Old Theater Hangs On in Era of VCRs, Multiplexes : Entertainment: One-screen neighborhood movie house has nostalgic appeal, showing double features that are foreign, classic or past their peak.

No line had formed beneath the neon-bordered marquee, which read: “A River Runs Through It” and “Of Mice and Men.” Howard Linn, owner of the Art Theater who was manning the ticket booth, was not surprised.

The last one-screen, neighborhood movie house in Long Beach has not sold out in years. Yet, with nightly double features, it hangs on in a time of VCRs and multiscreen complexes, including the new Pine Square 16 in downtown Long Beach that Linn fears could pose a serious threat.

“The crystal ball’s getting cloudy,” said Linn, who since 1973 has owned the 71-year-old Art Theater on a commercial block of 4th Street near Cherry Avenue. “I have a lot of people who tell me they hope I can continue because they love coming here and they know they can see films that are different . . . but loyalty isn’t a commodity I would bank on.”

The theater’s staple lately has been movies that came out a few months ago, but it still shows foreign, classic and obscure films. The Rocky Horror Picture Show, an irreverent movie and stage act, plays Saturday nights.

“I play films from Australia, New Zealand, all over,” Linn said. “One time I did the entire (Ingmar) Bergman series. It’s not that I haven’t played schlock, but I try to avoid it whenever possible.”

One night last week, as traffic swished by on the wet pavement, people barely trickled in. Those who did, including Mark Henson, 27, and his friend, Deborah Robinson, 24, seemed happy to be there.

“This has got character,” Henson said. “It’s old. It’s better to just have a cheap theater with a little style. I’m surprised more people don’t come. It’s always really empty.”

“It’s cheaper than the regular places,” Robinson said, referring to the $4 admission price ($3 for senior citizens and children), “and double features make the difference. But you’ve got to sit in the newer seats.”

“In the front seats you feel the springs,” Henson said.

The orange stubs in the ticket booth now made a pile of about 30. Before the night was over, 20 more tickets would be sold; a smaller-than-usual turnout, but it was raining. Linn said he sells about 800 tickets a week, just enough to stay open.

A man in a dark hat, dark coat and dark, gray beard walked past the huge poster boxes, just as he had as a boy.

“This was one of the old theaters, along with the Dale, the Californian and a few others,” said Erle Drake, 68, of North Long Beach. “The new theaters are not theaters. I’m a nostalgia buff, boss. I was raised with double features.

“Let’s see, last week they had the “House of the Rising Lanterns” (actually “Raise the Red Lantern”). They had two. I didn’t understand either one, but when I walk out of a theater and I have to think, then that’s a good movie.”

Drake passed through the narrow lobby where manager and projectionist Roger Ochoa popped corn at a stand displaying Milk Duds and Good & Plenty candy, relics in their own right.

When the picture began at 7 and the moviegoers had disappeared into the long, 500-seat auditorium, Linn sat on a chair at the end of the lobby, beneath black-and-white framed photos of ancient actresses--Lombard, Lamarr, Dietrich, Garbo. Some people ask him who they are, he said, but “my core audience knows.”

He looked down at a worn carpet that was once red and said, “I’d dearly like to restore this place.”

The theater, which last year was designated a historic landmark, was the Carter when it opened. Then for many years it was the Lee--a name still inscribed on the patterned terrazzo sidewalk, along with a curved arrow pointing to the entrance.

After it survived the 1933 Long Beach earthquake, the theater was remodeled in Art Deco, but the ornamentation on the ceiling and walls was destroyed in a 1968 fire. By the time Linn took over five years later, the place had fallen into neglect and it took a week to scrape the sticky candy and debris off the floor.

“The thing that’s amazing is how much longevity theaters like this have,” the owner said. “If they’re not torn down they seem to have a life of their own. I know owners of some theaters in Los Angeles who have been doing this for years and years, and if they drop out someone else picks it up and it just keeps going.”

A $100,000 renovation that would have included new carpet and seats had been scheduled for the Art after last summer, but was delayed by the arrival of the 16-screen complex downtown. “We didn’t know whether we would get destroyed by them and so we decided to put the renovation on hold,” Linn said. “We’re just waiting it out, to see whether in fact we’re still viable.”

A short, scholarly looking man in glasses, with a high forehead and wearing a V-neck sweater, Linn, 65, went on about the theater to which he is so emotionally attached.

