The Picture House/Haymarket/Gaumont

The Haymarket/Gaumont

The Picture House in the Haymarket was the second permanent Norwich cinema and was constructed on the sight of a former bank in 1911. It was rebuilt twice over the next 20 years to take advantage of growing audiences, and technical changes, and became an imposing city centre structure occupying the corner of one side of the Haymarket square, watched over impassively by the brooding statue of Sir Thomas Browne during its 50 year existence. It was generally known as The Haymarket until 1955, when it became The Gaumont, although I've always persisted in using its earlier name.

The Haymarket was built on quite a steep slope with the front entrance on the lower corner where it met Gentleman's Walk. I have been told by people who visited the cinema before the war that at one time it had another entrance at the top of the slope that was purely for patrons who wished to sit in the balcony seats. It would be possible to enter a door, go up a flight of stairs and buy a ticket, and then be admitted straight into the balcony. It was certainly not in use after the war that I can remember, but would have been a unique feature, only made possible by the unusual configuration of the building. I have also been told that the cinema had at one time double seats at the back of the stalls, which were much used by courting couples, but they again didn't survive into my era, although I do remember that the Theatre De Luxe had pairs of seats at the back. When we were old enough to take girls to the pictures it was a mark of distinction to "sit at the back", with many a nudge and wink, but we never had the luxury of a double seat.

It would show major, first run films, and so was always a popular destination, and used as much as the two big circuit cinemas. It was also the cinema that I graduated to for Saturday morning cinema, after we had outgrown The Regal "sixpenny rush", although we were older then, and the attraction was the girls we would meet there as much as the films. We also had a boisterous sing along to the bouncing ball before the films started, and it was a generally lively experience for a time, before I finally put away childish things, and that part of my early cinema experience finished.

The great event at the Haymarket in that seminal year of 1957 was the showing of Elvis Presley's "Loving you". We were obsessed with Elvis's music by then, but had never had a chance to see him in all his glory. There had been a showing of "Love Me Tender" on the Theatre Royal the year before, but that was untypical Elvis, and in Black and White; this was Technicolor and the denim- clad, rebellious Elvis image that had struck such a deep chord with us. The queues stretched all down the slope of the Haymarket and we had to go in half way through the film when a seat became available. We had no choice were we sat, and had to pay 3/-, an unheard of extravagance, "but worth it", as I noted in my diary at the time. The cinema was packed and the excitement was intense, as we sat through the supporting film and waited for the fun to start. "Loving You" is one of the great rock and roll films, and Elvis has never looked, or moved better, in his transcendental portrayal of teenage angst, which struck chords deep within us, that only a fifties teenager could truly respond to. Many of us were changed forever by what we saw, and read, and heard in that annus mirabilis of 1957, and some, like myself, never really recovered any kind of equilibrium, as we disconnected from a social order that no longer seemed relevant , and which we effectively turned our back on as we entered the sixties. The visceral impact of what we saw that night manifested itself when we left the cinema, and for 20 minutes or so the crowd milled around the front of the Haymarket, with none of us wanting to disperse and go home, and lose the excitement of the moment. It was then that I spotted what seemed to me then, and now, a remarkable sight, and something that has always confirmed to me that society really was changing during that momentous year. Hidden in a doorway, on the edge of the crowd, dressed in an anonymous raincoat with the collar turned up, was one of our masters from school; a man of about 40 who taught current affairs. He was quietly watching this commotion, and taking notes, or more likely names. It was obvious he realised something new was happening, and he was trying to understand it; he must have realised the atmosphere in the school had an undercurrent of change and rebellion, and he was, in effect, on a field trip to observe this new phenomenon.

The Haymarket continued to be a popular venue, with a mixture of revivals, and new, major films until 1959, when it abruptly closed, in those dying days of the fifties. I continued using it until the end, and it always seemed well attended, but the days were over for these independent dinosaur palaces, and it was closed and the wonderful old building demolished to be replaced by a department store; the new palace of dreams of the consumer age.

