I grew up watching John Wayne and Elvis Presley movies. Every Friday night during the cold months, Dad and Mom and me and a friend or cousin would go to the Coral Theater at 95th and Cicero and indulge.
We saw scary movies like The Haunting and Village of the Damned, so frightening that me and my friends were sitting on the floor of the movie theater, screaming. Fun! We saw Rio Bravo with John Wayne, Dean Martin and Ricky Nelson. Macho goodness at its finest. One for all and all for one, western style.
Elvis? My Dad would never admit that he liked Elvis, but we went to every movie that showed up. G.I. Blues, Viva Las Vegas, Blue Hawaii, we saw them. Elvis gyrating and singing in tight pants and a short jacket. Blue-black hair slicked back to a high shine.
Shelley Fabares and Nancy Sinatra with bouffant hairdos, white boots and mini-skirts. Bill Bixby, a personal fave of mine, playing the friend with love and/or money troubles.
Happy endings. Elvis gets the girl. John Wayne finds the girl and then gets the girl.
Popcorn 25 cents. Eisenhower, Kennedy, Nixon- the old days of politics, when you could be a bit crooked but never insane.
Often sexist, often politically incorrect, nevertheless these films embodied the spirit of my youth and portrayed a naive optimism that is often gone in this century.
It was all right to define happiness by having a big car with fins, a sharkskin suit and closet full of shirtwaist dresses with matching pearls.