The Princess Theater

Another building that was a landmark in Murfreesboro during my childhood is gone. The Princess Theater stood in glitter and glitz just outside the Square. Boasting the only neon sign in town, it beckoned seductively. During the Depression it was a haven of happiness for a dreary community.

Compared to the megaplex theaters of today it was a sad excuse for glamor. The entire Princess theater housed a single screen. There was a center aisle with rows of seats on either side and a velvet curtain that opened at the beginning of the movie. The movie ran continually and you could enter at any point and stay through as many showings as you liked. A short, scratchy newsreel was shown and an animated cartoon. Then the curtain closed, the lights went on momentarily and then the same scenario began again. Tickets were 50¢ and, if you were fortunate enough to go on a Saturday, there was a double feature (always a Western and a cliff-hanging serial).

There was no large lobby where teenagers gathered, only one small counter where popcorn was sold for 5¢ a bag. Outside was the ticket booth. We parked our bicycles and spent a few moments gazing at the glamorous posters covering the outside walls, before we entered.

The movies were always short and upbeat with lots of singing and dancing. When “Gone with the Wind” came to the Princess it was loudly touted as a 3-hour movie. Aunt Edith took my sister and me to see it and made it a holiday occasion, packing a large lunch to take with us. This was the first movie with an intermission. We were not the only ones eating fried chicken and dressed eggs during this Intermission, to fortify ourselves for the dramatic ending of this astonishing movie.

It was on the screen at the Princess Theater that I made my Hollywood debut. An enterprising young man with a camera and some technical knowledge came to town and convinced the young mothers of the community that their daughters were the next Shirley Temple, just waiting to be discovered. For a price (I think it was the huge sum of $25) their little darlings could appear in an actual movie.

Though I was only four and my sister, six, Mother signed us up. Our part was to be in a mob scene of children who marched, on command, to some given destination. Though I had no speaking part, Mother and Rowena, our maid, worked tirelessly on me that morning, trying to get my hair to curl and (in the days before permapress) to keep my stiffly starched dress clean. I can remember waiting and waiting, uncomfortably, for the shooting to begin. Finally we were told to line up. “Miss Judy, now you just behave,” “Stay in line,” “Don’t go wandering off,” Rowena instructed me.

The moment was at hand. The Director was saying “We begin rolling in three minutes” when I had the urgent feeling that I had to go to the bathroom. I edged close to my sister and whispered, “I have to wee-wee”. “Not now” she said and I uncomfortably got back in my place in line. But it was no use. A trickle had started down my leg.

“March” the Director instructed and we did, just as we were supposed to.

When the day came that the movie appeared on the screen at the Princess Theater the place was crowded with eager mothers. Just briefly I appeared on the Silver Screen, marching soldier-like with the mob of children. But leaving behind me a large puddle on the sidewalk for all to see.

I certainly left my mark on Hollywood.