IX. The Picture House
IN THE PROJECTION-BOX (I)
The top reel was the future, the bottom reel
the past. I didn't know what was in the top,
so I peered through the look-out. The rays would deal
out the shapes, taut and sudden to shift as they
did. The cigarette smoke the rays couldn't stop.
It developed its whims in eddying play
through the kisses and shots. From the loudspeaker
(the projection room's) voices sounded hollow
though much stronger in anger, if much weaker
in their harsh whispered love. I couldn't follow
the plots. Later, the reels were put on a rack
until Daddy, by hand, would wind them all back.
IN THE PROJECTION-BOX (II)
In the box I'd see Daddy by the machine
while he was showing the film. Though he had to change
over reels now and then, glancing at the screen
so that he's see the hidden sign they'd put in
the top corner, his free time he could arrange
just as he liked. While we all wondered who would win,
while swords clashed and pistols shot, while they kissed,
or the fine lady slapped the nasty man's face,
Daddy didn't care tuppence what he had missed.
He would be mending a wireless in the space
between reels, didn't know the exciting plot.
Was as if all the actors were talking rot.
IN THE PROJECTION-BOX (III)
In 'The Picture House' projection-box the arc
was enclosed in black metal. Quicksilver light
leaked from crevices; blades cross-sectioned the dark
to show swirling dust, trembling. To the clicking
of the timing devices, through vulcanite
hoods, intense lenses, whirring masks, and flicking
film, the arclight cast passionate shadows out
to the gaping eyes. Through blue glass I alone
saw the carbons that started it all, the gout
of green fire between the hollow and the cone.
But if you tried to open and look behind,
said my father, the dazzle would burn you blind.
THE METERS
On the wall in the box were great big meters.
Ampères and volts was what they measured. They stuck
out like eyes on a huge frog, glaring peepers,
each with a dithering hand like a clock's that
always tried to get over, but had no luck,
making the eyes wink and squint. Were acrobat
windscreen-wipers that never would settle, trying
always to keep track of the current and power,
but they never could catch them — they went flying
past all the marks. They couldn't choose a number
and then keep it. They trembled even when still.
Electricity seemed to have its own will.
BEFORE THE PROJECTION
When my father projected the films, I saw
right at the front of the machine a spy-hole
where you checked on the film. Little cogs would claw
hard at the jumping film, and with a blurting
kind of noise, it would fly with a dip and a roll
into the arc-light's beam, the picture squirting
to the screen. But I saw the picture right there,
tinily flickering, even though I could
see the film was vibrating. Asked myself where
really the picture was — in a blur it stood
like a rainbow in rain, where nothing hurried,
with those actors so happy, or so worried.
THE RAYS
If you looked up, you'd see through the cigarette
smoke all the rays that were taking the picture
to the screen. If he raised his arm, you would get
shifts in the rays, bright shadowings that had to
follow even his fingers. Every flicker
twiddled like reins he was holding, and he drew
then wherever he went. They were trains of slaves
having to march after him, having to bow down,
stand up, nod their heads, genuflect. The light-waves
were at his mercy, twitching at a mere frown.
Still, did he or did they nod the head and kneel?
Could it be they both did what was in the reel?
THE PHI EFFECT
They had called it the Phi Effect Daddy said.
Looking at one frame only you could see how
Errol Flynn didn't look handsome with his head
all on one side like a hanged man and his eyes
just thin slits like a cat's, his mouth a mee-ow —
could have been Dracula dressed up in disguise,
and the beautiful girl with her pursed-up lips
could have been spitting. But neither he nor she
had the slightest idea what these old clips
showed. In the film everything went so fast we
couldn't tell there were nasty faces between
all the kisses. We saw the truth on the screen.
THE FRAMES ON THE FILM
Daddy said that the quickness of the pictures
fooled your eye. Seeing the pirate-chief thrusting
with his sword or the girl letting his fingers
tousle her hair, you would never guess that they
had been made up of frames, each one adjusting
slightly to each. Without projectors they'd stay
in a frozen pose, perfectly unfinished,
jumping in jerks, as if someone was giving
them permission to move, as if someone wished
for them. He'd kill as long as someone living
said he could, and she'd let his fingers be rough
just as long as the filming went fast enough.
IN HELLZAPOPPIN
In this nonsense film Hellzapoppin , a scene
came when it looked just as if the film had flicked,
as it sometimes would do, out of frame, the screen
halved by a thick black bar. Daddy would adjust
it and down it would go, and we were all tricked
just as we should be, for we all have to trust
that the picture is real. This time, though, you saw
actors above and below the bar trying
to adjust it themselves, jumping, stamping or
hammering down, those below swinging, pulling
as if the were my daddy. Was so relieved
when they managed at last. Again, we believed.
THE COMPLIMENTARY TICKET
What they gave me when I went to the Picture
House was a 'complimentary' ticket. There
was no money to pay. From the manager
came all these tickets but he wasn't paying
me a compliment. It was perfectly fair
getting it free, whatever picture was playing.
Wasn't praising, but being specially kind
like when a gift comes 'with someone's compliments',
for they mean to be nice to you and you find
what it turns out then is like having talents,
making somebody happy that you could win.
and I liked feeling special as I went in.
MENDING FILM
Sometimes film broke, was mended. The acetone
would immediately bond by half-dissolving
the two celluloid halves. When the film was shown,
no one noticed the jerk, or, rather, ignored
what did not interrupt the reel's revolving,
did not hinder the actor, was not untoward
in its thrust into act. What was traumatic
was concealed very cleverly. I took old
clips back home. Strange the same, repeated, static
features, hovering gestures. You could see time hold
its adjustments, emotion freeze and benumb.
You might gradually learn there how to become.
DADDY'S FINGER
Once or twice you'd see Daddy's finger, ten feet
high, throw a shadow across the screen. Children
would start booing: it stopped them seeing who beat
who in the fight. But if Daddy hadn't tried
fiddling around like that, then the 'Intermission'
sign would have come on. They wouldn't like a slide
that was all fixed, no moving, whether to fight
or to let go. They would boo all the more then.
I would tell all my pals: they knew Mr. Wright
up in the box was doing his best, so when
all the booing began, they'd shush 'cause they knew
he was working so fast 'cause people would boo.
THINGS GOING WRONG AT THE PICTURES
In the Saturday afternoon cinema
show, the wheels of the stagecoach, the faster they
went, the more they spun backwards. The camera,
making stills of their motion to make motion,
got it wrong. The projector jammed: straightaway
in the body or face a hole would open,
burning, everyone petrified to see it.
Or the picture would vanish altogether
and black numbers flashed. For time to free it,
Daddy put on the screen a slide which never
stopped them booing. I was certain, however fast
it had jammed, it would always come on at last.
TRANSFORMATION
It was funny the Picture House changed with what
picture was on. The glass doors would gleam, the lights
would be bright, on the gramophone a foxtrot
jolly and sweet, if it was a Walt Disney
or The Wizard of Oz — there were such delights
even in colours of carpet and velvety
seats. Exciting to wait. But if different
films were on all the photos outside, murder
or The Tale of Two Cities, the enchantment
couldn't be seen. The dark doors creaked of danger,
polished wood became coffins. All said mishap
and bad luck, the whole cinema a big trap.
