The year was 1992. My first experience at The Silent Movie. The evening I discovered the soul of Hollywood.

A friend of mine had asked me to join him to see a movie. I thought we’d catch Reservoir Dogs, the debut film of a director proclaimed to be The Next Big Thing: Quentin Tarantino.



My friend wanted to see Buster Keaton. He asked me if I was a fan. I told him I saw The General once in high school, and it put me to sleep. I went on about Reservoir Dogs as everyone I knew was talking about it. We flipped a coin. I lost.

We arrived at the theater. My buddy bought the tickets as he said he felt sorry for me losing the bet. “I’m doing you a huge favor,” he said. “Trust me.”

I was struck entering the lobby. I’ve long been a fan of old Hollywood films, save for silents, and I felt like I was entering a museum. This was a positive. Framed portraits and lobby cards of silent stars and movies adorned the walls, mana for a collector of film memorabilia like myself. We stood on a line just inside the front door, while a very senior lady tore tickets and greeted everyone as they reached the theater proper.

My friend told me she was Dorothy Hampton, the former owner of the theater along with her late husband, John. There was certainly history here. I was fascinated.

The feature that night was something called College. That main feature was preceded by a Felix the Cat cartoon and several Keaton shorts, including Cops.

Surprising to me, the theater was packed. There couldn’t have been much more than 150 seats in total, but still this was a strong crowd for something so old. We managed to find two seats together in the second row, much too close for my comfort. Speaking of comfort, or lack thereof, the seats were hard, not cushioned whatsoever. Somehow it added to the atmosphere. There was an organ near the screen, on the floor to its left, and Bob Mitchell, a renowned silent movie organist who I’ve read about in some of my books, was the organist for the evening.

“Is that —“ I began, as he took his stool.

“Yeah it is,” my friend responded.

“How old is he now?”

”Eighty.”

In minutes, Mr. Mitchell adjusted his stool, and his fingers touched the keys. A vigorous version of Pomp and Circumstance emanated from his organ. On cue, the venue’s present owner entered from the back, to steady applause. Holding a microphone, he waited patiently for the theme to conclude.

“My name is Laurence Austin,” he said as the last key reverberated, “and I welcome you to the world’s only silent movie theater.”

Larry completed a brief introduction of the evening’s entertainment, and the films unspooled. I had never before been a member of any audience so enraptured. The laughter was loud, and contagious. Everything shown prior humored me, but Cops was just about the most amazing thing I’d ever seen on film. No special effects, just a heck of a chase that had the crowd in stitches. At times I could barely catch my breath, and tears squeezed from my eyes. Cops was followed by College, and I was addicted.

I fell for Buster Keaton that night. I fell for the world of pre-sound movies that night (most of which have since fallen into the public domain, including the Keaton favorites discussed above). In fact, I was completely and utterly seduced. I embraced the earliest history of a mercurial business this then-starving screenwriter sometimes loved and frequently loathed.

Most of all, I embraced The Silent Movie.

My friend was right. Over subsequent weeks, I felt increasingly privileged to attend the screenings. I had developed a keen interest in silent film, and I wanted more.

I especially wanted to learn about the history of this special venue.