Community Notebook

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Rosendale Theatre

The Rosendale Theatre from the East on Main Street in Rosendale

Cinematography originated in France during the 1890s, when the Lumière brothers delighted audiences with brief actualités (their name for primitive documentaries) such as The Arrival of a Train (1895). But projection machines developed in the United States and first used in New York City in 1896 ushered in movie houses, which launched motion pictures as an art form and an industry.

Built in 1902, Tally’s Electric Theater in Los Angeles was the first permanent structure devoted entirely to movies. “Movie theater” entered the national lexicon after a storefront nickelodeon (named for the admission price) sprang up in Pittsburgh in 1905. The phenomenon swept the country as entrepreneurs converted vaudeville-era performance halls to show films, as happened on Main Street in Saugerties where the Orpheum Theatre now operates. By 1913, The Regent, America’s first motion picture “palace” had opened in New York City, boasting innovations in design, function and decoration—along with higher prices. Grand establishments later lost ground with the arrival of television.

By mid-century, neighborhood movie houses featuring similar though scaled-down architectural elements of the palaces—the stand-alone box office, the highly visible marquee—held sway. Typically limited to one story containing several hundred (rather than thousand) seats and dramatically reduced services and “extras”, they also offered reduced admission. Among the last of this breed is the Rosendale Theatre, the oldest operating single-screen, Main Street movie house in the region, which turns 52 this month.

Built circa 1905 and originally called Rosendale Casino, the red brick and wood structure once served as the Rosendale firehouse. According to local historian Charles R. Barnett, “They’d move the shiny red pumper out onto the street when the town people wanted to see a movie.” A June 22, 1945 blurb in The Rosendale News announcing “Movies at Firemen’s Hall Every Monday Night” advertised admission prices at 35 cents for adults and 25 cents for children under age 10. Tony Cacchio later took over the venue, turning it into a family-run business. Its première feature, the Robert Wise western Blood on the Moon starring Robert Mitchum, opened on Feburary 18, 1949 with an admission price of 50 cents. When Cacchio died in 1998 at the age of 91, ownership passed to his octogenarian wife Fanny. Her sons, Tony Jr. and Rocko; and grandsons Michael, Mark, and Stephen, continue to lend a hand.

Tony Jr., a self-described bachelor who takes tickets and runs the projector, explains that his father first rented, then bought the building from the village in 1955, the year after the New York State Thruway opened in Ulster County, partially paved with Rosendale cement. He graduated the once flat floor, put in seats, and purchased state-of-the-art projection and stereophonic sound equipment. Outside and in, the theater (which the entire family pronounces with a long “a”, accent on the second syllable) looks much as it did in the 50s.

Traffic flow on Main Street typically slows at its doors, as would-be moviegoers glimpse what’s playing. Two lone movie posters—one for the feature and one previewing the next—flank the glass entrance that stamps the exterior, which is nondescript save for the square electric sign (illuminated only during show times) advertising the business’ name in red above a humble awning.

Inside the small, street-level lobby a spray-painted stencil sign hanging to the right of the box office window reads: “Thank You—Your Patronage Is Greatly Appreciated Our 51st Year—Admission $4.” The 45-year-old, pull-handle vending machines, stocked with matinee-munching classics like Necco Wafers, Junior Mints, and Good & Plenty, serve as the only concession. (Spaces once reserved for gum and lifesavers lie vacant, unable to convert for taking quarters.) When the 10-cents-a-bag popcorn machine wore out in 1965, Tony Sr. didn’t replace it.

“My father would rather make money on the mission, not the concession,” his namesake explains, focusing on framed photographs of the man posted near the ticket-taker’s box and stool. “He always wanted to keep admission lower than all the other theaters. He just wanted to pay our bills.” Original box-shaped, clear-glass sidelights still come on in the auditorium for the trailers. The Bennet carpet gracing the floors was purchased in New York City in 1955. The Cacchios change
the screen once every 10 years. The current projector was purchased in the 90s. “There’s no overhead—everything is paid for and we keep out salaries low. But I keep my theater warm,” Tony says, his mention of the thermostat setting the single hint of self-pride emanating from this gentle, self-effacing man.

