The first thirty years of my life were marked by weekly visits to my Uncle Abe, a well-respected allergist, for a much-needed shot in the arm. And it was in his downtown office that 6-year-old Scooter made the brief acquaintance of one Elmer Balaban: movie theatre impresario, fellow allergy sufferer, and father of actor Bob Balaban. Babe and I were on our way next door to Balaban and Katz’s majestic Chicago Theatre to take in a matinee of The Music Man, something she made very clear to Mr. Balaban after introductions were made. Poor Ma was casting her reel in hopes of snaring a pair of comps, and all she pulled in was Balaban’s curt, “I hope you enjoy it.” At the time, I did, due in large part to my onscreen equal: Ron Howard (TV’s Opie Taylor) as Winthrop Paroo. Over five decades later, there’s not enough Paroo to subdue me. I suppose we should be grateful the film exists, if for no other reason than its ensuring Robert Preston’s performance as blustry con-man Harold Hill is forever frozen in time for all to enjoy. Sadly, there’s but one word to describe director Morton DaCosta’s (the equally everyday Auntie Mame) stagebound blocking and non-existent feel for the widescreen, and that is “Shipoopi!”