NOTES FROM THE HINTERLAND
THE
THEATER AT MONMOUTH AND RAILROAD SQUARE CINEMA: ART IN CENTRAL MAINE
By Laurie Meunier
Graves
"I am acquainted
with no immaterial sensuality so delightful as good acting.”
—Lord Byron
I.
THE THEATER AT MONMOUTH
If you travel on
Route 202 between Lewiston and Augusta, Maine, the chances are great that
you will think you are driving on a typical busy road in central Maine.
There are the usual suspects—car dealerships, grocery stores, pizza places,
and other small businesses separated by wide expanses of woods and fields.
Then, if you turn down Route 132 and head toward Monmouth (population
3,785), most likely you will be glad to leave behind the clumps of strip
development on Route 202 for a more rural road that passes an apple orchard;
houses, old and new; and a lovely view overlooking a valley with a lake.
Nevertheless, nothing seems out of the ordinary until you suddenly come upon
Cumston Hall in the center of Monmouth. You will be pardoned for gaping, and
I have heard more than a few people exclaim, “What the hell is that doing
here?”
What, indeed?
After all, it’s not every town of three thousand that has a building that
looks like, well, a castle. The official term is “Romanesque Revival,” but
that doesn’t begin to describe the grandeur of Cumston Hall. Stretching
serenely across nearly the entire width of a large parking lot, Cumston Hall
has a tower, columns, and, according to its website, “more than one hundred
stained glass windows.” I think I can safely say that Cumston Hall is the
tallest building in Monmouth. The exterior is wood of “varying textures,”
but stone would not give it a more regal appearance. Maine is a state known
for its stunning landscapes, its mountains and coast, but to my mind there
are few sights lovelier than Cumston Hall at dusk, with its tower against a
dark blue sky and the moon rising behind it. For years, Cumston Hall served
as the town office, and it now houses the Theater at Monmouth as well as the
town library. In addition, the town uses it for community events.
Inside, it is no
less grand. The library is on the first floor, and upstairs there is an
opera house that seats 250 people. In the opera house, frescoes in warm,
glowing colors are painted on the ceiling, and I especially love the circle
of cupids who look down on theatergoers. I imagine the cupids as ghost
babies, filled with the spirit of the many plays performed throughout the
decades. There is also a curving balcony and enough plaster decoration to
gladden the rococo heart buried in most theater enthusiasts.
The story of
Cumston Hall is as astonishing as the building itself. In 1899, Dr. Charles
M. Cumston, a former headmaster of Boston English High School, donated
$20,000 to the town of Monmouth to construct the hall. He “commissioned
Harry Cochrane, an accomplished painter, writer, composer and musician, to
design the building,” and just one year later, Cumston Hall was finished and
ready for its dedication. They certainly built them fast and sturdy in the
old days, and it shows what can be accomplished with the right combination
of money, talent, and will. Another fact of note: Cumston Hall was the first
building in Monmouth to have electricity.
The Theater at
Monmouth, known as “The Shakespearean Theater of Maine,” has been at Cumston
Hall each summer since 1970, and along with Shakespeare, the theater has
featured other classical plays such as Tartuffe, The Venetian
Twins, and She Stoops to Conquer. I started going in 1976, when I
saw A Midsummer Night’s Dream and King Henry IV, Part I.
Having been smitten by Shakespeare in seventh grade, I was thrilled by it
all—the actors, the plays, and, of course, beautiful Cumston Hall. After
college, when my husband and I settled in the area, we immediately began
taking our children to the theater, and, as soon as they were old enough, we
all volunteered.
This meant that we
could watch plays as often as we worked, and my youngest daughter and I saw
The Comedy of Errors more times than I care to admit. With its double
set of lost twins—two servants and two masters—a shipwreck, and a swirl of
mistaken identities, Comedy might not be Shakespeare’s silliest play,
but it must come close. Somehow, during that summer (sixteen years ago), we
were absolutely enchanted by Comedy, by the small variations in each
performance, by the mistakes the actors gamely covered, by the sheer
tomfoolery of the play. Even now, we remember some of the lines: “The capon
burns, the pig falls from the spit, / The clock hath strucken twelve upon
the bell; / My mistress made it one upon my cheek.”
