Flashback

Before it became a semi-Broadway hit, there was a movie musical that touched my heart more than any other.

Heaven is a place on Earth.

Like most people, my ideas of love and romance were formed at an early age. Unlike most of the kids I grew up with I was severely overweight with an extreme aversion to any physical activity whatsoever. While most of my “friends” were playing street hockey, touch football and wall ball I was escaping into the world of books and movies (while eating grandmom’s homemade meatball sandwiches). That’s where I lived and where I could do anything I ever wanted.

Summer of 1981. The Jersey Shore, Wildwood Crest. I was seven. This was the age that I first began to realize that I was different. My family always summered at the Crest and it was always a source of great anxiety for me. I could not swim so going to the beach or the hotel pool never presented much of a treat. That unsightly bulges and rolls that began to appear around my midsection right about this time also meant that taking my shirt off in these environments was a monumental effort. Whereas the other boys my age at the beach were sinewy and lithe, I was round, soft and chubby. You could usually spot me on the beach as the exceptionally pale boy in the white t-shirt. I could not run into the crashing surf without feeling like I had a bowl of jello strapped around my waist. I would much rather sit in a beach chair under an umbrella reading while eating a hot dog and an order of cheese fries washed down with a nice cold coke. A fudgecicle from the ice-cream man who warily patrolled the beach with lethargic determination was the only way to top it all off.

One night my parents decided we could go to the movies. That was vacation pleasure. Even today when I’m sitting in the theater and the lights begin to dim I feel the amazing rush of adrenaline that signals my entrance into another world. For this activity I could somehow find the energy to run. To see me run at this time must have been as amusing to strangers on the boardwalk as it is to me watching a baby zebra take its first steps. Awkward and unbalanced, heaven knows what my parents thought as I huffed and puffed my way through the crowds. However the thought of two hours of cinematic escape was enough to make my fat little legs scamper around the tram cars and cotton candy salesmen straight towards nirvana.
The movie theater in Wildwood is still burned into memory. It might as well have been the Ziegfeld in Manhattan. Daddy Warbucks could have been taking his little orphan to Radio City Music Hall for the first time. I shudder to think what it would look like to me now. Some things remain better as memories. Movie posters behind non-reflective glass and framed in running lights covered the entire wall. A huge marquis with yet more lights beckoned me from blocks away. I had never heard the title of this particular film before but it was foreign and exotic and promised to be nothing less than a gift from the gods because it was a musical. I waited with near-hyper frustration for my father to purchase the tickets. My mother patted my flushed face with concern while assuring me that we were certain to get in and get good seats. The line to my seven-year old eyes was never ending. My brother, with a look on his face somewhere between fear and boredom, chose to stare longingly into the window of the neighboring sporting goods store. Patience kept him going because he knew that before the evening was over he would have a new ball or catchers’ mitt or some other such toy as recompense for having to sit through this. He hated the movies. And although seven years older than me, he was still not of the age where he could be left on his own. We often caught ourselves looking at each other like one looks at a familiar stranger on the street, certain that we’ve seen each other somewhere before but not quite sure where. In any other situation we would just keep walking and forget about the incident. That’s the great thing about families. God decides to mix up the pot a little.

Finally my father had the tickets in his hand. As the doors magically swung open I was immediately assaulted by the smell of stale popcorn and artificial butter. Heaven. The carpet was a lush powdered blue and woven into this luscious fabric were huge golden stars that emanated rays of brilliant orange and red. The walls and ceiling were painted a color not entirely dissimilar to that of the stars and then painstakingly sponge painted with the same red and orange of the rays. Obviously this theater was designed by a master craftsman for this was the epitome of glamour. One entire wall of the lobby was painted with black and white caricatures of famous movie stars: Marilyn Monroe, Marlon Brando, Bette Davis, James Dean, Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall. I had no idea who these people were but I knew they were stars if they warranted such a tribute in this most sacred of places. I had no idea how much their work would actually affect my life. At the time, however, I couldn’t stop and stare as I made a b-line for the snack counter.

The order with my family was always the same: a large popcorn with butter and salt to be shared by my mother, my brother and myself; a small popcorn, plain, for my health-conscience father; a soda for everyone. My heart about to burst with pleasure and anticipation, we finally make our way into the auditorium. Again, the order of family member is the same: my mother, then myself, my father, and then my brother. In order to properly appreciate a movie I insisted on being sandwiched between the two people I loved most in the world. We still view movies like this today. At the time, however, this provided certain obstacles because it meant my brother had to break my concentration from the movie in order to grab a handful of popcorn. There was no way anybody was taking my hands off of that bucket. It was my night.

As the lights began to dim a stranger might have thought I was about to suffer severe cardiac arrest. I began to sweat as my heart beat unnaturally fast. What if something went wrong with the film? What if I had to go to the bathroom in the middle of the movie? Why will those people up front not STOP TALKING? Why such a big deal? This was not just any movie. This movie starred the most talented actor of the generation; a performer who made acting an art form. The person I aspired to be. Someone who could act, sing and dance. The most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my life (sorry, Mom): Olivia Newton-John. Why her picture was not painted on that wall outside was a crying shame.

The movie was Xanadu.

Xanadu is the perfect movie. It has Olivia Newton-John, roller skates, dancing, singing, punk rockers, and Gene Kelly as a retired, lonely, romantic clarinet player. It tells the story of a young album cover painter (Sonny) who is tired of “selling out”. He finds himself unexpectedly falling in love with a cover model who happens to be one of the nine Muse daughters of the gods Zeus and Hera. Entertainment, culture and education put onto roller skates and zapped into the local cineplex. Sonny, played by the brilliant but now seldom-seen Michael Beck, fights for the love of Kira, as embodied by Olivia Newton-John, and does not give up until he sees his dreams come true. It’s a story of romance, love and hope.

