The Real American Underdog

It’s a windy February day in downtown Manteo, the kind of day that forces people to scurry from their cars to the bookstore, from storefront to barroom door to avoid the bone-chilling wind. ‘Help Wanted’ signs adorn streaked windows, one symptom of the pandemic the island just can’t seem to shake some two years later. The marquee of the Pioneer Theater reads American Underdog, more a commentary on the precarious position of the movie theater itself rather than a pronouncement of the film showing inside. 

The Pioneer theater originally opened its doors in 1918 at what is now Sir Walter Raleigh Street and what was then throngs of well-dressed patrons queuing for silent films. George Washington Creef Jr., a great-grandfather of the Pioneer’s current ringleader, Buddy, was a boatbuilder by trade just like his father, the inventor of the Shad Boat.

With the rise of the talkie, the Pioneer expanded to its current home in 1934 and boasted new facilities able to host the stereo equipment now inte-gral to entertainment’s newest frontier: sound. Herbert Creef Sr., George’s son, shepherded the move to the Pioneer’s current location, laying the groundwork for the next several generations to screen decades of films to the Manteo community.

The Pioneer is currently run by fourth-generation theater manager Buddy Creef, a fun-loving Manteo native who throws the phrase “peace, love, and popcorn” around like most would say “excuse me” or “see you later.” Buddy has walked the block and a half to his family’s one-theatered movie house since he was four years old. Buddy’s upbringing undoubtedly included the theater, busy himself with other family businesses in his adolescence, but it was not yet his livelihood. There was never a birthday party there. Certainly never a date or a sneaky slunk low in the seats kiss to be had by the boy whose parents operated the projectors and buttered the popcorn. “Do you think the kid whose family owns a pizzeria ever wants pizza?” Buddy rhetorically inquires. “He wants a cheeseburger.”

Buddy took over the entire running of the Pioneer in 2012 after his father’s death at the age of 83. “He’d smoke two packs of Lucky Strikes, never stopped driving or living his life,” Buddy remembers. In this business today, persistence isn’t a quality that goes unappreciated. Here in the days of Home Box Offices, studio to couch releases that bypass the theater experience altogether and Hollywood exclusivity contracts that clutch mom and pop theaters by the throats, simply breaking even is a good financial year. “I don’t know what direction Hollywood is taking entertainment.” 

To book a brand new movie for its opening day, the Pioneer must relinquish between 60 and 70 percent of the earnings on each ticket sold. For a small community theater like the Pioneer, which wishes

to keep ticket prices low and fair in part for nostalgia’s sake, these figures can be crippling. At a certain point, one must ask themself how much they’re willing to sacrifice for the community before being a landmark becomes being a money pit. The future of not just his theater, but all, is uncertain. “It’s a week-to-week proposition,” Buddy sighs, sinking a little lower behind the wheel as he drives through Manteo. 

The Pioneer exists for the community, as it has since the day it opened its doors in 1918. Just a few blocks away from where it proudly sits today, resembling more a stout German cottage than the seaside theater one would expect of the beach’s —and country’s— oldest family-run moviehouse. Here, the showtimes are simple, a seven o’clock daily showing of a singular film, ensuring families are in and out at a reasonable hour. This does leave, however, another twenty-two hours of the day in which the Pioneer’s screen is darkened, and its registers lie in wait for a smattering of some 100 of its 260 seats to be filled on a good night. These barren hours seem like an opportunity waiting to be plucked from thin air, but with the single showing of one Hollywood film comes the boa-like constriction of big studio contracts. 

At the time of writing this piece on the Pioneer, the film of the moment just so happens to be Lionsgate’s American Underdog: The Kurt Warner Story, the gloomily prophetic title I mentioned earlier. While Buddy licenses this movie to screen in his theater, he is contractually bound not to show other titles or allow other sorts of events to take place there. Thus, no community event such as a concert series, screening of an independent film, or any other kind of profit-producing event can help supplement the Pioneer’s income while American Underdog graces the marquee, another boot on the neck of the small theater. And while it may seem that this little moviehouse across the country from Hollywood should be able to fly under the radar when it comes to filling time and pockets with an extra event here or there, Buddy explains that social

media combers from the studios dedicate their time to scanning various platforms looking for people who posted about theater events that breach contract. “You become blackballed by the studios, and then you don’t have access to the movies at all.”

The Pioneer Theater is our local look into what the movie theater industry at large faces: extinction. But the Pioneer, even recently, has shown incredible resilience when confronted with hiccups and pitfalls alike. A major projector break just last year was quickly band-aided by an overwhelming turnout on a gofundme with community members and tourists jumping to give whatever they could to preserve their beloved theater. Buddy exceeded his ten thousand dollar goal by another seven and posted a teary-eyed thank you to everyone with a promise to have his equipment running and doors back open as soon as possible. The business will indeed have to adapt. Any industry must work with the changing tides of culture and technology. But if anyone knows how to read the tides, it’s an Outer Banks native. Who doesn’t loveto root for the underdog?