My first good look at what was to become the Biograph Theatre was in July of 1971. Having gotten a tip from a friend the DeeCee-based owners were considering hiring a local manager, I went to the construction site chasing the opportunity.

That day I met David Levy, one of six men who owned the repertory cinema operation that would be housed in the cinderblock building going up at 814 West Grace Street. Of the six, Levy would prove to have the deepest knowledge of film history, as well as the most hands-on knowledge of how to run a movie theater.

A couple of months later I was offered the best job in the Fan District, or so it seemed then. The adventure that followed surely went beyond any expectations I might have had, at age 23, about becoming the manager of the Biograph Theatre.

On the evening of February 11, 1972, the venture was launched with a gem of a party. The first feature presented to an audience was a delightful French war-mocking comedy — “King of Hearts” (1966). On Richmond’s newest silver screen, Genevieve Bujold was dazzling opposite the droll Alan Bates.

In the lobby, with its cinemascopic view of Grace Street through a wall-to-wall glass front, the dry champagne flowed steadily. The local press was all over it.

My stint at the Biograph lasted until the summer of 1983. It would be 37 years before the next new cinema would open in Richmond — Movieland, in February of 2009.

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During the 1960s, college film societies thrived. Knowing film was cool; it could get you laid. By the 1970s, many of the kids who had grown up on television had learned to worship great movie directors.

The fashion of the day elevated certain foreign movies, selected American classics, a few films from the underground scene, etc., to a level above most of their more accessible Hollywood counterparts. Mixed and matched in double features and packaged into little festivals, such was at the heart of a repertory cinema’s style. In that pre-cable TV age, much of the current-release domestic product was viewed by the film aficionado in-crowd as laughingly naive or hopelessly corrupt.

Although none of them had any experience in Show Biz a group of five men, then in their mid-30s, opened Georgetown’s Biograph Theatre (1967-96) in 1967. They were smart guys who caught a wave. A few years later those same owners (plus one more guy) were still riding that wave. In Richmond’s Fan District they thought they had spotted the perfect situation for a second repertory-style cinema, a second Biograph.

Local players, filthy rich Morgan Massey and deal-maker Graham “Squirrel” Pembrooke, built the building from scratch for the Georgetown group. Significantly, Pembroke managed to get a 20-year lease for $3,000-a-month rent guaranteed by a federal program for at-risk neighborhoods, in case the concept didn’t fly.

Thus, when the Biograph closed in 1987 the building’s owners were then able to collect the rent from Uncle Sam until 1992.

Knowing they could walk away easily, if the business fizzled, the new Biograph’s creators — chiefly Levy and Alan Rubin (a geologist turned artist) — inked the deal and borrowed money to buy used seats and projection booth equipment, which included ancient Peerless carbon arc lamps to back up a pair of rugged Simplex 35 mm projectors.

The Biograph’s programs, printed schedules with film notes, covered about six weeks each. Program No. 1 was heavy on documentaries, featuring the work of Emile de Antonio and D.A. Pennebaker. Also on that program were several titles by popular European directors, including Michaelangelo Antonioni, Costa-Gavras, Federico Fellini, and Roman Polanski.

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After the opening flurry, with long lines to every show, it was surprising and disappointing when the crowds shrank dramatically in the third and fourth months of operation. As VCU students were a substantial portion of the theater’s initial crowd, the slump was chalked off to exams and summer vacation.

In that context, the first summer of operation was opened to experimentation aimed at drawing customers from beyond the borders of the immediate neighborhood. The brightest light in our mix of celluloid offerings was a project I had been put in charge of developing — Friday and Saturday midnight shows.

By trial and error, we learned it took an offbeat movie that lent itself to promotion; early successes were “Night of the Living Dead” (1968), “Yellow Submarine” (1968), “Mad Dogs and Englishmen” (1971), and an underground twin bill of “Chafed Elbows” (1967) and “Scorpio Rising” (1964).

