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A Local’s View of Times Square
December 31, 1983. Forty years ago, I was working at the Liberty Theater on 42nd Street. Projectionists had a strong union, so working overtime after midnight was “golden time”—double pay—right through the end of the shift at 4 am. But I wouldn’t have to work till 4 to collect a full shift’s pay; all of the Times Square theaters closed “early”, at 1 am, this one night of the year.
So at 12:57 am, as I lowered the curtain and pulled the big knife switches, I knew the walk to the subway would be interesting. By the time I locked the projection booth and climbed down the iron ladder, the second and first balconies were already empty and the lobby was almost cleared out. I stepped out the theater door into…a strangely empty scene, brilliantly lit for television. Police barricades were keeping the still-rowdy, post-midnight crowd at the ends of the block. I walked towards the glitter and noise, like a soldier in Barry Lyndon marching into a fusillade.
The Liberty opened in 1904 as a “legit house”, a theater that hosted plays. By 1983, it had long descended to the ranks of a non-stop “grind house”, recently recalled by Quentin Tarantino’s film of the same name. Like its sister theaters on “Forty Deuce”, the grand old dowagers still packed ‘em in on New Year’s Eve, when television coverage gave The Street worldwide exposure. A half century before there were multiplexes, there were a dozen single-screen theaters in one block, totaling 14,000 seats, sitting atop the junction of five major subway lines.
For decades, my uncle Tommy worked a block north of there, where he was a machinist maintaining the presses of The New York Times. “Sure, it’s a liberal paper”, he’d say at family gatherings sixty years ago, “But it’s all in there.” Times Square was quite literal; not only the newsrooms, but the delivery trucks were right there. The newsstands in the Square got the papers ahead of everyone else, so big shots used to send their assistants there at eleven pm to collect tomorrow’s edition. On Saturday night, if it wasn’t raining, they’d all have their pre-delivered sections of the Times folded and ready for the delivery of the final section of the voluminous Sunday paper.
There’s a general impression that Times Square was ruined by a Sixties flood of pornography, but that’s not exactly so; fewer Times Square theaters than you’d think showed porno. Most ran regular movies, with an emphasis on guns and girls. By the time there was actual pornography there, it was already widespread elsewhere. But there’s always been a sleazy side, and the style of the Square has always been dictated by young men: By the Thirties, that meant pinball parlors, tattoo parlors, arcade games, dubious magazine stands, bars, barber shops, and Dime-a-Dance floors.
That was the dominant Times Square audience, servicemen between train connections, people arriving at the Port Authority Bus Terminal, thrill seekers, and clumps of teenagers seeking action pictures at the cheapest price in the few remaining triple bills. Sugar Hill, Cleopatra Jones, and Coffey for $1.50; hard to beat that deal. As the Seventies progressed, an almost all-male, heavily armed, reefer-smoking audience understandably repelled the remaining family crowd. It became a vicious circle.
Some of my first days as a union projectionist, in 1974, were spent learning the trade showing Kung Fu movies in Times Square. The area had hit bottom by then, living up to the Midnight Cowboy image. Soon I moved up to somewhat classier surroundings in Greenwich Village and upper Manhattan. The women starring in the movies in the “art houses” were still topless, but they spoke what I am told is flawless French. Even so, the Street endured without me in the projection booth, as did the Square that it crossed.
I’d moved to Los Angeles by then. By the early Reagan years 42nd Street still had the best ticket prices in the city. If in the early years of the Eighties, you wanted to see three Chevy Chase comedies for $1.75, come on down. Conveniently, a mental health free clinic had also opened nearby by then, so a wish to see three consecutive early 80s Chevy Chase comedies could receive free treatment. New York City’s Ed Koch era was a now mostly forgotten, combative preview of the Giuliani years, and his friendly relationship with Ronald Reagan irritated his fellow Democrats no end. By now, Times Square was starting to recover.
It was in this still less than paradise time when I was back in New York, because it was use-it-or-lose-it time for my union card, my literal ticket of admission for film and television technical jobs. I was in town, doing a few months of well-paid Liberty “time” because even after five years in Hollywood, I didn’t want to lose the backstop of that card, and the projection booth was the fastest, most dependable way to keep it.
As the fall of 1983 turned cold and rainy, more people came to the theater just to stay dry and warm. When I brought the lights up at 3:54 am, and they had to go back out into the streets and subways, many became agitated. This is the kind of situation that even the best film school training somehow doesn’t cover. We dealt with it. The Liberty, like other Times Square theaters of that era, employed “ushers” whose sole job criteria was the ability to intimidate on sight. The kind of men who could terrify nightclub bouncers.
