Quartet Drive-In, which is very much still with us.
When you’re co-parenting a very young child, you have to give up on any expectations of entertainment. You’re always on call, and good luck trying to see a movie. That’s how my children’s mother and I felt at the time, but we noticed that our infant son tended to fall asleep in his car seat. How delicious it was when he would do so, and we could gingerly roll in to the drive-in to see a blockbuster.
“Ain’t this living?” we’d enthuse with silent smiles, as our darling boy snoozed in the back. But when his sister was born, getting them both to catch 40 winks simultaneously was too much to ask.
It wasn’t long, though, before they got a bit older and we could take them both, and what a grand excursion it was: packing the cooler, piling the blankets in the car, backing in and opening the tailgate so those snuggle monsters could gaze up at the towering screen with their drinks and snacks. Then friends would be added, or whole other families parked beside us, with lawn chairs gathered together and the good cheer flowing.
Suddenly the open air is where it’s at, guaranteeing an exponentially safer environment in which to watch movies. Our vehicles double as safe zones, sealed capsules where we might responsibly go maskless.
That communal spirit came to define the drive-in as our kids grew up. Indeed, their coming-of-age coincided with a renaissance of the Summer Quartet, as it came to host the Time Warp Drive-In series: triple or quadruple features of older films, either classics or cult favorites. The all-night Kubrick marathon alone offered the once-in-a-lifetime experience of seeing the sunrise over Memphis just as the end credits for 2001: A Space Odyssey rolled across the screen.
Amazingly, even as drive-ins across the country were shuttering, Malco made ours flourish, even investing in digital projectors, ensuring its continued relevance. And that rebirth was personally meaningful for many. One newlywed couple was so committed to the Summer Quartet’s glory that they persuaded Time Warp co-curator Mike McCarthy to perform a dual baptism by the concession stand — in a baby pool filled with popcorn. Now that’s pop culture.
Fast-forward to the era of COVID-19, and drive-ins have taken on a new meaning. Suddenly the open air is where it’s at, guaranteeing an exponentially safer environment in which to watch movies. Our vehicles double as safe zones, sealed capsules where we might responsibly go maskless. My kids, now driving on their own, can gather up the one or two friends in their “pod” and have an almost-normal evening. They might even acquiesce to a night out with their old man. Meanwhile, I have pod pals of my own, and can savor that brief, limited feeling of freedom and possibility.
I recently enjoyed such an evening out, and, after months of sheltering in place, it struck me like a revelation. Thanks to the Time Warp, the night promised all the fun and absurdity of The Seventh Voyage of Sinbad and other Roy Harryhausen classics. Donning a mask and stepping out to stock up on popcorn, with the sun just sinking into the golden hour, I looked back at my friend in the car and felt a rush of gratitude: that such a place still existed in Memphis, that such delights could be indulged in safely, even during a pandemic. I looked at the concession stand, bathed in the glow of twilight. Soon, darkness would settle in and the fun would begin. I smiled and thought to myself, “Ain’t this living?”