When my eldest
daughter, whose taste ran more to the tragedies, went to college in New York
and took a Shakespeare course, everyone in her class was amazed by how many
of the plays she had actually seen—King Lear, A Midsummer Night’s Dream,
The Tempest, Twelfth Night, and Macbeth, to name just a few. Many
of her classmates came from richer, more urban communities, but none of them
had seen as much Shakespeare as she had.
Why here? Why
central Maine? It is true that we have more people than the northern part of
the state does, and I’m sure this is a factor. Nevertheless, by absolute
standards, the numbers are pretty small. My husband and I did a quick
calculation and figured that within a twenty-five-mile radius, which in
Maine is a reasonable distance to drive to see a play, there were less than
200,000 people to draw from. Those numbers are not insignificant, but they
certainly don’t compare with New York or Boston or any of the smaller
cities. I’m tempted to chalk it up to luck, but that wouldn’t give adequate
credit to the hard work and persistence necessary to keep such a theater
going for nearly forty years. From Founding Director Richard Sewell, who was
there for twenty-five years, to the current Producing Director David
Greenham, there stretches in between a mighty effort cobbled together by
many, many people—actors, carpenters, costume makers, set designers,
directors, trustees, volunteers, patrons, donors—and this is only a partial
list.
Recently, I had
tea with David Greenham at a local café, and I asked him what he thought the
reason might be for the theater’s location and longevity. At first Greenham
just smiled and shrugged. “It’s a fluke. A happy mistake. The theater has no
business being in Monmouth.” I couldn’t help agree with his assessment that,
for the most part, theaters just don’t settle in towns as small as Monmouth,
where there is no “sustaining support” from large businesses.
“But really,”
Greenham added, “it was Richard Sewell who kept it going. It was his whim,
his energy. The guy just did everything, from acting to directing to working
on sets, and he stayed until it was done.”
Greenham, who has
been with the Theater at Monmouth for nearly ten years, is a large,
unflappable man with blue eyes and a fair complexion. No matter what is
going on at the theater, say, a touring children’s show or preparations for
the upcoming summer season, Greenham gives the impression of never being in
a hurry, of having plenty of time to talk. At the same time, the work gets
done; the show goes on, so to speak. How he accomplishes so much while
looking so relaxed is another one of life’s mysteries.
Greenham
continued, “Over the years, the Theater at Monmouth developed a reputation
as a plucky theater.” By the time Richard Sewell left, the theater was well
established and well loved, a Shakespearean marvel in a town surrounded by
apple orchards.
This is not to say
that it has been easy to keep it all going. Even though the theater pays
rent and the library occupies a substantial portion of Cumston Hall, the
town perennially grouses about the expense of maintaining the building, and
they frequently threaten to cut funds. Ticket sales account for more than
half of the theater’s budget, and filling seats is always a worry,
especially when the price of gas goes up. The remainder of the money
comes from individual donations and foundations, made possible because of
the theater’s nonprofit status.
“But we can’t take any of this for granted,” Greenham
said. If the theater lost some or all of its support, then it would be gone,
a terrible loss for the town. In practical terms, the theater brings in
about 25,000 people a year, roughly six times the town’s population, and is
a real asset to area businesses.
But there is also an intangible gain to having the
Theater at Monmouth, even though, as Greenham is quick to point out, it’s
not Broadway. No, it isn’t. It’s not even Boston. Nevertheless, despite the
modest budget and the constant struggles, what is good about the Theater at
Monmouth is very good indeed. In his review of the movie A Prairie Home
Companion, A. O. Scott of the New York Times sums up the value of
the small, the plucky, and the energetic. “The film is, partly, a protest
against the smooth, standardized, bottom-line culture…and a defiant
celebration of imperfection, improvisation and accident.”
In the same vein,
the Theater at Monmouth is a splendid rebuke to bloated, overcommercial
productions that, for all their slickness, are often trite and vacuous, as
satisfying as a meal at Applebee’s. Over the years, the productions at
Monmouth have, at times, been uneven, but there is an elusive alchemy that
surrounds the theater, and it almost feels like a guiding presence—luminous,
buoyant, and hardy. You could even say it feels like art.
