"There's no such thing as a bad home movie. These mini-underground opuses are revealing, scary, joyous, always flawed, filled with accidental art and shout out from attics and closets all over the world to be seen again."
Leave it to Waters, director of stylish trash (Pink Flamingos, Polyester) to be the biggest cheerleader for such an off-kilter gathering. But, in fact, there was much to tout for this year's Home Movie Festival, which was held at three venues, the Nevada State Museum at Lorenzi Park, the Winchester Cultural Center and the Clark County Museum, way the hell out on Boulder Highway in old-school Henderson; I was intrigued enough to visit all three.
"You never know what to expect," says Lynn Zook, a local historian and event sponsor who greets me in the 24-hour showroom inside the Nevada State Museum. "The goal is to see if someone might bring in some footage that we would ask to make a copy for archival purposes."
"Anything specific?" I ask. "Like old retail stores or defunct casinos?"
"Not really. Hell, I'd get a kick out of old some footage of Vegas Village!"
Inside the showroom, the film projectors sound like synchronized crickets—just as you remember from the days when your homeroom teacher would roll the bike-safety films as he graded papers. I strike up a conversation with Craig Hawkins, 52, born and raised in Las Vegas. He proudly displays a box containing eight reels of 8mm film his grandmother shot when he was just a toddler.
"Looking at these will be an experience for me, too," he says, chuckling. "I haven't seen them in years."
The reel that plays when I meet him is from his childhood home off of St. Louis and 16th Street. The year, he believes, is 1962. And, boy, is he having fun, jumping around an inflatable kiddie pool, indulging in Easter-egg hunts and Christmas-present unwrapping. It may not be classic Vegas in the historical sense, but it does remind you that pleasant domesticity has long been a reality in a city where many people assume it isn't.
This is how it works: Whoever arrives first gets their home movies shown first. Simple as that. As his reel finishes, Craig, diplomatic, turns to Alan, the projectionist: "If you need to show something else, that's fine by me."
"No," Alan says, "we'll show another one of your reels. It's not like there's a line forming."
Which is true—aside from Craig, Alan, Lynn Zook and me, the only other person here is a photographer from the Review-Journal. Apparently, the masses don't share John Waters' enthusiasm for this kind of thing.
As the next movie starts, we're treated to Craig's grandmother's European holiday. After spending a minute or two guessing where she traveled, I excuse myself and head to the next site.
The attendance at Winchester Cultural Center isn't hopping, either. "I hope I'm not the first person to attend here," I say to a cheerful lady with a splendidly wild perm and blue dress shirt who introduces herself as Diane.
"No," she says, "we had three others."
As she and another volunteer feverishly try to thread another 8mm film into the small projector, I find myself a seat.
"Help yourself to some popcorn!" Diane urges.
I look at a tray on a table next to the projector—only the undercooked kernels remain.
"No, thanks."
They start the film—this reel was donated by Lynn Zook—which turns out to be, basically, a long shot of a drive from Las Vegas to Hoover Dam. The lighting is dim, the camera isn't always steady and the owner of this particular car apparently never had the windows cleaned. Still, I get a kick out of watching the other cars on road, the Buicks, VWs and Mustangs—the kind of random memory prods that home movies can deliver. And, frankly, I like the imperfections in these home movies, because in many ways, this is how our memory works. We don't remember our youth with clear, linear narrative development, but in drips and splashes, our recollections fleeting and fractured. The technical imperfections of these movies accentuate the realistic feel for nostalgia.
I stay for 30 minutes. "Do you have to go so soon?" Diane asks. Yes. There's still one more venue to check.
The old train depot at the Clark County Museum is where they're holding the home movie fest. There are no names in the guest book.
"You're the only person I've had today," says Mark Ryndynski, an employee of the museum. "It's a shame; we had Mark Hall-Patton [of the Howard W. Cannon Aviation Museum], a projectionist, a volunteer for check-in and another clerk to handle for breaks."
Wow. All those perfectly aligned folding chairs, neatly stacked brochures, earnest volunteers and a serious historian ... all for nothing. That really is a shame.
Mark threads a film for me. "This is from Kitty Heckendorf taken in 1972," he says. The first few minutes stroll by, until suddenly we get footage of the merry-go-round outside of the Circus-Circus. Seventy-two was the year my family took its first trip to Vegas. My parents were scoping out the city before a permanent move, which we committed to two years later. Heckendorf's scenes are triggering my first memories of the city. Shit, John Waters was right—these really are shout-outs waiting to be seen again.
I head back to the Nevada State Museum in time for the program to wrap up. "Michael, you missed it," Lynn Zook tells me as I walk in. "Craig had a reel where you could see an atomic test blast in the distance!"
Now that's progress.
This time, there are seven other people in the projection room. They're gathered around a monitor watching some stunning 16mm material of Vegas in the late '60s. Amazing in its clarity and composition, it includes everything from classic performers on the marquees (Red Skeleton at the Dunes!) to warmly remembered gathering holes (the Wagon Wheel Tavern). The footage is once again provided by Zook.
"You have a very varied collection," I say to Zook.
"Thank you. I buy a lot of these things off eBay."
As the hour closes in on 5 p.m., those who remain are chatting endlessly about Vegas memories: Howard Hughes when he owned KLAS-TV, jai alai at the MGM Grand, the mourning of the beloved Venetian restaurant at Valley View and Sahara, and of course, how quick it was to drive across town when Jones Boulevard was considered way out west. If nothing else, the home-movie fest brought us out to exchange anecdotes and opinions. So homey is the atmosphere that I expect a den mother to walk in with a plate of cookies. I don't want to leave—there is an instant likability among us, and we all know how rare it is to find other locals who can grasp references like Alpine Village. And for a city that seems to get more disconnected and disaffected as we get bigger, anything that gives longtimers even a small patch of common ground is worth braving someone's vacation films to experience.