The Regent 1923 - 2000

The Regent was one of the two great dream palaces, the other being The Odeon, that graced Norwich in one form or another for a large part of the last century. It was owned by one of the major chains, and was the place to go for a real cinema going experience, with all the trimmings. It had opened in 1923, and had all the expansive luxury of those halcyon days. It had a large impressive frontage on Prince of Wales Road, a few yards from the Norvic, and within sight of the great Victorian train station: it felt like the centre of social life in the evenings, as the street was always busy, and from the early post war days had acquired something of a reputation, packed as it was with American servicemen, and a bit later the Teddy Boys. When we were very young The Regent was a treat, and very glamorous; when we were teenagers the street had a slightly dangerous undercurrent of violence lurking, but The Regent was a haven from the outside world, where the seedy reality of the street was transformed by its warm luxury. I remember many evenings when the queues would stretch from both sides of the entrance, round the corners into the side streets on either side of the theatre, as we waited to either be admitted en masse, or wait for spare seats to become available. The door would always be patrolled, and the entrance controlled, by one of those ubiquitous, uniformed symbols of authority that were so much a part of our lives in those days. The most notable at The Regent in the fifties was a sharp faced, irascible little man that we called "Enoch". This was a generic name that we bestowed upon all those irksome characters who tried to control our leisure activity in those buttoned up times, another one being the park keeper at Sloughbottom Park, another sharp featured, irascible little man in my memory, which suggests they all looked the same to us, symbols of authority, not people, and their bad temper was a consequence of having to deal with smirking teenagers, who had ceased to respect authority. I had run ins with all of them at times, and once even invoked the Ultimate Sanction when Enoch banned me from entering The Regent, although I soon disregarded his order, which I suspect, he had no authority to issue. Being banned from anything, was in any case a badge of honour among us, as we smirked and swaggered our way through the disintegrating social order of the late fifties.

Once inside, The Regent was all we could wish for: the foyer was spacious with ticket kiosks at the side, a large ornamental goldfish pool and fountain in the centre, and beyond that the wide staircase leading to the balcony. Entrances to the main auditorium were either side of the staircase, and at the top of the stairs was a large room for overspill patrons waiting for a seat, and which in the seventies also had pool tables installed. The main auditorium itself was ornate and theatrical, with much decorative moulding, and impressive boxes either side of the stage. It was one of the biggest cinemas in Norwich with a capacity of over 1500, and showed major first run films, with some unusual revivals on Sunday nights, that gave film buffs a chance to catch up with films we were too young to see first time around. I remember in 1960 seeing Marlon Brando's first film "The Men", which was hiding under the alternate title of "Battle Stripe", and which , in those early, pre-video days, would have otherwise been impossible to see. 

The Regent had access to some big first release films, including the Hammer films, and I saw all of them there as they were released, the highlight probably still being a memorable night in June 1957, when I sat breathless in a packed cinema to witness the first of the now legendary Gothic horror series "The Curse of Frankenstein". The scene when the monster is first revealed is now very familiar from film clips, but on that first night, the tension in the cinema was unbearable, and the shock of seeing that ruined, scarred face was palpable throughout the cinema, as we all cowered in our seats.

The Regent had always been a major cinema, and remained so throughout the fifties, always well attended, and always a special night out; still somewhere to take the girlfriend at the weekend. It continued to thrive in the sixties after being taken over by ABC cinemas, although some much loved features such as the goldfish pool were deemed irrelevant to the modern age. It remained a real cinema in the classic style until 1973 when it was "Tripled", the first one in East Anglia to suffer this fate, and a sign of changing times, as not only the cinemas, but the industry itself was fragmenting.

The Carlton/Gaumont 1932 - 1973

At the time the Haymarket closed, it had acquired the Gaumont name, and this was transferred to The Carton on All Saints Green, although I continued to use the old name, and still do! It had been built by the indefatigable Victor Harrison in 1932 as a "Talkie" cinema, but was bought by Lou Morris a year later, and extended and remodelled. It was finally taken over by The Odeon circuit in 1939 and remained part of that circuit for the rest of its existence . 

