When I was young, the cinema was always called ‘the pictures’. My earliest memories of going to the cinema were when I was of primary-school age and went to the Saturday morning shows arranged for children at the local Shirley Odeon. These usually included a short film, a serial and a longer film. The serials were always American and usually ended with a cliffhanger, from which the hero always implausibly escaped at the start of the next week’s episode. The only serial I remember by name was Flash Gordon (spaceships!), but there were several Westerns, which at that time dominated the cinema. There may also have been community singing in between the films.
When I was a little older, I went with my parents to the cinema to see the films for grown-ups. Cinema listings appeared on the lower right-hand side of page two of the Birmingham Evening Mail, and stretched most of the way up the page. But there was anything but choice. All suburban cinemas were owned by two chains. Each suburban cinema in a chain showed exactly the same film in the same week. This meant that if you missed a film in the week it was shown, you had little chance of ever seeing it in a cinema again.
The whole experience of cinema-going then was utterly different from modern multiplexes. In the 1950s, every town and suburb had its own cinema within walking distance. Each cinema had one large screen. People did not just see a main feature, but also a second feature and a newsreel. Customers did not normally file into the cinema at the start of each programme, as at present, but would turn up at any time, including half-way through the main feature. They would then sit through the programme until it came round to a part of the film they recognized, and they would then leave.
This meant that viewing was frequently disrupted by people arriving, and being directed by an usherette with a torch and then shuffling along the rows of seats in front of you. Elsewhere, people would mutter “This is where we came in” and then leave by shuffling back along the rows of seats. As a result, many people probably experienced a film as a series of scenes and arresting images, rather than as a plot or story. This behaviour began to change after 1960 with the release of the film Psycho, when its director Alfred Hitchcock insisted that customers could not be admitted after the start of the main feature. I certainly remember entering cinemas halfway through a film when I went with my father. The only picture from that time that I recall was a cold-war epic Strategic Air Command (B36 and B47 bombers!), which came out when I was nine. By the time I was 12, I went to see South Pacific at the West End Cinema in Birmingham city centre. My mother was enraptured, but I mainly remember the shots of PBY Catalina aeroplanes.
Another difference from modern cinemas was smoke. Looking around the auditorium when a film was showing, you would see countless lights from cigarettes. Looking up at the beam of light from the projector, you could see an illuminated cloud of cigarette smoke. At your feet was the detritus scattered by smokers: nub-ends, discarded packets, matches and matchboxes. Like all public places at that time, cinemas (and many of the people in them) stank of nicotine. More litter was a result of the inability of some British people to spend more than a couple of their waking hours without eating, combined with an urge to scatter unwanted food and wrappers on the floor. If you were unlucky, the sound of the film would be drowned out by the crunching noise of people eating crisps, the rustling of their food wrappers and their commentary on the film.
The suburban cinema chains began closing in the 1960s, as people chose to stay at home and watch television. Some were converted into bowling alleys and bingo halls, but most (at least in my part of the Birmingham suburbs) were demolished and replaced by supermarkets. The five cinemas that once lined the Stratford Road from the Shirley Odeon to Birmingham city centre are now all long gone. But I encountered cinema-going of a different kind when I went to university in London. The British Film Institute (BFI) had a screen at the Southbank. I could get a student membership and see as many films as I liked. Wednesday afternoons were most convenient because universities reserved that time for sports and so there were no lectures. This was cinema-going at its most civilised: a chance to see classic films from around the world without cigarette smoke, conversation or the noise of people eating.
When I went to Oslo in 1967 as an AIESEC trainee, I discovered that the University student union ran an old cinema in the city centre. This showed several different films a day. Almost all were old films in English with Norwegian subtitles. Many were classic films, and ticket prices were cheap. I think there is still a need for a cinema of this kind, and if there was, I would resume my cinema-going habits.
When I was a little older, I went with my parents to the cinema to see the films for grown-ups. Cinema listings appeared on the lower right-hand side of page two of the Birmingham Evening Mail, and stretched most of the way up the page. But there was anything but choice. All suburban cinemas were owned by two chains. Each suburban cinema in a chain showed exactly the same film in the same week. This meant that if you missed a film in the week it was shown, you had little chance of ever seeing it in a cinema again.
The whole experience of cinema-going then was utterly different from modern multiplexes. In the 1950s, every town and suburb had its own cinema within walking distance. Each cinema had one large screen. People did not just see a main feature, but also a second feature and a newsreel. Customers did not normally file into the cinema at the start of each programme, as at present, but would turn up at any time, including half-way through the main feature. They would then sit through the programme until it came round to a part of the film they recognized, and they would then leave.
This meant that viewing was frequently disrupted by people arriving, and being directed by an usherette with a torch and then shuffling along the rows of seats in front of you. Elsewhere, people would mutter “This is where we came in” and then leave by shuffling back along the rows of seats. As a result, many people probably experienced a film as a series of scenes and arresting images, rather than as a plot or story. This behaviour began to change after 1960 with the release of the film Psycho, when its director Alfred Hitchcock insisted that customers could not be admitted after the start of the main feature. I certainly remember entering cinemas halfway through a film when I went with my father. The only picture from that time that I recall was a cold-war epic Strategic Air Command (B36 and B47 bombers!), which came out when I was nine. By the time I was 12, I went to see South Pacific at the West End Cinema in Birmingham city centre. My mother was enraptured, but I mainly remember the shots of PBY Catalina aeroplanes.
Another difference from modern cinemas was smoke. Looking around the auditorium when a film was showing, you would see countless lights from cigarettes. Looking up at the beam of light from the projector, you could see an illuminated cloud of cigarette smoke. At your feet was the detritus scattered by smokers: nub-ends, discarded packets, matches and matchboxes. Like all public places at that time, cinemas (and many of the people in them) stank of nicotine. More litter was a result of the inability of some British people to spend more than a couple of their waking hours without eating, combined with an urge to scatter unwanted food and wrappers on the floor. If you were unlucky, the sound of the film would be drowned out by the crunching noise of people eating crisps, the rustling of their food wrappers and their commentary on the film.
The suburban cinema chains began closing in the 1960s, as people chose to stay at home and watch television. Some were converted into bowling alleys and bingo halls, but most (at least in my part of the Birmingham suburbs) were demolished and replaced by supermarkets. The five cinemas that once lined the Stratford Road from the Shirley Odeon to Birmingham city centre are now all long gone. But I encountered cinema-going of a different kind when I went to university in London. The British Film Institute (BFI) had a screen at the Southbank. I could get a student membership and see as many films as I liked. Wednesday afternoons were most convenient because universities reserved that time for sports and so there were no lectures. This was cinema-going at its most civilised: a chance to see classic films from around the world without cigarette smoke, conversation or the noise of people eating.
When I went to Oslo in 1967 as an AIESEC trainee, I discovered that the University student union ran an old cinema in the city centre. This showed several different films a day. Almost all were old films in English with Norwegian subtitles. Many were classic films, and ticket prices were cheap. I think there is still a need for a cinema of this kind, and if there was, I would resume my cinema-going habits.
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