Early Movie Theaters—Elkton and Chesapeake City (Part 4)

Early Movie Theaters—Elkton and Chesapeake City (Part 4)

The Elkton Armory, circa 1930

The Talkies—Chesapeake City

Freddy Rhoads had an unusual tale about Chesapeake City’s Rio Theater. “The thing that stands out in my mind . . . is how some of the boys used to open the bathroom door for other kids to sneak in without paying. That worked for a while, but then the management got wise to them—saw too many boys down there in front—and started checking ticket stubs. Then, of course, the boys started passing the stubs around, and to fool them even more, the boys would switch jackets and hats so that a short guy would have a tall guy’s jacket on and so forth. It was funny … all that to trick the management.”

 “Once in a while I did some work for the Rio Theater,” Flint Sheldon pointed out. “Joe Savin ran the Theater for a while, and he and I used to travel all around passing out flyers advertising the movies that were coming up. I remember how Joe used to cross on the ferry to pick up film for the Rio. Somebody, probably from Elkton, would meet him on the North Side and Joe would get the film from him.”

Of course, after the Silents and the Talkies came something even better—the Drive-In. Some of my favorite memories came from the Elkton Drive-In Theater, which was on the corner of Route 40 and Whitehall Road. I went to the drive-in many times as a teenager. How can I explain the enchantment of that theater? I wish everyone could have experienced it. As you steered your car up next to the ticket booth, you could hear the music from the loudspeaker and see the suspended screen high in the distance. You’d then cruise around the lot, checking things out and looking for a good place to park, not too close nor too far from the screen and fairly close to the refreshment building. You’d pull into your spot close enough to the pole that held a small, metal speaker. You’d hang the speaker on the door, adjust the volume, settle back, and wait for the show that darkness would bring.

You had the whole evening ahead of you in the privacy of your car—entertainment in comfort and seclusion. There you were, out-of-doors with the windows down, and maybe a breeze would stir through your car, cooling you and making you feel as if you were on top of the world. Then, abruptly, the show would begin: first an ad about the available food and drink, then the coming attractions, then the cartoon, and finally the movie. Time would go by so fast that soon you’d start your engine, turn on your lights, and get in line to begin what seemed like a long exit.

I took my date—my wife-to-be—there many times. And, of course, I was always interested in watching the movies. I remember one terrific movie called “The Hand,” about a murderer’s severed hand that came alive and started strangling people.

Anyway, as I said, I wanted to watch the shows but, do you know, all my date wanted to do was smooch. That’s right, and it was awfully hard on me. Man, the windshield would get all steamed up so that I couldn’t see the screen. I recall wiping off the inside of the windshield with the palm of my hand. But it was no good; it would fog up again in no time. In fact, all of the windows would steam up from her romancing. The only break I got was at intermission, when I could stumble out to catch my breath and visit the refreshment shack to load up on hot-dogs, French fries, and sodas. Then the movie would resume and it all started again. I don’t know how I ever survived! What do you think?

“I went to the Elkton Drive-In many a time,” recalled Freddy Rhoades of Chesapeake City. “One time my girl and I fell asleep while the movie was running, and when we woke up the place was deserted and the screen was blank. Then the car wouldn’t start because the battery had run down. But Jimmy Simmons, the guy who ran the place, was still there, so he gave us a jump. And it’s a good thing he was there, because we’d have been in big trouble.” 

Other local residents who talked with me have similar but fading recollections of these old theaters. Esther Luzetsky, Margaret Kruger and Paul Spear contributed their memories as well.

The era of Silent Movies, Talkies, and Drive-In theaters has ended. The owners have taken down their screens, boxed up their reels of film, switched off their projectors, and closed their doors to patrons. The Clayton Building, majestic as ever, now contains offices. The Masonic Hall was destroyed to make way for the widening of the canal. Fire took the New Central Hotel, and the great Rio Theater was disassembled in the 1950s.

Some visual reminders survive—the beautiful Armory still stands at attention, a symbol of military pride, and the Elk Theater building is still on North Street. However, the great Elkton Drive-In area is now a parking lot for shoppers instead of viewers.

The old movie houses might be gone, but great memories remain; the drama and comedy they produced live on for us grateful viewers who attended, and those fearless cowboys and Indians still thunder across the prairie of our minds.