“It’s been my sole thing in life for a long time,” he said. “It’s a lot of work.”

There are films to negotiate for, paperwork and maintenance to do. Linn must frequently go to Los Angeles to screen films. His wife and partner, Florence, does the books and sells tickets.

He laughed trying to recall the last full house. “Probably 1984, with mostly college students,” he said. “This was before I had air conditioning. It was 100 degrees in there and every seat was filled.”

He couldn’t remember what was playing, but said it might have been “A Clockwork Orange” or another 1960s film popular with students in the ‘80s.

Now, Linn considers it a good week if he sells 1,000 tickets. Only the Rocky Horror Picture Show, which draws about 100 loyalists, attracts a line that goes down the sidewalk.

“The future of this theater,” Linn said, “is in the hands of a relatively few people. We’re not demanding that thousands and thousands come; we just want enough to keep the doors open. We’re in sort of a crossroads with the new theater downtown. They have 16 screens and as long as they have films playing we can’t play them (because of exclusive screening rights).”

Many of the people who come to the Art come once a week, Linn said, but not all are from the neighborhood. “Film lovers can always sniff out a theater like this,” he said. “They’re usually from Boston or San Francisco, where moviegoing is a habit. I don’t think Long Beach ever developed the habit.”

The theater thrived from 1977 to ‘85, showing old and new films. Then the video business “cut the ground out from us,” Linn said.

Disenchanted when people turned to VCRs, Linn leased the theater in 1988 and ‘89, but took it back in ’90. During his absence, current films were mostly shown. He has continued that policy, though he is considering showing more foreign and classic films and reviving the schedule he once distributed in calendars to book and record stores.

As a youngster, Linn went to movie palaces in New York City. He and his friends, bored if the screen held a musical, would chase one another around the balconies. “We might sit down for a mystery film or something like ‘The Mummy’s Curse.’ ” he said.

When he finished at New York University, he trained technicians and engineers, first for the government and then in the aerospace industry. After coming to Long Beach in 1958, he became involved with film societies in Los Angeles and at Cal State Long Beach.

“I always wanted an art theater,” said Linn, who has more than 2,000 movie posters in his home. He was out of work when he bought the Art, having been laid off from a training job, to which he never returned.

The Art operates on a limited budget that allows for minimal advertising. There are three employees, none of whom is an usher. “I’d love to have an usher, that would be wonderful,” Linn said. “We depend on people being on their best behavior, but we’ll haul out people who won’t shut up, people who are drunk.”

On Sundays, when matinees are shown and people have to come in from the sunlight and grope for seats in the dark, Linn escorts them with a flashlight.

The owner believes in customer service.

“The commercial theaters tend to be cold and impersonal,” Linn said. “I know of instances where people have sat through a film and it was out of focus or something was wrong with the sound and it seemed like it would take an act of Congress to get it fixed. That doesn’t happen here. We specialize in focus and sound.”

He went up to the booth where a projector, with its 2,000-watt bulb, whirred. The dim room contained reels, film cans--and a toilet. In the old days, when fire was a threat because of nitrate film, a projectionist had to stay in the booth.

Now, with a semiautomatic system and safety film, the booth can go unattended. But Ochoa is ready to dart up from the snack stand if the film snaps.

Linn looked down through a porthole at “A River Runs Through It” and his smattering of faithful customers.

“At one time movie theaters were very meaningful,” he said. “People considered movies as part of their lives,” he said. “They’d go once a week. Now it’s not important. Now they have electronic toys.”

Linn went downstairs to sell a few more tickets to the latecomers.

A poster, in a box built in the ‘30s, indicated that “Dracula” would be coming soon.

“I like to play films that work together,” Linn said. “The ones this week are both environmentally beautiful and about people who live on farms. But I couldn’t find anything to link with ‘Dracula’ so I decided to play something totally different, as if I had another screen in the house. It’s an independent film called ‘Zebrahead’ about an interracial love affair. It attracted a lot of applause at the Sundance Film Festival in Utah.

“When film’s in your blood you’re always looking to the next day or the next week when the next one turns up. There has to be a gem in there someplace.”

Muffled movie sounds leaked out the door and the theater owner stood alone but hopeful.

The marquee was still lit, and there was still time for someone to come.