Ya know... I didn't really know what to think about this news with Robo first called me with it. But then I thought more about it. This wasn't Jimmy Stewart or Robert Mitchum. This wasn't Bruce Lee or John Wayne. This was the death of a projectionist, and to a great many people that really doesn't mean a whole lot. As a matter of fact, the only time people think about these folks is when something goes wrong. Then they scream out 'FIX IT!', 'FOCUS!', 'TURN ON THE SOUND!!!'

This is Harry Knowles here. I didn't know the projectionist at the Paramount. I knew his friends, John Stewart and Bob Magnusson. They were my filmic tutors since I can remember. But tonight as I type, I realize that the man that first threaded a film and turned on a bulb and brought film before my week old eyes.... he died showing a film he first introduced to me from his magic booth over 27 years ago.

On December 19th, 1971... Walter Norris Jr stringed up CLOCKWORK ORANGE, and film officially entered my life, 8 days after my birth. I'm told that my eyes were just at the primal stage of understanding light and colors and shapes. That I could not of fully grasped the experience I was having. On December 21st, 1971 I was back to see POSEIDON ADVENTURE, and two weeks later I came back to see FANTASIA.

All those magic screenings of all those magical evenings I have ever had at the Paramount... He strung the film up, he cleaned the film gate, he spliced the trailers together, he turned on the sound lamp, he switched the bulb on. For my entire life, Walter has thanklessly sat in that booth and brought through the chemical emulsions the light that pleases me most in this world. The light from a 35 mm projector.

He introduced me to David Lean and Hitchcock. His lenses brought forth Bruce Lee and Clark Gable. Ya know... I'm officially a mess right now. I'm a weeping baby. I'm turning this over to Robogeek now... I... I have to string a movie up on my home projector. That'll make me feel better. Walter, where ever you are... I'll thread this one up for ya...

And now on to Robogeek...

Greetings, citizens. ROBOGEEK here.

I received some heartbreaking news today that affects every Austin moviegoer, and is worth sharing with everyone who loves movies.

One of the many reasons I love Austin is that it has its very own movie palace, the 1,300-seat Paramount Theatre, which opened its doors 85 years ago. Now primarily a performing arts venue, it returns to its cinematic roots each and every summer, unleashing dozens of classic films onto its giant silver screen. In a way, I consider it one of the best film schools in the country (not to mention the cheapest).

It's an absolutely magical place, and the closest thing we have to a time machine around here. And if you've ever seen Guiseppe Tornatore's 1988 masterpiece "Cinema Paradiso" (and I'm sure you have), you'll understand the headline of this story, and the full gravity attached to it.

We've lost our Alfredo.

Walter would probably scoff at the comparison. First he'd look at you like you were a crazy person, and then he'd burst out in his wonderful, infectious laugh. He was a pretty down-to-earth guy, and little seemed to ever phase him. He certainly never seemed prone to nostalgia or, well, mushiness.

I first met Walter Norris, Jr. (or "Bear," as he was known to many, though I could never really bring myself to call him that) almost six years ago. In fact, some of my first words to him were, "can I help you carry that?" -- which elicited the aforementioned response.

The Paramount's projection booth, you see, is up a Great Many Stairs. Lots And Lots Of Stairs, in fact. And for thirty years, Walter would carry those big film cannisters up and down those stairs.

Anyway, one of my first encounters with Walter found him in the lobby, faced with a new shipment of films. He was perplexed by my offer to help carry them, either due to the fact that I wore a tie in those days, or simply because it wasn't an offer anyone ever made. It was his job, and why on earth would anyone else do it?

I've never counted how many stairs lie between the lobby and the booth, but think I will today. I wonder if he ever did. Somehow I doubt he bothered.

At the top of All Those Stairs is a room that's always struck me as being kinda like the engine room of a WWII submarine. Long and narrow, it houses massive reel-to-reel change-over projectors that date back to the forties. You see, as opposed to the modern multiplexes that use a platter system the Paramount is an old-fashioned, traditional movie house requiring manual, timed change-over from reel-to-reel, projector-to-projector.

The audience, of course, hardly ever notices this -- except those sitting in the balcony, who can hear the little bell that chimes near the end of each reel, just to make sure that movie in particular hasn't put Walter to sleep. (Walter was always picky in his taste of movies.)

Last Friday night, while Walter was threading the second reel of "Casablanca" (one of his favorites), he had a heart attack and died. He had only just turned 60 a week earlier.

I still can't really believe it. I saw him last Wednesday at the Paramount, and shot the breeze as usual. He was always glad to see me, interested in what was going on, and we talked about the movies scheduled for this summer at the Paramount, which had just started. Walter could sometimes be ornery and gruff, but most of the time he was lively and funny. (The "Bear" nickname also applied as in "teddy bear.") He liked teasing people, and was good at it, but I never ever saw him be mean -- though he could be a stinker, that's for sure.

