The Cinemas (local 1)

THE MAYFAIR 1912 - 1956

I rarely used two of the other local cinemas, understandably, as they weren't local to me, and we had a plethora of other cinemas and films to choose from.

The Mayfair was originally known as The Cinema Palace, and was Norwich's first purpose built cinema, opening in the same year as The Norvic in 1912. It was a quite a large cinema, with a very imposing ornate frontage, and marble interior, squeezed into a congested retail area in a very busy street. It has local historic interest in that a collaborator in its inception was Ernest Priest, a photographic dealer, and the man who probably introduced the cinema to Norwich with his mobile shows in the early part of the century. The Mayfair was always intended to be a major player in the cinema in Norwich, and was successful in that respect for a number of years, but never really competed with the large city centre cinemas that appeared between the wars. By the end of the war, in 1946, it was becoming something it was never intended to be, a "local" cinema. It had its ornate frontage tiled over, was renamed "The Mayfair", and relied largely upon the very densely populated, catchment area of Magdalen Gates. It was the cheapest cinema in the city, but off the beaten track for anyone not living in the area. I can only remember going twice, although I'm sure I visited it more than that. My brother took me to see "Pinocchio", and we watched it from the balcony, probably his treat, and a rare indulgence. The other time I went with a friend, and can very clearly remember sitting and waiting for the lights to go down, secure in the knowledge that whatever film came on first it wouldn't be second best, because for the first time in my young life I didn't have a favourite of the two I was about to watch - they were both best movies, and I couldn't choose between them. One was a Laurel and Hardy film "Saps At Sea", and the other was an Abbott and Costello: perfect bliss.

When times got tough in the fifties, The Mayfair was the first to go under, and it closed in 1956. It was allowed to decay, was demolished, the site built upon, and forty years of innocent pleasure obliterated, with no trace remaining, except in a few, bright memories.

THE CAPITOL 1932 - 1960

The Capitol, known as "The Cappy" to some of the locals, was built in 1932 on Aylsham Road to serve the Mile Cross and Catton area which was still expanding at that time. It had a wide, rather plain, frontage with double entrances, and lots of spare space for the all important front of house boards which told us of the delights to come. It was small, with just under 700 seats, and used almost exclusively as a local cinema, with few people from other parts of the city ever visiting it. It became very important to me though, because in the early fifties we moved to Mile Cross and it became the cinema I dropped into on a whim if I had nothing better to do. It was only five minutes walk from where I lived, and with the usual policy of vintage movies, and re-runs of main features we may have missed on first showing, it became invaluable as a stand by cinema if I couldn't be bothered to go into the city, and a refuge on a dull evening. It was a friendly, unpretentious little place that would serve tea and cakes to the female patrons on a quiet afternoon, and always seemed to attract sufficient audiences in those happy, pre-television days. I spent many relaxing hours in there in the fifties, and my main memories are of some key films I saw there for the first time. 

One of its eccentricities was that it showed its Saturday children's matinee in the afternoon, and not the morning, which was the otherwise universal practise. I wasn't interested in children's matinees, as from early days I had exclusively used "The Regal" for that purpose, and then in later years a brief fling with the "Haymarket". A friend and I were intrigued however, and gave it a try one afternoon. It was a strange experience, as the time seemed wrong, and I didn't feel at home there. Why I remember it though, is because the serial that day was the first episode of "The Purple Monster Strikes", a 1945 Republic serial starring Roy Barcroft, and which was so good, I contemplated going back just to see the serial, but never did, and I've still never caught up with the other 14 chapters. 

