Fish Kill Flea

The 1970s were the decade of the mall. By the 90s many of those once thriving shopping centers were dead or dying. Dutchess Mall in Fishkill, New York (between Albany and “The City”) was temporarily put on a life support system by transforming 82,000 square feet into a flea market, which, in turn, faces extinction in the delightful documentary FISH KILL FLEA.

At one time malls seemed to represent the victory of the shopper. In huge, weather-controlled, covered complexes one could wander from store to store looking for the best value, the newest fashion, or the highest quality. Teenagers used malls the way that plazas in Mexico were used – as a place to go with friends and hang out. Younger children learned that malls could serve as a place to explore the shrillest pitch their screams and cries could achieve. Retired people went to malls to shop, eat, sit, and walk for exercise. All others went to shop. These palaces of consumerism were aimed at the very broadly defined “middle class” at a time that America seemed to be thriving. Some people railed against their sprawl, but almost all of us shopped in them.

Dutchess Mall opened in 1974. The news photos in the documentary show smiling men (with comb-overs or bad toupees) in pastel suits, shaking hands and showing off the first dollar bill used in a mall purchase. Hundreds of shoppers rushed in on opening day as if they were racing to claim their property in a land grab. Animal shows at the mall attracted children accompanied by their parents who would then buy the inevitable ice cream and go shopping. The unofficial tour guide of the flea market reveals another aspect of the mall – “This place was hot and heavy before AIDS – what a great era that was.” The Swingin’ 70s were all about consumerism of every sort.

But fashions changed. By the 90s the original malls were being replaced by “bigger and better” ones or, in many places, by clusters of individual stores with parking in front. The big covered malls fell out of favor and were either torn down, redesigned, or, in the case of the Dutchess Mall, given a bit of extra life as a flea market. 

Flea markets cater to a different economic level than the big malls. Open only on weekends, the Flea Market at Dutchess Mall carries a wide array of things but nothing that could really be called “quality merchandise.” Instead, we see stalls of cheap clothing, handbags, cultural memorabilia, collectibles, pot paraphernalia, scents, ornate knives,  gaudy jewelry, TV sets, cameras, and photo-ops with an unhappy Easter bunny. One vendor threatens, “If you don’t see what you want, I’ll go get it.” The salespeople rent indoor stalls or outdoor spaces where they set up card tables and their merchandise. Despite the claims of one “former mortgage banker” – “I make more here than I did handling mortgages” – one tough old woman says, “If I make 2 or 3 dollars on my stuff, I’m doin’ good.”

The documentary is full of images depicting a side of America not present in glossy style magazines – oversized jewelry, Ozzy Osbourne t-shirts, fake fingernails, a sparse hair haircut in progress, and meager racks of CDs. While one unseen customer plays an excruciating version of “Lara’s Theme” (DR ZHIVAGO) on an organ, an infant wails and a mouse carcass is swept away. It could all be cruelly funny if it weren’t so sad. There is a wistful feeling throughout the film that something besides the mouse has died. Perhaps FISH KILL FLEA chronicles one tiny bit of the death of the American dream. Malls may have represented the culmination of that dream, rather than the pinnacle. Once the flea market moves in, the dream begins slipping downhill as a hardscrabble life takes over. Most of the vendors must have jobs during the week since this place is open only on the weekend, or they are retired and having a hard time making ends meet. One could guess that with the closing of Northern mills and plants and supporting businesses, some of the middle-aged vendors and customers are worse off than in the 70s. If the flea market closes, as is rumored throughout the film, then what will they do, where will they go? None of these people look like they could afford to rent a store and make a go of it there. They need the heavy traffic of potential customers coming to the flea market. Scattered to different places, they would lose that critical mass of passing bodies.

But Bill, the manager of the flea market, a big guy with a big cigar, plays his cards very carefully. He simply won’t reveal when the mall is going to close, but he holds out hopes that they will land somewhere else. He is as secretive and unreadable as a Mafia don. When he goes around to collect rent from the vendors, he is always accompanied by two other big guys who could definitely make non-payment or shortfall painful. In his office he keeps his muscular dog right under his desk ready to pounce on any troublemaker. When it comes time to reveal the fate of the flea market, Bill remains as enigmatic and evasive as ever, even when he seems to be offering a solution.
 
Ironically a Fishkill preservationist/historian reveals the fact that Dutchess Mall was built on the site of a burial ground for Revolutionary-era Continental Army soldiers who died of small pox. He laments the fact that our history is “being erased plot by plot.” Doubtlessly his sympathies would not include the loss of a mall and flea market. And yet those aspects of our culture are disappearing before our very eyes, not even given enough time to become historical. Throughout America we can look at buildings from the 17th, 18th, 19th, and early 20th centuries, but the late 20th century may literally leave little or no trace of itself as progress devours its young. That is the sobering thought suggested through FISH KILL FLEA.

FISH KILL FLEA is the first documentary to be made by Brian Cassidy, Aaron Hillis, and Jennifer Loeber. Cassidy is an established photographer who has done freelance work for The United Nations, UNICEF, and Colors Magazine. Hillis is a film critic whose work has appeared in Premiere Magazine and online at Moviefone and IFC News websites. Loeber is also a photographer whose pictures have appeared in F-Stop and File Magazine.

-- Chale Nafus, Director of Programming, Austin Film Society