By Michael G. Plumides, Jr.
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03 Dec, 2023
By Michael G. Plumides, Jr. Night of the Cat was filmed entirely in Charlotte, North Carolina, and its environs in 1972 and released in 1973 to very little fanfare. The production was marred by controversy and rife with underhanded dealings, although the film originally began with a big buzz in the papers. Some press was positive, and some wasn’t. The movie was produced by my father - Michael Plumides, an attorney and nightclub owner, although the intervening illegality began months before he was involved with the film. The driving force behind the production was a man named Norman Williams, a weaselly conman with his underdeveloped physique, horn-rimmed glasses, and mousy receding hairline. Bearing a resemblance to Woody Allen, Williams was arguably a criminal-minded filmmaker who would do anything to make his vision come to life. I’m sure some of you reading this may have an inkling regarding the determination and sheer will it takes to complete a film. Norman Williams not only committed numerous acts of criminality, but he also went to jail for his art. My father owned a nightclub in Charlotte that was regarded with some infamy, called the C'est Bon, located in the heart of Plaza-Midwood on Central Avenue. Several marquee entertainers had played at the venue, including acts such as Bo Diddley and The Drifters. The featured entertainer, however, was none other than Morgana, who was later described as "The Kissing Bandit" throughout the '70s and '80s. The exotic dancer had received some notoriety, appearing on late night talk shows and was a feature in Playboy. Arguably, my father discovered Morgana, and prompted some of her more risqué promotions. An interesting factoid is, Morgana took my brother, George, and I to the movies on several occasions. She accompanied us to matinee screenings of a Planet of the Apes double-feature but also Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid . Morgana loved to go to the movies. Anyway, my father's nightclub was burned to the ground in 1971. The two arsonists who committed the crime were arrested and convicted. Here’s the thing. I was recently contacted by a man with some information my father was never privy to. He insisted a rival club owner, recently deceased, bragged he had paid the convicted arsonists to set the club on fire. The rival club owner also threatened their lives if they snitched, as the man was said to be, “mobbed up”. The C’est Bon Club, due to its exotic nature, had generated some legal woes and was on the verge of being closed by the ABC board. I remember visiting the club as a child, and my socks sticking to the floor due to spilt beer and Coca-Cola. The night the C’est Bon was ablaze, my dad lay in the foyer of the brick mansion he had recently purchased. I sat on the steps with my mother in her nightgown. Dad had recently had the entire house carpeted hunter green. My mother said to him as he laid there, sprawled out under the crystal chandelier, “Mike, the C’est Bon is on fire.” He answered in a low gurgle, “Let it burn.” After years of speculation that my father had burned the club down himself, I felt the information regarding the rival’s plot vindicated him of any wrongdoing.