Once out on the street, though, I was on my own. The NYPD shift change was at 4. In theory, the outgoing and the incoming patrol shifts were supposed to overlap, but in practice, the old shift left a few minutes early and the new one arrived a few minutes late. No big deal in the wee small hours of the morning, but all 12 of these huge theaters emptied out at exactly that dead time with no cops on the street. I was at a family dinner one weekend and happened to mention it. My uncle Jack frowned and asked a couple of questions, reflecting a police point of view. All low key, very friendly dinner talk.
The next time my night shift came up and I stepped out of the theater, there was a patrol car there, even at 3:50 in the morning. What’s more, the 4 o’clock guy was already across 42nd Street, with his window grimly rolled down to present his clipboard to the shift boss. Patrolmen in winter gear were at the corners. Generally, I’d have to say that Victory Day in Moscow’s Red Square, 1945, was probably not as well guarded.
The cops didn’t look happy, but they were getting their behinds kicked into gear for a reason: somebody told Inspector Kelly something bad, and accurate, about what Patrol Battalion Manhattan North was doing. With the bluest eyes on Times Square, I walked quickly to the subway.
As it turns out, from a vantage point of forty years later, I’d never need to work in the projection booth again. Of course, I couldn’t have known that, one full hour into the year 1984, as I stepped out of the Liberty theater.
I was born after the Orwell book was published in 1949, so for my entire life 1984 has been a symbol of foreboding, of a dystopian tomorrow, and its arrival was treated as a nervous joke. Was this the year that President Reagan would unleash World War III?
But IMHO, the best McVey family story about New Year’s Eve and Times Square belongs to one of my brothers, a pilot who at the end of the last century was part of NYPD Aviation. (We can argue about the definition of “end of the 20th century”.) On December 31, 1999, he was on duty a thousand or so feet above Manhattan, ensuring that unauthorized aircraft were intercepted before entering a restricted zone above Times Square. But there were no radar blips, no sightings, no unexpected problems on the ground.
The police helicopter could hover with great stability, even when tilted to a useful observation angle. And that was my brother’s job, monitoring the scene. He punched in the location and the angle, and was privileged to see in the New Year, and the new millennium, from a unique vantage point over the dazzling lights of Times Square.
Published in General
Happy New Year, Gary!
And happy New Year Saxonburg! Aside from warm, vague, general (and well deserved!) goodwill, thanks for some–aw, heck, just about all of your recent comments on other threads.
I loved this, Gary. Like stepping into a noir film, with the bonus of you being the main character. I so enjoy the posts that you are embedded in! Thanks for the many enlightening and thoughtful posts.
I’ve never lived in New York City. But my maternal grandparents emigrated from Germany in the 1920’s, along with various siblings. It meant that I would visit New York as a child, though mostly it was in Queens. I do remember seeing the 1964 World’s Fair. I’ve always felt a connection to New York.
My first visit to NYC as an adult was when I attended the U.S. Coast Guard’s search and rescue school in 1982 on Governor’s Island. It was a two week school, and when the day ended, I almost always took the ferry to Manhattan, and then the subway to Times Square. The view of the skyline from Governor’s Island is just beautiful. I saw the Times Square during the Ed Koch days, before Rudy Giuliani cleaned it up and disneyfied it. My last day there before returning to Alaska was a tour of the World Trade Center.
I will add that after the first day of school, the cadre gave us small town yokels a lecture about surviving in New York City. One of the pieces of advice was avoid eye contact. Don’t be overly friendly. He talked about a mugging someone endured, getting back to Governor’s Island without any clothes.
That trip gave me an appreciation of the Northeast as well as NYC proper. Up until then, most of my big city visits were on the West Coast, especially Los Angeles. After I left the Coast Guard, and in conjunction with a business trip in the late 1990’s, I visited Times Square again for about a week. To save money, I stayed in a hotel in New Jersey, and using my car rental, I’d drive to the Stanton Island ferry terminal and also save on parking fees in Manhattan proper. I also got a taste of how the hoi polloi commuted to Manhattan from Stanton Island. Back then the ferry still transported cars, and was less of a tourist attraction.
Subsequent visits to New York haven’t been as interesting. My last trip to Manhattan was a short one. I wanted to see what riding the Acela Amtrak train was like from Washington, D.C, so I took a round trip to Manhattan’s Union Station. I spent 2-3 hours walking around that area before taking the train back. I did have a slice of New York pizza while there. I also got hassled by someone trying to sell something or other on the street. I’m just not as interested in it like I used to be. I haven’t been back since Covid hit.
Great memories, Gary! Thank you for sharing them so eloquently.
