Voices from The Twilight Zone: The Sixteen-Millimeter Shrine
By Pat Brennan
Previous ⬅ Voices from The Twilight Zone: Shadow Play
I’ve spent a great deal of my adult life living in the past.
I can’t explain why this is to you any better than I can explain it to myself, but I do think it has something to do with where I grew up. When I was a boy, my mother and I lived in the basement of the bungalow my grandparents called home. The space had been converted into an apartment years before, and it consisted of a large living room, a bathroom, and one bedroom. For the first five years of my life, this place made up most of my world. Some of my earliest memories existed within the framework of that basement, and while my remembrance of that time is certainly foggy, I do think that we were happy there.
Then my grandparents passed away and my mother inherited their house. We moved upstairs, which was surreal in and of itself, but what made it feel stranger was the fact that we left most of our belongings down in the basement. Clothing, some books, and my toys all came up with us, but everything else stayed where it had been when we lived down below, making the place look like one of those photographs you see of a building that’s been frozen in time after being quickly and thoroughly abandoned.
Some days I would sneak downstairs and walk through those rooms. I’d run my hand along the empty bookshelves that lined one of the walls and blow the dust from my fingers like dandelion fluff, or stare at what had been my crib in the corner of mom’s bedroom and marvel at how small I had been so few years before. Eventually, I’d get spooked and run upstairs. That was the thing, you see. Despite knowing that this had once been home, it very much felt like I was exploring a haunted house.
Not that above was much different. We didn’t have the money to renovate or buy new furnishings, so the main floor of our house still resembled how it looked when my grandparents were living there. In my child’s mind, I half expected to see them whenever I’d round a corner. There would be Gramma sitting at the kitchen table, one of her long cigarettes held daintily between her fingers. Or Grampy facing the bathroom mirror, razor in hand, flicking stubble and shaving cream from his outstretched chin.
The ghosts were inescapable. For years it felt like I had been left behind by two worlds I desperately wanted to be a part of again but knew I never could. And after a while, all that must and memory seemed to burrow down into my bones until looking back was the most natural thing in the world to do.
It’s evident by his work that Rod Serling’s past was never that far behind him.
In episodes like “Walking Distance” and “A Stop at Willoughby,” he wrote beautifully about the longing for home so many of us experience as we get older and the sadness that comes with the realization that it’ll never quite be the same as you remember it. Sure, you can go back physically to the spaces and places you occupied when you were younger, but the soul wants more than that. It wants to grasp again that feeling, the incommunicable sensation that’s almost in touching distance when you take out your old photo albums or hear a certain song on the radio.
There is, of course, a dark side to the nostalgia that envelopes us from time to time. Serling illustrates this chillingly in the season one Twilight Zone outing, “The Sixteen-Millimeter Shrine.” In it, we meet someone who aches so deeply for a life she once had that she refuses to take part in the one she currently resides in. She allows her past glories to leech from her any enjoyment or fulfillment she could have and loses herself more and more each day to the shadows of her own memories. And as we all know by now, when those dark corridors are found in the Twilight Zone, they can lead to some very unexpected places.
Barbara Jean Trenton (Ida Lupino) is a star on the descent. Twenty years before, she was a leading lady on the big screen, but the fading of her youth and Hollywood’s cruel standards have robbed her of the opportunity to recapture those roles again. Dejected and bitter, she now spends her days hiding in her mansion with a never-ending marathon of her old movies playing in the gloom of her screening room. Danny Weiss (Martin Balsam), Trenton’s agent and closest friend, fears for her constantly. Something strange seems to be happening in that darkened room. Surrounded by old film canisters and broken dreams, a little bit of her spirit is stolen with each successive viewing of the films that made her famous. Can he help her come to realize and appreciate all that she has in the present? Or will her obsession with the past take her on a journey beyond where any of them could have imagined?