With significant input from the theater’s promotion-savvy assistant manager, Chuck Wrenn, off-the-wall ad campaigns were designed in-house to set the tone for the somewhat anti-establishment movies that seemed to work best. There were two essential elements to those promotions — wacky radio spots on WGOE, a popular AM station aimed directly at the hippie listening audience, and distinctive handbills posted in strategic locations.

Dave DeWitt, now the widely read guru of hot food, produced the radio commercials, many of which were rather humorous in their day. He and I frequently collaborated on them over six packs of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

In the September “Performance” (1970), an overwrought but well-crafted musical melodrama — starring Mick Jagger — packed the place a couple of weekends in a row. Then a campy, docu-drama called “Reefer Madness” (1936) sold out four consecutive weekends. Sometimes nearly as many people were turned away as could be seated.

To follow “Reefer Madness” what was then a little-known X-rated comedy, “Deep Throat” (1972), was booked. As the feature ran only an hour, master prankster Luis Bunuel’s surrealistic classic short film, “Un Chien Andalou” (1929), was added to the bill, just for grins. After all, it caused quite a controversy in its day, too.

Still, I can’t say I’ve ever heard of anybody else running that particular double feature.

A couple of weeks after “Deep Throat” began playing in Richmond, it got busted in Manhattan. The national media became fascinated with the film. Its star, Linda Lovelace, actually appeared on network TV talk shows. Watching Johnny Carson tiptoe around the premise of her celebrated “talent” made for some giggly moments.

Eventually, to be sure of getting in to see the show, patrons began showing up as much as an hour before show time. Standing in line on the sidewalk for the spicy midnight show turned into a party. There were nights the line resembled a tailgating scene at a pro football game.

A determined band of Jesus Freaks frequently stood across the street issuing bullhorn-amplified warnings of hellfire to the drinking, eating, smoking folks in the line heading west on Grace.

Playing for 17 consecutive weekends, at midnight only, “Throat” grossed over $30,000. That was more dough than the entire production budget of what was America’s first skin-flick blockbuster.

The midnight show’s grosses conveniently made up for the disappointing performance of an eight-week package of venerable European classics, including ten titles by the celebrated Ingmar Bergman. The same package of art house workhorses played extremely well up in Georgetown, underlining what was becoming a painfully underestimated contrast in the two markets, 100 miles apart.

Even more telling, over the spring a series of imported first-run movies crashed and burned. The centerpiece of the festival was the premiere of the Bunuel masterpiece, “The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie” (1972). In what Levy (a Harvard-trained lawyer) and I then regarded as a coup, gambling it would win the award, we booked it in advance to open in Richmond two days after the 1973 Oscars were to be handed out.

We guessed right, it took the Oscar for Best Foreign Film. But it flopped in Richmond, anyway. Management was more than bummed out, we were shocked.

Money had been put up in advance to secure a print, which was in demand because it was doing brisk business in most other cities. The failure of this particular booking and the festival that surrounded it forced a serious reassessment of what had been the original plan.

To stay alive Richmond’s Biograph needed to make adjustments.

After much fretting on the phone line between “M” Street and Grace Street the Faustian deal was struck — another film from the director of “Throat,” Gerard Damiano, was booked. However, this time the film’s distributor imposed terms calling for “The Devil in Miss Jones” (1973) to play as a first-run picture at regular show times, rather than as a midnight-only attraction.

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At this point no one could have anticipated what we were setting in motion by agreeing to expand the availability of “adult movies” beyond the midnight hour. For the first time, the promotional copy for an XXX-rated feature was included on a Biograph program and in newspaper ads.

The die was cast when an aggressive young TV newsman took Biograph Program No. 12 to the Commonwealth’s Attorney, Aubrey Davis. The reporter asked Davis what his office was going to do about the Biograph Theatre’s brazen plan to run such a notorious film, especially in light of the then-freshly-minted “Miller Decision” on obscenity by the Supreme Court.

