By MARK GRIFFIN
Staff Writer
 

My intent had been to present my 19-year-old nephew, Ryan, with a remastered, letterboxed video cassette version of director Billy Wilder's Oscar winning classic, "The Apartment" (United Artists, 1960), as a Christmas gift. "No dice," snapped the ineffectual voice of Columbia House, "We're no longer carrying that title. Would you like to reserve your copy of `Men In Black' today instead?"

Was she kidding? They were peddling unlimited copies of "Liar, Liar" and wading knee-deep in such four-star collectors' gems as "The Long Kiss Goodnight" and "Space Jam" but they couldn't lay claim to a single copy of "The Apartment"? -- which, we should remind the folks at home, was only the Best Picture Academy Award winner for 1960. Needless to say, I was speechless and gasping for breath. In short, reacting as I usually do after a new acquaintance has informed me that they've never seen "Casablanca" or "Citizen Kane." Yes, it was exactly as though the highly exalted House of Columbia had reached through the phone and knifed me right in the solar plexus. Somehow I managed to hang up, summon my strength and turn to the Hickory Farms catalog for consolation.

As I thumbed through a seemingly endless array of decorative cheddar crocks and no end of summer sausage, I tried to imagine a world in which "The Apartment" didn't exist. Imagine never being able to hear Billy Wilder and I.A.L. Diamond's brilliantly witty dialogue! Imagine not being able to see a youthful Jack Lemmon and an effervescent Shirley MacLaine define the essence of screen chemistry. In the world Columbia House would make, we'd have only the likes of Matthew Perry and Selma Hayek consume Junior Mints and Orangina for.

And what about Ryan? I had seen "The Apartment" dozens of times (and could quote entire sequences verbatim and often used "Fran Kubelik" -- MacLaine's character's name -- as a clever alias) but my poor nephew had still been in training pants when I had forced him to watch a 30-year-old black and white character-driven drama under uncle-dictated duress. He'd never worship ""The Apartment" as I did and if Columbia House had their way - he'd never see it again. Ever.

Suddenly, I realized that much of my life has been spent bringing people that I love and movies that I love together. For example, several summers ago, when I was going to school in Boston, I scored what I still consider a major indoctrination victory. One balmy Sunday, I insisted that my very reluctant cousin, Marty, accompany me to an Audrey Hepburn tribute at the Brattle Theatre in Harvard Square. The day's screening even came with a theme: "Hepburn In Paris."

Stanley Donen's stylish caper, "Charade" (Universal Pictures, 1963) was first, followed by Billy Wilder's marvelous May-December romance, "Love In The Afternoon" (Paramount, 1957).

"Charade" proved to be the perfect cinematic appetizer. I can still remember when Henry Mancini's pulsating, James Bond-ish instrumental theme began, a man one row behind me turned to his female companion and said, "This is going to be slick!"

Of course, he was more than right, and I already felt vindicated, but the real crowd pleaser that day turned out to be the earlier Audrey effort -- "Love In The Afternoon," a film I had been faithfully enamored of since my sophomore year in high school. The elfin Hepburn portrays Ariane, the cello-playing daughter of a private detective (Maurice Chevalier), who ends up falling for the suave playboy (Gary Cooper) that her father's been trailing throughout the picture.

I wanted my cousin and everyone in the audience to fall in love with "Love In The Afternoon" and appreciate the film in the same deeply personal way I had. I needed them to empathize with Audrey (and indirectly, myself) and to embrace her endearing unwordliness wholeheartedly -- because if they did, they would also be embracing a part of me. I held my breath whenever a big laugh was due and exhaled with conviction when it arrived. In the final scene, when it's uncertain whether Cooper will indeed rescue Hepburn from her unfulfilling existence and scoop her into his arms and onto a departing train -- I waited expectantly like everyone else, pretending that I didn't know anything about the happy ending just a few frames away.

When it was over, there was applause and my cousin pronounced the movie "beautiful." We emerged from the darkened theater and walked along the streets of Cambridge, basking not in the summer sunlight but in the residual afterglow of Audrey's Parisian afternoon.

I have to say that my favorite movie initiation is one that occurred as recently as last weekend. My six-year-old female neighbor happened to be visiting and after screening our short subject, "A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving," the "lady" requested a main feature. I handed her a colorful video cassette container that she inspected with great interest. Then she smiled with pride as she slowly pronounced the title, with a halting pause between each word: "The Wizard of Oz."

By the time we had reached the yellow brick road, my little neighbor's eyes were as wide as Judy Garland's. I felt the same way an old-time missionary must have -- exceedingly pleased with himself for bringing spiritual sustenance to a starving congregation.

In the final analysis, I guess the only thing better than seeing "The Apartment" or "The Wizard of Oz" for the first time is seeing it again... with someone you love.