Rosendale Theatre also gets by on avoiding first-run films, for which theaters must fork over 50 to 60 percent of gross profits to distributors and production companies. In comparison, neighborhood movie houses that have a lag time of anywhere from a few days to a few weeks for feature films give up 35 percent. Tony, who does the bookings, laments, “It’s been a bad year for Hollywood theater; the product wasn’t there and the business wasn’t there.”

Instead of relying on the opinion of distributors regarding whether or not a film is “right” for Rosendale, Tony has taken to looking through trade magazines for independents and festival-award winners. “The art shows carry us through,” he concedes. Packed houses at recent screenings of art house and independent hits like Christopher Guest’s Best in Show, Max Färberböck’s Amiée and Jaguar, Steven Soderbergh’s Traffic, and David Mamet’s State and Main support his claim.

Following in his parents’ footsteps, Tony doesn’t take vacations. “My father never had a desire to leave the theater; he was here the night before he died dressed in a suit and tie. He was a workaholic who laid tile as a day job through the 70s.” Letting me peak into the restrooms, he shows off his dad’s tile work and design.

“You can talk to Mamma now,” Tony tells me next, as if I’ve passed some kind of test. Pushing open the door to the closet-size box office where Fanny sits with a radio down low as she has nearly nightly for half a century, he announces me. “Mamma, here’s the lady from the paper.”

“I’m sick of newspapers! There’s already been too many stories written about us and it makes other theaters upset,” she states flatly, moving a sweater aside to let me sit in the ticket seller’s chair. Jammed between wall and molding, cardboard signs stenciled two and three mark admission from bygone days.
“This is different, Mamma,” Tony insists, his faith in my intentions undisclosed.

Left alone with me, the impeccably dressed and coifed Fanny, whose manicure is noticeable as she stretches bills scrutinizing for counterfeits or pushing tickets through the proverbial hole in her window, starts in. “Tony was a tile and marble man. I can’t understand why he did it. His sister married my brother, who knew Tony was a gambler. Mayor Vaughn—he was the one who talked him into it—he wanted a theater here.”

She recalls that a group of men who believed that her husband would fail at the business due to his Italian heritage made him determined to succeed. “We outlived them and outlasted them; I’ll never move away,” Fanny says. The rub of having to pay off outstanding debts when they bought the building still lingers. “I wanted to throw in the towel many times,” she admits.

Though never much of a movie buff, Fanny relates, “I was the first one in Ulster County to book Godfather One. We played it for three weeks and I looked at that picture every night! And Ronald Reagan? We made a lot of money with him; he’s the only president who ever made us rich. He brought us luck, for some reason.” Her disgust with the greediness of the movie industry, of so-called nonprofit theaters “begging for money” to run businesses, and her opinion of Robert De Niro’s private life punctuate her Rosendale Theatre anecdotes.

Between reel changes in the projection booth, Tony returns, at first I think to see if Fanny is tiring. But reflected on his face finally is awe at her endurance. Seating himself sideways, facing away from me in a third chair partially obscured by a sheet, he helps answer questions as if in confession.

Fanny, who never drew a salary and still doesn’t, maintains, “You can’t get first-run if you won’t raise the price; my son doesn’t want to raise the price. They tell you how long to run, what to charge—the movie industry wants to get rich overnight.” Still, she wants the theater to continue as long as her sons can do it. “Tony’s last words to me were ‘Try to keep it going.’ I never thought I’d miss him so much.”

Tony Jr. believes that people these days want to see pictures immediately. “A lot of people don’t wait for us anymore.” He’d like to get new stereo-surround sound, recover the seats, and purchase new rugs, but it’s expensive. An engineer does come every six months to balance the screens, at $300 to $400 a pop.
“We lead a simple life. We don’t have extravagance. We only buy when something wears out,” Tony says. “My father didn’t like credit cards.” Fanny adds that she doesn’t own one and never did.

Asked how they think Rosendale Theatre will be remembered, Fanny brightens. “Tony will be a legend here,” she says. Her son tacks on, “We’ve always felt funny raising the price. People will appreciate the sacrifices—how we kept the admission low.”

Rosendale Theatre shows films nightly at 7:20 with matinees on Sundays (business providing) at 4 pm. It is closed on Tuesdays. Admission is $4.

—Pauline Uchmanowicz