Eventually, the provocateur got what he wanted from the prosecutor — who had been on the job for only a month — a quote that would fly as an anti-smut sound bite. The other local broadcasters jumped on the bandwagon the next day. By the mid-summer evening “The Devil in Miss Jones” opened in Richmond it had already become a well-covered story.

Every show sold out and a wild ride had begun: Matinees were added the next day. On the third day all the matinees sold out, too.

The fourth day the WRVA-AM traffic-copter hovered over the Biograph in drive time, giving live updates on the length of the line waiting to get into the theater. The airborne announcer helpfully reminded his listeners of the remaining show times for that night.

Well, that did it! The following morning a local circuit court judge asked for a personal look at what was clearly the talk of the town.

Management cooperated with his honor’s wishes and we schlepped the print down to Neighborhood Theaters’ private screening room, downtown, so the judge could avoid being seen entering the Biograph in its bohemian neighborhood.

As Judge James M. Lumpkin admittedly hadn’t been out to see a movie in a theater since sometime in the 1950s, this particular comedic stag film rubbed him in the worst way. Literally red-faced after the screening, the outraged judge looked at Levy and me like we were from Mars, maybe Pluto.

Lumpkin promptly filed a complaint with the Commonwealth’s Attorney and set a date for issuing a Temporary Restraining Order, in an attempt to halt further showings as soon as possible.

The next day a press conference was staged in the theater’s lobby to make an announcement. Every news-gathering outfit in town bought the premise and sent a representative. They acted as if what was obviously a publicity stunt was actually 24-carat news, because it served their purpose to play along. After DeWitt — who was then representing the theater as its ad agent — laid out the ground rules and introduced yours truly to the working press, I read a prepared statement for the cameras and microphones.

The gist of it was that based on demand — sellout crowds — the crusading Biograph planned to fight the TRO in court. Furthermore, the first-run engagement of “The Devil in Miss Jones” would be extended — it would be held over for a second week.

During the lively Q & A session that followed, when Dave scolded an eager scribe for going too far with a follow-up question, it was tough duty holding back the laughing fit that would surely have broken the spell we trying to project onto the reporters.

The TRO stuck, because Lumpkin still had all the say-so. “The Devil” grossed about $40,000 in the momentous nine-day run the injunction halted.

Technically, the legal action was against the movie, itself, rather than anyone at the Biograph. Which obviously suited me just fine. The trial opened on Halloween Day. Judge Lumpkin, whose original complaint to the Commonwealth’s Attorney had set the process in motion, served as the trial judge, too.

Objections to that quizzical affront to justice fell on Lumpkin’s stone cold deaf ears. On November 13, 1973, Lumpkin put all on notice: If you dare to exhibit this “filth” to the public, then stand by for certain criminal prosecution.

So is was that “The Devil” was banned in Richmond, Virginia.

The plot to answer the judge was hatched in early January 1974. It happened after-hours in my office, next to the projection booth on the second story. Having finished the box-office paperwork, your narrator was browsing through a stack of newly acquired 16mm film catalogues, and probably enjoying a cold PBR. The scent of recently-burned marijuana may have been in the air.

A particular entry — “The Devil and Miss Jones” — jumped off the page. Instantly, it was obvious that the title for that 1941 RKO light comedy had been the inspiration for the X-rated movie’s title — “The Devil in Miss Jones.”

It should be noted that the public had yet to be subjected to the endless puns and referential lowbrowisms the skin-flick industry would eventually use for titles. This was still in what might be called the seminal days of the adult picture business.

The plan called for using the upcoming second anniversary as camouflage. DeWitt and the theater’s resourceful assistant manager, Bernie Hall, were in on the early scheming. Then, in a deft stroke — suggested by an owner, Alan Rubin — a Disney nature short subject, “Beaver Valley” (1950), was added to the bill.