Soon after we moved there my brother took me to see "Shane", from that memorable evening to the present, one of my favourite films. Although in my opinion a masterpiece, I find it difficult to explain to other people why it had, and has, such an impact on me. The reason I think, and one that had much wider implications as I was growing up, is the happy accident of having a Mother and older brother who were prepared to expose me to movies, music and books that I would never have found for myself at that age. "Shane" is a good example of this, as it was an adult western with an "A" certificate, which meant that I would never have gone to see it alone; but with an older brother who was also a movie buff, I was able to experience one of the most exciting cinema nights of my life. The whole point of "Shane" which not everybody appreciates, is that it is seen through the eyes of a young boy, about my own age at the time, played by Brandon De Wilde, and all the action that takes place on the screen is coloured by his sense of wonder. The hero is a blonde haired, blue eyed man of mystery, dressed in white buckskin; the villain is a skeletal, mocking assassin dressed all in black, down to the black gloves he menacingly pulls on before he kills. Guns explode with ear shattering ferocity, the impact of the bullets knocking men off their feet; bone breaking punches are thrown, sending the recipient staggering; and most telling of all, the awful finality of death. The scene where the actor, my favourite character actor from that day on, Elisha Cook Jnr, is gunned down in the street, had a chilling impact on me. This feisty little southerner who has walked into a trap from which he will not be allowed to escape, is in an instant sent sprawling into the street, which seems to claim him, as he returns to clay, and becomes indistinguishable from the muddy furrows he is lying in. I had seen many corpses on screen, but I had never seen anybody who looked so genuinely dead before: I contemplated the awful banality of extinguished life for the first time. The extraordinary impact the film had for me, was down to the happy accident of being the same age as the boy in the film who observes the action, and whose wonder and excitement the film reflects, in its heightened sense of reality, and the stark depiction of good and evil. I've seen the film many times since, and can now understand its more mature characterisations and themes, but for me the core of the film will always be the sense of wonder it inspires, that only a twelve year old boy can experience; perhaps you had to be there - luckily, I was.

The other great movie night occurred some years later, one Friday night in March 1957. I was sitting with my mate, having just seen "Night Freight" a low budget American thriller, and was waiting for the main feature "It's Great To Be Young", when the following weeks trailers came on. I wasn't paying too much attention, until two young girls in front of me suddenly shrieked "It's Jimmy!" and I looked up to see the anguished, pleading face of James Dean as he wrenched out the words "You're tearing me apart". My skin prickled and I gasped, as I realised that "Rebel Without A Cause" had at last arrived. I knew of James Dean, but had never seen him, "East Of Eden" having passed me by, although some months before, I had heard my Mother discuss the film, and his death, with a friend. The next Monday I went to the cinema alone, I wanted no distractions, and finally saw one of the seminal movies of the fifties. I again have to reflect on the extraordinary good fortune of being exactly the right age to experience some of the great cultural moments of the post war world. Only somebody who was a young teenager in the mid-fifties can fully appreciate the heart stopping impact of James Dean and "Rebel Without A Cause". The film embodied every image and attitude that we were struggling to articulate, and which would eventually change the world in the sixties, although before then it had a major, and not always helpful, part to play in my development. 

American teenage culture was being absorbed by us through its comics, music and movies, and by the Annus Mirabilus of 1957 we were bombarded by the images and sounds of Bill Haley and "Rock Around The Clock", Elvis Presley and "Loving You", Rock and Roll, "The Blackboard Jungle", Dean and Brando. We had no chance, and those of us particularly susceptible to such influences were lost forever.

Two years after the Capitol opened, the adjoining Lido Crystal indoor swimming pool was built, and opened on the 31 May 1934. In the winter the pool was covered over and used as a ballroom. It was with strict instructions from the Council that a licence would only be granted if a clause forbidding any dancing in swimming costumes was included. The swimming pool did not do well and soon the boards remained permanently over the pool as the dance hall took off.

 In 1958 the hall was sold to Norwich City Football Club Chairman Geoffrey Watling, who already owned The Samson and Hercules ballroom; however, he sold both venues to Mecca in January 1960. It was Mecca who completely restyled the building, first by filling in the pool and then knocking through to the cinema and levelling its sloping floor. Opening in October 1960, the result was a very large and glamorous dance hall, and the effective extinction of the old cinema.

 Mecca who retained all their own bands brought in Cambridge band leader Chic Applin. Chic stayed for thirteen years and as well as his residency became a major promoter and campaigner of local bands and musicians. He later moved to the Talk of East Anglia when he started his own agency. The ballroom was used on occasion for television’s regional Opportunity Knocks auditions and for the BBC’s Come Dancing. The decline of the venue’s popularity is believed to have been brought on by the increasing number of new clubs opening within the city centre. There was local out-cry when the closure of the venue was announced, however, it didn’t prevent Mecca sticking to its plan for a bingo hall and the last dance for the Norwood Rooms was on the 10th January 1987. The venue still exists today but as a bingo hall.

