It was a screen adaptation of actress Joan Crawford’s biography, as retold by her tormented adoptive children Christina and Christopher Crawford.
It was one of the worst movies ever made in Hollywood. But it started the genre of visceral and brutally-honest film insights about the chaotic lives of celebrities who looked like they were “doing okay” in their public appearances.
In fact, they were some of the loneliest people on earth who often suffered from undiagnosed mental issues. And they inflicted the behavioral effects of their mental dysfunctions on their supposedly most loved ones in life.
I watched it in 1983 with Richie Benavidez, who was like my “talent manager” during my folksinging days in college.
Seeing the John Hay theater building in its sad state of disrepair today gives me such a profound aching feeling in my heart. I miss that theater (and, yes, I miss Richie).
Granted that in this day and age of now-affordable 85-inch LCD home movie screens, cheap Netflix subscriptions and virtually unlimited free content on YouTube (or even PirateBay… wink, wink), the halcyon days of watching movies on the big silver screen are all but over.
But watching a movie in the old Camp John Hay Theater is still one those fond misty memories you cherished, if you were lucky enough to have tried it.
The fun experience started from across the theater building, which used to be the old John Hay commissary.
About five or six times the size of a typical 7/11 convenience store, this decidedly American-style supermarket is where you bought your bucket of popcorn, the one with the REAL butter in it, and a can of Dr. Pepper rootbeer soda.
Then you crossed the street, past two levels of outdoor parking lots where the only vehicles you saw parked were these big blue Ford vans with US military markings. These were the service vans that shuttled American GI’s between Subic, Clark and John Hay.
Perhaps there would be a couple of “black-and-whites” too—US police cars, usually Crown Victorias, with their signature revolving roof flashing lights and exposed sirens that doubled as PA speakers.
The pavement was “grade AAA” asphalt blacktop (there were no concreted roads in the old John Hay, it was all asphalt), the lane markings were bright white or yellow that were regularly repainted to keep them fresh-looking.
There was only a small glass-enclosed marquee outside, in front of the theater where the movie’s promotional poster was displayed, along with the usual forward announcement of the “next picture” and “coming soon” movies.
I forget how much the movie ticket was (Richie was paying), but they gave you a real ticket, about the size of a hard cartolina parking ticket, which a lady at the entrance tore in half so you got to keep the other half as a souvenir. I wish I had.
There was only one floor section—no balcony, no loge—and you could sit anywhere you liked. It was a small theater, seating probably no more than 200 people, and it was never full. It could never reach SRO (standing room only) because they stopped selling tickets at capacity.
For its time, it had the best appointments: plush leather cushioned seats (or maybe really high-quality leatherette) that had so much legroom your knees didn’t scrape the back of the seat in front of you—which also meant you didn’t walk sideways to get to your seat.
Best of all, the floor was totally lined with deep cut-pile carpeting which ensured that there was no annoying acoustic bounceback from a hard floor. You could really appreciate the theater’s authentic Dolby sound system, the first and the best you’ll find anywhere in Baguio City back in the day.
There were only two screenings during the day, one at 10:00 AM and an afternoon matinee that started at 3:00 PM. Before, after and in between, they vacuumed and spruced up the place so good that when you walked in, the theater smelled—I can’t think of a better description—like a NEW CAR.
You couldn’t do in Camp John Hay theater what you could do in a typical “Filipino sinehan”—walk into the first screening and stay there all day, rewatching the movie several times until your bloodshot inflammed eyes popped out. And there was no “ka-double.” Ever. John Hay always only featured one film at a time.
Even during the ushering in and after the screening, they never brightly lit the place inside. The lighting was always muted so your eyes’ pupils easily dilated and adjusted to the dark. This meant they didn’t have to crank up the brightness of the movie projector too much, ultimately helping to protect your eyes. You didn’t walk out of Camp John Hay theater with a bad migraine you can’t explain.
Nowadays when Christine and I walk past this derelict crumbling white wooden building on our afternoon John Hay walkaround, she wouldn’t believe when I said, “This was the best moviehouse in Baguio when movies on the big screen ruled the world.”*
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