Walter loved movies, and loved what he did. Before the first screening on any given evening, you could often find him hanging out downstairs in the lobby, chatting with people and watching the crowds come in. Our usual conversations in this context would be about the print, and how the run-through went. He'd fill me in on what defects to be on the look out for, if there was a bad splice here, or a scratch there, etc. We'd proceed to talk about movies in general and other randomness of life. Then he'd look at his watch and say, "I guess I'd better get up there." And off he'd go, up those stairs again, never in any hurry.

And every night, hundreds of people who had no idea who he was would have a magical moviegoing experience. Thousands of people a month, tens of thousands a year. For thirty years -- half his life. I think he was proud of that. I hope so, anyway. He should've been.

Sure, things didn't always go perfectly. The Paramount's 85 years old, after all, and the projection equipment is even more cantankerous that Walter could be. The Paramount has been host to some legendary, gloriously catastrophic screening disasters, but has always recovered -- and the audiences have always been forgiving, because most of the time things go perfectly.

In my estimation, there are really four people who make the Paramount the magical place it is. Unsung heroes at the front line and in the trenches who love what they do, and have seemingly done it forever. There's Steve Wilson, the house manager who organizes the legion of angelic ushers (and is also film archivist over at the University of Texas' Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center -- which houses the David O. Selznick Collection, among other coolness). There's Kathy Mattia, who presides over the bar like the goddess she is. There's Tony Johnson, the head custodian who cleans up your mess and does all the stuff nobody ever stops to wonder, "who does that?" (like changing the marquee almost every day). And then there's Walter, the projectionist (who's also a stagehand the rest of the year).

Like far too many other non-profit arts organizations, the Paramount has suffered from high staff turnover that at times has bordered on hemorrhaging, caused by everything from indifferent management to micro-management by the board. Yet those four have been toiling behind-the-scenes for decades, as steadfast as the theater's proscenium. They're heroic figures in my eyes, and represent some of the most important assets of the organization. They should be treated as such.

Maybe it's just human nature that they've been taken for granted, but today I got more than a little annoyed when I couldn't find their names on the theatre's website (www.theparamount.org) or in the newsletter (where the staff always used to be listed). Hopefully the Paramount's newly-installed CEO, Dan Fallon, will soon take decisive measures to provide management worthy of the staff's tireless efforts, and improve employee morale which has seemingly always been strained. There's talk of naming the annual summer classic film series after Walter, and I for one think that'd be a damn good start.

This morning (Tuesday) at 11am, there will be a funeral service for Walter at the Paramount (713 Congress Ave.), at the request of his family. It's what he would have wanted. He loved the theater, and it loved him. And while Walter always seemed more than content to work behind the scenes, I think just this once he wouldn't mind being the center of attention. He's certainly earned it.

So if you have a chance, and if you're one of the literally hundreds of thousands of people who have sat in rapture under the steady beam of Walter's projectors, then I urge you to make the time to come by and pay your respects this morning.

And if you aren't one of those people, but are lucky enough to live in a city that has a similarly magical movie palace, I have a favor to ask you: The next time you're there, ask to meet the projectionist. Thank him or her, and shake their hand.

- robogeek@robogeek.com

P.S.: Here's Walter's obituary from Monday's Austin American-Statesman:

Edgar Walter Norris, Jr.
"Bear'' Edgar Walter Norris, Jr. was born on May 23, 1940, in Austin, Texas, and passed away on May 26, 2000, in Austin. He was preceded in death by his mother, Margaret F. Norris. Edgar had worked at the Paramount Theatre for 30 years as a projectionist and stagehand. He is survived by the mother of his children, Patricia Miller, of Austin; two sons, Walter Norris of Killeen, Texas, and Derrick Norris of Austin, Texas; three daughters, Roslyn, Tracey and Hillary Norris, all of Austin, Texas; one daughter, Gisele Norris, and her mother, Leona Davis of Austin, Texas; his father, Edgar Walter Norris, Sr.; two brothers, Charles Norris of Lago Vista, Texas, and Howard B. Norris of Austin; Texas; one sister, Rose Norris Davis of Austin, Texas; and eight grandchildren. The family will receive friends from 6:00 to 8:00 p.m., Monday, May 29, 2000, at Cook-Walden Funeral Home, 6100 N. Lamar. Services are scheduled for 11:00 a.m. on Tuesday, May 30, 2000, at the Paramount Theatre located at 713 Congress Avenue, Austin, Texas. Serving as Honorary Pallbearers will be the staff of Paramount Theatre and the International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees Local #205. (Cook Walden Funeral Home)