The stunt’s biggest problem was security. The whole scheme rested on the precarious notion that the one-word difference in the two titles wouldn’t be noticed. But when you said the two, they sounded nearly the same. It was like hiding in plain sight. The staff fully understood that the slightest whiff of a ruse would mean our undoing.

Thus, absolutely no one could be told anything. No one.

Subsequently, the theater announced in a press release on DeWitt’s letterhead that its second anniversary birthday party would offer a free admission show. The titles, “The Devil and Miss Jones” and “Beaver Valley,” were listed matter-of-factly; free beer and birthday cake would be available as long as they lasted.

Somehow, a rumor began to circulate that the Biograph might be out-maneuvering the grasp of the court’s decree by not charging admission. The rumor found its way into legit print — the street gossip section of The Richmond Mercury. That was sweet.

The busy staff fielded all inquires, in person or over the telephone, by politely stating, “We can only tell you the titles and the show times. Yes, the admission will be free. No further details are available.”

The evening before the event the phones were ringing off the hook. Reporters were snooping about, asking questions. One, in particular, seemed to be honing in on the key. In the lobby he was asking me questions, when he said, “It has to have something to do with the title.”

By “it” he meant what we were up to. To fend him off I had to take a chance. I told him that what was going to happen the next day would be a much better news story than the story of spoiling it the day before, if there really was a trick to it. So, I asked him to leave it alone and trust that once it unfolded he wouldn’t regret it.

Fortunately, the newsman said OK and kept his word. His identity must remain a secret.

Up until the box office opened no one outside our tight circle appeared to have caught on to what would be going down. Amazing as it may sound, the caper’s security was airtight. It was, in truth, absolutely beautiful teamwork.

The line began forming before lunch. As the afternoon wore on, with thousands of people lining up, it was suggested to me more than once that we could eventually have a riot on our hands. What would happen?

Nobody knew. That’s what made it so exhilarating!

The box-office for the 6:30 p.m. show opened at 6 p.m. By then the line stretched more than three-quarters around the block. It took a full half-hour to fill our 500-seat auditorium. No doubt, we turned away at least six or seven times that number.

The sense of anticipation in the air was electric as the house lights in the auditorium began to fade. Outside, on the sidewalk, hundreds of people stayed in line for the second show at 9 p.m.

Once the cat sprang from the bag … well, actually it was a beaver, then some otters, some in the crowd said with genuine enthusiasm they thought it was a wonderful occasion. Still, about a third of them left the theater to go to nearby bars and talk about the prank. The rest of the audience stayed on through the short subject, still hoping to see something taboo.

Maybe about a third of the house stayed all the way through the feature,too. Afterward, there were lots of folks who said it was the funniest thing that had ever happened in Richmond. Of course, a few hardheads got angry. But since everything was free there was only so much they could say.

The rush that came from living in the eye of that day’s storm was intense, to say the least. Gloating over the utter success of the gag, as the staff and assorted friends finished off the second keg, was as good as it gets in the prank business.

Meanwhile, thoroughly amused reporters were filing their stories on the hoax. The next day wire services picked up the story, as did the broadcast networks.

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NPR’s All Things Considered went so far as to compare the Biograph’s wee prank to Orson Welles’ mammoth 1938 radio hoax. And, the Biograph returned to business as usual with an Andy Warhol double feature.

The staff went back to work on “Matinee Madcap,” a 16mm film project in production. Film scholar Trent Nicholas, then one of the theater’s ushers and later an assistant manager, shared the directing credit with me. The rest of the staff and several of the Biograph’s regulars appeared as players. The plot, calling for a good deal of slapstick chase-scene footage, set the action in the movie theater, itself.

Although post-prank life seemed to fall back into a familiar routine, big changes were on the horizon. With Watergate revelations in the air and the Vietnam War winding down, the intense interest in politics and social causes on American campuses began to evaporate. In the spring of 1974 “streaking” replaced anti-war demonstrations as the students’ favorite expression of defiance.