It was a large, beautifully designed cinema, hiding behind a very plain front, which would come to life however when properly lit on dark nights, and very popular, with large queues snaking down to Westlegate on many occasions . Despite its rather dull frontage, and attachment to the Odeon circuit, it was actually a very quirky, independently minded cinema, that provided far more than the usual fare of the other purpose built cinemas. In its cinema phase it would often show the same film as The Odeon for six days, then a separate double bill of revivals for Sunday. These Sunday night specials were another aspect of the Carlton that made it a little more distinctive, as they were attended in the main by young men and their girlfriends, and created a slightly raffish and convivial atmosphere which was considered to be slightly off limits to the more respectable cinema goers, a bit like the Theatre De Luxe in its downmarket heyday.

Despite its close association with the Odeon It would compete with it at times, and in 1963 it secured the first showing of "Goldfinger", the third in the Bond franchise, the first two of which had gone to the Odeon, but which on this occasion had to make do with a war film "The Victors". This coup was somehow achieved, to the great excitement of the manager, who sent a van around the city with adverts on the side, proclaiming the fact.

It also installed in the sixties a massive 70mm projection system with awesome stereo sound, a rare event in the sixties, and now virtually extinct, and which gave The Carlton the opportunity to show prints that few other cinemas in the country could show, and certainly no others in Norwich. It rather wasted this opportunity however, by using it for an interminable run of "The Sound of Music", which was immensely popular and profitable, but took it out of action as a working cinema, for all but the twittering old biddys of all ages, who packed it out with multiple return visits, at great risk to their mental health. About three months into this marathon, I decided I had to pay a visit, just to say I'd been there. I lasted until a large, aged nun, unexpectedly flung her arms in the air, dropped to her knees, and began bellowing "Climb Ev'ry Mountain", for no apparent reason; it unnerved me so much, that I felt I was losing the will to live, and made for the exit. 

The other big distinction that The Carlton could offer was its practise of turning over the cinema to live music and variety shows during the fifties. These were usually one night affairs, and would feature people like Al Martino and Ken Dodd, among other standard middle of the road acts. The great event of 1957 that set our imaginations alight though, was the booking of Bill Haley and The Comets, the hottest act of the new era of Rock and Roll, and a stunning coup to bring them to Norwich. It was a great night of authentic Rock and Roll, tickets were expensive and hard to come by, but the cinema was packed, and the excitement was intense in the weeks leading up to the show, and exploded in celebration on the night itself. I still have a programme from that night, with pencilled notes of all the songs that were performed, and it remains one of the Carton's great achievements. The only person from our class who could go was Ricci Valori, who had a family who seemingly could afford anything, but I never got a ticket, something I regret to this day. The other great fan from our class who would have appreciated it was Mick Robinson, and he came close to getting there thanks to an indulgent Mother, who promised to get him a ticket for his birthday. When she came back from The cinema though to an expectant Mick she explained that the only tickets left were the 10/6 best seats, which she thought rather extravagant, so she had got him tickets for the next weeks show instead, which were for Alma Cogan! I'm sure she never understood the unbelieving despair with which he greeted this well meaning bombshell, but not understanding teenagers was the norm in those turbulent times.

The Carlton survived the collapse of the cinema going public, and thrived throughout the sixties, but was finally closed in 1973 to become a Top Rank bingo club, the same fate that had befallen the Regal and Capitol in the bingo-mad seventies. It retained its cinema seating for many years, and in the eighties was graced by the bingo calling of the legendary "Marshal" Pete Woods, one of the many strings to his show-biz bow, and where he worked until his sadly early death in 1996. Pete Woods was a great friend, and a tireless seeker out of cinema memorabilia, among all his other interests, and I still have a pair of seats from The Carton that Pete acquired, and which I bought from him. After he died, his collection was auctioned by Keyes of Aylsham, and I attended , as did all the collectors in the county and beyond, as we performed the age old ritual of redistributing a great personal collection, adding it to many other personal collections, in a timeless recycling of memory that will continue as long as collectors live and die, and new addicts are born. For the record, I bought on that day his much prized signed photo of Tom Mix, that had hung in his study all the years I had known him, and of which he was intensely proud, and which he had acquired through a family theatrical connection.

