You, Too, Can Be in Movies!

Even waiting in line to buy my $5 ticket for the summer season's opening night -- a screening of the 1926 swashbuckler The Black Pirate -- I am surprised by the congeniality of fellow moviegoers. Strangers strike up conversation, hold places for each other in line, share jokes and smokes as the sun slides behind the theater's mosaic façade. In the amber-drenched lobby, an elegant couple dressed in '30s-era evening wear greets us with sparkling smiles while, in the auditorium, Jim Riggs ruffles the keys and teases the pedals of the Mighty Wurlitzer. Some patrons saunter to the bar for a pre-show cocktail; others take their seats to clap along with the rousing Riggs. I climb to the top floor to peer through the porthole that overlooks the lobby, then run my fingers over the ornate walls in the balcony. With nearly half an hour before curtain, the auditorium is already more than half-filled, and there is a noticeable current in the air; the crowd is buzzing as if the world's greatest superstar were about to appear. Instead, a large standing roulette wheel is rolled out onstage. It's time to play Dec-O-Win!

I scurry down the staircase and take my seat next to a powder-cheeked grandmother who swears she saw The Black Pirate the first time around, near a 7-year-old girl and her all-natural "Earth mother," six rows behind a rowdy band of urban pirates waving toy cutlasses. The eclectic crowd falls silent as a young woman in silver and black satin slinks across the stage to spin the wheel.

"8-2-9-1," announces her dapper companion as audience members carefully study their ticket stubs. When someone finally waves his ticket in the air, the crowd applauds heartily. "Congratulations! You've won luxury accommodations at the Oakland Airport Holiday Inn." Laughter and more applause.

"The next prize is a gift certificate for the Pacific Coast Brewing Company in lovely downtown Oakland."

"And, finally, season passes for two to the Paramount Theatre's 'Summer Classic Film Series'!"

While the crowd's enthusiasm for Dec-O-Win is impressive, it pales next to the abandon that accompanies the pre-show cartoon and vintage newsreel; the general din of laughter, applause, and hooting is punctuated by heartfelt exclamations of glee, such as "I'll always love you, Rudy!" shouted during the footage of Rudolph Valentino's funeral procession, and "Pirates of the air!" yelled during a clip of Lindbergh's solo flight across the Atlantic. By the time Douglas Fairbanks rips his first shirt and swings from his first sail, I'm as giddy as a schoolgirl and ready for more.

Like the Paramount's summer series, the Parkway Theater's "Thrillville" -- hosted by Will the Thrill Viharo and his wife and able-bodied assistant, Monica Tiki Goddess -- embraces the premise that movies can be more than a spectator sport. "[Y]ou need to offer people an interactive alternative, some sort of seductive gimmick, just to pique their curiosity, then sucker-punch them with the movie," says Will, and the curiosity-piquing is hardly subtle. All shows include a spin of the "Big Wheel" and fabulous prizes (usually movie books, posters, or CD compilations really worth having), and most include live music (often a full rock band, live theremin player, or Rat Pack impersonator), pre-show titivation (most often in the form of the Tiki Goddess, but occasionally by way of a stripper or two), and a pre-feature warm-up (such as an episode of The Shadow or Johnny Sokko and His Flying Robot). Unlike the Paramount, though, "Thrillville" does not venerate forgotten silver screen classics. Rather, the Viharos and their fans revel in the B-movie debauchery of the '50s and '60s, yearning for a time when Karo syrup went further than CGI. Beach bunnies, bikers, monsters, spies, thugs, and slime are "Thrillville"'s regular fare, and none of them is confined to the screen; over the years, Viharo has invited live dancing girls, biker gangs, and men in foam-rubber monster suits to waltz across his stage, along with midnight-movie hosts, Hollywood has-beens, and a legion of C-list celebrities. Here, the chaise longue and cold martini have been supplanted by the overstuffed couch and pitcher of draft beer, and most people in attendance think William Castle and Ed Wood could mop the floor with Cary Grant and Fay Wray, any day of the week.

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Werepad Movie Lounge founders Jacques Boyreau, Scott Moffett, and Vikki Vaden would hold the bucket while Grant and Wray were drowned. Nestled on the discreet, industrial expanse of Third Street in San Francisco, the Werepad is designated by a silhouette of Leroy, the free-'fro-sporting mascot that has come to typify its creators' fierce passions, which are "exploitation cinema" and the "beatnik lifeforce," writes Boyreau, author of Trash: The Graphic Genius of Xploitation Movie Posters.