BY STEVE RAMOS

By Jon Hughes/photopresse.com

The Music Box Theater

On the wide screen, at the front of a sloping auditorium, Julia Roberts appears larger than life, making her twice-nightly visit to Bellevue, Ky. It's the way she visits most small towns across America -- via the magic of the movies. Here in a mom-and-pop cinema called The Marianne, an art deco throwback to simpler times, a group of teen-age boys show little interest in Roberts' trademark toothy grin. They just want some time away from home. Cincinnati's downtown skyline looms nearby, but The Marianne and a nearby bowling alley offer the lone entertainment choices for sleepy Bellevue. On a muggy August evening, at least for The Marianne's 30-odd customers, a $1.50 getaway to the London-set romance of Notting Hill is a winning proposition. Trans-Atlantic travel was never more affordable.

Our moviegoing memories are often cloaked in warm summer air. At least that's how I remember my own moviemade childhood. A winding trip on a bicycle to a stylish theater on Youngstown, Ohio's south side. There, on the big screen, those mischievous Gremlins enjoyed their own movie mayhem: breaking into a small-town cinema to watch a reel of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.

It remains the coolest of summertime escapes: a trip to the movies. The venues might change -- from a historic Chicago art house to an amusement parklike megaplex in a Columbus, Ohio, suburb and finally, Bellevue's own Marianne -- but the magic is consistent. There is something unforgettable about a sweltering escape into the frigid darkness of a movie theater.

By Nicole Wetsch

The Marianne

Windy City History

From its multiblock distance, you can still see the long vertical sign of Chicago's Music Box Theater from the platform of the Southport "L" stop. A beacon of red neon letters, The Music Box is a gilded palace to the glory days of moviegoing.

By Jon Hughes/photopresse.com

The Music Box Theater

Tucked beside a tiny strip of bistros, coffeehouses and Japanese noodle bars, The Music Box Theater is a cinematic loner: a calendar rep house specializing in art-house fare, foreign language films, American classics and midnight cult movies. It makes for an eclectic movie magnet, attracting an attentive crowd of black-clad twentysomethings and arty hipsters into its Spanish-inspired lobby and auditoriums.

Celebrating its 70th anniversary, The Music Box is a true rarity: An old movie palace that still continues to show movies. Its calendar confirms a love for film: a restored director's cut of Carol Reed's The Third Man, French filmmaker Eric Rohmer's Autumn Tale and the Vietnamese-language drama Three Seasons. On a weekday evening, ticket buyers cruise past a concession stand stocked with espresso and bottled water to watch The Loss of Sexual Innocence, an erotic look at one man's life by British director Mike Figgis. For an audience who wouldn't be caught dead at the latest Adam Sandler farce, The Music Box is a necessary movie oasis.

In a high-tech society that's growing more isolated, a trip to the movies remains one of the few acts of social interaction. We surf the Internet from the solitude of our bedrooms. E-mail has replaced phone calls to friends and family. Yet, we still gather for the latest must-see blockbuster, taking seats next to complete strangers, joining in the mass display of laughter, screams or whatever. The movie theater has emerged as America's darkened, public square.

By Nicole Wetsch

The Marianne

Moviemade Thrill-Ride

By Nicole Wetsch

The Marianne

The future of moviegoing has settled in a newfound Columbus suburb named Easton Town Center. Adjacent to an artificial town square, surrounded by brick walkways, retro buildings and a red telephone box that appears to be transplanted from London, a 30-screen behemoth called Planet Movies roars to life like some cinematic amusement park. It is a mind-warping confection of sights, sounds and chaos. Countless video monitors blast a digitized stream of images and music. A simulated soundstage holds artifacts from various movies. Look! There's the lifeboat from Titanic, right next to Clark Gable's golf clubs and Arnold Schwarzenegger's Austrian tank.

The grandeur of old movie palaces like Chicago's Music Box has been replaced with something new at Planet Movies: high tech buzz. An overhead video wall showers a massive crowd with trailers and music videos from current movie hits. Planet Movies (a synergistic pairing by entertainment companies AMC and Planet Hollywood) is everything you would expect from a state-of-the-art megaplex: wall-to-wall screens, digital sound and comfortable seats. Still, the real show is the theater complex itself.

By Jon Hughes/photopresse.com

Planet Movies

Food is everywhere and everyone is eating at food stands, in-house cafes and restaurants. From hot dogs to an elaborate ice cream stand, nachos to an All Star Cafe, popcorn to stir fry at Planet Hollywood. Here is a flashy temple to American girth.

Settled in a comfy lounge chair, you lean back and watch the retro shenanigans of Austin Powers. Then, it's back to the razzle-dazzle of Planet Movies' human pinball arcade. Outside, a sign declares the Easton Town Center code of conduct: "Discourteous behavior, standing, walking or sitting in such a way as to cause inconvenience to others is not permitted." But the picture-perfect blue summer sky seems dull in comparison to the make-believe world inside. Nature doesn't have a chance against Hollywood-inspired magic.

By Jon Hughes/photopresse.com

Planet Movies

There is something timeless about the allure of moviegoing. In a summer of endless heat waves and junglelike humidity, a trip to the cinema becomes a necessary escape. It is the common thread that links the millionaire-next-door with some blue-collar Joe: the desire for an affordable, two-hour fantasy away from one's everyday life.

By Nicole Wetsch

The Music Box Theater

Riverside Fantasy: Showing Nightly at 7 and 9 p.m.

The movie business is quaint at Bellevue's Marianne Theater. A crowd clad in shorts, T-shirts and tennis shoes walks past the tiny lobby, into the sloping auditorium. Families spread across entire rows. Teen-age girls gossip throughout the movie, placing their feet on the handful of broken seats, the stuffing ripped out of the cloth upholstery.

By Jon Hughes/photopresse.com

Planet Movies

There is no digital sound at The Marianne, just the constant thunka-thunka-thunka of the lobby door opening and closing.

The small concession stand opens its doors to the inside auditorium. It's an inviting beacon of light that tickles the back rows. There, owner Jack Eck, a silver-haired gentleman, peddles Goobers, M&Ms; and Whoppers between glances at the Sunday newspaper.

While an antiquated radiator system pumps cool well water past a large fan, the Marianne strains to keep the summer heat at its Fairfield Avenue doors.

Upstairs, inside the fire-walled projection booth, an old platter crisscrosses Notting Hill across the length of the room. Through the portal, Roberts and Hugh Grant embrace the way moviemade lovers are expected. From this vantage point, they appear more magical than ever.

Leaving The Marianne, I stop at Schneider's Sweet Shop across the street, an ice cream and candy parlor celebrating 60 years in business. I buy a scoop of rocky road and sit on an outside bench. The neon glow of The Marianne casts the street in a rainbow glow of twinkling lights, and the crowd exits through the front doors. Eating my after-movie ice cream cone I close my eyes and become 11 years old again. The memory tasted delicious. ©

E-mail Steve Ramos

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