THE REGAL 1938 - 1959

The Regal was another Victor Harrison project, and after the Carlton, his most ambitious project. It was the largest, with seating at close to 1000, and near enough to the city to be more than another local cinema. It was built on Dereham Road right beside St Benedict's gate, and was as much a city cinema as a local one. By the time I became acquainted with it after the war it was no longer enclosed by other buildings, as the blitz of 1942 had obliterated St Benedict's gate and all the buildings on the eastern side, leaving us a magnificent bomb site, and a cinema standing alone. It had had the roof blown off in the blitz, but suffered no structural damage of note, and so had another 15 years of post war existence, to provide us with a life time of memories.

The Regal was of real importance to me, because it was the closest cinema to where I lived in Adelaide Street, and within easy walking distance. It also provided that most vital of all cinema functions: a Saturday children's matinee - the legendary "sixpenny rush". It gave me an opportunity to go to the pictures alone, or, at least, without adults, and for our loose knit gang, Saturday mornings only existed in the dark cocoon of the cinema. We would see shorts, serials and features, usually westerns, although the serials could provide some extraordinary science fiction that lodged in the memory forever. Superman yelling "Up, Up and Away" as he leapt through an open window, before turning into a cartoon drawing and disappearing into the sky; Flash Gordon's spaceship slowly circling on strings with a cascade of sparks trailing behind; the western hero caught by the bad guys as always, trussed and helpless as the villain pointed his gun to finish him off, before being pulled back by the boss and told "wait, I've got a better idea", which always involved a keg of dynamite and a long, slow burning fuse. The hero would then be left alone, with plenty of time to effect an escape or be rescued - but that would always be next week, in the next chapter. We were raucous in our enjoyment, and very vocal in our running commentary on the unfolding dramas, when they became too cliché ridden for even our disbelief to be suspended; but we were never bored, often transported to other worlds, and despite our sometimes good natured jeering, there was no where else we would rather be. This dark, isolated world, packed with scruffy urchins, was a haven of noisy excitement in a shattered city, and inspired dreamlike memories that have lasted a lifetime.

With the Theatre De Luxe, The Regal was the cinema I visited most in my early years, and my Mother told me that she took me there in her arms when I was a baby. I clearly remember waiting in a long queue, sweating and headachy, one very hot bank holiday afternoon from about midday, until we were ushered into the cool interior to spend what was probably a glorious summer afternoon, in the dark. In those days, there was never a wrong time to go to the cinema, it was an activity as natural as breathing, and they never seemed to be empty. Another great treat that the Regal afforded was Mr Mathews chip stall that stood in Barn road, just round the corner, and which was a must visit when leaving the cinema with my Mother. I may have had better chips, or better meals in my life, but I would be hard pushed to find anything in my memory to compare with those hot, melt-in -your-mouth chips, with their slightly crisp coating, eaten with fingers out of newspaper, and sprinkled with salt and vinegar. To this day, it is still the only way I will eat fish and chips, even when sitting at the table at home: I suspect my family think I'm mad, but they kindly say nothing.

I also remember a Sunday night when my brother let me join him and his friends - a rare treat he must have been coerced into providing - on a visit to the Regal. One of the films being shown was "The White Gorilla", the title alone conjuring up such a world of mystery and excitement, that I ached to get into the cinema that night, above all others. Unfortunately we got there late, and the "Full House" sign was standing outside, prompting a desperate plan that involved the old trick of getting in the back door. Our Grandmother's lodger Percy worked there, and they were sure he would open the back door for us. Sadly, and shatteringly for me, Percy wasn't on that night, and despite the best efforts of my normally omnipotent brother and his friends, we finally had to give up and go home, a disappointment as intense as anything I experienced in my early years, and one I've never forgotten.

