Heavy Weather or deja vu and the evolving business plan

Part One: Hurricane Gustav

It had been three years since Katrina, and Ellis Anderson, a local community organizer, songwriter, and musician, had partnered with Bay St. Louis and the Chamber of Commerce to put together a celebration--"A New Day in the Bay." Businesses along HIghway 90 were up and running; a new, improved infrastructure was being installed beneath the roads in Old Town. It felt like a "light at the end of the tunnel" moment. Summer was waning, flowers were blooming, and, we had, it appeared, lived through another hurricane season unscathed. Or so it seemed until Hurricane Gustav appeared in the Gulf.

The day before the "new day," Friday, August 29th, the anniversary of Katrina, most forecasters and politicians were predicting Hurricane Gustav would hit New Orleans--the same course predicted for Katrina before it jogged right and rammed into the Gulf Coast. This was not good news. Yes, the town was improving, but another hit from a major hurricane would likely wipe out those improvements and test the resolve of people who had sacrificed to rebuild their homes and lives. I was filled with dread when I drove to my substitute teaching job at Bay High School that morning. I couldn’t imagine going through it again. Yet that possibility seemed very real as I looked out at the gusting wind and thick layer of clouds, familiar weather in Mississippi, where summer humidity routinely induces spectacular storms that explode and disappear. But these clouds had been shuttling across the sky for days without producing a drop of rain. They hovered above use like alien spacecrafts in summer blockbusters, casting ominous shadows on roofs and lawns.

When I got to school I discovered Gustav’s churning winds had elevated the Bay, and roads and homes were beginning to flood. As a consequence many students had stayed home to help their families. It was a strange, mostly workless day. My students, who are generally fun-based extroverts, spent most of their time watching weather reports or debating whether they should leave or stay. The storm was two days away, and no one knew what would happen, but things were definitely different in the classroom. I’m sure the dire predictions (one Louisiana politician called it the worst storm she had ever seen) contributed to the mood, but as the day went on I realized the focus wasn’t on Gustav. A quirk of timing had turned us inward, away from tomorrow’s celebration and the storm speeding towards us. Instead of looking to the future, we looked to the past.

Bay High had opened ten weeks after Katrina, a short time considering the wholesale devastation. Several students have told me that those ten weeks felt like a lifetime. It’s possible they will never live as intensely or feel as deeply as they did then, their experiences comparable to those of soldiers who are shipped off and in a matter of hours or days set down in an alien land. My wife and I rebuilt our house during that first year. But the following year I subbed nearly every day. I noticed that when Katrina was brought up my students would shut down. Like most of us, they’d grown weary of the subject, though that wasn’t the case on the Friday before Gustav’s arrival. For the first time, I heard my students talk about Katrina. They didn’t say a lot; their voices were dispassionate, the details sketchy, the stories brief. Yet I sensed they were revisiting lived experience. My first instinct was to ask questions and elicit details, but I let that go and listened.

Authentic moments are rarely experienced in classrooms (or anywhere else), and by authentic I mean completely unguarded, the sort of moments best friends and families share. And though I may be wildly off the mark, I believe there was some of that feeling circulating in the classroom. The next day people were busy packing and fortifying their homes, so the "New Day in the Bay" festival did not go as planned. Only a handful of people came downtown. Some listened to a band that bravely played on, others walked in and out of the few open shops. As I looked out on the empty street, I felt bad for Ellis, who had worked so hard to put the event together, but I also thought about my students. When I came to the Gulf Coast, everyone I met told me a story about Camille, a devastating hurricane that hit the Coast in 1969. After thirty-six years there are still newspaper clippings taped to bar mirrors, memorial books for sale in gift shops.

Those kind of shared experineces distill and solidify over time, hatching stories that define a community, especially in a small town. My students were taking part in that proces in my classroom, beginning to weave the sketchy details of actual experience into a narrative worth repeating. In time their stories will coalesce and contribute to a "new" perspective of our home town, a perspective that will forever be tied to the havoc and ruin that was Katrina.  