II. RAILROAD SQUARE CINEMA
Thirty or so miles
away from the Theater at Monmouth, in Waterville (population 15,000), sits
another cultural landmark, albeit not quite as grand as Cumston Hall. Tucked
between railroad tracks and a Burger King, Railroad Square Cinema manages to
be industrial and funky at the same time—a combination of a metal roof and
siding; a carved-wood door; a huge enigmatic sign featuring, among other
food, a banana; and an overgrown garden with rocks and a tall, nestlike
tower. The late great Canadian writer Robertson Davies once wrote that the
golden mean, “the secret of wisdom and happiness” was “an elaborate
balancing act…a reconciliation of opposites.”
A reconciliation
of opposites seems to me a perfect description for Railroad Square Cinema,
an art-house movie theater in an aging mill town with abandoned factories.
The once vital downtown has become a pale slip of half-hearted businesses,
and the commercial prospects are so unpromising that Wal-Mart is about the
best the city can offer to replace the many fine stores that died with the
factories. As with Cumston Hall, a new visitor seeing Railroad Square might
be pardoned for asking, “What the hell is that doing here?”
Unlike Cumston Hall, Railroad Square Cinema was not the grand gift of a
wealthy benefactor. Instead, in central Maine in 1977, six friends—Ken Eisen,
Gail Chase, Lea Girardin, Alan and Sandra “Sam” Sanborn, and Stu Silverstein—came
up with the notion of starting a film society, a place where film lovers
could see foreign and classic movies. Remember, this was before the advent
of DVD players and Netflix. Yes, such a time existed, and this meant rural
moviegoers were at the mercy of the networks (no cable, either), whose idea
of foreign films meant “British” and whose approach to classics was
haphazard at best. Viewed in this light, it’s puzzling why more friends
didn’t band together all over the country to start film societies, thus
establishing a lively cross-continental group of art-house movie theaters,
which in turn would have created a vibrant alternative to the mind-numbing
banality of the cineplexes. However, the reactions of those “from away,” as
we like to say in Maine, indicate that places like Railroad Square Cinema
are relatively rare, especially in towns such as Waterville, Maine.
Undeterred by the
novelty of their idea, the friends came across a warehouse in Waterville
that was available and had a high enough ceiling. According to Mary
Phillips-Sandy’s article in New England Film, this gang of six
did all the work themselves, and they did it “cheap.” They found
“Army-surplus 16mm projectors and seats from the Capitol Theater in Augusta
[Maine],” which they “pried up and refastened to [the warehouse] floor.” No
one even knew how to use the projectors. They had plenty of experience
watching movies but not much practical experience with running a movie
theater. However, they did learn, and on October 5, 1978, Railroad Square
Cinema opened with Casablanca.
I am sorry to say
that my husband and I were not there for opening night, but we started going
soon after, and, when the children were old enough, they came along, too.
This means that not only did the children have a solid grounding in theater,
courtesy of the Theater at Monmouth, but they also had a rich experience
watching small films that could be dubbed alternative or independent. Oh, we
like the occasional blockbuster. There is no point in denying it. But we
consider them more in the dessert category, something to be indulged in
occasionally. For substance, sustenance, and art we rely on Railroad Square.
From its
beginnings in the late 1970s, Railroad Square grew to include a café, 35mm
projectors, and a film schedule that went beyond the “pure and unsullied”
notion of movies that the founding group of six envisioned. Then, and there
is no other way of putting this, “disaster struck.” In 1994, an electrical
fire destroyed Railroad Square. But like the Theater at Monmouth, Railroad
Square has pluck, as well as support from its patrons, and nine months after
being completely burnt, Railroad Square was back in business in a new
building not far from the old warehouse, wedged between the railroad tracks
and Burger King. Instead of one screen, there were two, and a third one was
added some years later. It’s no surprise that the phoenix was chosen as a
symbol to be used on the carved-wood door leading to the third theater.