THE GOOD PICTURES
When the picture'd been good, when Spencer Tracy,
Franchot Tone, Fredric March and other actors
had excited you ever so much, giddy
feelings would come when you went outside: sunlight
made a bang like the doors, and all its colours
seemed to be brighter. Was a kind of nice fright
to think guns might be shooting down Chorley New
Road, or some cowboys would ride down from the Pike;
Doctor Jekyll was hiding, would jump out at you
there by the traffic-lights, and then you would strike
back, a hero in Horwich. It was ideal.
Those American worlds seemed so much more real.
MY FAVOURITE STARS
There were people called fans who wrote to
film-stars to get photographs signed. I thought that
was real soppy, real stupid, and yet I knew
I had some favourite stars — Isobel Dean,
and Jill Balcon and Valerie Hobson. At
first news of films with them in, I'd be so keen
not to miss them. As Madeline Bray, I saw
Jill Balcon as someone I'd like to protect too,
just like Nicholas Nickleby. Was in awe
of that Miss Hobson, her voice a teacher's, who
in one scene was told to take off her clothes. She
didn't. I wanted her to do it for me.
BRITISH FILMS
I so much preferred British films. There might be
smoke and thick fog at a railway station, but
the same smoke, the same fog, anyone could see
sometimes at Horwich station, and the wooden
frilly canopies over the platforms shut
out all the sun when you stood there at Bolton.
Didn't have the thatched cottages, but we'd seen
pictures galore, and stately homes were ours too.
And all Wuthering Heights was a Pennine scene.
Laurence Olivier — it was our winds
blew his hair about, not some strange air over
Rocky Mountains. Lovers lay in our clover.
THE NASTIEST VILLAIN
There was one villain haunted me, from Emil
and the Detectives. He looked like a taller,
thinner George Robey. That was what sent a chill
right to my heart because George was so funny
and so friendly, and this man's smile was all a
cheat, his thick eyebrows going up to curry
favour when what the real truth was stayed deep
hidden away in his brain. Nothing could stop
him as he tracked you while you were fast asleep,
nearer and nearer. Was as if he could swap
what his smile meant: 'I'm nice!' became by contrast
'I'm so pleased to be sure I deal with you last!'
THE BLACK SPOT
It was fun, Treasure Island. Jackie Coogan,
acted the part of Jim, Wallace Beery took
Long John Silver. But then there was one villain
stuck in my mind, Blind Pew, who came tap-tapping
on that late winter afternoon. Put a hook
tight with his arm around Jim's, saw him trapping
fast the old buccaneer with the feared 'Black Spot'.
Little square piece of crumpled paper, a round
black spot. Knew it meant death and old Bill was not
able to do anything to stop it, found
it would happen whatever he did, had done.
Made me think that we all had been given one.
BEN GUNN
When we talked about Treasure Island, Auntie
Hattie would mention Ben Gunn, copying what
he said when he met Jim: 'Well now, my hearty,
Jim, would you happen to have such a thing as
a nice piece of cheese on you?' Wanted it hot,
toasted, for he'd been marooned. That a book has
in it people that seem alive was so strange.
Knew one was sad for Ben Gunn, he'd been three years
on the island, yet Auntie's own look would change
so that her eyes sort of glittered. Were no tears.
I just couldn't regard as a pantomime
a man's missing his cheese for all that long time.
'CLICKETY-CLICK!'
Humphrey Bogart and Fredric March were in a
picture in which Bogart the villain had got
in a house with his gang, aiming to pin a
family inside as hostages. The father
(Fredric March) was so clever. He had a plot,
worked it out slowly. Could see he was smarter.
Bogart would mock him, saying his brain acted
with a 'Clickety-click!' At the end the son,
held with a gun, heard a word and reacted
at once, trusted his father and ran. The gun
had no bullets. I never forgot, was glad
that the boy challenged death obeying his dad.
WITH JACK HULBERT AND CICELY COURTNEDGE
With Jack Hulbert and Cicely Courtnedge, Claude
Hulbert and Robertson Hare in the picture
there was always a nasty man, a real fraud
with a moustache and a fat face and a posh
sort of voice.* You could see there was a glitter
in his eye. Was going to put the kibosh
on their plans. Before anyone could guess he
was in league with the burglars, I recognised
what he was. It was terrible not to be
able to warn them. There he was, disguised
as himself. No one knew. Their chances were slim.
I was glad in the end they knew it was him.
* Garry Marsh
ZOO IN BUDAPEST (1933)
How romantic! The piping of the monkey
warning the lovers; and the fat, strict old teacher
keeping orphans in line; the dapper flunkey
snapping his master's orders; and the scowling,
dirty-faced villain hating every creature
there in the zoo, growling back at the growling
lions; Zarni, the hero, who was kind to
all of the animals, who were so kind back;
and the beautiful girl whom he saved — I drew
none of these myths into memory: the track
over sixty years leads only to the child
who had let out the tiger, vicious and wild.
CHU CHIN CHOW
Chu Chin Chow was exciting. Everybody
sang all the songs. Daddy would have a special
look when singing the 'Oysters baked in honey'
song, and I'd 'cobble all night and cobble all day'
while pretending to hammer. The National
Programme on In Town Tonight on Friday they
had to interview George Robey. The handsome man,
pretty girl, George, all got rescued when the pots
with the robbers in went into the well. The plan
worked. But I didn't like other things in plots
like that: like the Prince they buried in sand.
I just couldn't forget his wriggling hand.
THE ADVENTURES OF ROBIN HOOD
Though the Palace was little, it was there they
showed Robin Hood all in bright Technicolor,
and the Palace was wonderful and the day
seemed to be Technicolor too when you came
out. Will Scarlet wore scarlet, and the summer
forest so green and the sky so blue. The same
with the real sky, the brick walls, and the people
walking down Winter Hey Lane. How nice that King
Richard put it all right and all the steeple
bells started ringing. I remembered a thing,
though, Miss Hester had told us, that nasty Claud
Rains soon got the throne and 'ruled with fire and sword.'
THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE
In The Charge of the Light Brigade Errol Flynn
didn't succeed in getting the beautiful
girl, Olivia de Havilland. She was in
love with his brother. But he was the hero —
he was able to hoodwink the whole tribal
horde into thinking the cavalry would show
up next minute and kill them — got a man to
drag a big branch to stir up the dust! But he
got his brother away from the charge, all through
making him take a letter. He was then free
to ride half a league, half a league onward, kill,
too, the villainous khan, then die on the hill.
THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES
In The Hound of the Baskervilles they tried to
make you afraid of everything. The butler
and his wife, they were creepy — because you knew
they had been nasty in other films. Sherlock
showed us, though, that it was a convict brother
that they were worried about. Gave you a shock
seeing him with his eyes so wild and his rags,
but he was killed. And a doctor with demon
eyes, a foreign voice — he was okay. The crags,
they were so dark and so misty, the Grimpen
Mire so dangerous: only the villain, though,
might have ended up there. We were safe to go.
KING SOLOMON'S MINES
Write a 'c' and an 'l'; then put 'o'— u — d'
after them. What do you get? Why, the word 'cloud'! —
but, instead, if you then let 'a' and 'd' be
at the beginning, you read 'add'. What you find
next to something's a clue to what you're allowed
first time to see it as. It's the same kind
of thing, done as a trick, in King Solomon's
Mines when Sir Henry and Quartermain and Good
made old Twala the king lay down his weapons,
all by pretending that as 'star-men' they could
make the sun disappear with spells. But they knew,
as they chanted away, an eclipse was due.
