Dixieland Rock for Breakfast

When it came to the bacon, I did my best Elvis imitation, a feeble attempt to make up for never having seen one of his movies before.

Don't get me wrong, I've got some Elvis under my belt. I read "Last Train to Memphis," Peter Gurainick's excellent biography of Elvis' early years, I saw the VMFA's "Elvis at 21" exhibit (twice, once for a talk) and I'd seen the documentary "Elvis, '56," Fascinating, all.

But actually watch one of his more than 30 films? Nope, never had. So pelt me with peanut butter and bananas.

Fortunately, VCU's Southern Film Festival kicked off today with a breakfast/movie combo, a wise move if you ask me because it also kicked off at the ungodly hour of 10 a.m. and at, of all places, the bastion of hipsterdom, Sticky Rice.

But it was worth it to me, so I hoofed it over shortly after waking up and joined the throngs pitifully small crowd who'd come to see Elvis in "King Creole." Endless Lynyrd Skynyrd was playing overhead, so maybe that's what kept people from coming. Eventually, I did recognize three attendees from last night's movie.

I couldn't have been more surprised at the lack of a crowd. I've been to prior Saturday morning SFF breakfast events - "The Thrillbillies," "Thunder Road" - and they were packed. Where were the hungry Elvis fans?

Since I don't usually walk on an empty stomach, I was starving waiting for the breakfast buffet to be put out, but the others around me got right down to drinking. The King Creole cocktail created for today's soiree was especially popular (I heard something about coconut vodka and saw a lemon garnish), but I also saw beers and shots being served. Multiple rounds, even.

Viva Elvis in the morning.

Because we were about to see a movie set in New Orleans, a guy at the table next to me told a story of rolling into NOLA the day after Mardis Gras. "A bunch of us spilled out of the van about 10 a.m. and the full strength of the sun was just hitting all that leftover shit and baking it. God, the smell! It was like the bathroom at CBGB's, except not contained." His friends groaned.

It was visceral imagery for an empty stomach.

Finally, food was put out and I was first in line as we descended like vultures, loading up on bacon, eggs and pancakes. And this is where I matched The King strip for strip.

Of the many Richmond Elvis tales, none is more well-known than when he ate breakfast at the stately Jefferson Hotel here and mortified the restaurant manager by, gasp, eating his bacon with his fingers. Apparently in the '50s, there was another way. I'm here to say that in my entire lifetime, hand-held bacon is the only kind I ever knew.

Once everyone had a plate, a historian/musician got up to prime us for what we were about to see. It was only Elvis' third film, he'd been a tender 23 years old when he made it and the draft board had deferred his service for 60 days so he could finish it. Elvis always considered it his favorite role.

"He was at the height of his powers when he made this. Forget about the fat Elvis, the bloated Elvis dying on the toilet. This was the film that proved Elvis could act and he never had a script this good again," he told us.

Most surprising to me was that it was directed by Michael Curtiz, as in the director of "Casablanca." "Robin Hood" and "White Christmas." That alone speaks to Elvis' clout in 1958.

Since I was an Elvis movie virgin, I had nothing to compare it to, but as far as '50s film noirs go, it was spot on. Shot in black and white instead of color for a grittier feel, the movie was fascinating for its depiction of New Orleans during a simpler time.

I especially loved the roving vendors selling gumbo and seafood who roamed the streets singing and shouting to people to buy their wares. Even if NOLA was never really like that, it's charming to imagine it was. And, truly, the distinctive architecture, balconies and verandas, even Bourbon Street rang true. They'd actually shot on location on Lake Ponchatrain, which was very cool to see.

Satisfyingly, it had all the film noir requirements, too: rain-slicked streets, dark alleys, gangs, a "boss" who ran most of the businesses in town, fights, murders and molls. And hats, lots of men wearing hats, thus requiring hat check girls.

But mostly it was a typical late '50s cautionary tale about all the hot buttons of that era: juvenile delinquents, good girls and fallen women, the importance of finishing high school, finding a true profession (singing not being one) and, of course, the dangers of that new-fangled rock and roll music.

The smartest thing Elvis said was that he couldn't get involved with a girl because that would lead to marriage and kids and he needed to find out who he was first. Pretty revolutionary stuff for the Eisenhower era.

That, bacon and pancakes plus seeing Elvis sing and wiggle his hips to "Hard-Headed Woman" made getting up at the crack of 9 a.m. positively worth it.

Spoken like a true hard-headed woman.