Dark Clouds over the Drive-ins

By Gerald Clarke

Outdoor movie theaters are victims of TV and changing habits

Hula-Hoops. Frisbees. Drag races. The pizza parlor. One or more of these images will bring back the summers of their adolescence for many Americans who grew up in the '50s or early '60s. For others, however, one phrase says it all: the drive-in. They probably had their first date in a 1957 gas guzzler, with wraparound windows and sharklike tailfins, where they learned that sex is not just a three-letter word. But now, a mere 50 years after the first one opened in Camden, N.J., the drive-in is an endangered institution; in much of the U.S. it may not survive the end of the decade. "They're obsolete," says Historian Oscar Handlin, who teaches a course in popular culture at Harvard. "Their decline is a sign that a certain stage in American life is over."

Drive-ins made their biggest gains in the years following World War II, when car registrations zoomed and the rush to the suburbs began. They hit their peak in 1958, with 4,063 outdoor screens--"ozoners," as they were called in the trade. To attract young families, some operators set up playgrounds and offered warm milk, fresh diapers and even laundry facilities, so Mom could do the family wash while watching Mamie Van Doren undulate through High School Confidential. Since then the number of drive-ins has dropped dramatically. By 1980 there were only 3,504 screens; last year the total dropped to 3,178, and there are only 2,935 in 1983.

It seems that almost everyone and everything is conspiring to finish them off. One villain is rising real estate values, which make all that asphalt-covered acreage too expensive to use only at night; a shopping center or housing development can be more profitable. Another culprit is cable TV, particularly the first-run films shown on such pay systems as HBO and Showtime. One of the major appeals of the drive-in was that the whole family, from Grandpa to Baby Sis, could pile into a car, taking with them food, pillows and blankets, and see a double feature surrounded by most of the comforts of home. Now they can see the same kind of films without even leaving home. A third conspirator: the movie companies, which often demand longer runs than many drive-ins can guarantee. "We don't have any major regard for drive-ins because they're such a small percentage of our profits," declares Sidney Ganis, vice president in charge of marketing for Lucasfilm Ltd.

Most damaging of all is changing sexual mores. Way Back When--any time before the sexual revolution of the '60s and '70s--drive-ins were "the only place to go for some privacy," recalls Manhattanite Vicki Slate, 40. "We certainly couldn't go to his house or my house. Our parents would have killed us!" According to the quaint ritual of the time, families would park in the front rows, teen-agers who were just dating would take up the middle rows, and those who were bent on serious petting would head for the darker areas in back. Most teen-agers now have other ways of finding privacy and are less likely to need the excuse of going to the movies.

Many people, particularly in parts of the Sunbelt, still like drive-ins for most of the old reasons. On a good night, families bring lawn chairs to make themselves comfortable; affectionate teen-agers still cause the windows to steam up; and good ole boys still load up their pickups with coolers of beer. Paul Bierle, a Southern California truck driver, brags that he has not patronized an indoor theater for ten years. "You can't smoke in walk-ins," he says. "You can't put your feet up, and you can't talk." Nor, he might have added, can you set off firecrackers. A few weeks ago, Bierle, 26, and his buddy, Dave Price, 27, went to see Yellowbeard and Still Smokin'. They set off a string of ladyfingers while their neighbors in the next car were shooting off skyrockets. "Our hood was covered with ash," says Price, already nostalgic. "It was great." The movies? Who remembers?

In Texas, drive-ins are not only surviving but thriving. One of the most popular features in the Dallas Times Herald is "Joe Bob Goes to the Drive-In," a tongue-in-cheek guide to what is playing under the stars. Writing from the redneck's point of view, Joe Bob Briggs (a pseudonym for Movie Critic John Bloom) tells his readers where they can find what they want: nudity, sex and gore galore. Joe Bob's alltime favorite was The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, but he also raved about Burt Reynolds' W. W. and the Dixie Dancekings. Reviewing the new Stroker Ace, a dreary bomb starring Reynolds and Loni Anderson, he found much to praise: "Five motor-vehicle chases. Eight crashes. No beasts. No breasts, but Loni comes close. One beer-joint brawl. One guy through a plate-glass window and into the swim pool. No kung fu. No plot. Two and a half stars (one off for lack of sufficient Loni anatomy). Joe Bob says check it out." Drive-ins may be down, but in Alamo country, fans like Joe Bob will defend them so long as beer foams, popcorn pops and Hollywood serves up the blood and guts.

--By Gerald Clarke.

Reported by Denise Worrell/Los Angeles, with other bureaus

With reporting by Denise Worrell This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so viewer discretion is required.