THE LADY VANISHES
I remember the photos outside showing
what was the film today. Why is it just The
Lady Vanishes ? Michael Redgrave smiling
quite unbelieving at Margaret Lockwood
when she tried to convince him she had seen
a middle-aged woman called Miss Froy. If he could
just have looked at the window he would have seen
scrawled in the condensation Miss Froy's own name
where she wrote it for Iris. I thought that scene
dreadfully awful, like some terrible blame
you just didn't deserve. She wrote so thickly —
How could smoke make it disappear so quickly?
THE THIRTY-NINE STEPS
In The Thirty-Nine Steps all the story had
changed. They had Madeline Carroll in it to
be a girl he could rescue. She thought him bad,
telling the cops that he wasn't her lover,
and he couldn't convince her his words were true.
Terrible he had to stay undercover
with the cops and the spies and the lovely girl,
all of them, hating him. He was right, but no
one believed him at all. So he had to hurl
himself out of the train, flee over Glencoe.
In the end, though, his question saved the day —
Made the Memory Man give it all away.
THE MARCH OF TIME
At the Picture House sometimes there was a short,
one of a series, The March of Time. I found
them exciting. They made you think you were caught
up in a big story. An American
voice, a teacher's or judge's, and you felt bound
to go on listening to him. A citizen,
he said, ought to take notice. He was warning
us about terrible things. We saw parades
of big guns and big tanks, and Hitler shouting
and Mussolini strutting, and barricades
in Shanghai against Japanese. Lots of fuss —
it was always a long way away from us.
LESLIE MITCHELL
When the Movietone News started, you always
heard 'Leslie Mitchell reporting'. Was a voice
an announcer must have. You heard every phrase,
all the clear consonants, and the BBC
vowels high in his nose. It was the right choice:
gentlemen spoke in that sing-song way so we
would take notice of what Mr. Chamberlain
did and Herr Hitler's shoutings and Amy
Johnson's flights and the big explosions in Spain,
end of the Grand National, what the Crazy
Gang were doing, the Floral Dance in Cornwall,
Jessie Matthews, The King — he told us them all.
FORTY-SECOND STREET
Daddy showed a film called Forty-Second Street.
Though I liked all the songs, and the dancing too,
in it was a girl whose face I thought so sweet.
It was because she looked clever and yet sad.
Do you know, when she sang about 'being blue'
(that's what Americans call crying) I had
to keep swallowing lumps in my throat, but still
tear-drops kept trickling down my cheek because I
was so sorry that she hadn't one dollar-bill.
Clever girls like that shouldn't be poor. I'd buy
all she wanted one day with a five-pound note.
It was lovely to feel those lumps in my throat.
FOOTLIGHT PARADE
All the girls that were swimming made patterns: wheels
turning in wheels, rose-petals opening wide,
snakes that wound into snakes, that wound up in reels,
stars that burst outward and vanished. Their legs made
long zip-fasteners opening, closing; the bride,
beautiful Ruby Keeler, undid the braid
with her overarm crawl and then did it up
backwards. They didn't wear much but what they wore
was all sparkling like gold. Each sat in a cup;
fountains were playing all over them, and more
slid down waterfalls — splash! — and swam down the stream.
In the end it had just been Dick Powell's dream.
DANTE'S INFERNO
In the Picture House entrance photos of
Dante's Inferno. There were people in graves
that were burning. They tried all their might to shove
free the great stones but what was the use 'cause they
were all chained down and demons there in the caves
poked them back just as they nearly got away
and the gravestones went bang down again. Daddy
said 'Inferno' meant Hell, so you couldn't
let yourself become sorry for them. Dante
knew about Hell somehow. I thought he shouldn't
be allowed. God has put them where we can't see.
But I wanted to help them. Might have been me.
DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HYDE
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde was a good
film according to Daddy, but I found
that it haunted me. Knew that its moral should
warn us of sin, and that wicked men should get
really punished — only right they should hound
him like a beast to his death, for he had let
himself do all those cruel things and his face
showed just how nasty he had become, and I
knew from many a film the one in Hyde's place
only was Spencer Tracy. He didn't die
really. But what I found I couldn't abide
was the nice Dr. Jekyll hidden inside.
ANTHONY ADVERSE
There was one scene in Anthony Adverse
couldn't get out of my mind. Can't remember
what the reason was, which sort of makes it worse,
but in one place Freddie Bartholemew had
to run quickly with nothing on to get
new suit of clothes. I thought there was something bad
if you let someone see you like that, and all
those at the pictures, not only in Horwich,
but all over the world, would see him and call
it being rude. And in the studio which
took the film there were people. They should forbid
it. But somehow I'd like to run as he did.
THE MEMORY OF ANTHONY ADVERSE
Just as memory printed itself from fear
(thoughts of death at the Scotsman's Stump), so it
sharply photographed Johnny's, permanent, clear:
balcony seat, hard wood and bony leather,
cast-iron legs; wide black balcony; the flit-
flit of the light from the screen that together
all the people and pillars and walls jumped to.
Twining grey rays from the projection-box held
all the screen to their doings, through which the blue
smoke of the cigarettes unfurled. Was a weld
of all sensory intake there in the gloom,
as a naked boy ran across a dark room.
THE THIEF OF BAGHDAD
In The Thief of Baghdad I thought the best bit
out of the wonderful things was the genie.
Was a giant so high the hero could fit
snug in his hand, and he had to do all that
he was ordered to do. Over the fleecy
clouds went a magic carpet too, and they sat
there as safe as a plane. Just think if you could
do that today! Conrad Veidt was a clever
villain, June Duprez beautiful — she withstood
bravely his terrible threats. One bit never
would stay out of my mind where he thought he'd gained
her — oh why did I like her tied up and chained?
LOST HORIZON
When we went to see Lost Horizon, Mammy
told us James Hilton was her cousin. So I
was related. His family lived in Leigh,
not far away. When all the people paid to
see the picture, the money was sent to buy
something for him. The Chinese pilot who flew
them was sent by him. Ronald Colman rescued
them because he said so. Shangri-La valley
he invented for everyone so you'd
know not to take the girl away to marry
'cause she'd turn very old. I couldn't doubt it,
as if I'd done the telling them about it.
SANDERS OF THE RIVER
Had a record of Paul Robeson, His Master's
Voice. Came from Sanders of the River. I knew
every word. I could sing with all the niggers
rowing along 'A-yee doe coe, a-yay ger
deck!', all paddling in Leslie Banks's canoe.
He was the white man who really was braver
in the film than the black men who all knew that
he was their leader because he was. Although
the words weren't really sense, I had them off pat
so that I'd love to join in 'A-yee doe coe'
paddling up the river for Leslie Banks.
Wouldn't need to be paid except with his thanks.
THE FOUR FEATHERS
The Four Feathers was exciting. He did
prove that he wasn't a coward in the end,
and his girl then could love him and he got rid,
right at the last, of all the four feathers they'd
given him. Why he stayed home, though, could depend
on how he saw all that fighting, for they made
all those countries become parts of the Empire.
Could wonder if it was right to kill fuzzy-
wuzzies like that. As a boy he'd no desire
like his old general father for silly
battles out in the desert. There was no need.
Seemed more sensible then — and the girl agreed!
THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
Leslie Howard became Sir Percy Blakeney.
He was the Scarlet Pimpernel. Was his sign
that he used to keep secret his name. Lazy,
drawling, and peering through a lorgnette, he seemed
such a fop and a fool, but, was his design,
putting them off, so in Paris no one dreamed
he was the enemy. Looked a gentleman,
soft-voiced and delicate-faced, but at the start
you could see that he was the old harridan
shrieking about the soldiers and her hay cart.