                              Crunching Numbers and the Dream Job

Market analyses, ratios, percentages, and balance sheets--welcome to "crunching numbers." Most business ideas are hatched in exalted, unhinged moments. They ignite like falling stars, burn brilliantly, and disappear. The few that survive go through a different kind of death. They’re reduced to digits and absorbed into formulas in order to predict the future. This process is called "number crunching."

Businessmen enjoy this process because, theoretically, crunching enables them to predict whether or not a business will succeed. Basically it’s a numeral ballet of plus and minus. If the plus/profit is larger than the minus/loss you’re in business. Simple, right, you enter numbers into a calculator, load them into various predictors, and out comes the prognosis. If it makes money it’s a go, if not, it’s a no. But sometimes the outcome is not so clear. For instance, what happens if you invest lots of money and at year’s end the business only produces a fifty cent profit? What if after you open your business, a competitor produces a new, improved version of your widget at a lower price? It is important to go through the process, to do your due diligence. However, even though crunching numbers tells you a lot, there’s a lot it can’t tell you.

I recently put together a business plan for my project (showing independent films in a small Mississippi town). After days of challenging calculation, I found the theater would lose $40,000 in the first year. Not that great, especially when you consider total sales were $75.000. But the numbers were based on an eighty-seat theater averaging 23 customers per show. So I ran some more optimistic numbers. At forty customers per show we lost about $8,000 a year and at sixty customers we made $3,000. I’m not sure the theater could maintain the last figure, but if it did the profit plus our salaries would bring in around $20,000 a year, meaning either my wife or I would need another full time job. Given the difficulty of opening and running a business the logical question would be is it worth it?

The numbers suggest not, but there are a few things to consider. First, there are changes we can make to increase profits, like adding seats to the theater, scheduling private parties and screenings, and serving light meals and beer or wine. Second, despite the value of planning, experience suggests no one really knows what works. Many failed businesses passed the numbers test with flying colors, and many successful businesses failed. Lastly, and maybe most importantly, my wife and I are determined to create a job we’ll enjoy, our "dream job." Of course, this is tricky. Simply wanting something to happen doesn’t make it happen. Or does it? What about those irrepressible sniff fests Hollywood loves to produce, the ones where underdogs beat impossible odds--Rocky, Invincible, Freedom Writers, It’s a Wonderful Life?

Why do audiences flock to these movies? Because they say something audiences understand and want to believe. It won’t be a business plan or number crunching that makes our theater successful. It will be the enthusiasm for movies and movie theaters we share with our customers and co-workers. Ultimately, though not quantifiable or crunchable, businesses succeed because of the "dream" that brings them to life.

                                              Scholocktoberfest

Lately I’ve been thinking about audiences. The largest movie-going audience in America is young, very young. According to the Motion Picture Association in 2006, 65% of tickets sold were bought by customers whose ages were between 12 and 39 (the largest group being the twelve to twenty-four bundle at 36%). So if you ever wonder why there isn’t a single movie you want to see among the dozens playing at your local multi-plex, here’s your answer--you’re too old. Films are conceived for and marketed to the under forty crowd.

I used to think this was a new development. Watching "classics" on TCM lead me to believe films and their audiences used to be more sophisticated. But now I’m not so sure: gangster films and musicals, child star vehicles and social dramas all have their corollary in today’s market. People dressed better and grew up faster in the days of world wars and black and white photography, but I imagine movies that succeeded back then also catered to the same demographic. However, even if I’m wrong, the fact remains movies today cater almost exclusively to young people. Given that axiom, how can a theater that shows independent, foreign and classic films survive? In other words, can the theater I plan to open in my small Mississippi town succeed? To find the answer to this question I went to my local library and talked to Jamie L. Elston, Assistant Director of Public Services for the Hancock County Library System, who has for years presented independent films at the Bay St. Louis library.

