My own mall-bound teen years were not nearly so lush or romantic as they would surely have been had they occurred during the heyday of the drive-in. The very idea of the drive-in conjures images of the way life used to be, or the way someone born after the baby-boom generation is meant to assume it was from films, television, and the nostalgic remembrances of their elders. Essentially, from what I've seen and heard, drive-ins once served up a beatific American Graffiti-esque display of American youth, replete with cheap pranks, sneaked swills of whiskey, and necking, all under the roof of a large, beautiful Chevy in the hot summertime.
   The drive-in was born in 1933 in New Jersey, the product of chemical engineer and inventor Richard Hollingshead, who perfected his idea in his backyard. He patented the idea of the ramp, the elevated ground that cars pull up on to improve sightlines, but in 1938, Loews Theaters successfully argued in court that the little hills were not an invention, but landscaping. When World War II ended, America became more mobile than ever, and drive-ins caught on big.
   The Web site for the documentary Drive-In Movie Memories offers a nostalgic aural montage of drive-in reminiscences: "It was a great era—you could put your seat back and put your feet up and be comfy and cozy," one woman says wistfully. "You wanted to do everything but watch the movie," says another. Drive-ins and teens' first sips of freedom and mobility went hand-in-hand. Not only could they escape from their parents' watchful eyes, they could hang out in private, in the dark. They could stay in their own car and possibly get some action, or they could carry on with their friends in the next car over. Either way, cute girls in roller-skates delivered food to their car doors, and all was right with the world.
   Teenage debauchery wasn't really what drive-ins were all about, though. As Kerry Segrave, who authored Drive-In Movies: A History, said in a 1996 interview for Metroactive.com, "[a] disproportionate amount of teenagers got all the publicity. The drive-ins were mainly family places."
   Over coffee at a suburban Philadelphia greasy spoon, my father agrees with Segrave's assessment. "My mom used to take me and my brothers there in our pajamas. It was easy and cheap. You paid by the car, not by the head." My mom, who acknowledges that most of her drive-in experiences were as a child, insists that most people went there to neck, and she uses the word "neck", too.
   According to information from 1999, Pennsylvania has thirty-six drive-ins still in operation, second in the United States to Ohio, which has forty-one. New Jersey, where the first drive-in opened, now has zero. In 1958, the number of drive-in theaters operating in Pennsylvania peaked at one hundred and eighty-one. Not until the early 1980s, as cars got smaller, land became more expensive, and people presumably fell in love with their VCRs, did the number drop off sharply. Some outdoor theaters struggled to survive by showing skin flicks, causing numerous rumored auto accidents on highways around the country.
   "We went to one of those with our friends and didn't realize the kind of movie it would be," my mom remembers, giggling. "We just thought it was the funniest thing—there were these girls in French maid outfits with their frilly underwear hanging out, and they were spanking each other, and we were laughing hysterically." I ask her if they stayed for the whole thing, and she can't remember. "I think we probably just ended up doing our own thing," she says, which sounds suspiciously like necking, so I don't prod further.
   These days, existing theaters often boast mini-golf courses, arcade games, and playgrounds for the kids. They also continue to serve up perfect movie food, though it's probably rare to find girls in roller skates (it probably was sort of rare back then, too). Indeed, the quality of drive-in burgers, chilidogs, pizza, cheese fries, nachos, and popcorn surpasses that of anything that can be found at the local multiplex.
   In truth, though, the present day drive-in often fails to make good on its promise of film-going bliss. For one thing, the most important parts of the equation—the films themselves—are typically neither top-notch new releases nor entertaining B-movie fare. I have yet to see the things I think should be shown at drive-ins: giant tarantulas and fifty-foot babies and nuclear globules taking over cities. Instead, I subject myself to some of the least appealing stuff Hollywood dishes out, movies most people wouldn't even rent, let alone see in a theater. Maybe movies like Galaxy Quest and The Scorpion King are today's closest equivalents to Rocket Attack USA and Pod People. Regardless, they're inherently less entertaining.
   Then there are matters of picture and sound. Depending on where the movie is being shown, light from the street or from nearby homes and businesses can prevent the night from being black enough for the screen to deliver a crisp, well-contrasted image. Most drive-ins still in existence are located in farm areas, but the sky is cumulatively brighter than it was fifty years ago.
   Worse yet, screens built in the late 1940s don't lend themselves well to the aspect ratios of many movies made today. Drive-in projectionists often deal with this issue by opting to fill the entire screen with the image rather than letterbox the picture. This judgment call results in freakishly skinny actors playing out their roles. (Godard would dig it, I think—what better way to ensure that viewers don't forget they're watching a film than to present an annoying, just slightly off-kilter reality?)
   "It was always that way," my dad tells me. "When I was a kid, I thought it had to do with where our car was in relation to the screen."
   "Yeah," my mom says. "Things always looked a little off, but you just accepted it, because it was the drive-in. Being there was a novelty."
   And while some outdoor theaters still use squawk boxes to deliver sound, many have their moviegoers tune in to low-frequency AM and FM radio stations. During a screening of The Others, in which a large portion of the dialogue is delivered in hushed voices, our audio was interrupted by a broadcast of "Saturday with Sinatra". Cars gradually started their motors, then reversed or pulled forward on the ramps to try to nix the unwelcome crooning; other folks dug around for metallic objects to affix to their antennas. Watching the movie became a communal exercise in figuring out how to hear the damn thing. Ultimately, Frankie prevailed, sticking around to mock our paltry attempt at a legitimate drive-in experience.
   Perhaps the very fact that drive-ins are largely a thing of the past, that they are linked with memory at all, forces people to romanticize them. "The thing I remember most," my mother tells me, "is driving by them on the highway and trying to guess what movie it was. You felt like you were sneaking it, you know? Like you were seeing something you weren't supposed to. It was so neat." To me, the idea of driving down the road and catching glimpses of classic movies in progress is beautiful. America is somehow less gorgeous without all of those movies in its sky.
   Each year, as summer looms, I pester my boyfriend about the drive-in theater in Danville, Pa. "Do you think it's open yet?" I ask and ask again, fantasizing about eating cheese fries at dusk, feet propped on the dashboard, eyes fixed on a stream of light illuminating a big screen in an open field. In my mind, it's the perfect way to experience cinema: it's private, natural, and cheap. Once there, the fact of the drive-in's imperfection slaps me out of the fantasy.
   Still, I keep succumbing to the pull of the outdoor theater. Partly, I want to support drive-ins so that they don't die out entirely. Mostly, I long to experience a past I'm not old enough to own. Sometimes, cocky teen boys in souped-up Ford Mavericks and Chevy Novas roll into the drive-in, girls by their sides, and I start thinking that maybe it just became 1976 and they'll show The Bad News Bears or Freaky Friday instead of the contemporary family-friendly nonsense we'll end up with. Sometimes, for a moment, I allow myself to think that maybe I can close my eyes and open them and find myself in a much less complicated place.

[ Much of the research for this piece was culled from Richard von Busack's article in MetroActive.com, as well as from DriveInTheater.com, AmericanDrivein.com, Imbd.com, and Brian and Nancy Sullivan. ]

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