Not so Sad Sack

Charging into the cavernous lobby of New England's biggest movie theater, the man with the big cigar gestured expansively at an abstract mosaic in ceramic tile. "Looka that, friend," he roared. "Know what it cost? Twelve big ones [i.e., $12,000]." Newly refurbished and reopened as the Music Hall, Boston's old, 4,250-seat Metropolitan Theater was undeniably cinemajestic. So, in his own way, is its boss--hefty (6 ft., 240 lbs.) Ben Sack, 51.

Though television once seemed about to bankrupt the movie-theater business, many cinemas are making money again by showing wide-screened, star-studded spectaculars for longer runs and at higher prices. Big Ben Sack, who operates five theaters in downtown Boston and is building a sixth, is a leading practitioner of the new formula. "He is the outstanding independent in the country," says one Hollywood booking executive.

Dillinger & the Pope. Sack got into the theater business by accident. The son of immigrant Russian Jews, Sack owned four meat markets by the time he was 19, lost them at 20 when the Depression hit. Turning to a truck driver's job with a scrap-metal firm owned by his in-laws, he soon wound up owning the company and by World War II was a happy "junkman" grossing $15 million annually.

One evening in 1948 Sack returned to a gin rummy game he had just left to retrieve a forgotten gold pencil. At the table, he fell into conversation with another player, ended up lending him $10,000 to renovate a movie house in Lowell, Mass. The loan eventually expanded into a $200,000 investment in three theaters. When his partner decided to sell out, Sack suddenly found himself in the theater business. "What did I know about theaters?" he asks. "About as much as John Dillinger knew about being Pope."

Like a Death Notice. Today every theater owner in New England envies Ben Sack's brand of ignorance. Sack persuaded Hollywood to give him first-run rights in Boston to such films as Bridge on the River Kwai by offering a guarantee of $100,000, four times the top offer of his competitors. He pours out $600,000 a year to plug his shows by television, radio and massive five-column newspaper advertisements. ''Looka that," he says scornfully of a rival's smaller ad. "It's like a death notice."

Sack staffs his theaters carefully and keeps the help honest by ringing in an occasional private detective disguised as a moviegoer to make sure the audience count is correct. He is insistent on cleanliness, will berate usherettes for not pick ing up paper from the aisles and scold janitors when he finds dust in rest rooms. Sack likes to roam his lobbies, reminding women patrons that "this place is clean enough to bring your children to, right?" He has been known to step out of his $15,000, chauffeur-driven Cadillac in front of a Sack theater to hustle customers into the house like a sideshow barker.

Full House. Sack claims that his theaters are grossing $2,300,000 a year. He should do even better now that he has added the Music Hall, which cost him $600,000 to renovate. Along with movies, the big theater is booked for the Bolshoi Ballet this winter, the Metropolitan Opera in the spring, and will be rented out to Boston firms for sales meetings. "What the hell do I care what they do there in the morning?" says Sack. "I want it filled all day long."

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