Who was acting then — Leslie Howard or Sir
Percy? Was a professional amateur.
IMPROVING THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
As Sir Percy Blakeney, Leslie Howard
fooled all the guards at the gate by disguising
himself. Looked an old crone, dirty and haggard,
playing with hair from the guillotine. Said that
in his cart was his son with the plague! Hiding
there, though, were really an old aristocrat
lady, scared, with her daughter. Later there came,
galloping wildly, some soldiers; their captain —
heard him rage at the guard as the one to blame
letting them pass. Through the gate galloped off in
pursuit. But they were English! Wouldn't it do
if some aristocrats had been soldiers too?
ROSE MARIE
Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald were
so good in Rose Marie, 'by special request'
they were kept on for two weeks. Saw him kiss her
over and over again up in the box
while I waited for Daddy. Saw all the rest
reeled up already. It had gone through the locks
and the gates and had been shone through at the right time.
Wiggling the sound-track by photo-electric
cells had kept all their singing to the right rhyme
so that by now with the film at its last flick
all the people would know why they were kissing,
all the people would know nothing was missing.
KING KONG
As King Kong was an 'X' I couldn't see him,
but on the posters they showed him with his arm
round a skyscraper tearing them limb from limb,
people all screaming as they fell from his fist.
The police couldn't stop him doing the harm,
smashing the walls, pulling up railways to twist
then all crooked. I dream about him wading
through the Atlantic Ocean, banging the Queen
Mary down to the bottom. He was making
straight towards Horwich. And in a submarine
there was me, though we'd almost given up hope.
But I woke when he noticed my periscope.
WINGS OF THE MORNING
Was called Wings of the Morning. 'Technicolor
used for the first time in Ireland.' Was one scene
which had flowering bushes all a-flutter,
dewy in sunshine, with the beautiful girls
riding by on their chestnut horses. The screen
showed me where heaven was with those sweeps and swirls,
pink and emerald, twinkling like wands, the gloss
sliding and flashing over the chestnut flanks like
melting gold, with the hair, so blond, that would toss
free in the galloping sun. Real day would strike
at my eyes when the screen went blank. The colour
of the pavement I walked seemed so much duller.
IN THE NICK OF TIME
You knew just as the noose was about to hang
Robin, Will Scarlet, Friar Tuck, Little John
would throw off their disguise, you'd hear their bows twang.
Swish! and the rope would be cut. As the Wild Men
made a circle round Buck, just then searchlights shone
down from the rocket ships to light up their den;
Welma's ray-guns hit them and not Buck. The old
rancher, his daughter (who thought Hopalong a
crook) were both tied to chairs and blindfold
just when they'd lit the fuse wire, but the stronger,
smarter Hopalong saved them. Was like a rhyme
when they turned up at last in the nick of time.
THE SKELETON DANCE
Knew from Daddy's smile Disney's Skeleton Dance,
that would be special. In a cemetery
you heard midnight strike. Then as out of a trance
up from the graves all the skeletons scrambled.
They were ready to dance. Their own dithery
bones all were turned into xylophones. Rattled
away, plonkety-plonk, on ribs and backbones
while round the tombs others, capering about,
threw their skulls to each other over gravestones,
so they were what they danced with and to. You'd doubt
what was dead and what wasn't. But we had breath.
Fun to copy my Daddy's smiling at death.
PLUTO RUNS OFF A CLIFF
In a Pluto cartoon he would sometimes run
over a cliff, but he didn't fall right away:
he'd look down and then up again. It was fun
seeing him not fall till he realized where
he had got to! Enjoyed that little delay.
Reason was you knew he was to get a scare
but he didn't. And that was what made you laugh,
specially because it was all nonsense, for how
could the world change its rules just on your behalf
leaving you hanging there till your brain said 'Now!'?
It was pleasing to know and pleasing to feel
there was nothing like that in the world for real.
'THE SORCERER'S APPRENTICE'
Mickey Mouse used the spellbook to make the broom
fetch in the water and it did. The only
trouble was, at last when there was no more room
in the cistern, the broom didn't know. It
couldn't think why it did it. It was dopey,
able to take orders but not know how to fit
what it did to a new situation, give
orders itself to itself, but like clockwork
keep on running. That's why the broom didn't live.
Couldn't adjust, change the rules when they just jerk
about, useless. Good job the magician came
when he did and put everything back the same.
SNOW-WHITE AND THE SEVEN DWARFS
When Snow-White and the Seven Dwarfs was coming
Mickey Mouse Weekly had it as a comic.
On the National Programme they were playing
'Hi ho, hi ho! It's off to work we go!' all
the time. Tyson's, the stationer's, had been quick
too: they were selling pens with the Prince so tall
and a pencil with Snow-White all in a silk
case that would lock. You could stick their transfers
just wherever you liked. The top of the milk
bottle showed Happy. Could do your own version
in your cardboard theatre, where the switch
in the mirror was best: the Queen to a witch.
THE WIZARD OF OZ
Saw The Wizard of Oz again and again.
There was that wonderful moment when she came
looking out of the house, because it as then
all the world was coloured, the Yellow Brick
Road, the dwarfs, and the trees. Nothing was the same;
all was so bright! There was some marvellous trick
going on for it seemed as if somewhere I'd
seen it before and there was a way to get back.
Was a pity a witch, from whom you'd to hide,
plotted your death. I'd love to follow that track,
find the Wizard, for that would be a great treat —
but the Wizard was nothing but an old cheat.
TOM SAWYER'S WHITEWASHING
Was a funny scene that in Tom Sawyer where
Tom gets those boys to whitewash his auntie's fence.
What it looked like was work, but he had to share
it with them all in the end. He managed to give
the impression he liked it. Was a pretence
just because he thought it so boring. Captive
to his aunt's orders he wasn't, for he saw
how to make what he didn't want into something
that the others boys would. Was a kind of law:
boys, when they noticed other boys enjoying
something (didn't much matter what it was) would
set their hearts on it too, would see it as good.
THE CHARGE IN HENRY THE FIFTH
Saw in Henry the Fifth a magnificent
charge. All the knights and their steeds I had ever
read about came to colour and life, present
there to my eye, with trumpets sounding a huge
attack, drums matching hooves, a brave endeavour
threatening the English, who could find no refuge
from that onset, that came faster and faster,
canter to trot and from trot to gallop, onrush
of conceited rash warriors. Disaster
flew with the English arrows. Then came the crush
and collapse. They were Hotspur-sure they had won.
Couldn't help think it sad they couldn't have done.
WENT THE DAY WELL?
Leslie Banks was the traitor, but no one knew;
all of them trusted him, upper-class voice,
and an odd eye that held them like rabbits. You
wanted to warn them, but couldn't. The poacher
was a hero, so quick and certain his choice
fooling the Germans to follow him closer
so this boy could escape with the truth, and he,
shot in the leg, was a hero too. But what
really sticks in the mind, though, is when you see,
just when a hand-grenade falls right in a lot
of their children, this fat woman (that a lout
had been sneering at) pick it up and rush out.
FILM MUSIC : ODD MAN OUT
Was a dark sad tune all on violas and
cellos. It went with the dark streets, and the snow,
and the din of that beer-splashed pub, and that grand
house all faded and filthy, and the bare
freezing bricks of the air-raid shelter, the slow
limp of the victim and his agonized stare,
the inspector's dark uniform, and the old
dusty-black bowler hat that the tramp Shell wore,
and the black of the priest's soutane, and it told
you of the tragedy everywhere, but the core
of the melody, what it is really grips
you, was that Kathleen Ryan's unhappy lips.