Six months after the theater’s second anniversary splash, the same month that President Richard Nixon resigned, the theater closed down for a month to be converted into a twin cinema.

Automating the change-overs from one 35mm projector to the other was essential to controlling costs. Among other things that meant xenon lamps, high intensity bulbs that could be ignited by switches, had to replace our out-of-date, manually operated carbon arc system.

On the day the exchange was made I got to see the same scene with the two light sources. The light from the old system, which used two burning carbon rods, was white and gave the picture more depth and sparkle. The Xenon light was slightly yellow and had a flattening effect on the picture.

Not long after that change David Levy split with his other partners. That left four of the original six Richmond Biograph owners still on board. Levy went on to distribute alternative films regionally, plus he bought and operated The Key on Wisconsin Ave. in Georgetown.

Although we continued to celebrate the Biograph’s anniversary with February parties, the manager’s job at the Biograph became more complicated with two screens to fill with light. The repertory cinema’s mission was becoming more blurred with time.

Following the accumulation of events in 1974, a year of many changes, what had appeared to be life’s absolutes became less clear for the dreamer who once thought he had the best job in the Fan District.

As the edgy punk style began replacing the hippie culture that had ruled the Grace Street strip for the better part of a decade, none of us working at the Biograph Theatre had any sense that as 1975 began playing out the zenith of the repertory cinema era, nationally, was already behind us.

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In the spirit of a postscript, I want to add a personal note that nobody knew about:

At the press conference in the Biograph’s lobby, I asked for the public to weigh in. Send me your opinions, I entreated my local news audience. I framed it with questions like: Are we right or wrong to fight the Temporary Restraining Order? Is this a freedom of speech issue, or not? Who should decide what movies you can see?

Well, eventually I got over 100 letters, cards, etc. Some were mailed to the theater, others dropped off. Most were supportive but not all of them. As I remember, there were a select few that were quite entertaining. I collected them in a cardboard box, figuring I might want to use them, down the road.

Into the same box went clippings about the tumultuous run of “The Devil in Miss Jones” and the Biograph’s news-making days in court. Later on, several stories about the prank from out-of-town newspapers were tossed in. Then, about a year after the hoopla, the prankster suddenly changed his mind.

Caught up in a bad mood — caused in some part by a slipped disc that was dogging me at the time — I sat in my office festering over the idea that no matter how hard I ever worked to put over the greatest art films, most people would simply ignore them. Subtlety would always take a back seat to splashy hokum.

After a year of prank-driven attaboys, I‘d suddenly had my fill of it. Even more important — I didn’t want to grow into being some kind of mumbling old goat, weeping over dog-eared souvenirs from his salad days.

Moreover, the annoying thought of being known mostly for my connection to a somewhat creepy, even pretentious, porno movie didn‘t set well with me. It had gotten so it was a pain in the ass, sometimes.

Obviously, at 26, I already suspected the Terry Rea of the future might develop an embarrassing tendency to wallow in nostalgia. And, just like that! I decided to play a time trick on my future-self by deliberately throwing away unique artifacts I’d surely want back … some day.

That act well underlined what an irony-loving, improvising trickster I really was in my youth. If there was nobody else around, I’d try to play a rick on myself. Walking away from the dumpster and crossing the cobblestone alley behind the theater, I laughed at what I had just done — the moment is still vivid.

Perhaps the bitter need the precious Biograph had to show trashy movies, in order to be allowed to also show important movies, grossed me out a little extra on that particular winter’s afternoon.

Back inside the Biograph, walking up the aisle of the larger auditorium, I should have thought about a film we had exhibited in the same year, “The Picture of Dorian Gray.” Yes, early on, poor doomed Dorian should have thrown that damning haunt of a portrait away.

Now, when I think about what an effort it took, just to keep the Biograph Theatre open in those days, it all seems like an elaborate stunt … pranks for the memories.