(From left to right: David Williams, Ian Meyrick, Charles Morris, Martin Hall, Paul Smith, (?), Ian Grey, Ian Houseman, Johnny Cliff, Derek Atkins, Gerry Glover)

This photo was taken by Kate Taylor.

A personal recollection by Gerry Crane

I was working as a Laboratory Assistant at Ship Carbon, the firm who manufactured carbons for industrial arc lamps and, of course, for cinema projectors before these were replaced by xenon lamps, when in 1952 I saw an advert for Trainee Cinema Managers in the Ilford Recorder.

My interview took place at the offices of Circuits Management Association in Albion House, New Oxford Street (C.M.A. was the management company for the various groups of cinemas owned by the Rank Organisation, whose names were later all changed to Odeon). Mr. Simpson, the Personnel Manager, chaired the interview panel and remarked that working for Ship Carbon meant I was nearly in the business already.

This fact seemed to be in my favour and I was appointed Trainee Manager at the Odeon Whalebone Lane under the benevolent eye of Ted Carter. I remember on my first day I was wearing a pullover and Ted told me that if I must wear one then to wear it under my shirt as the District Manager, Charlie Attrill, would be visiting that day and he wouldn’t approve; in the event when I was introduced to him later that day he was wearing a scruffy old khaki-coloured cardigan!

After a few months I was transferred to the Odeon Romford where the manager was George Sewell and his house manager Geoff Davis, who had previously been at the Ritz Southend. (Gordon Nimse who had succeeded Geoff at the Ritz went on to become head of the Rank Publicity Department and upon retirement went on to write novels using his wartime army experiences in Burma.) George Sewell ran a tight ship at what was one of the area’s busiest cinemas. His nearest colleague, Les Martin, ran the Plaza (later the Gaumont) just across the road where he had an ex-organist as an assistant manager. On one occasion this ex-organist, whose name escapes me, was on relief at the Odeon when it was found that due to a time sheet error there was a thirty minute gap before the last house was to start, where upon he delighted the audience with an impromptu organ recital.

From Romford I moved to the Gaumont Leytonstone as assistant manager to Alf Stokes. I had a convenient arrangement whilst there whereby I had a late lunch on Saturdays after which I used to watch football: Leyton Orient one week, the local amateur side the alternate weeks. The not-so-pleasant side of being at Leyton was the day and a half relief I had to do at the Foresters or the Museum, Bethnal Green. To a young assistant manager the East End of London was something of an eye opener, especially the audience reaction when the projectionist put the wrong reel on! I recall George Baker and Alan Harris-Quelch at the Gaumont Heathway, Dagenham and their conversations Monday mornings on how much trouble they had had over the weekend from the local youths who were particularly rampant at the time, particularly on Sundays. No security firms in those days.

My next move was to the Odeon, Forest Gate with manager Les Pinder, with relief duties at the Cinema, Canning Town. From there I went to the Odeon Beacontree; Bill Smith was the manager and that included relief work at the Grange, Dagenham.

I then moved to what I thought was the big time at the Odeon, Gants Hill with Bill Brooker and no relief duty! However, the cinema was the base for the district office so I was sometimes sent out to cover for sick leave with virtually no notice. One of these SOS jobs was at the Trocette Bermondsey, a barn of a place that had seen better days, part of the auditorium being roped off due to the risk of falling plaster. Another hurried relief found me at the Picture House on the Old Kent Road and again a place of some notoriety.

When I unwittingly reprimanded the manager’s favourite member of staff on his day off, my days at Gants Hill were numbered. I was moved to the Odeon Barking under George Bernard, ostensibly to gain live show experience, although by that time Sunday concerts were nearing their end. I do remember however full houses for Ted Heath’s band and a show starring Ruby Murray with Frankie Vaughan and the Kirchen Band.

1954 was the year I got married and we shared accommodation with my sister-in-law who lived in Norwich. Fortuitously I was able to transfer to the Gaumont Norwich, where under the skills of the well-known showman Alf Crisp I learnt my publicity skills which were to serve me well in the coming years and gain me a few honours. At that time Alf went to London each week to mark the showmanship competition folders for the year. However the Norwich Gaumont was to be an early victim of closure, because the Burton’s shop next door wanted to expand. Alf transferred to the Odeon Southend, where he was to stay until retirement. I remained at the Gaumont in charge until they closed the doors for the last time.