My recollection of Manhattan is from 1986, when I spent 6 weeks learning COBOL as part of my training at Price Waterhouse where we were housed at Montclair State College. We’d drive into Manhattan to be met by the young men with squeegees who’d was your windows for a buck or two whether they needed it or not. In any case, the city was amazing to me.
Which person in that photo is Gary?
Great writing, Gary.
Acksually, it was Long Acre Square at the time. It would be renamed the next year for the building under construction.
The building is still there . . . sort of. It was stripped to the bones in the early 60s and reclad. The original decorations and ornamentation are long gone, and signage smothered the new design after a while. Renovation is underway now, from what I hear.
That is about the time that I was there last.
When I first moved to NYC, I had a contract gig where they wanted me RIGHT NOW, so I stayed in hotels for the first month. Three of those weeks were in the Crowne Plaza in Times Square. (Not to be confused with the Plaza you’ve seen in movies; totally different place, just a regular hotel.) It’s at about 48th, so at the Theater District end of the Square. This was 2000, at the peak of Guiliani’s success, so safe at any time of day or night, polite people, etc. Not at all what I expected for NYC.
The other week they were full, so I had to stay at the Waldorf-Astoria.
Once, the Howard Johnson’s hotel in Washington overbooked me and apologetically moved me across the street to the Watergate at their expense. The Waldorf? Not bad!
First night I was there, I went out about midnight to get a sandwich from the Stage Door Deli across the street. There was a guy on the street play Beethoven’s Ode to Joy on steel drums, and the guy was amazing, play both melody and counter at the same time.
It was nice, but really inconvenient. I was working at Morgan Stanley at 49th, right next door. The Waldorf is on like 6th Ave., in the 30s. Had to walk the whole way. No good public transportation options, and I’m too cheap for a cab.
The room service was amazing though. I should write a post about that some time.
My parents, on the left of the photo; uncle Jack, the police inspector, is on the right. That’s Cardinal O’ Connor. St. Patrick’s Day, late Seventies by the looks of it. Note that even the black woman in the background is wearing a green scarf for the occasion.
The Square at nightfall, late fifties. The famous smoke ring sign actually dispensed steam. Francis Coppola wanted to recreate the sign for a scene in The Godfather, but Paramount cancelled it as too expensive.
The Waldorf has, or had, a fairly unique feature: a private rail spur in the sub-basement that links to Grand Central Station. They used to use it to get FDR in and out of fundraisers at the hotel.
The view from the Liberty booth. “Cooped Up? Feeling Low? Enjoy a Movie Today–42nd Street, the World’s Greatest Movie Center”.
Thanks so much for the kind words, Susan!
Genesis, “The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway”, 1974:
“Early morning Manhattan,
Ocean winds blow on the land.
Movie palace is now undone,
The all night watchmen have had their fun.
Sleeping cheaply on the midnight show,
It’s the same old ending – time to go.
Get out!
It seems they cannot leave their dream.
There’s something moving in the sidewalk steam,
And the lamb lies down on Broadway.“
Gary on his way to his projectionist gig in Times Square.
Yes, I love the protagonist, the humble projectionist conscious of his duty of care towards the lowly 4AM customers hitting the streets. The raincoat pervs; the cabless Ignatowskis and other burnouts; the wannabee Bickles and Midnight Cowboys; the lipstick smeared working girls of indeterminate gender; and the insomniac cineastes among them, unaware that the man upstairs (in the booth) is their protector, with his hook high up at 1PP.
Jim K and Don T are definitely showing a poetic side here!
Now, as for the car in Tigerlily’s funny comment…not bad at all, but I see myself as more of a Hollywood Maverick–
Race, and identity, is a funny business, in both senses of “funny”. The Liberty had four managers on rotating shifts. All of them, in today’s terms, were Men of Color. I got along with all of them, but no two of them could stand each other. In fact, they all looked down on each other.
The local black guy was a cynical, irreligious fast talker from Harlem. He had nothing but contempt for…
The soft spoken black guy from down South, deeply religious and utterly disgusted with…
The laughing black guy from Jamaica who, fulfilling a stereotype, was always stoned. But all three of them disdained the snobbery they felt from…
The dark skinned guy from India, who felt the others were lazy losers.
Somehow, sometimes, real life doesn’t fit a progressive narrative.
Another wonderful piece. Thank you!
When I was a kid and lived in DC we would have dinner at the Howard Johnson’s restaurant across the street from the Watergate. No doubt part of that hotel.
That was the one. The Watergate burglars used it as an observation post. AFI liked it because it was cheap, and for 30 years the AFI Washington offices were part of the Watergate complex.
Gary, I really enjoy the little glimpses you give us of life inside Show Business. Please keep them coming.