There is one scene in particular that makes Xanadu the truly great film that it is. It is an animated sequence, kind of like a music video, in which Sonny chases Kira through the wilderness, including a flower patch, a pond and even the sky. You see because they begin as cartoon versions of themselves they can also magically transform into fish and birds as well. This must be one of the many powers that Kira possesses. Kira, however, insists on playing very coy and makes Sonny work his ass off to win her love. Love, obviously, was something that needed to be desperately pursued and fought for. While the lovers run, swim and fly the Electric Light Orchestra performs a soaring pop ballad of longing and sorrow told from Sonny’s point of view. It’s called ‘Don’t Walk Away’. The glory of the sequence is that you know (from the soaring pop ballad that Olivia sings when we first see her skating alone in an abandoned warehouse) that these two are destined to be together.

And if all your hearts survive
Destiny will arrive.
I’ll bring all your dream alive for you.

The filmmakers attention to detail is most apparent in this scene because no matter what form Kira takes (human, fish or bird) she is wearing little, pink leg warmers. Brilliant.

But fate steps in the way of the young lovers. In the very next scene Kira must reveal her true nature to Sonny and tell him that although she has very strong feeling for him there are rules to be followed. She must obey her God parents and remain loyal to her Muse sisters. She and Sonny cannot be together. Destiny has dealt poor Sonny a bad hand. She is a demigod and he is a mere mortal. Sonny, of course, does not believe her story. In order to prove herself (as if her superior roller skating abilities weren’t enough) Kira provides a number of examples. First she makes the television turn on without even touching it. The late night movie is some film noir, Humphrey Bogartish fare only there, on the screen is Kira. She and the other actors in the scene turn to the camera and address Sonny directly, just breaking all conventions of realism. Sonny, bewildered, turns the television set off and rubs his eyes in disbelief. For her next trick, Kira has Sonny look up the defintion of “muse” in the dictionary. It ends with a personal address to Sonny that goes something like ‘Do you believe me now?’ As if all this wasn’t enough to convince him she finally just disappears from his apartment.

Sonny is heartbroken and distraught. He has finally found what he has been looking for and it is being unfairly taken away from him without him having any say at all. So he straps on his roller skates and goes to confront Zeus and Hera. The meeting does not go so well. Ultimately, the gods have a change of heart and let Kira and her Muse sisters come down to Earth for one more night. This night happens to coincide with the opening of Sonny’s roller disco Xanadu. Sonny is overjoyed and the girls put on a spectacular, unrehearsed floor show that combines many costumes and styles of music: country, pop, hard rock, etc. Their finale is the title song of the film. Rules are rules, however, and so at the end of the number Olivia’s outfit is transformed into the more appropriate and god-like toga dress with matching baby pink leg warmers, sans skates. She is then beamed up to wherever it is that gods live. It must be an amazing place because all they need to do to get from one location to another is either beam themselves or roller skate. Although saddened by her departure Sonny has found peace in himself and his roller disco. His heart is somewhat mended.

The filmmakers haven’t played their last card though. It seems as if all is over and the end credits will start rolling when the keenly disguised voice of a waitress is heard asking Sonny if he would like another drink. Sonny looks up and sees that the waitress is (gasp) the exact double of Kira. The gods must be crazy. Sonny has found his Heaven on Earth in his man-made roller disco called Xanadu.

As the lights came up I was crying tears of joy. My parents exchanged a knowing look. My father woke up my brother who took one look at me and said, Stop crying. Boys don’t cry. He then headed off immediately in the direction of the sporting goods store to claim his prize. I took a deep breath and pulled myself together, grabbed my mother’s warm hand and wondered when we could go see the movie again. Then we were back on the boardwalk. The world looked different to me. Everything was magical. My boring old sneakers became roller skates in my imagination. Shuffling on top of the wooden slats I tried to mimic the complex choreography of the film. As I made my way past the sporting goods store I saw a pair of roller skates spot lit in the window. My brother and I both made out that night. I was not allowed to put the skates on though because I had never been on a pair and my parents were afraid I would fall and hurt myself. Didn’t they know that I would intuitively know how to use them? I was convinced by this point that I was a Muse and that my god parents had somehow misplaced me. They would soon realize I was gone and beam me up to roller skating heaven to be with them and my eight sisters. There, I would be magically transformed into my truly beautiful self and find true love. At the age of six, in a movie theater in New Jersey, I discovered what hope was. I also discovered what love meant. Love meant fighting for what you wanted. It meant going after it even though fate says you’ll never get it. It meant sad songs and tortured, long nights of roller skating alone down deserted city streets. It meant inner anguish and turmoil. It meant anything was possible – because if you couldn’t have the one person in the world you truly wanted, another carbon copy of that person would appear. It meant magic.

This definition of love was only reinforced the older I got by the scores of novels I would read, songs I would listen to and sing, and movies and television shows I would watch. Love was never easy but it was worth having because it completed you. And you almost always got it. It made you a better person. In some cases, it made you a completely different person. From my adolescence to my early twenties I wanted nothing more than to be a different person. But Zeus and Hera never came back to claim their forgotten child. My roller skates were eventually replaced by roller blades, this time for actual physical exertion. Olivia Newton-John hasn’t made a movie in years. Cigarettes and coffee have replaced popcorn and soda (except on rare occasions when I’m feeling down and it’s all of them).

Hope, however, is like a malignant cancer inside of my soul. It grows stronger and more powerful every day and it is beyond treatment. It makes me want to fight for love. It makes me believe in magic. I have the creators of Xanadu to thank for that. The little boy who tried to roller skate in his sneakers on the boardwalk in New Jersey that summer night during the summer of 1981 is still alive.