Where do motion picture directors get their notions of how to portray the people of a city?  Take film scenes about Philadelphia, for instance. 

     There's that old favorite that keeps re-appearing on our little screens at home, The Philadelphia Story.  Aside from the fact that we're told it takes place on the Main Line, both the Katherine Hepburn classic and the hometown's Grace Kelly version (High Society) could have been placed almost anywhere.  And despite its success as a Hollywood comedy, any thinking residents of that Main Line must take umbrage at being portrayed as basically insipid characters whose lives revolve around humorously split marriages and tipsy night-time escapades in the pool.

     Another movie that carried the name of our town in its title was The Young Philadelphians.  It focused on a snobbish "Philadelphia" circle, with a forceful young lawyer pushing his way to the top despite threats to expose his illegitimacy--ho hum stereotypes that could have been about any town.

     More current films have actually been at least partially filmed here--but the glimpses of the city itself come off better than the directors' ideas of the people.

     The director of Witness chose to show only some flashes of the seamier side of life early in the film, leaving the impression that Philadelphia is a city of dirty characters in dirty restrooms with a few decent people who live in tiny walk-up apartments.  The good cops versus the bad cops theme presented perhaps more reality than we'd like.  (But 30th Street Station looked great.) And then it was off to Pennsylvania Dutch country.

    And who remembers anything about Blow-Out except that it had a car smash into (then) Wanamaker's massive window?  (And that the glass-shattering had to be filmed twice because the first reel was lost.)

    Philadelphia, with Tom Hanks, whose character  was fired from a "prestigious  Philadelphia law firm" because he had aids, could have been about any narrow-minded law firm in any big, middle-sized city, or small town, USA.

     Trading Places showed some of our exciting cityscape, with funny, exaggerated examples of the mighty rich and the wretchedly poor.  And oh yes, the hooker with the heart of gold.  But I did get some insight into how directors choose the background people--the real people who walk the sidewalks and go in and out of Center City's stores. When it was announced that the film was to be made in Philadelphia, I answered the open casting-call and was chosen as one of the "unique" faces to represent the "Philadelphia-look."  Any delusions of being unique, however, were quickly dispelled when the same group of us appeared in scene after scene; in each scene the same unique faces paraded toward the camera and away from the camera, or crossed to the right, then off camera turned around to then cross to the left, coming and going, repeatedly and mindlessly marching back and forth, continually trading places.  The city's "extras" got the impression that the director either thinks real Philadelphians don't know where they're going, or that they're uniquely forgettable.  So much for the Philadelphia look. 

     The only film I can think of that at least defines a segment, albeit limited, of Philadelphia's citizens is Rocky (I).  Rocky running up the Art Museum's steps did more to enhance Philadelphia's image than any other film made here or about here.  Of course, the rest of the series shows that the big fictional galoot never did learn to quit beating his head against the bloody wall.

     Whether the films are good or bad, the Philadelphia aspects mostly fail to convey the essence of our town.  Does all this make a comment about us or about how Hollywood sees us?  Personally, I think anyone who wants to get to know us should skip the movies. 

     I could show them lots of unique characters, couldn't you?--real Philadelphians.  Anyone who wants to be in the cast should be at the corner of Broad and Chestnut on the second Tuesday of next week. 

        The transition from living in a "new" town to calling it "home" takes a little while.  I don't mean home in the sense of the house in which a family shares a life.  What I mean is that intangible feeling about the city itself that indicates it has become an integral part of one's psyche?

     Eager to embrace Philadelphia's culture when we moved here, we immediately made the rounds of the historical landmarks, from the Liberty Bell to the Mint, from Head House Square to Fairmount Park.  We learned to ride the rattling train into Center City for daytime events and how to scout for prime parking for evening theatre.

     The thrill of finally seeing the struts and costumes of the Mummers "for real" is still with me, as is the memory of what an impression sitting for hours on a stone wall can make on the bones of one's posterior.

     We learned, the hard way, that newspapers tucked into the slats of racetrack seats mean those seats are reserved.  Naively, we sat in unoccupied seats.  It wasn't long before we were subjected to the very loud, very public challenge of, "Haven't you ever been to the racetrack before?"  Frankly, my dears, we hadn't been.  The Philadelphia-style jeers made us quick learners though.

     A more happily learned experience was that of the hoagie; the city's addiction quickly became my own, and it only took a few years to learn how to eat one without dribbling most of it over my chin and down my bib.

     Probably the first real step toward belonging was the little game we playfully initiated one day never realizing it would become a family tradition.  For us, this is Philadelphia.  As we head in toward the city, City Hall appears at various vantage points along Broad Street, to be seen close to the Cheltenham Township line on a clear day, and not until almost into the heart of the city on misty ones.  Depending on the season, the branches of bare or full trees change the first view.  The game consists of trying to beat each other at saying "There's Billy Penn."  (For the uninitiated, his figure tops the lofty city hall where he stands with one arm outstretched holding something or other.) There's no prize -- it's just a question of who first remembers, triumphantly, to spot that beacon.  Well, there is a prize, sort of, because the other person must, under penalty of being tickled unmercifully, reply, "Holding a banana."

     Despite being accused of being weird by certain locals, I fell in love with the dazzle of the industrial complex to the south of the city -- with the wonderful oddly-shaped buildings, the variously-angled rooflines, the fascinating stacks, and the white, yellow, green, and red lights -- a perpetual holiday look -- every bit as stunning as the decorated boathouses.  And before we knew it, when we'd been away, we began to feel a personal pride in the handsome sight of the Art Museum -- as it became a classic symbol of arriving back home.

     But something was happening to me that was perhaps not outwardly evident.

     I'd learned how to have coins ready to buy soft pretzels from the street vendors -- and how to not notice the grimy hands passing me those pretzels I was about the eat.  I have, however, eschewed the ubiquitous yellow mustard. 

     But do you know when I realized I had become really and truly acclimated to Philadelphia?  One day, without even thinking about it, I -- the language purist -- greeted a friend with a cheerful and clearly enunciated "Yo."

     "Yo?"  Yep, I'm a Philadelphian for sure now.  Next thing you know I'll put mustard on my pretzel and race up the Art Museum's steps.