Another great disappointment from those early years, was down to a unique combination of circumstances that again deprived me of a great cinema going experience. I was sitting in the balcony with my mother, an unusual treat probably due to the downstairs being full, when the next week's trailers came on. I have no memory of what films we saw that night, but the trailer for the next weeks show I've never forgotten: it featured an horrific creature, half man, half gorilla, with a shocking hairy and fanged face. It was obviously scary, but not to be missed, and I breathed in awe to my Mother "Is it like King Kong". She assured me it wasn't "King Kong", a long time favourite of mine, but something quite different, and I anxiously pleaded "can we come and see it?", to be met with those chilling words , familiar to children everywhere: "We'll see". It wasn't until the film was over and we were leaving that I realised the reason for my mother's reluctance to commit herself. The legendary manager of The Regal in the fifties was an extraordinary character called Mr Hymenson, or "Hymie" as he was known in an innocently non-judgemental way. Hymie was an animated, dapper little man, always well dressed, and a great meeter and greeter of his patrons. He obviously loved his job, and took it seriously, so much so, that he took it upon himself to tell everybody that night, that he could not recommend that any mothers bring their children to see next week's film. The film in question was the Frederick March version of "Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde" from 1932, and he explained that although it had an "A" certificate, and he could not stop children coming in with an adult, he felt it far too strong for them, and would not take kindly to having to admit children. When I had the full import of this explained to me, I was outraged that he should have the effrontery to take it upon himself to deprive me of what was obviously a cinema going experience of a life time. I pleaded with my Mother all week to take me, and explained that he had no power to stop her taking me in, which, though technically true, cut no ice with her: she was cowed by his implacable moral stance, and could not have faced provoking him. Even I realised that Hymie was not one to cross, but that didn't stop me pleading and cajoling, until that fateful evening when my Mother went to see the film alone. I walked with her as far as the cinema, and it was immediately obvious that all was lost: there stood Hymie outside the foyer, arms folded, scrutinising all the regulars as they walked past him. My Mother was no match for that, and I trudged disconsolately home. My disappointment was somewhat tempered however, when my Mother came home, and we sat by the fire while she went through every detail of the film, scene by scene, line by line, until by the end I felt that I had indeed seen the film after all. Our habit of discussing and deconstructing the film just seen, on the way home, and then sitting in the living room, was a long standing ritual, and I sometimes think we must have spent as much time talking about our films as watching them.

There were other films I missed through being too young, but none that caused me as much grief. I remember my mother going to The Regal to see the 1948 version of "The Fall Of The House Of Usher", which boasted the short lived and very rare "H" certificate, but which my Mother admitted was complete rubbish, so much so , she said, that she and her friend, and the rest of the audience laughed all the way through. I was still annoyed at missing it, but somewhat mollified by knowing that I didn't miss much. Another special showing there that I had to miss was a 1951 showing of "The Thing from Another World", it sported an "X" certificate, and is a movie that still scares me today, so it's perhaps lucky I couldn't see it first time round. The reason I remember the showing though, is that for some days the foyer was full of piles of paperbacks of the film, an enterprising use of merchandising that the always alert Hymenson was renowned for. The memory of those paperbacks intrigued me for many years though, and got my collector's instincts buzzing, because in decades of dealing and collecting, I had never come across a film tie-in, or a 50's paperback of that story. Until quite recently that is, when , in return for a substantial exchange of money, I finally managed to acquire a copy of this colourful, elusive treasure, and so recapture a small piece of my past, which is after all, what most collectors are always striving to do.

Hymie's entrepreneurial gimmicks didn't always work though, and in 1954 he tried a stunt that invited more ridicule than praise. He attempted to cash in on the new craze for wide screen films by installing a larger, wider screen, and then projecting standard format films, with masks being used in the projectors to make them fit the screen. It was total failure, as all it did was cut off the top and bottom of the film, and the actors simply lost the tops of their heads in many scenes. I remember clearly an American serviceman boyfriend of one of my mothers friends, pouring scorn on the result, and his descriptions of actors walking around with the tops of their heads cut off, puzzled and intrigued me for weeks.