Ms. Elston loves cheesy horror films, especially ones that deal in the supernatural, the kind of films, she suggested with a giggle, that are so bad they’re good. She worked for the New Orleans Worst Film Festival until she moved to Bay St. Louis. Then she partnered with Scott Foy to put together Schlocktoberfest, an event celebrating films that "Schlock and Awe," as coined in the festival’s 2003 video promo. Not quite Citizen Kane, though Orson Welles, I’m sure, would appreciate the hutspa. The library’s movie attendance figures were acceptable if not overwhelming: generally between ten and twenty with an occasional three or four count and an all-time high of forty, when a volunteer group that came after the storm arrived en masse. Nonetheless, Ms. Elston insisited an independent theater could succeed and gave me a good deal of practical advice. For instance, she offered ideas on the best places to get free advertising (the library doesn’t pay for advertising), and she stressed that local organizations would be especially helpful, like the Hancock Arts Commission. the Bay St. Louis Chamber of Commerce, and our local radio station, WQRZ.  

But practical advice aside, it was her generosity and enthusiasm for bad movies that most impressed me. I’ve had this experience several times since I arrived from California loaded with stereotypes about the South and Mississippi--Strother Martin terrorizing Paul Newman in Cool Hand Luke, "What we have here is a failure to communicate." But over the last couple years, especially since Katrina, I’ve realized how useless those preconceptions were. The more people I meet, the more I realize there’s nothing typical about this Mississippi town. The motto of Bay St. Louis is "A Place Apart," and it’s fitting because BSL is filled with people who surprise you, classically trained chefs, painters and potters, transplants from Manhattan and Ireland, the sort of one-of-a-kind characters you find in independent films that stay with you long after the movie is over.

  "Down Time" or what to do when we reach middle age and still need to make money.

It looks like the project will take longer than expected, which, of course, I should have expected. The theatre company we’re working with thinks it will be up and running in two years, though there should be opportunities before then to do benefits and occasional shows. Given the lack of current pertinent information, I thought this might be a good opportunity to discuss how I got here--here being planning to open a movie theater in Bay St. Louis, Mississippi.

Prior to 2005, I taught for ten years in San Jose, California. Most of that time I taught composition to college freshmen, but I also worked as a tutor in writing centers and as a substitute teacher. I moved to Mississippi in June of ’05 and taught for two weeks at a prep school before Katrina arrived. After that, I worked on our broken house for a year, living off SBA loans and donations from family and friends. When the house was nearly finished, I went back to work as a substitute at a local high school.

I took the job because my wife and I were considering leaving (we’d only been living in Bay St. Louis two months before the storm). California was definitely on the list, but so were Ashville, North Carolina, Fayetteville, Arkansas, and Memphis. All these towns were closer to my wife’s parents, and all of them were booming in one way or another--real estate values had been on the rise for a long time in Fayetteville and Ashville, and the property in Memphis was extremely undervalued. After visiting Fayetteville, we zeroed in on Memphis and took several trips there. It is a great town and we got close to relocating there, but for a variety of reasons (cost of relocation, uncertainty about jobs, and our connection to Bay St. Louis) we ended up staying put.

I subbed all that year and did a resume blitz during the summer targeting colleges in the area. I did my graduate studies at the University of New Orleans, and I hoped I could return there, working in an office or teaching. The plan was to either commute, Bay St. Louis is an hour away, or rent an apartment in New Orleans and live there during the work week. I went to three interviews, one at a community college and two at UNO, but I didn’t get a job. It was, however, a good experience. I got to spend time with my mentor and met several administrators who went out of their way to be helpful. Still, when August came around, I was unemployed and had to hustle to find work. I found two jobs: working banquets at a casino and teaching composition at a local community college. These jobs had their appeal, especially teaching composition, but the salaries were low and there were no benefits.

