Behind a closed door in Milwaukee's old but elegant Pfister Hotel one day last week, 334 delegates to the Allied States Association of Motion Picture Exhibitors Convention were locked in lively dispute. Outside the door another delegate, a heavyset, compelling man whose jet hair is flecked with grey, stood talking casually to a friend. Suddenly the door jerked open, an excited head popped through.
"Al, you've got to come in."
"Why, can't you push this thing through?"
"They're asking a lot of questions. Why don't we leave this for the committee to handle?"