The Odeon 1938 - 1971

The great cinema palaces of the first twenty years of the cinema had all been designed with reference to the Edwardian theatre and music hall tradition, sometimes even adopting these buildings for their own use, but the thirties saw an astonishing phenomenon occur: the dream world of Oscar Deutch. The name Odeon had been used for a place of entertainment since the days of ancient Greece, and the Americans had first used it in 1905 to describe their "Nickleodeons", but Oscar, typically, appropriated the name, and even claimed it was formed from his own initials as in "Oscar Deutch Entertains Our Nation". What he undoubtedly did though, was turn the name into a byword for high quality, high class cinemas, and, starting in 1928, at the age of 35, he built a chain of dream emporiums across the country, eventually numbering over 250. All his cinemas were large, but, more importantly, all were designed in an extravagant, but elegant, art deco style, that not only typifies the thirties, but also many of the Hollywood movies of the time. 

Oscar Deutch finally brought his dream to Norwich in 1938 when The Odeon opened in Botolph St, just off Magdalen Street, with its car park adjoining the rear of The Mayfair. It was outside the city centre, but no one could ever mistake this extravagance for a local cinema. It had over 2000 seats and was the biggest cinema north of London at the time. The frontage was a massive, tiled monument to classic art deco, that even today , looking at photographs, is breath taking in its confidence and vision. That it has been demolished, along with almost all his empire, is an indictment of a philistine council mentality, that puts short term commerce before beauty, and resulted in the wholesale destruction of large parts of Norwich in the sixties and seventies, and the erection of the "new brutalism" type of cheap building that still disfigures parts of the city to this day.

In 1938 however, The Odeon was the final piece in the jigsaw, and Norwich was ready for twenty more years of unforgettable picture going from its thirteen cinemas.

Oscar Deutch died very young in 1941, and his widow sold the chain to The Rank organisation, which meant that The Odeon would be at the forefront of mainstream cinema in the city for the next thirty years.

The Odeon was much used in the fifties and sixties, as, despite competition from the other circuit cinemas, it showed first runs of a number of the major movies from that period, and a night at the Odeon could be a real event. It was the place I first saw "Dr No", "Vertigo", "Psycho" and "This Sporting Life", films which are now part of cinema history, and familiar on DVD and television, but which we saw when they were new, in a packed 2000 seat art deco dream palace, the place alive with an atmosphere of anticipation and excitement. It came close to recreating the wonder of our early days at the Regal or the Theatre De Luxe, a sensation which I suspect is no longer possible in an age saturated with throw away images and entertainment, fuelled by the explosion of cable TV, computers, DVDs, triples and multiplexes.

I wouldn't go there much as a child, except for a special treat every year when Disney would re-release one of their classic cartoon features, and my mother would take me. "Dumbo", "Snow White" and "Bambi" were much anticipated highlights, all the more so, for being so rarely shown. When we left the cinema, still excitedly discussing what we had just seen, we would make our way home by the most direct route, which led us through a narrow alley into Oak Street, and which, I was delighted to be told, was known as "Chafe-Lug Alley", a name so appropriate and evocative that I've never forgotten it, although it appears on no maps.

During the frenzy of demolition and pointless rebuilding that took hold in the sixties and seventies, the Odeon was deemed redundant, and closed in June 1971. I was there the last week to see a Telly Savalas western "A Town called Bastard", and to pay my last respects to a monument of a very special age of cinema building. Although it remained open while the "New" Odeon was being built, the moment the new building was ready, the old was closed, and then demolished with indecent haste; the site to remain unused except as a weed strewn car park, servicing the soul-less brutality of Anglia Square, for more years than the original cinema had existed. It was as part of this appalling commercial complex that the new Odeon was built, a characterless edifice of brick and concrete on stilts. It remained a major cinema though, however diminished, and did good business for many more years. It was anonymous and uninspiring from the outside, but housed an impressive auditorium of 1000 seats, that could still deliver some excitement from its massive screen. I saw "Alien" there for the first time, and was blown away by the huge images and thunderous sound; and was also there in the first weeks of its existence for the first showing of the notorious "Soldier Blue", soon after it opened, with the staff on red alert in case anybody fainted - or so the "Evening News" told us.

Now closed, it was further diminished by the ubiquitous tripling mania, that  robbed so many cinemas of that essential physical presence that distinguishes them from the other film outlets available.