Heather J.
Yelp
We flowed up to the balcony, hand in hand, to a serenade of old Christmas classics played by an enthusiastic organist delighted to charm children and adults alike. The patrons waiting in the audience lent their voices to "Holly Jolly Christmas" and "Santa Claus Is Coming To Town," and parents led their children and a few bashful teenagers up to admire the holiday railroad shuttling miniature trains through a snowy village.
Five minutes later, the red velvet curtains peeled back to display the Stars and Stripes. A few bemused glances aside, the crowd stood in a rolling wave from the back out. Red-and-white hats were doffed. Hands went to breasts. The organist struck the first chord, and well over two hundred voices -- a packed house, as many as that would be -- joined together in a honeyed immersion of "Oh, say can you see..."
Volunteer docents crept between the aisles afterwards to be sure everyone was settled and content, then the lights dimmed down. The glorious Christmas tree saturated in lights went dark, and even the Christmas wreaths on the restored Japanese buildings flanking either wing turned into starry pinpricks like the luminous sparks overhead on the cloudy projected sky.
For the first time in my life, I got to see "It's a Wonderful Life," a staple of every holiday season since before I could talk, on the big screen. Jimmy Steward smiled, glided, and stamped his way across the silver screen. Bedford Falls danced with snow. Jokes lost on me as a child and a teenager suddenly sprang to life with rich detail. We all laughed at the antics the way television never quite captures, sharing a special moment with the whole group. A pair of teenagers below me sighed at the romantic gestures, their parents grinning and transported back to younger years. We were all back in 1946, alight with wonder. Not a peep interrupted the movie. No cell phones, no crying babies, no rude people muttering to one another.
Intermission hit and all the life and activity resumed. Now I know why these movies and shows were scripted to accommodate a break. A more civilized, genteel era comes alive again in the Redford Theatre, and all for $4. My god. Once it has its spell on you, you'll never be satisfied by a rental off Netflix and bad microwave popcorn. Come down, be enchanted by the experience.
You'll be glad you did.
Extra special hats off to the volunteers who PROPOSED on stage while we were there, under the pretense of a yearly award to honour the fiancee. As soon as the award was announced, I turned to the beau and said, "It's a proposal. Watch." I was not disappointed. It was the icing on the cake, and I was definitely not the only weepy soul there. The standing ovation and roar of approval suggested the audience agreed.
Oh, Redford. You are the polished, golden soul of Detroit and I am in love.
