Dim the Lights, Not the Spirit
We enter the new theatre on the day of the Coolidge’s Grand Opening and ribbon cutting.
“How do we find our seat?” Mary asks a woman holding what looks like a list of names. We’re not looking for just any seat. We’re looking for my Mom’s seat.
“Hanna’s up in theatre 5 with the list,” a woman holding some pages instructs us. “But you should make your way all the way up to the top floor and work your way down.”
“Like the Guggenheim?” I say, remembering the famously circular Gehry Museum in Manhattan, where one takes an elevator ride up to the top, and then strolls down the long ramp to the lobby while taking in the art along the way. The Coolidge is not a Gehry, but we like the idea of starting at the top, and remember the many such outings with Mom when she lived in The City.
“There’s an education space and balcony overlooking Brookline,” the woman adds as we say thank you.
Before we head up, we take a moment to take in the new lobby, which we note has nothing in common with the old lobby.
“I miss the vibrant colors,” Mary says of the newly gold painted wall and faux marble floor.
“They did it on purpose,” I say, having read a story in the Globe about the architect’s intent. “The idea is to have us walk into the rich color of the original Coolidge from this new space.”
What I learn from the story is that art deco isn’t as much a design aesthetic as it is a way of thinking. “It’s about more innovation and culture than design,” the architect explains. “We want people to feel a certain way when traveling through the space.”
I like it, and take a moment to look up the definition of art deco with my new favorite search tool, Perplexity. ‘Art deco reflects optimism and prosperity of the interwar period of the 20’s and 30’s, and takes inspiration from Cubism, Futurism and Bauhaus.’ I can embrace this.
“People won’t be lining up in the rain anymore,” Mary says, sad. “I loved that scene.”
After a few minutes in the new space, talking to someone who says she chaired the campaign to fund the project, we make our way up to the top floor and out onto the balcony. We’re here to see the space for sure, but more to find the seat Mary’s bought in my Mom’s name, so up we go.
“A nice view of the parking lot,” I say, repeating a little joke Mary and I have been telling each other since we saw the first design of the addition featuring a top floor glass enclosure and balcony overlooking Coolidge Corner’s biggest parking area. I can’t help imagining a world of pedestrians and bicycles, where this lot becomes a park for people to lounge in. “Dream on,” I think. “Not in my lifetime.”
“It’s nice,” Mary says when we stand out in the cold overlooking our town on this late March afternoon.
“You can see Summit Ave, but also Longwood and The Baptist Hospital,” I add. The view better than I’d imagined—further, more expansive.
“All these roofs should be solar,” Mary says, which just makes me think we need to get that done on our house too.
“Maybe they will,” I say, of the towns roofs. “Because people like you are seeing the opportunity, and will talk about it with the powers that be.” WIth this statement, I remember when Mary got up to argue for lowering the height of some new construction slated for Harvard Street. Mary, like my mom, speaks her mind.
When we then make our way down a floor to the first of two new theaters, this one blue, we ask the person greeting us, “do you have the seating plan?”
“Yes, what’s the name?”
“Betty Mooney,” Mary says. “I’m Mary Howard.”
“I see it. You’re in the red theater downstairs.”
“YES!” Mary says, excited to be in the bigger of the two new spaces. The blue theater is smaller, but still nice.
“Seats are comfortable,” we say, trying them out. We won’t be attending the first showings tomorrow, but look forward to whatever first movie we end up attending. Tomorrow, they will play Wizard of Oz and 2001 to sold out crowds, two films the architect said inspired him growing up.
Before making our way down to find my Mom, we duck into the new education center, room with shelves of books.
“How are these organized?” Mary asks a couple of people who are also perusing the shelves.
“Not sure,” one person responds, before another chimes in with, “those are classics, these over here cult, and then lastly those by directors.”
I worry that people will steal these books, which we learn are Jay Carr’s archive, gifted to the Coolidge by his family when he died a couple of years ago. Jay the Globe film critic for years, and a huge Coolidge supporter.
We finally arrive at the red theater and overhear another visitor say “I’m not sure I like it, all the red.” We love it, and note to each other that when the lights go down, it’s not going to matter what color it is.
Maybe red makes for a deeper black. Again I turn to Perplexity to learn that red is the first color that fades away in low light conditions, helping our eyes focus on the screen as the lights dim. This phenomenon is know as the Purkinje effect. How great is that!?!
My Mom’s personality, like the silver screen in front of the seat dedicated to her, once again comes to life as we sit and imagine the lights dimming. She’s gone, but she’s not forgotten. Mom and I would sneak off to movies together when she and my dad lived in New York — off to movies no-one else wanted to see. She’d go to just about anything, and occasionally nap in the middle of the film.
“No I didn’t,” she’d say if I brought this up later. I’m pretty confident we’ll all be snoozing in our seats soon enough.
Mary and I are like little children when we finally find her seat. “C7,” the woman guides us. “But you’ll want to be in row D so you can see the name on the back of the seat.
“Here it is,” I say, readying myself to feel the emotional connection to both my Mom, but also to Mary for having made this moment possible. Today is a chance to celebrate Betty Mooney, her love of family, film, and life. Click, click, click. We rattle off a set of images and look forward to the chance to attend a movie in this new special place.
My Mom loved New York City. She loved getting out of the apartment and walking the streets of Manhattan. She talked to strangers. She made her spirit known to those she came in contact with. And she loved going to the movies, as do we.
Long live The Coolidge, and long live the spirit of Elizabeth Coleman Mooney. Thank you Mary.