At this point, my wife and I are still in the hustling mode. Currently, I have three jobs: working in a restaurant, teaching at a GED center, and substitute teaching. My wife also works and you know what, we’re barely getting by. We’re not alone. A lot of people here and all over the country are going through this. It’s a difficult way to live, one that engenders lots of soul-searching. The central issue--how to find a job you enjoy--becomes more complex when you’re asking that question in middle age. My wife and I have sat down many times and discussed our options. But the thing is our idea of what work is has changed. Most jobs, especially those with high salaries and benefits, expect employees to work long hours that often keep them from having their own lives. It’s a Catch 22. My wife and I want to paid well and receive benefits, but over the years we’ve developed rich personal lives we’re unwilling and unable to give up.

So what do we do? What do thousands of baby boomers do when they reach middle age and beyond but still need to make money? The "golden years" can easily become the "stressful years" when living costs exceed social security and savings. I saw that firsthand when my mother’s savings dried up in her seventies. There’s no easy solution for older people who lack financial resources, but my wife and I, after chasing our tails for months, finally hatched a plan. That plan, opening a movie theater, will, we hope, allow us to pay our bills and enjoy our lives. 

Starting a new business is quintessentially American, but the fact is many if not most new businesses fail. I can’t say for sure we’ll get to where we want to be. But with the help of AARP, who made us winners in their "Dream Job" contest (a little luck never hurts) and provided this forum and much needed advise, we just might. That said, there are still times when it’s hard to imagine things getting better. However, these "down times" are becoming few and far between. It certainly helps to be in touch with people in similar situations, to read their stories and comments, and realize that, despite the evidence to the contrary, we’re not alone. 

Awhile back I was working on my theater budget and realized I didn’t know how much projectionists made. My guess, based on prior experience, was they were well paid. I made a few phone calls and the best advice I got was to call theaters in the area. I put that aside, not wanting to alert competitors of my plans, and went online. I found absolutely nothing, which is in itself something.

A few days later, I was talking to a film equipment broker and decided to ask him. I learned something I never would have imagined: projectionists--those interesting, somewhat odd people who joined unions and took pride in splicing film stock in small, dark rooms--are nearly extinct. I worked at a theater in the 70’s, and one of my favorite things was talking to Chuck in the booth. Chuck was a volatile, somewhat crazed personality in those days. He’d done two tours in Vietnam and earned a graduate degree in literature from UC Berkeley. Complex, fearless, but surprisingly sensitive (he’d hate that), he kept a steady conversation going while he threaded the projector and peered through the little window to the screen, searching for the dot that cued the next reel (see Cinema Paradiso for more details). More often than not, the drama in the booth was better than what was on the screen.

The equipment broker told me new projectors need little upkeep or expertise, so theater owners hire kids or do it themselves. This was good news because it meant my wife and I could be the "projectionists" and save lots of money. Nonetheless, I was disappointed. Over the last thirty years I’ve watched tons of movies, and I’ve always imagined there was a Chuck-like character in the booth. Finding out that projectionists like Chuck were disappearing (not to mention theater managers like sixty-year-old Mr. Reed, who wore a suit, smoked cigars, and personally greeted every customer who entered the theater), made me realize how dated my idea of "going to the movies" was.

Then I opened the newspaper and discovered that the newest wrinkle in the movie-going experience is movie theaters that don’t show movies. There it was on the front page of the New York Times: "Exhibitors are heading toward showing more than just movies faster than anyone had expected." Huh? Who were these people who actually expected this to happen? How long before the "movie" in Movie Theater goes the way of projectionists and cigar-chomping managers?

