The 1000 Van Ness Movie Theater opened with more fanfare than it deserved on July 10, 1998.

The Gang of Six was not happy about this, having perfected their ritual of basking in the glory of baroque theaters -- enjoying spacious lobbies, overhanging ceilings constructed with meticulous craft and endless seats. But it was ordained on June 17, 1998 that the Gang of Six head to 1000 Van Ness, for The Mask of Zorro had opened that day, the second blockbuster adaptation this summer of a Saturday afternoon mainstay the Gang had enjoyed during their youth.

We obtained fresh horses from the hostler and all of us -- Flyboy, Flygirl, Silent Jay, the Camera, Yoda and myself -- rode across the hills of Twin Peaks to witness the debacle of a halcyon age in moviegoing.

The exterior of the revamped Chrysler Building did not look any different from before, aside from a couple of carefully concealed AMC 1000 Van Ness signs. The facades of arches and pillars remained and, while it was truly one of the oddest buildings for a multiplex in this writer's memory, it appeared for a moment that AMC might pull it off.

The sidewalk on Van Ness appeared to be recently repaved. The main thought on our minds was that 1000 Van Ness was a box -- a mousetrap to snag overenthusiastic moviegoers.

Stepping within the confines of what would be referred to in any other building as "the lobby" provided a slight twinge of familiarity. The blaring ticket booth with endless digital figures blipping past the eye was more Logan's Run than 1998. But, as an afterthought, movies "sold out" cried that familiar mantra out in their digital language, flashing the two words repeatedly in a plane of homogenized infinity. The Gang of Six was pleased to know that AMC cared.

And they did. Take away the silly carpets (in addition to the booths), and you might, I deign to say, find yourself waiting in line to dance in a deranged ballroom.

But alas, the trap became all too clear as teenage employees rushed past us giggling in their Gestapo outfits. Tri-striped epaulets were visible on their shoulders; their youthful faces resembling an all too tragic update of the Hitler Youth.

The Gang of Six, nevertheless, conquered their fear and rushed past these imposing figures. They were shocked to find not so much as a step to make their descent to the third floor. Elevators and escalators were everywhere. This attribute, along with the rather claustrophobic nature of the place, allowed more than one member of the Gang to draw the conclusion that if a fire were to break out, all would be roasted alive. There is simply no easy way out (as the Camera and I noted later upon trying to grab an after-flick smoke).

To further intimidate us, there was the strange European nature of the escalators. To go up, one proceeds on the left side rather than the right. Clearly, there was a psychological game at work here.

As we made our way to the floors, bright yellow cascaded across all, overshadowing the distinctive '90's colors of subdued red and green. Pillars held together the floors, resembling a horrible visual from The Jetsons. But this was nothing compared to the dreaded yellow, which plagued The Gang as they stood in line. The overwhelming yellow seemed to me as bad as the pink trend of the '80's. There were even yellow tables to sit down upon.

The Gang of Six noted that this color scheme poses a dilemma for the people-watcher. You can't look at anyone here. The yellow washes them all out. While Flyboy and Flygirl were occupied in as compromising a position as could be made in public, Silent Jay pointed out that the yellow was good for pale-skinned people such as myself. He was right. Somehow, I looked like George Hamilton.

There was even a concierge, for crying out loud! But we had come here to see a movie and not to rent a hotel room. Still, there it was spelled out in a wacky script font.

Real plant life, as you might guess, was minimal. The standard, plastic, tri-colored flora and fauna were placed everywhere.

Then there was the obsession over tickets. The 1000 Van Ness is not a place to moviehop. Each member of the Gang of Six was checked at least seventy times (six hundred, if one had to take a pee) to make sure we were there to see the movie we paid for. Now I can understand a once-over for good measure, but the zeal in collecting tickets seems a strange undergrowth of the multiplex movement.

After being repeatedly strip-searched by the Ticket Gestapo to ensure that we weren't carrying snacks and goodies that weren't AMC-endorsed, we made our way into the theater to partake of the illustrious love seats. Let's get one thing perfectly straight: to claim these post-modern monstrosities as love seats because of a mere armrest that moves up and down is tantamount to the FDA declaring ketchup a vegetable under the Reagan administration. Don't get me wrong, the seats were fairly comfortable, but they felt like a half-ass passenger seat in a Jeep Cherokee.

The grade of the theater isn't bad. You won't have to worry about not seeing the screen unless a Harlem Globetrotter sits in front of you. Still, there were weird rainbow house lights on the side and harsh lights on the top that seemed as if they had been bought from a federal penitentiary.

And there was no central aisle in the screen we were sitting in. The Gang had decided to sit in the middle. When I went to snag some popcorn right before the movie, I attempted a remarkable feat of gymnastics that involved climbing over several rows of seats and bumping into a large man whose enthusiasm for the movie quickly waned upon seeing my face. Fortunately, he was noble enough to accept my apology.

Eventually though, the time had come for the Gang of Six to return home. They had gained little through their adventure but they had come closer through the horrors of a multiplex experience gone awry.

Besides, the Castro called right around the corner.

1000 Van Ness (go figure!) at O'Farrell

Tel: (415) 674-4630

Edward Champion

Reproduction of material from posthoc is prohibited without written permission.

Copyright 2001, Posthoc, Inc.