It was then that I got my first full management appointment, conveniently at the Odeon Norwich. I recall it was about this time that the infamous ‘flavour of the month’ ice cream was introduced, exotic flavours many of which melted before the salesgirls even reached the floor!

The Odeon, St. Botolph Street, Norwich c.1962. Judging by the canopy edge revamp and the new entrance doors, the Theatre had undergone the notorious Rank ‘Zing!’ treatment. © Eastern Daily Press Norwich.

When Bryan Quilter, who had come to Rank from Beecham’s, was made Assistant Managing Director of Odeon Cinemas he spent some time as my assistant manager getting to know how everything was done, except that is, getting a queue in, as it was during a scorching hot summer! It was during this period that ‘BQ’ whilst standing at the front of house suggested, “I think you chaps could manage two theatres in towns where they are reasonably closely situated.” And so Town Management, later to be called Multiple Unit Management, was born.

In 1966 I applied for and was appointed to the Odeon Portsmouth in succession to Peter Baker. David Carey, an excellent house manager, was still in position, which was a great help in the early days. It was in Portsmouth that I began to put to good use the showmanship skills learnt from Alf Crisp, which resulted in me winning the area competition in 1974 and 1975.

Gerry, in trademark Library-frames and the last ‘Viva Zapata’ moustache in captivity, receives the Champion Showman man-with-a-gong plaque and cheque from John Bell, managing director

Following on from Bryan Quilter’s perception of Multiple Unit Management I was given control of the Gaumont just across the road on the retirement of the manager Douglas Beale.

The Odeon Portsmouth was to be one of the early conversions to three screens by the inclusion of two small auditoria under the circle. These soon proved to be too small and so were extended forward to allow for more seats. The conversion work entailed regular visits from the team in engineering, Les Butler, projection, Derek Hughes, heating and ventilation, Bert Jones, furnishings; all co-ordinated by Roy Summerhayes the zone engineer and a gentleman of the first order.

When Ken Russell was filming Tommy using many locations in the Portsmouth area I managed to get a part as an extra in the film. Needless to say I was highly chuffed to be appearing on the screen of the Odeon whilst I was standing in the foyer of the cinema!

Another highlight of my career was when Laurie Clarke, who had been my area controller and later went on to become managing director of Odeon Cinemas, arranged for me to be on duty to support John Thompson, manager of the Odeon Leicester Square for the Royal Command Performance of Anne of the Thousand Days. What a night to remember with the film industry top executives twitching like nervous children as they waited to greet Her Majesty the Queen.

I must have been doing something right at Portsmouth as I was short-listed for the Dominion / Astoria, Charing Cross Road, Multiple Unit, though losing out to Alan Harris-Quelch who later became manager of the Leicester Square Odeon. Eventually I was chosen for an executive development course, and worked in the Entertaining & Catering Department before going back to Portsmouth for a time.

I was then seconded to a unit lead by Chris Davis, son of Sir John Davis, who had been with Odeon from the late 1930s and had become head of Rank. I found myself in Dubai to operate with other Rank staff an entertainment complex including an ice rink, ten-pin bowling, restaurants, squash courts etc. The contract ended early and I returned home redundant after 28 years with the Rank Organisation.

I returned to Dubai for a year to help in the construction of a three court tennis stadium and putting on what was then the world’s richest tennis tournament. On returning home I worked for periods in local government ending up working for Fareham Borough Council installing a full-scale cinema in the Ferneham Hall whilst raising the live show presentation and operating standards: finally retiring in 1995 after managing a £2 million capital programme – a job which gave me great satisfaction.

CINEMA IN BRAINTREE

Richard Cooper

When I first came to live in the Essex town of Braintree, it was a relatively small community that boasted little more than a quaint High Street with a couple of supermarkets, a number of pubs and a twice-weekly market.  Already struggling for survival by the early 1980s was the one remaining cinema, the Embassy, which was, at this time, splitting the weekly programme by showing films for four nights of the week and bingo for the remaining three.

