Ringworms

Like the Grateful Dead is to Phish, Star Wars and Star Trek are to films like Harry Potter and The Fellowship of the Rings. Or at least, that would seem to be the lineage of the phenomenon of society's outcasts, or at least those who perceive themselves as outcasts, using entertainment as a way to bond over common interests and sell each other cheap paraphernalia.

However, the tradition of hardcore fans living their lives through a piece of pop culture existed long before Jerry Garcia noodled his first 30-minute guitar solo in front of a packed house of stoners.

For instance: There had been many playwrights who attracted cultish crowds — the most famous being Sophocles' "Sophoclessiastics" — but in his day William Shakespeare was, no doubt, a combination of The Matrix and the Dave Matthews Band when it came to size and fervor of his audience.

Putting movie trailers on the web for fanatics' sneak peek may seem like a new thing, but Shakespeare had his own version of that with his Shakesters. From time to time, he would release a few pages from whatever play he was working on so the Shakesters could dissect his work in excruciating detail over fan club meetings at their neighborhood pubs. Such was the tight relationship that Shakespeare had with the Shakesters that he would incorporate their suggestions; for example, before fans suggested MacBeth consulting a coven of witches, Shakespeare had him mixing it up with a cadre of exchequers.

Neither Shakespeare's actors nor non-Shakesters in the audience were quite so enamored of the Shakesters. It got to the point that even the grandest vulgarians at the Globe demanded they be tossed, so the Globe began adding some special Shakester-only performances. The actors, for the most part, weren't amused. Some would even stop reciting their lines, figuring that with the crowd screaming back every phrase no one was listening anyway. One of Shakespeare's finest comic actors, Will Kemp, loved the Shakesters, however, especially the ones who sat near the front by his station on the stage, an area the fans called "The Will Zone."

Equally notorious were the Rudies. Milwaukee's Oriental Theater movie palace was a struggling enterprise when it first opened in 1927, but within a few months, it hit a goldmine — showing nothing but Rudolph Valentino movies, specifically, The Sheik and Son of the Sheik. After all, Valentino had died young the previous year, and his sizable audience of women and closeted gay men had failed to find a suitable replacement.

To further attract the fans, the Oriental management encouraged them to come dressed in costume. For a time, Milwaukee haberdashers were second only to Riyadh's in the sale of thobes.

Then the fans, calling themselves "Rudies," took the audience participation theme to new heights. First, there were random catcalls and responses to lines and action in the film. Of course, this being the silent era, the Rudies held up placards to respond to the lines. Combining this with the city's budding socialist movement, Milwaukee was the top buyer of placards — a paper mill in Peshtigo, Wis., was built just to handle the demand at its 1928-29 peak.

Then a particularly intense group of fans began re-enacting every scene in front of the screen, to the delight of the Rudies. There would usually be six Rudies per showing, but the frequent showtimes ensured every Rudie would have his or her day in the sun. At the fad's peak, about 500 Milwaukee Rudies had at least once appeared on the Oriental stage.

It appeared that the Rudie phenomenon would spread elsewhere (a small circle had turned up at Detroit's Fox Theater), but the Depression ended the frivolity. However, grandchildren of the Rudies came back to the Oriental to adapt their elders' old tricks for The Rocky Horror Picture Show, which has played continually since January 1978 — a track record the Rudies would surely admire.

— Bob Cook (bobc@flakmag.com)