There have been other changes, other additions, including
Shadow Distribution, a company that, as the name suggests, distributes
independent films. Technically, Shadow Distribution is a separate business
from Railroad Square, but, in fact, Shadow is run by some of the original
six founders, and it has close ties to the cinema.
Then there is the
Maine International Film Festival (MIFF), which Railroad Square cofounded in
1997 and is now under the auspices of Friends of Art & Film in Central
Maine. How to describe MIFF, another astonishing find in central Maine?
Picture, if you will, one hundred films as well as filmmakers, actors,
panels, and workshops all crammed into ten days in July. If this isn’t the
biggest event in Waterville, Maine, then it must come close, and for those
ten days, Main Street actually feels alive again as moviegoers hurry from
the various venues or stop to eat at one of the restaurants. Part of me
wishes the film festival could be stretched to include more of the summer,
but a part of me also knows it is the intensity that makes MIFF special, and
that much intensity can only be borne for ten days. Hard as it might be to
believe, watching thirty or more movies over a span of ten days is a test of
endurance, separating the real film lovers from the wannabes, and it is not
for the fainthearted.
But what an
experience! We plan our summer around it, and this includes our eldest
daughter Dee, who now lives and works in New York City. She comes home every
year for MIFF. Yes, there are lots of film festivals in New York City, but
they are expensive and crowded and no where near as fun as MIFF is. Plus,
and here is another incredible fact, by coming to MIFF, Dee gets the jump on
her movie-going friends in New York. Many films are shown at MIFF before
they open in New York.
Case in point:
once, at a party in New York, Dee mentioned how she liked the movie
Keeping Mum, a nasty but thoroughly enjoyable comedy based on a story by
Maine’s own Richard Russo. “But you can’t have seen that movie!” a friend
protested. “It hasn’t even opened here yet.”
Dee just smiled.
“Yes, I have. I saw it over the summer at a film festival in Maine.”
Needless to say, the friend was suitably impressed that a movie would come
to the hinterlands before it came to New York.
And for good
reason. After all, why are MIFF and Railroad Square in Waterville, Maine?
Like the Theater of Monmouth, they seem to be something of a fluke, and I
put the question to Sam and Alan Sanborn, who have been with Railroad Square
from the beginning and are the current comanagers along with Ken Eisen.
Alan said, “We
started at a good time, when rent and expenses weren’t so high. Today it
would be harder. We were able to go with 16mm projectors, which were very
cheap but gave a halfway decent presentation. Plus, the people involved had
the right skills. And once we started, there seemed to be no going back.
Despite the hardships there was a real commitment to keep it going. There
are always peaks and valleys, but you know when you are in a valley that
you’ll come out. It’s part of the cycle.”
Sam agreed. “Once
we stuck our feet in, we needed to make it work. Sometimes it was lean, and
we improvised as we went along.” Sam also spoke about how they liked small
towns and the rural life, and how they wanted to see movies that weren’t
mainstream. There was a lack, and Railroad Square filled it.
Sam and Alan, who
are married, have the same unflappable air as David Greenham. (I’m beginning
to wonder if this is another necessary characteristic for success.) Over the
years, we have seen them in the middle of the film festival, with machines
breaking and schedules slipping. But they have never once seemed to lose
their good humor and their patience, and they are unfailingly courteous to
everyone. Yet along with this easy going attitude is a determination to
“stay until it is done” and not be discouraged by the inevitable valleys.
In her book of
essays, Twenty-Eight Artists and Two Saints, Joan Acocella
asserts that “What allows genius to flower is not neurosis but its
opposite...ordinary Sunday-school virtues such as tenacity and above all the
ability to survive disappointment.”
Acocella is
writing about individual artists (and two saints), but the same description
could be used to describe any creative endeavor—the Theater at Monmouth or
Railroad Square Cinema—and those who keep it going—the Sanborns, David
Greenham, and Richard Sewell. Talent and skill, of course, are necessary,
and money doesn’t hurt, either. But there is no substitution for hard work
and resolve, for not giving up. When all these virtues are in place, along
with the proper support from patrons, art can bloom in even the unlikeliest
of places, like central Maine.