Now, to be honest, I had an inkling that sometihg odd was in the air. A film booker suggested I have two projectors in the booth: one for film and one for DVD’s (there are few film prints available for the older movies we’ll present). He noted that then we could connect the DVD projector to cable. That’s what the article in the Times was about--movie theaters charging customers to watch TV. Well, not exactly. Most programs will be special events, the World Series, operas, concerts, but, given how things are going, showing regular programs can’t be far away. And why is this happening? The number of people who go to movie theaters is stagnating; attendance inched up less than one percent last year and this sluggish trend has been going on for years. That’s why people in the business are rethinking the "movie theater" experience. Nowadays, there are brew pub movie theaters, full-service restaurant movie theaters, and theaters with huge game rooms, daycare, and cafes.

So "going to the movies" can mean a lot of different things; several of which have nothing to do with movies. We plan to make our single screen theater similar to the ones we grew up with, but we’re also considering programming live music, lectures, film classes, and partnering with a theater group that will present plays. I doubt I’ll ever forget my initial impressions of movie going, characters like Mr. Reed and Chuck, lodge sections, and ushers patrolling the aisles will always come first to mind. But that nostalgic vision will fade quickly enough, and I’ll remember that screens are now multiple, projectionists passe, and the "movie" in Movie Theater an anachronism from a bygone day.

Last week, after months of planning, the building that was to house our theater went on the market. Given rising construction costs and the slow economy, the landlord decided it was best to sell. There's no one to blame in situations like this. The owner was as disappointed as we were. Bay St. Louis has come a long way since the storm, but it will be awhile before the local economy fully recovers. We'd had several locations in mind, but our hearts had been set on that building.

And we received another bit of news. The multi-screen movie theater on the main highway, which was hit hard during Katrina, sold to a group that intends to show films. Now, this is great news for people here who have to drive twenty-five miles to see a movie, but this great news had a nasty side effect for us. The one thing I always feared was getting blown out of the water by a competitor with more money and screens. It would be difficult to compete for films or filmgoers with a state-of-the-art multi-plex. But I put that out of my mind, thinking if it comes it will come later after we'd built up a loyal clientele (see the prophetic comments by the sound engineer in the previous journal). But it happened now, which is good, right? Because now, instead of being bankrupted and dissapointed for the rest of our lives, we could forget all about it, maybe take a vacation, go to the beach, get a tan, relax . . .

Then something extraordinary happened. The Little Theatre, who has been producing plays for sixty years in Bay St. Louis, asked if we'd be interested in sharing their new building (they've been homeless since the storm). And what a building it is. Built in 1929 by Henri Scafidi, a former mayor of Bay St. Louis, it became a famous landmark when an obscrue but impressive movie--This Property is Condemned--was filmed there in 1966. The film starred Natalie Wood and Robert Redford, was directed by Hollywood icon Sydney Pollack, co-written by Francis Ford Coppola, who adapted it from a story by Tennessee Williams, and also featured appearances by Robert Blake, Charles Bronson, and Mary Badham, who played Scout in To Kill a Mockingbird. The building, simply called "This Property is Condemned," was nearly demolished after the storm, but locals banded together and managed to keep its tottering facade intact until the Little Theatre was able to purchase it.

Sounds great, right? Showing films in an historical landmark where movie legends once tread. Still, it took my wife and I awhile to warm up to the idea. We hadn't planned to share a space, and our original concept included a cafe and gallery, neither of which would be possible in this space. But as time passed we began to see the possibilities. Our original idea was to present a mix of first-run Hollywood, independent, and classic films. However, with a multi-screen competitor now in town, it made sense to alter that plan and become an "art house" that specializes in independent and classic films. There's only one theater within a hundred plus miles that shows independent movies, and that's fifty miles away in New Orleans. We realized that the art house concept would bring something unique to Bay St. Louis and beyond, and would facilitate our desire to feature local and regional films and establish a Gulf Coast Film Festival.