THE THIRD MAN
Daddy brought home the record of the zither
man, with his 'Plink-a plink-a plink — A-plink!' So
sad his sweet 'Harry Lime' theme, seemed to glitter
there in your mind. Everyone was humming it.
That was strange 'cause he lost the girl. Was a blow
when he was shown what Harry Lime's illicit
drugs had done to the children. Trevor Howard
looked in his eye, the policeman always right.
But why then did the girl think him a coward,
just giving in to the police when he might
have shown her all those children? Stood in silence
as she walked up the lane into the distance.
'TELL ME TONIGHT'
Daddy sang the song Jan Kippur sang. It was
'Tell me Tonight'. Mammy would join in and us
as well. Daddy knew all the words of it 'cause
he'd seen it the picture again and again while
showing it at the Picture House. A famous
singer he was and if you looked at his smile
you could see how like Daddy's it was. So I
sang it at school, but when Teddy and Tommy
heard me at it they said, 'Why don't you die?'
They thought that George Formby was better. Soppy
songs like that were no good. But under my breath
I would still sing. It didn't lead to my death.
HOPALONG CASSIDY
I thought Hopalong Cassidy was the best
cowboy of all. With his two pals, the young one
and the old one, he rode the range. He was dressed
all in black. Roy Rogers and Gene Autry seemed
soft in white, and were always singing. More fun
when you could laugh with him when old Pete got steamed
up, the 'son-of-a-gun', when a bullet knocked
off his old hat. However tight Hopalong
had been tied up, however hard they had socked
him, he would painfully strain (he was so strong)
till he had loosened the rope, and, quick on the draw,
he had got the rich dude tied up with the law.
TARZAN
You would hear me call 'Ya-ee-ya-ee-ya! Ee-
ya-ee-o!' I would be Tarzan in the gym.
On the horse-chestnut tree at Granma's I'd be
him with a clothes-line. How was it that Tarzan
when he swung on a creeper it would take him
just where he wanted, however big the span
from one tree to the next? And if the nasty
man in the sola topi got the Zulus
to lock Tarzan up, Bimbo the chimpanzee
soon would be on his way. You knew he would use
his sharp teeth to bite till bamboo bars went crack,
till Sir Cedric could pat Tarzan on the back.
W. C. FIELDS AS MR. MICAWBER
It was fun seeing David Copperfield, for
Lionel Barrymore was there as Mr.
Peggotty, Edna May Oliver was at war
with the relations, and Mr Micawber,
that was W. C. Fields. Caught the twister
Heap, always rubbing his hands. I liked Mr.
Dick, too — showed that you needn't be clever in
order to be good. But I was sorry that
W. C. Fields, saying the 'Be never in
debt' speech, did not say 'sixpence'. Was aiming at
the American audience. Killed the joke dead.
Just said 'Twenty pounds, nineteen shillings' instead.
BASIL RATHBONE
Was one villain I hated: Basil Rathbone.
'Basil' was soft: it was a girl's name — comics
made you laugh at it. Playing Mr. Murdstone
fitted a man like that, speaking lah-di-dah
down his nose, and he lied, too — the 'nasty tricks'
I knew were his. He took in David's mama:
you'd expect such a silly to fall for him.
'Bone' rhymes with 'Stone': if it had been my name I
would have changed it. He dressed up so neat and trim
you would suspect him first. But I was shocked by
Basil Rathbone as Sherlock. What if they found
at last he was the one who set on the hound?
RAYMOND MASSEY
I was sorry for Raymond Massey. Although
he was the villainous Chauvelin, the smarmy
spy, you found at the end they had made him go
down in a cellar and left a big barrel
on the trap-door. You knew, too, that a nasty
fate would await him — the drums would all rumble
for him. There he was trapped, with the guillotine
facing him after the dark. As the quiet,
hard Black Michael, although he really had been
true to his lover, and she to him, Rupert
ran him through with his dagger. Was only fair
when in Things to Come he was the wisest there.
BORIS KARLOFF
In the film magazine I saw a picture
where at a party Boris Karloff, holding
up a wine-glass, was smiling. 'I've great pleasure
now, as the winner of the prize...' But I stared
at his friendly face. How could it be smiling?
They were the same, his eyes, that I never dared
dream of looking at me. And all those people,
how could they stay there and trust him? His forehead
might grow higher again, and his hands strangle
beautiful girls. He wanted everyone dead,
not alive. But I was sorry he was lame.
Oh, why couldn't the nice doctor keep him tame?
PETER LORRE
There were some actors were always the same in
different films, such as Peter Lorre. He
had a face like a baby, big black eyes, thin
hair, and he seemed to be apologizing
all the time in his foreign accent, soapy,
humble and servile, so always disguising
what he thought, what he'd planned. His words came out in
rubbery strings like some knotted elastic:
they could snap back to something else. A shy grin
said, 'I'm so little, so helpless. There's no drastic
need to ever suspect me!' It was a con.
In the story and in life there'd always be one.
GEORGE SANDERS
It was clear he was English. Whenever they
wanted an Englishman, he was in the cast
as a gentleman, though sometimes he'd play
villainous criminals, when his haughty voice
took them in. He would always say the posh /pa:st/,
not the Lancashire 'pæst' — was not a choice
for a man of his class. But I liked him best
when he was friendly. Foreign Correspondent
had him helping the hero. Always well-dressed,
making sarcastic remarks, intelligent,
and his toffy-nosed manner like Leslie Banks —
rather wished he'd been hero 'stead of the Yanks.
SHIRLEY TEMPLE
Didn't like Shirley Temple. She was a doll
magicked to life, with those plump cheeks like apples
made of pot. Switch her off and you'd see her loll
back and stay staring at nothing. Her even
teeth would smile just whatever you did, dimples
pop into place whatever she did. Open
pretty eyes that were moving with weights, and hair,
golden and ringletty, as thick as a grown-
up's, a perm. There was nothing she couldn't bear,
never a nasty scream or horrible moan
with her tongue out and stamping. Couldn't be wild
for she had to be their idea of a child.
CHARLES LAUGHTON
Found Charles Laughton like Humpty Dumpty with big
flabby wet lips. He was snooty like Humpty
as well, voice like a duke's, body like a pig,
whale, hippopotamus, penguin, with his hand
always flapping annoyance. Made from putty
was what his face seemed to be, angry or bland —
it was never a stupid one, though. His tone
went up a pitch and became a frightening
power, a king's or a judge's, or could drone
strange Quasimodo noises. In his striding
there was fear for his subjects, huffing his way
forward, furious, bursting at any delay.
FRED ASTAIRE
Fred Astaire danced with Ginger Rogers over,
under, and on tables and chairs and spacious,
chequerboard ballroom floors. Only a sofa
could have defeated them. Always matching each
other, arms and legs waving in a gracious
twinning of rhythm, now so close, now out of reach,
and with skyscraper lights behind them, unreal
gilt balustrades and ritzy windows. Singing,
too, of top hats and 'fine romances', ideal
love, till he turned into an elven princeling.
Showed you how you should love, find the perfect girl,
whom you'd sweep off to heaven all in a whirl.
SABU AND FREDDIE BARTHOLEMEW
I saw Elephant Boy. In it was Sabu.
