West Side Story: The Sing-Along

I can't pass up an opportunity to see "West Side Story" on the big screen.  And when it's at San Francisco's historic Castro Theatre, and when it's a Sing-Along to boot?  Well, just try and keep me away.  Or don't.  Because you can't.

The goody bags we got upon entering the theater were filled with several tools to help us participate fully in the Sing-Along experience.  A clicking noisemaker to anticipate action.  A tiny American flag to wave about during "America."  Exploding streamers to release when Maria and Tony have their first kiss.  And inflatable bats to whack each other with whenever Officer Krupke and Lieutenant Schrank appeared on the scene.

In fact, before the movie started, Krupke and Schrank themselves coached us on just what we needed to do, including hissing whenever someone was mean to the androgynous character Anybodys and whistling "My Country 'Tis of Thee" along with the Sharks.  And then, accompanied by the Mighty Wurlitzer, we ran through a round of "I Feel Petty" to get warmed up.  

So I have this minor problem whenever I see "West Side Story":  I cry convulsively through pretty much the whole thing, starting at the overture.  The sight of the changing colors of the background of a very abstract Manhattan sends me right into sobs, which can work against you when it's a sing-along.  But since I can't sing, I guess it kind of works out.

My friend Ted was seeing the movie for the first time.  And at the Castro of all places!  We had a great participatory audience that whooped and hollered and snickered tried to warn Tony not to stop the rumble.  I think Ted would have been easily converted in any case, but the Sing-Along surely guaranteed that he'll have the soundtrack in his head for days.

During intermission (remember when movies had intermissions?), Ted got popcorn, and some folks in the audience bopped each other with the bats between texting and snack bar visits (the bopper is way in the back and hard to see, but she's there!).

When Tony and Maria got fake-married, we blew celebratory bubbles supplied in our goody bags. The ones I blew don't show up in the picture;  it was quite a feat of coordination to blow bubbles and take a photo in a dark theater at the same time while trying to shield the light from my live-view screen. 

And cry simultaneously, of course.

Each time I see "West Side Story" I want to learn every last step of Jerome Robbins's choreography.  And that urge has only become more intense over the years, ever since I was six and wanted to be a Jet or a Shark. It never mattered which, so long as I got to carry a comb in my back pocket and chassé into a tourjeté on the sidewalk.

The sun had set when we left the theater, and with the music and choreography so fresh in my head, I wanted to scale Cyclone fences and do grand jetés all down Castro Street, and I might have, had I not been so worn out from all the crying.  Seriously.  It takes a lot out of you.  So I took a picture instead.  

It's how I got my kicks tonight.