It took some time, but I have to say, this new option, which at first seemed to be worse than the first, looks much better. I'm reminded of Powell Glass, the editor of the Sea Coast Echo (our local newspaper) when Hollywood came to town in 1966. Incensed by the willingness of the local government to accommodate filming by closing streets, Mr. Glass called for an injunction against the city fathers. He lost, of course, and as a result our small community was touched by the glow of Hollywood stardust, gaining a story that has been and will be handed down to future generations. I'm not sure Mr. Glass would agree with the notion that sometimes it's best not to get what you wished for--but I would. A funny thing happened on the way to my dream job, it changed. And you know what, it could change again.

Last week I had a meeting with a sound engineer who has been in the theater business for many years. I called him about renting equipment, and we talked for over an hour. He’d been a projectionist at one of the most impressive buildings in Bay St. Louis, a huge theater on the beach that fell on hard times when multiple screen houses opened in the larger town of Gulfport. I was taken by his energy and knowledge and by his generosity. At one point, I asked if he’d work as a consultant. He said, "That’s what I’m doing now. Whatever advice I give you is free, whether you take it or not."

We talked for a long time at the Mockingbird Cafe, a popular haunt, and one of the first businesses to open after Katrina. The discussion focused on whether movies could be shown easily and cheaply in a space I was considering. As is his way, he discussed several options. Then after an unusual lull in the conversation, he said something that surprised me. He ask how old I was. I didn’t understand. His tone of voice and the look in his eye suggested he was serious, but I couldn’t make the connection between our conversation and his question. He saw my confusion and helped me along, "Fifty, fifty-two"? Like most of us, I like to imagine I look younger than I am, but he was close, too close, and getting closer. Afraid of how high he might go, I blurted it out, "I’m fifty-five."

He smiled and paused, and then the strangest thing happened. He proceeded to list all the things that might and probably would go wrong with the movie theater. He said people wouldn’t come because the theater owners in Gulfport would keep me from getting first run films. He described how expensive projector bulbs often go dark in the middle of a show and are known to burn the flesh off a hand or cause blindness when they’re changed. Finally, he predicted that after all my hard work and sacrifice (the losing sleep, the going in debt, the failing health). a national chain with deep pockets would build a state-of-the-art multi-plex in Bay St. Louis and put me out of business.

I don’t remember a lot of what happened after that, except somehow we ended up in the parking lot, where I discovered it was raining and my car’s right rear wheel was flat. After an awkward silence, he hugged me and said, "I’m behind what you’re doing. This town needs a theater. Anything I can do, I mean anything, just call." The pep talk was surprising considering what preceded it, but I could see he was sincere. He was genuinely excited about the project and didn’t want me to give up. Yet, for some reason, he felt compelled to show me what I was up against.

I puzzled over this and finally understood he was right to bring a sense of reality to my "dream job." Still, our encounter caused me to question my motivation. I mean, he had a point. Generally speaking, projects like opening theaters in disaster areas are the province of idealistic young people eager to prove themselves. But then I realized that older people are not that different. We also want meaningful work even though we’re increasingly overlooked because of age. I sent out dozens of resumes after Katrina, but no jobs came my way.  Yes, I need a job, but not just any job. I want to help my adopted town get back on its feet, and I think a lot of older (and younger) people feel that way: they want to connect, to sacrifice, to dream. I believe that’s what the sound engineer was up to when he hugged me in that rain-soaked parking lot. He had told me the truth, but sometimes the truth isn’t enough. He was saying, "It’s going to be tough, and there’s a good chance you’ll fail. But I want to be there. I want to help."

Sending my essay to AARP for the Dream Job Contest was like sending a message in a bottle. Though I had great expectations of what might happen, I prepared myself for a more realistic outcome. Then, a few weeks later, I came home from work, and there was a message on the answering machine from AARP. My wife and I stared at each other in disbelief. I was a semi-finalist; someone had found my bottle.

This was good news, and good news is something the people who live in our small Gulf Coast town hadn’t heard for awhile. Marci, from AARP, told me an hour-long conference call would bring together me in Bay St. Louis, Mississippi, her in Washington D.C., and Bob, a career and business consultant, in Boston. I’m a low-tech person, just saying "conference call" makes me nervous, but these were the rules of engagement and there was no way I was turning back now.

