10/06/2024
Happy birthday to my friend MARVIN OF THE MOVIES (October 6, 1927 – April 24, 2011). He was something more than a mere collector of films, with more than 42,000 films in his inventory – movies, cartoons, television shows, serials, short subjects, Soundies, documentaries, stage productions, and sporting events. He was always taping, as many as four different things at once, on his more than twenty VCRs, Beta, DVD, and laserdisc players, and five television sets. He had machines able to play and copy anything from any country. He was dedicated to amassing the single most impressive collection of films anywhere. (All of which were donated to a university after his death.) “It’s not enough to see it; I have to have it” was his motto. “First it’s a hobby, and then it’s a collection, and then it’s a sickness, and then it’s an addiction … and I’m far past that.” It was a never-ending search for more and more movies. “It’s crazy,” he said to me, “but we wouldn’t want it any other way, would we?” He was born Marvin Eisenman in Los Angeles, and had his first job, at the age of five, sweeping the lobby of the National Theater in Boyle Heights. At eight, Marvin was changing the letters on the theater marquee. Eventually, he became an usher; he was paid 25 cents an hour. But more important? They let him into the movies for free. He was a lifelong movie fan, remembering the 1933 serial THE WHISPERING SHADOW as his first brush with the magic of movies. It was also the title that set him off on his collecting frenzy in 1985. In the late 1940s, Marvin served as a cook in the Merchant Marines in Japan. He spent most of his life working as a grocery clerk and manager, retiring in 1979 after a few knee surgeries. Investing in several apartment houses, he was still managing them at the time of his death. (Marvin's first wife, Lucille, died in 1987, after 41 years of marriage. He and his widow, Elaine, were wed eighteen years. He was survived by three children, five stepchildren, sixteen grandchildren, and two grand-grandchildren.) Marvin bought his first VCR in 1985 – and the obsession started. Ira Fistell, who hosted a nighttime radio show on KABC-AM, was the first to dub him "Marvin of the Movies." Marvin would call into Fistell’s show and talk movies. I first came in contact with Marvin in 1998. As a writer, I am always looking for some film or other for research purposes and there are always those movies that prove very difficult to obtain. What I found cool right off the bat: You had to know someone to deal with Marvin. He never advertised, but existed solely by word-of-mouth. One thing was very apparent to me the first time I ever talked with him: he had or could get almost anything. I would say, “Do you have so-and-so?” After rattling off the movie cast (“are you impressed that I knew that?”), he would check his computer and ask, “You mean the movie in box #456?” and then he would give his distinctive little chuckle. Marvin knew he rocked. The man could get the goods for anyone. "The tough titles take a little time to find; the impossible ones take a little longer,” he always said. He lived to share his movies, especially with industry folk. His “Marvin’s Room,” where he sat and navigated all those taping devices and which housed part of his massive collection, was chock-a-blocked with autographed photos of the actors and actresses he shared his movies with. He bragged, “Joan Leslie called, wanted an obscure short she was in. I had a copy at her doorstep the very next day.” He prided himself in his ability to come up with rare titles. He was particularly fond of relating how he got Frank Sinatra a copy of THE MANCHURIAN CANDIDATE (1962) years before it was available anywhere; he had a signed “thank you” photo from Sinatra to prove that claim, too. I traded with him when I could, but it was never a requirement. Marvin was just happy to help and be in contact with like-minded film fans. I would often get eighteen to twenty movies at a time. Some looked good, others not-too-good, but all were movies I needed and were largely unavailable anywhere else. He would leave breathless messages on my answering machine when he found movies he knew I was looking for. The last movie I received from him was MAIN STREET TO BROADWAY (1953). He and I would talk for hours about movies, and his enthusiasm was absolutely wonderful. “There is no such thing as a bad movie,” Marvin often remarked to me. “Some films are better than others, but no movie is truly bad.” I remember many a time him deftly editing out commercials as he simultaneously talked to me, never missing a beat. One of his pet peeves: movie dealers who took advantage of film fans. In all the years I knew him, I rarely saw him angry. One time was when I was in contact with another film dealer for a movie I needed for an article. This guy wanted $100 from me because “I have to get the movie from Japan, and that costs money.” There was no way I was gonna pay that kind of money for a so-so VHS copy. I called Marvin and told him the guy’s name and the Japan story. “Japan, my ass,” Marvin fumed. “I gave him that movie, the crook.” A few days later, I had the movie, courtesy of Marvin, free of charge. He spelled out his philosophy to the LOS ANGELES TIMES in 1995: "A true collector is willing to share; otherwise, he's a hog." Marvin was always on the go, getting by on very little sleep, waking up every day around five to start taping or to run movie-related errands. “I slept late today,’ he chuckled. “Woke up at 6 am.” He would constantly tell me, “Laura, you’ve got to see this place, it would drive you out of your mind!” I finally did get to meet Marvin in 2010 with my friends Jackie Jones and James Tate. And he was right: Stepping into his movie room where he kept his main collection was a mind-boggling experience; a film lover’s paradise with stacks of movies, memorabilia, and signed photos lining the walls. He even ran off two movies for me as we were marveling at his movie treasures. He took us out to the backyard, which had a shed filled to the brim with even more movies. “I have a storage unit in town as well,” he said casually. We spent the day with him, as he drove us around Hollywood showing us the sights. We went to actress Betty Garrett’s house. Of course, Marvin was friends with her, having met Betty’s husband Larry Parks back in the 1950s. A fan magazine was doing a special layout of Parks and the couple’s son at a grocery store, and Marvin was the clerk in the photos. While we were there, Betty mentioned a movie she had wanted to see, but was unable to get anywhere. As Marvin informed me later, he delivered the movie to her the next day. After visiting with Betty, Marvin brought us to Disney’s animation studio, where we met Howard Green, and then onto Eddie Brandt’s Saturday Matinee. Everywhere we went, people knew Marvin of the Movies. He graciously took time from his very busy schedule to show us a great time, all the while in his glory as he told us story after story about the movie stars he met. There will never be another like Marvin. With his passing, there is a very large, empty space in my life; he was indispensable to me as a collector and as a friend. Leonard Maltin, one of the many Marvin supplied rarities to, commented on his website that he left a “large number of friends and fellow movie nuts who will be eternally grateful to this genial gentleman. He was a fixture in our lives, and it will be hard to deal with his loss.” But I think Jackie Jones said it best when she remarked, “What a wonderful, whimsical, magical man …” ©Laura Wagner 2011