He was a little older than me, but there
he was acting, and Freddie Bartholemew
took the young David in David Copperfield.,
but he couldn't grow up, of course, for you share
David the part in the film — it's all revealed
in the credits, the list of who's been in it.
Then, in the colour-film Drum, Sabu, famous,
was a prince in his teens; Freddie, a bit
bigger still, playing in Captains Courageous.
Could they go on more, however much they grew?
Growing up means you have to do something new.
THE TWO RONALD COLMANS
There were two Ronald Colmans. Daddy told me
how it was done. Sometimes they
had a man who looked like him — you couldn't see
who it was, for he kept his face turned away, though I
knew it wasn't the handsome star. As Darnay
whose face was so calm or as Carton whose tie
was untied, Ronald Colman always looked right.
Sometimes a trick picture put both together
on the screen. They pretended to be polite,
but in the story you didn't know whether
nice or nasty would marry the girl. I mean,
you must know which one died on the guillotine.
CLARK GABLE
Saw that Clark Gable had a wry smile. He raised
one eyebrow — it was a big one and showed, and his
moustache twisted as well, and he sort of lazed
standing up, taking the world so easily,
but you knew underneath, in all the stories,
no one would know how brave he was. Spoke drily,
very softly, as if he didn't care what
happened to them or to her, and that's what they
thought, but you knew and he knew that, when things got
tough, they'd find he was the one who would display
the best courage and prove he was really fine.
As he died, just for him, all her tears would shine.
FRANCIS L. SULLIVAN
I liked Francis L. Sullivan. Mr. Jaggers —
that was the part he did best. Was a huge barge
of a man. Didn't seem to need an actor's
talents — he just was that haughty, commanding,
remote aristocrat, who, always in charge,
knew all your future and past, never granting
Pip a glimmer of knowledge. A superior
voice, smooth but never committing itself. Clues
to his nature as lawyer made Pip shudder —
death-masks and pistols — but Pip never guessed whose
they were. Grandeur of manner, authority,
went with such strange concern with iniquity.
RAYMOND HUNTLEY
Sort of soft name was 'Raymond'. He always took
parts like the head of the office who had got
it all wrong, or the boss, really a crook,
making out that the hero was. Had a voice
like a whining announcer's, each eye a dot
full of swanky suspicion. He was the choice
for the poshest of villains, poking his nose,
ever so sharp, in to what he should never.
You were glad at the end when they could expose
him and the general was shown just how clever
he had sneakily been, while so dignified.
Felt it odd when he took a good part and died.
THE SMILE OF EDWARD G. ROBINSON*
Was an Edward G. Robinson film. Couldn't
ever forget it. If only his strange face —
such a wide mouth and thick dark eyebrows — wouldn't
stay in your mind. It wanted to smile, and tried
all the time to pretend there was no disgrace
having to follow that woman, but that wide
grin, it didn't prevent the horrible things
happening. Even a nice professor like
him could turn to a criminal life that brings
misery, ruining everything, could strike
hard at someone and kill them. Such a sad grin —
it stayed haunting you, tied to terrible sin.
* In The Woman in the Window
DEALING WITH THE GANGSTER
If a gangster should come to England, I would
deal with him quickly should he try to rob me.
I'd look up as if startled — would be a good
way to delay him an instant while I socked
him so hard he'd collapse. Or my gun I'd free
out of my sleeve and shoot. My judo hand knocked
his aside and my rabbit-punch left him cold.
Or, with a special invention, sort of spray,
he was frozen at once and I loosed his hold
from the powerless trigger. With my time-ray
I'd go back to last week, get hold of his gun
and remove all the bullets. I always won.
HAPPY ENDINGS
When the Clay-Men got Flash's girl, you knew that
she would be rescued next week or that Clay-Men
would turn out to be nice really. Krazy Kat,
banged on his head so hard his eyes fell out, could
pick them up from the floor, put them in again.
Right at the finish the fierce robber-dog would
have the whole house fall down on his head so hard
he was ker-doincked forever. Auntie preferred
a good cry where Elizabeth Bergner starred
in it and died at the end. But the last word
really showed she had gone to heaven. She cried
for joy. Only your enemies really died.
THE NOBLE CONRAD VEIDT
Conrad Veidt was a noble German, a U-boat
officer everyone liked and respected.
He'd to change to a spy. There was a turncoat
British lieutenant who gave all the secrets,
and, too, Valerie Hobson, unsuspected
there in the Orkneys, going to sink the frigates
and destroyers and battleships in Scapa
Flow. And soon Conrad Veidt was in love with her
and you know that she was with him, would rather
have him although she refused his kiss. Bitter
finding out, then, that she was a British spy,
but you had to be glad when you saw him die.
THE COMEDIANS
Buster Keaton would never laugh, and Laurel
always looked miserable. George Formby looked lost,
though he won, and when Groucho, in a quarrel,
fired off a joke, it was as if he never
knew the words were all wrong — all the same he bossed
all of the dudes, wagging his cigar. Clever
Harpo played on pianos as if they were
harps, with a face like an idiot. Chico,
though, was serious when he was helping her
into the puddle because he didn't know.
And then everyone laughed, for they weren't to blame.
Who was right? Who was wrong? Were we all the same?
A HINT OF WILL HAY
Michael Redgrave in The Lady Vanishes
made fun of Iris's talk of a Miss Froy
by his picking up Miss Froy's pince-nez glasses,
putting them on his nose and saying, 'Come
on, boys, what have you done with Miss Froy?' A boy
who had see Will Hay's school films would have been dumb
not to see what was happening 'cause we all
loved Will Hay, Graham Moffat (who couldn't have been
more fat!), crusty Moore Marriott with his call
'Next train's gone!' Any boy who watched the screen
knew the jokes that the trio could play, could swear
that the glasses were clue to her being there.
ROBERT BENCHLEY
I liked one of those shorts they put on before
Movietone News. Were done by Robert Benchley,
an American funny man. Couldn't bore
you if he tried. He'd take something that happened
in our ordinary lives and make it funny
talking about it, just as good for England
as America. Dozing was his subject
once and what was so good was you knew that he
meant that all of us did it and tried to protect
ourselves by not seeming to do it. You'd see
him pretending to gaze out of a train and
soon he's bumping his nose and flapping his hand.
GORDON HARKER
Gordon Harker was funny in the Will Hay
pictures. I liked how he used his Cockney voice
to pretend to be posh when he had to say
'Yes, moddom,' playing the butler, because you
heard the aitches that he missed. Really was his choice
acting like that, for in real life he would be
just as good as the posh in saying 'honour'.
Meeting him, that would be strange. You would expect
him to say 'Hin the 'ouse' and 'Yes, your honour,'
but you would find he could say both the correct
and the wrong. Made me wonder why people were
stuck with the way that they talked and couldn't transfer.
ALISTAIR SIM
I thought Alistair Sim was wonderful. A
tall bald head, egg-shaped, his eyes either scared or
trying always to laugh. Fingers would flutter
out like a pianist's as he tried to keep
on the right side of someone. A loud haw-haw —
that was the clue to his being in some deep
trouble, saving his face. Let you see behind
it with a glimpse of how desperate he was.
He was just like a vicar; made you find
him all the funnier in his scrapes because
you expected that he would be innocent.
You were glad he escaped from embarrassment.
