So we went to see a movie last Saturday night. For those of you with active social lives, this probably doesn’t sound like such a big deal but for us, living over 30 miles from the nearest cinema, it was a special event. It’s not often I have much good to say about our time living in Phoenix, but as a movie fan I did enjoy having several theaters all within a few minutes drive of our house. Nowadays, it has to be a film we particularly want to see on the big screen before we can be bothered to traipse all the way down the hill.
I probably wouldn’t make a good movie critic for the simple fact that I enjoy almost every film I see in a theater. The big screen, the quality sound system, the atmosphere, I love it. It’s only years later when I see the film for a second time on television that I realize how bad it actually was. As yet, I haven’t been able to persuade the bank manager to let me buy a big screen TV and while our little Sony has seen good service, as it approaches the end of its second decade, it’s not exactly state of the art. So, when I do get the chance to enjoy a new release in the format for which it was intended, it’s something of a treat.
Except when, as in this case, I get stuck behind a talker. The elderly lady a couple of rows in front was of the type who felt the need to give a running commentary on the action taking place on the screen. Admiration for the lead actor’s physique, gasps of horror when something unpleasant happened, admonitions when he did something immoral, sniffles during the sad moments, we got them all. I’m not usually shy about correcting inconsiderate behavior from other movie-goers but I suspect this old girl was simply oblivious to the irritation she was causing. I seemed to be the only person who was really bothered so I just let her ramble.
After all, it’s not like I’ve never been an inconsiderate movie-goer myself.
The Kendal Palladium, where I was first introduced to the magical world of celluloid, will never be remembered as one of the world’s great movie palaces. Located in a small northern England town and familiarly known as “The Pictures” it was an enormous barn of a place with a sweeping curved staircase leading to the upper tier, but even in the late sixties it was obviously well past its prime. The paint hung from the walls in long, ragged strips, the carpet was more bare than thread and the framed photos of yesteryear’s stars were faded to the point of being unrecognizable. (Even assuming these people had been recognizable in the first place.)
In those days, a trip to the pictures meant seeing two films, the first being an insight into the whale fishermen of the South Atlantic, or the reproductive life of the fruit fly, or something equally enthralling before the main feature finally arrived. Being prior to the age of video, movies used to circulate around the country’s theaters for years after their releases, so it was common to see the same film repeatedly. I saw “The Magnificent Seven” at least five or six times before I was mature enough to follow the plot. Not that we really cared. The film itself was secondary to the experience of sitting in the dark of this vast, cavernous hall, in seats of red plush pseudo-velvet and, safe from the prying eyes of parents and teachers, behaving like the little animals we were.
I’m not talking about picking fights or slashing seats or anything; the wild and crazy days of “Rock Around the Clock” and “The Blackboard Jungle” were well before my time. No, just the simple pleasures of shouting advice to the actors, chasing one another along the aisles, flinging candy and popcorn at the kids in front and for the truly daring, sneaking a furtive smoke. I was a candy flinger myself and over the years became something of an artist.
I was partial to jelly babies (something similar to Gummy Bears) which were just the right weight and size to cover the required distance while retaining enough velocity to make their presence felt upon contact. Smarties (kinda like M&Ms) when fired from the little wooden spoon that came with the tiny tubs of ice cream on sale in the foyer, also made excellent trajectories. However, my personal favorites were Maltesers, which were a confection rather like Malted Milk Balls. Those held an aero-dynamic quality which in the hands of an experienced marksman like myself; meant a bull’s eye almost every time.
Sometimes somebody would have a birthday, which meant that not only would their parents shell out for the admission fee, they might, on very rare occasions, divvy up enough for us to visit the promised land, the hallowed ground, the ultimate in movie going experience...the balcony! Fifteen rows of seats in a curving upper deck, the balcony afforded not only a better view of the screen (no cricked necks from up here) but also allowed the candy flingers among us to inflict hours of torment on the poor souls in the cheap seats with virtually no fear of retaliation. Heaven indeed.
Sadly, like so many other movie theaters in the mid seventies, Kendal’s Palladium degenerated into a porn palace. Despite being carved up into two theaters, it was usual for both of them to be showing some soft core classic. Too old for the childrens’ matinees, too young for X rated features, my theater going career went on hiatus. Like many others I embraced the video revolution, but unlike most, was more than a little sad when The Palladium finally closed its doors for good and ultimately, succumbed to the developer’s wrecking ball. There’s an apartment building there today.
Most of the movie watching world has upgraded to DVDs by now; I’m one of the few still using a VCR. People tell me NetFlix, the online DVD rental service is the way to go and at some point, I’ll probably sign up. If we had a better quality TV I’m sure it would improve my movie watching experience but even with all today’s technology at my disposal, it will still never be quite the same as sitting in Kendal pictures, with my feet on the seat, talking back at the screen and flinging Maltesers at the folks in front.
Happy days.
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