As the fifties advanced the Regal suffered the same decline as all the other small cinemas, and was reduced to the showing re-issues and cheap drive-in type American films, many of which I gladly went to see, but which could not sustain the cinema indefinitely. Probably the last noteworthy event at the Regal was the showing in May 1957 of the Bill Haley movie "Rock Around The Clock". This has gone down in legend as the film that sparked riots on the night, and I finally found an eyewitness account of it, having been sceptical for many years. It had been released in August of the previous year with a reputation from America that built up expectation of violence. It was shown in Norwich at the Norvic in February 1957 and certainly caused a stir. I was there on the Thursday night, and the film generated huge excitement and expectation, but nothing approaching a riot. Throughout the film we were clapping and banging seats, and there was certainly a tension in the air as we waited for something to happen, but it was only towards the end of the film that some older teenagers got up and began dancing at the front, and others who left their seats, stood around rather sheepishly, with no real idea of what they were supposed to be doing. It was great fun, and certainly an atmosphere that we hadn't experienced before, but the constraints still held, even though the previous Sunday the Theatre De Luxe had experienced its own mini riot on its last night. By the time the film reached the Regal in May it was already only one of a number of Rock and Roll films we had already seen that year, and its impact was lessening. It was shown for three nights, and I went with a group of friends on the Friday expecting real excitement, but found the whole experience rather flat. It was very sparsely attended, with not even any clapping along to the music, and we came out disappointed. The next day's Saturday night showing is the night of the famous riot, and during the course of writing this book I met someday who was actually there. She was 14 at the time and towards the end of the film all the teenagers got up and began to dance. In that confined space she received a black eye from a flying elbow, and the excitement then continued when the film finished. When they came out of the cinema they found rows of Police, probably called by the management, and the boys, still hyped up by the music and the atmosphere, began rocking parked cars and dancing on the pavement, as the police stepped in and chased some of them down the street. It was not a riot of huge proportions, but for the fifties it was startling enough, and adds to the legend of that extraordinary year.

The Regal finally closed in March 1959, and I attended in that last week to see a typically obscure double bill of "Unwed Mother" starring a very young Robert Vaughn, and "Cry Baby Killer" Jack Nicholson's first film. Its great days were long past, but at its peak it had been a magical little cinema that was part of the fabric of so many lives in those glory post war days. Mr Hymenson, ever the optimist, and with cinema in his blood, later in the year took over the Hippodrome in its late flowering as a cinema, with very mixed results. 

THE RITZ 1938 - 1960

The Ritz was splendidly named, but a complete misnomer. It was the forth cinema built in Norwich by Victor Harrison, after The Carlton, The Capitol, and The Regal, and was also the last purpose built cinema in Norwich, until the age of the glossy multiplexes fifty years later. In that great age of the cinema however it was very much the runt of the litter. It was conceived and built as a quintessential "local" cinema, set on the northern outskirts of the city, exclusively to meet the needs of the huge new Larkman housing estate. It opened in 1938 and served the community well until 1960, but was rarely visited by anyone outside the area, as it was not within walking distance, and had a programme usually replicated in other cinemas. I did visit it on a few occasions, due to a happy conjunction of bus routes. When I lived in Adelaide Street, I would walk to the top of the street with my Mother on our excursions to the pictures, where we had a clear and simple choice: the bus stop on our left was served by the 81 bus which would take us into the city to The Regal or The Theatre De Luxe; if we walked across the road, the opposite bus stop was served by the same 81 bus, that would take us in the other direction to The Ritz. Our only problem was which film to see, and this would resolve itself into a choice between possibly a Danny Kaye comedy at The Regal, or a Pirate film at The Ritz. On that particular occasion my Mother allowed herself to be over ruled, and we went to The Ritz. The only clear memory of the cinema in later years was when I visited a friend on the Larkman estate, and we tried to get into The Ritz to see a Cornell Wilde film, only to find it completely full, a not uncommon occurrence in those halcyon days, and which sent us into the city to find another choice, but again, all the suitable cinemas were full.

The Ritz closed without fanfare, decayed quietly for awhile, then became a tyre depot, which I visited from time to time in the course of one of my jobs. The staff there had found a box of unused mugs in a store room, proudly proclaiming "Ritz Cinema", which had been used to serve tea to the patrons in the afternoon. I was given one, after expressing an interest, and it occupies a prime spot in my kitchen cabinet to this day, one of the few physical remains of a once treasured social amenity, that has otherwise left no trace.