BERNARD MILES
Bernard Miles was Joe Gargery. He was in
lots of good British films He had a real
country voice. On the wireless sometimes he'd spin
tales about yokels and he had two very
funny monologues, let his yokel reveal
all of 'The Truth about Tristan', the heavy
Wagner opera; also, 'The Lowdown on
Hamlet' — 'For'inbras comes in, sees 'm all laid
out there — Wal, 'e said, Oi am upset!' Could don
serious parts if he chose — one time he played
Iago. I was so sorry for poor old Joe:
didn't like it when Pip's manner made him go.
'CHARTERS' AND 'CALDICOTT'
Basil Radford and Naunton Wayne were funny.
There they were, right in the middle of Germans
with the war just beginning, being fussy
over the Test Match results. Toffs who bumble
make you laugh. Wouldn't think they could be persons
you would rely on, for they only stumble
about, getting it wrong — Rex Harrison they
think is a traitor! But Charters hears a phone
message — all is put right, and they find a way,
helping their public-school pal, and they have shown
just how loyal they are. All the things went wrong
just so they could be put back where they belong.
CLAUDS
'Claud' and 'Cecil' were soppy names. Claud Hulbert,
Claud Dampier, they were such fools because they were
silly toffs, each a public-school idiot.
All of their money only made them stupid,
and their drawling and tooting voices would slur
every word like a hee-haw, but it suited
what they said, donkey-nonsense. They were always
saying how wrong something was and that Jack or
Tom would end up in jail. In a kind of daze
looked through their monocles but they never saw
what was really there. Each one was a goose,
so a posh public school, it wasn't much use.
MISTER WU
When George Formby sang 'Mister Wu', one line had
something about his naughty eye that flickers
when he's ironing ladies' blouses. Was bad
thinking that knickers came next, but nobody
seemed to blame him — they all laughed so. But knickers
wasn't the word he said! They were the smutty
ones who thought it instead, who thought about what
went in the knickers, because even that word
wasn't naughty itself. All women had got
knickers on now — so what did they, when they heard
'Mister Wu', think about? They see what they hide.
They're naughty to have what they're hiding inside.
LAUREL AND HARDY
You'd see Oliver Hardy putting on a
big winning smile, twitching his moustache, hoping
that he'd fool his way into someone's favour,
specially a woman; he would wave girlishly
with his fingers and wink, firmly believing
that would have taken them in, pettishly
brushing off any protests Stan Laurel might
have, for his fat suit and round bowler hat showed
he was better at everything, knew the right
way to get round in the world, as if you toed
the line only by tricks. But Stan, silly clot,
with his tears and his terror knew what was what.
BUSTER KEATON
Knew the thing about Buster Keaton was his
face. The black eyes, round and fixed on the future,
the straight eyebrows that never frowned, seemed to quiz
any disaster, tell it off just by their
never bothering ever. You could measure
just how unbothered he was, whatever scare
might explode round the corner, by his letter-
box mouth, so stiff and so prim. He didn't say
what he felt: he was somewhere else much better.
Whether the bandits were just going to waylay
him or gangsters were sure he'd gone west,
he was sure beyond hope he'd end up the best.
ROMAN SCANDALS
Eddie Cantor was funny when in Roman
Scandals he shouted after a chariot
'Honk your horn!' And he met up with some bowmen
who got annoyed when he said the Britons
had got their pants. And he was such an idiot
when in the slave market you could hear him add
on the bids for himself. When the auctioneer
shouted out 'Going! Going!', off flew the head
of the hammer, hit Eddie, who said 'Gone!' Was queer,
though, when the girls with nothing on were led
to that wall and were chained up. Shouldn't be
in a funny film. But I wanted to see.
THE THREE STOOGES
Didn't care for the Three Stooges, Curly and
Larry and Moke. Curly had a big bald head
and was stupid, so Moke would put out his hand,
forefinger, little finger out, and would poke
his two eyes. You see, Moke was the one who led
though it was obvious Curly was strong. Moke
always made big mistakes; Larry, the softie,
always knew what they should be doing but he
was unable to make Moke see it quickly,
try as he would. But still, I didn't feel free
to laugh, even with a set-up like that, since
Moke's eye-poking, so vicious, would make me wince.
THE PEARLY KING AND QUEEN
In the Movietone News you'd see the Pearly
King and Queen. Cockneys did funny things like that.
down in London town. Would make me feel squirmy
dressing like that. No one in Horwich would do
it, and anyway buttons were cheap, just tat.
Real pearls cost money. The rich had them, but who
would put pearls on their clothes? Boys didn't wear them,
dangling in necklaces. Would be soft to wear
them all day. But because it was a custom,
you'd see the Prince of Wales, too, wanting to share
in the fun, shaking hands. Isn't any doubt
be a good job if finally it died out.
WHEELS GOING BACKWARDS
On the films all you saw was as real as could
be, whether cactus or cowboy or mountain,
but they couldn't make wheels go the way they should.
There'd be the rustlers galloping forward fast,
but the spokes of the stagecoach wheels all would spin
backwards, revolving slowly. They should have passed
it, the rustlers, but couldn't. It was somewhere
else, as if not in the film, and no one
took a blind bit of notice, but I would stare
hard at the secret. The strange phenomenon,
as from outer space, said, in spite of my youth,
it is possible only one knows the truth.
AUDIENCE RESPONSE
When the wheels of the stage-coach began going
backwards we all laughed even though the nice girl
might be killed if he didn't manage to swing
over and catch the horses. We would cry 'Ooo!'
sometimes when you saw Oliver Hardy whirl
round and collapse though the doinck and the cuckoo
showed you ought to laugh 'cause he was standing right
where the big plank was bound to hit him. Charlie
Chaplin always looked sad, Buster Keaton quite
lost even when he was given a party
at the end. And in Flash Gordon it was Ming
who had most of the smiles as the nasty king.
WHAT ELSE YOU CAN SEE IN THE CINEMA
When you'd seen through a film three times in one week
(calling for Daddy after school), you'd find time
to look round. For a start you made a freak
show of the screen by shaking your head: you'd see
all the actions the people were doing in jerks. Or you could be
very careful and watch people's eyes without
letting them see you doing it: reflected
on their eyeballs the film went on. They looked out
through their invisible screens and suspected
nothing. People would hug and fight, kiss and kill:
was as if it all happened against their will.
THE PICTURE HOUSE CHRISTMAS-TREE
Mr. Rimmer at Christmas ordered a tree.
Put at the side of the screen. Daddy would thread
all the lights through the branches, and they would be
looped like a spider's web with the tinsel all
trailing, glittering green, blue, yellow and red,
fluttering reflections. The tree went up so tall
that the fairy on top looked straight at the screen.
When it went dark, with the fairy-lights off, you
still could see all the tinsel reflect each scene,
flashing in silver with each different view
in the film. They went sparking as Matthews scored,
gave a burst like a rocket's if cannons roared.
DETACHMENT
When I heard all the people in the Picture
House laugh, I'd think of Daddy up there making
them. They couldn't avoid laughing. A flicker
through the uncoiling reel that Daddy had locked
in would make then laugh just then. They'd be aching,
sides splitting, just on time. Movietone News shocked
them next, each night at seven and nine.
You got big films the last on. There might be shivers two
inches into the second reel. You would not
notice the symphony orchestra while you
were all weepy for her as you watched her die,
but I knew I didn't have to laugh or cry.
CHOOSING WHAT TO SEE
In a film you would see somewhere or someone
looking so nice, you would want to look at it
for a bit longer, but you'd find it had gone.
What the film cameraman had been taking
had to be what you saw, so you had to fit
your eyes to his. It didn't stop you making
what you saw into pictures different from his.