They called on a Saturday at noon. I’d been up for hours taking notes, responding to possible questions, pacing back and forth. My wife abandoned ship about 10:30, one too many "what time is its" I guess. When the phone rang, I thought of those Turner classic films where the condemned man watches as the sheriff gets the call from the governer. The sheriff hangs up, assumes a grim expression, and shakes his head. The condemned man shifts his feet, his eyes once again grow dark and empty.

But my phone call was anything but daunting; instead, it reminded me of Dorothy’s colorful transition from Kansas to Oz. Marci and Bob and I talked for an hour, but it seemed like ten minutes. They were upbeat and supportive, and, most important, they got it. I could feel the excitement in their voices, and sense the time they’d spent considering my dream job by their suggestions and comments. They had more calls to make, and twelve semi-finalists would have to be narrowed down to six, so the governor might stil be calling. Yet, even so, my spirits were lifted. Not only had my bottle been found, two people had taken the time to reach in and take out the message, read it carefully, and immerse themselves in what it said. That was exciting.

All of this happened weeks ago. Since then I have learned that I am indeed one of the winners, and I can only feel gratitude for my good fortune. Also, I again endured and enjoyed a conference call; this one with the other six winners. It’s an amazing group, each one with a dream and a plan and a commitment to help others. I know my quest to achieve my dream job--creating a community-oriented movie theater in a small town battered by Hurricane Katrina--will be bolstered by Marci and Bob, my fellow finalists, and AARP. By this time next year, with their advice and support, Bay St. Louis will have a movie theater it can call its own.

My dream job is to run a movie theater in a small town on the Mississippi Gulf Coast. I grew up with movies. Every day after school, I’d watch black and white classics on TV--Casablanca, On the Waterfront.  On weekends, I’d take the bus downtown eagerly awaiting the aroma of fresh-popped popcorn, plush seats, and big screens. I waited an hour in a line that went around the block to see the Beatles in A Hard Day’s Night. But my friends and I didn’t notice the time. We were filled with electric anticipation. Everywhere we looked we saw familiar faces: the owner of the donut shop, a cashier from Woolworth’s, neighbors and classmates.

That was the magic of old theaters. It was a shared experience that brought people together as they laughed and cried in the dark. My dream is to recreate that experience in my small town, Bay St. Louis, a beautiful community on the Gulf Coast that was transformed when the eye of Hurricane Katrina pased over it in August of 2005. The hurricane destroyed our only movie theater. For the last two years, my wife and I have been talking to locals and consulting with a friend who owns and operates theaters. We believe a theater in Bay St. Louis will succeed financially and spiritually, for all of us here need the healing a community-oriented movie theater can provide.

Our plan is to show films that will appeal to our town's diverse populatioin. We have a unique mix of people here: artists who have relocated from New Orleans and elsewhere, retired people who come for the weather and the beaches, and working families with children. Consequently, we will present a variety of movies: matinees for children on Saturday afternoons, classics, like Gone with the Wind, on Sunday afternoons for seniors, and Independent films and Hollywood first runs most nights. We'll also have a cafe where people can discuss a movie or just catch up. In short, our theater will be a public place where locals can come together, relax, and enjoy themselves.

Operating a movie theater will be a career change, but I have played the role of entrepreneur before. In 1977, I opened a restaurant with two friends in San Jose, California, which was and still is one of the most renowed restaurants in town. I sold my shares in 1990, went back to college, and began teaching in 1996. Since then, I have studied film, written screenplays, produced a feature-length film, and worked for Cinequest Film Festival, writing reviews and judging screenplays.

I believe my knowledge of film and experience as a business owner will enable my wife and me to bring the magic of those old theaters to our small town. This is my dream job, but it is also a familiar of story of rebirth against difficult odds, just like the movies we love to watch.

testing again