Murder at The Silent Movie

January 17, 1997 was among the darkest days in the history of theatrical exhibition.

Backstory

January 17, 1997. I yearned for a rare passive evening. My birthday was three days prior, and neighbors from my Melrose Place-style Hollywood residential complex (a large pool surrounded by small apartments and palm trees) had belatedly planned to throw me a party. Really, it was the usual end of the week party as an excuse to get drunk and celebrate the upcoming weekend, but nonetheless the organizer insisted this celebration would be in my honor.

No dice. I was going to force myself to relax for a change.

I tended to thrive on chaos, then as now, and I had run around from meeting to meeting trying to sell my latest screenplay. By early dusk, I was wiped out, and under the weather. I elected to forgo both of my existing Friday night options. I didn’t drink anyway, so one choice was easy. The other, not so much. Attending a specialty movie theater, a legitimate Hollywood landmark, was a Friday night tradition. I’d make a quick appearance at my own party, and then hide, but I’d also stay home and, reluctantly, skip The Silent Movie.