When the film bored me, third time round, I would see
on the front of the cars such funny faces.
Unfunny faces could be a chimpanzee
or a pig. I'd deliberately look where they
didn't want you to, happy not to obey.
AT THE FRONT OF THE PICTURES
Going in while the pictures were on, if you
went near the front, wouldn't follow the story.
You would see zigzagging patches, pulled out of true,
a parallelogram garden-lattice half-
closed. And then what I noticed especially
were all the jumpings from shot to shot. No laugh
and no gasp when you saw it this way. Flicker!
flicker! — no wonder someone called it 'the flicks'.
All this going on; no one who was quicker
than all the rest who was up to the queer tricks
that the light and the film were playing. Somehow
something very like that's going on right now.
'GOD SAVE THE KING'
At the end Daddy put on 'God Save the King'.
All of the film would be over, and people
looked so sleepy so no one could think they could sing.
All they could do was stand still in that warm air
and that dim light to show a respectful
sign that King and the Country they would swear
to be loyal to, each one still and silent
saying 'The King can stop and start me.' No one
moved at all. Didn't want to be different.
Were some afraid, though, to move who would have gone
if they dared? You'd see sometimes someone winking.
And some always had done it never thinking.
MARCHING TO SOUSA
Daddy always played marches by Sousa when
people were going out of the pictures. I
saw then all filing out like out of a pen
between the seats, looking dazed in the smoky
air, all quiet now all the fun had gone by,
leaving their cigarette-packets and messy
toffee-papers, the big space always growing
emptier second by second, but Sousa
would be thumping and blaring, trombones pumping,
piccolos whistling, kettledrums thrapping, brisker,
bolder, breezier than these folk slow and stale,
who looked like prisoners shambling back to jail.
AFTER THE FILM
I liked staying on late with Daddy after
all the films finished. Hot, empty and quiet,
a big space full of nothing. I could start a
race by myself all down the aisle to the front
to the big white blank screen. I was a pilot
flying to where I liked, or else I could shunt
in my engine down lines where people had been
sitting before. Up on the stage I could sing
and make echoes as loud as from the real screen
though there was no one to clap or throw something.
But the screen had to do what the light rays said.
So would I if they put me up there instead.
THE SCREEN ITSELF
After films I'd climb up on the stage and look
close at the screen. You could move the edges this
way and that, but the strange thing was no one took
any notice where they were — it had none as far
as the audience saw, though they couldn't miss
them if they tried. Daddy said 'cinema'
really meant moving, but if you got closer
still, you could see all over the screen little
tiny holes in a fixed pattern. The silver
stayed the same whether it turned into dazzle
from the sun or a black King Kong or a tank
or a blush or a kiss. It always stayed blank.
BEHIND THE SCREEN
On a Saturday morning they did a clean-
out of the auditorium so that where
they all watched would be spotless. As for the screen
none of the cleaners ever went inside as
no one would ever think of climbing up there
'cept me. I wasn't scared of the big spiders
although Sarah was. You trod deep into thick
dust, leaving printings like in snow showing just
where you'd been, and the filthy black webs would stick
fast to your face. But I knew that Daddy must
go there sometimes to fix what would amplify
all the sound. Where my daddy went, so must I.
SATURDAY CLEANING AT THE CINEMA
I would run and PUSH BARS TO OPEN, and, as quick,
sun pushed beams through the rising dust, turning down
the electric light. Reddened stub, Black Magic
chocolate shell, the crushed gold and crimson of a
'Craven A' box, were now merged by the brush in brown
sawdust. Empty the silver screen above a
crowd of empty seats that didn't face the rays
now. The motes followed sweepers as they walked through
and sparked out into darkness. In the sun's blaze
all the seats seemed to miss the best view
of the blue sky and white clouds outside. A rank
showed the screws keeping the feet towards the blank.
EXIT
In the EXIT boxes over the door, each hole
was a letter the light shone through. What you read
was a space. All the black was a rigmarole.
There were two arrows pointing at each other
all the time, and a mountain stood on its head,
and two oblongs were spoiled, for in the corner
they had each lost a bit. You just couldn't make
any sense of what wasn't empty light.
I kept looking, as though they was something fake
in the letters. I wondered how what could write
with such sharpness was nonsense. There was no doubt
in emergencies it showed the way out.
FIRE BUCKETS
They had buckets of fire sand at the Picture
House, painted red so you'd know they were for fire.
While I waited, I'd put my fingers deeper
down inside, feeling so cold, feeling them held
more and more. You see, flames couldn't burn up higher
when you put sand on them: having no air quelled
them completely. The Germans had a bomb, though,
kind of incendiary, had its oxygen
inside already. Secretly it would go
burning on, sand only a kind of mitten
over hot finger flames, all glowing alike gold
underneath, even though the sand was so cold.
THE VENTILATION
If you looked in the Picture House roof, you'd see
huge tubes of sheet metal, all welded at angles,
that were sucking away at the air to free
it of the cigarette smoke. On the ceiling
all the audience saw were golden spangles
hiding the holes. Although the paint was peeling
off, they wouldn't get close enough to notice,
not unless some fell on them. Funny they'd paid
for all that and they didn't know. But they'd miss
it if it wasn't there. When the pictures fade
out, they curse the projectionist. When the spent
air got choking, they'd soon go look for a vent.
THE PICTURE-HOUSE CELLAR
Down some narrow stairs under the cinema
was an engine-room, lit faintly by caged lamps.
In this cellar was crammed flywheel, cylinder,
piston, dynamo, like animal organs.
One could hardly squeeze in. On the wall, the damps
brought out furry white growths; on the floor, flat pans
caught the engine oil, drowned cockroaches; only gauze
kept you inches from heavy polished elbows,
beaten webbing, brass teeth, and greasy see-saws
fixed to work with the rest. I watched. Daddy rose
on the flywheel to start it, like some stranger
who know how to be safe beside that danger.
VAUGHAN WILLIAMS AT THE PICTURE HOUSE
The loudspeakers and amplifier they had
up at the Picture House had a high wattage.
If you turned up the volume high, got a mad
booming that shook the whole auditorium's
space. One six o'clock, I pushed my privilege,
Daddy agreeing, and took my Vaughan Williams'
Fifth along to hear mystical-pastoral
splendour played louder and bigger than ever
before. But, when the yearning, paradisal
harmonies swelled in that hot, smoky theatre
with its chintzy upholstery, dim in the light,
what I'd hoped for in me just wouldn't ignite.
CARDBOARD CINEMA
From the Mickey Mouse Weekly you could cut your
cinema, made out of cardboard. You stuck all
of the comics in lines, rolled them up. A door
right at the back let you pull them through. You peered
from the front at the 'screen', while you had to haul
each of the frames through. Then you booed or you cheered
as the story went on. But when I tried to
show it the little girl, it was very strange —
just when Mickey Mouse came in frame Number Two,
what she cried out showed she thought there'd been a change,
'cause she said, 'There's another mouse!' Can't grow old,
see, unless you remember what you've been told.
WALTER CREWE'S CINEMA
He invited me up to his cinema.
Ciné-projectors were dear, but his widowed
mother gave it him after he got better.
I had to sit all by myself on a chair
at the front by the blank screen so he could load
film in with no one bothering him. He'd glare
if you fiddled about with it. I'd think how
tiny the film was compared with what Daddy
worked with, so it was not worth making a row
over it. Silly of him to get ratty.
All he showed was a Felix and two Laurel
and Hardys. Had to clap or he might quarrel.