What helps make “The Sixteen Millimeter Shrine” stand out is the quality of its performances. Ida Lupino’s Barbara Jean Trenton has a steely determination about her that’s equal parts admirable and infuriating. She was used to having and being the best for so many years and refuses to entertain the notion that the spotlight has shifted from her to another generation. Lupino also brings a sense of authenticity to the character, thanks to her nearly 40-year career in show business. It’s perhaps not that big of a stretch to assume the actress may have suffered many of the same indignities Trenton experienced.
Martin Balsam, in his first of what would be two Twilight Zone appearances (the second being season four’s “The New Exhibit”), brings every ounce of his everyman appeal to Trenton’s agent, Danny Weiss. There’s a sadness in his portrayal that’s palpable. All he wants is the best for Trenton, and you get the sense that his concern for her well-being goes beyond what he normally feels for a client. He tries everything he can to reach her, first getting a meeting for Trenton with a studio executive for a part in an upcoming picture (she rejects the opportunity, declaring “I don’t take bit roles”) then reconnecting her with one of her former leading men, who has since left acting and found success in a new career (seeing the wrinkles that now line the man’s face only leads to another meltdown). Each failure in helping Barbara find a new lease on life breaks his heart a little more, and Balsam does a beautiful job of communicating Weiss’ frustration and grief as his friend continues to slip away from him.
That balance of sadness and irritation is one of the reasons why “The Sixteen-Millimeter Shrine” is still so effective today. It strikes a much harder tone than Rod Serling’s other episodes covering nostalgia. It showcases the same kind of melancholy the others do but does not shy away from the reality of Trenton’s situation. Throughout the installment, you can’t help but think at times that she would benefit from giving her damn head a shake. She’s certainly entitled to the bitterness she feels towards a studio system that has chewed her up and spat her out, but at the same time, it’s not as if she’s struggling to keep her head above water. She lives in a mansion, has a servant, and clearly has at least one person in her life who cares about her happiness. All of that amounts to a pretty good start when attempting to get your feet back under you, but at every turn, she’s blind to her privilege.
“If I just wish hard enough, I can wish it all away,” Trenton says of her present day, and it’s in that moment that you realize the truth of what she’s going through: it’s not that she can’t let go, it’s that she won’t. To leave that screening room, a dark and dusty temple she’s built for herself, means more than just acknowledging the demise of her glory days. It’s a move forward into an unknown future that will require courage to face. Sadly, be it out of ego or fear, Barbara Jean Trenton can’t bring herself to take that first step.
Years ago, I had the opportunity to revisit my childhood home. It had been thoroughly renovated by its new owners and was practically unrecognizable thanks to all their modernization. At the time, this made my heart hurt. For some strange reason, a part of me had expected it would be the way it had been back then, all shabby carpets, nicotine-stained wallpaper, and 1970s-style stucco ceilings. Even though it had been the theater where so many of my nightmares had played out, some part of me wanted to go back there desperately. Looking back at that now, I can see how unhealthy that response was.
I’ve written frequently on this site and others about my life and its challenges. I’ve talked about my struggles with alcohol addiction, my attempts to wrangle my depression, and the painful events from my childhood that have cast a shadow across my thoughts for as long as I can remember. That last one has been on my mind a lot lately. I have no doubts that writing about and revisiting my monsters has helped me cope with them, and it’s even helped a few readers along the way (which will always humble and astonish me). But I came to a realization recently that my relationship with my past might also be doing me more harm than good.
I have spent so much time walking amongst ghosts that it never occurred to me that I might be the one that was haunting them and not the other way around. With each visitation, I’ve contributed to keeping the memory of the worst moments of my life alive in my mind, and frankly, I don’t want to do that anymore. I don’t want to be my own version of Barbara Jean Trenton, missing all of what life has to offer because I won’t allow myself to enjoy the here and now. Every possible detail of my trauma has been examined and reflected upon. At this point, continuing to dwell on it only gives it power over me.
Eventually, the dead must be put to rest, and there is absolutely no shame in walking away once they are. 🩸
About
Pat Brennan is a freelance writer whose work has appeared in Fangoria, Bloody Disgusting, Dread Central, and Rue Morgue. He lives on the east coast of Canada with his wife and two sons in a haunted (and extremely overpriced) apartment.
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