Now, more than twenty years later, ideally situated with easy access to London-Stanstead airport, Braintree has extended its boundaries and become a place to visit rather than just pass through. The town centre remains relatively unchanged, but the developments on the outskirts of the town include a designer shopping village, a bowling alley, nightclubs, restaurants and a twelve-screen Cineworld.

     My first experience of the Embassy, as a visitor to Braintree in the late sixties, was to see a revival double-bill of The Wizard of Oz and Tom Thumb.  Being a holiday attraction, almost all of the 1005 seats were taken (333 of these were circle seats) and the theatre was buzzing with usherettes with ice creams being sold from trays and a family atmosphere rarely experienced in this new century.  The Embassy had been a successful place of entertainment since opening in April 1933, where it was built on the site previously occupied by the Palace.

     The Palace, owned by Cyril Getliffe, opened in 1912 featuring films and stage productions.  It was extended in the early 1920s under a change of ownership to Tozer & Linsell to counter opposition from the new Central. There was a café.  Shipman & King took control of the theatre in 1929, and they or earlier owners had installed a Picturetone sound system. By 1935 the Palace had been demolished and replaced by the Embassy. 

     About 200 yards along the High Street, the Central Picture House was also functioning as a cinema/variety theatre. It opened in the early 1920s with stalls and balcony offering a total seating capacity of 685, and a stage with dressing rooms, and boasted a ‘café lounge’. By the late 1920s it, too, had come under the control of Shipman & King. They installed Western Electric sound. Later they shortened the name to the Central Cinema.

Purchase of these two cinemas brought the fledgling circuit up to 10 halls. Prices under S & K after sound were 5d. to 1/10d at the Central, and 4d. to 1/3d. at the Palace.

The Central continued to show films until about 1957, when it closed, and the building was reopened as a retail store. This is still the case in 2004 with the frontage above the shop fascia remaining unchanged (see right).

The Embassy was designed by Kemp & Tasker, and opened in April 1935. It was the circuit’s first new cinema, and their first called Embassy. Seating 1,005, it had a café, stage facilities, dressing rooms, and a 3c/6 Christie organ with illuminated console on a lift, opened by Thomas W. Grosch. The architect stated later that ‘the client was responsible for the somewhat unusual type of decoration.’

CinemaScope was fitted in the middle 50s, and dressing rooms are no longer listed, so it may be stage shows finished after the new screen was installed. It continued to flourish under Shipman & King throughout the sixties and into the seventies.  During these years the theatre showed new releases about one month after their London general release.  Films that went on general release after a West End run would invariably reach Chelmsford, which is closer to London, after two weeks and then Braintree and Maldon (where another Embassy, also under Shipman & King, was providing a similar programme) one or two weeks later.  The main feature would run for six days with a change of programme for Sundays. This was usually a restricted release film or occasionally an ‘adult’ feature. Sometimes the week was split into three, with general releases shown for three days each, as well as a Sunday special.

     By 1972 the Embassy, no longer under Shipman & King, had been renamed Studio One – along with the Embassy at Maldon. It was at this time that the stalls seats were removed to accommodate the split weekly programmes of films and bingo, and the organ went to a private collector. This proved relatively successful throughout the remainder of the seventies, although the new name did not last and it reverted to its former name. The Embassy lettering at the top of the building had never been removed; the Studio One name was only in place above the main doors.

 Into the eighties difficulties arose when fewer people used the Embassy, which was then under the control of the Coral group.  Full-time bingo did not provide the answer and ultimately ceased.  Over in Maldon the other Embassy closed in 1982 and was demolished in 1985. In Braintree, the Embassy closed from time to time during the late eighties and early nineties with different proprietors trying various ways of keeping the theatre open.  It was never twinned, but the stalls seating was never replaced, and films were shown to the circle seats. The stalls was occasionally used as a disco and even as an indoor market, Braintree Lanes, though this curious and rather disgusting idea – the cinema smelt of burgers and onions – failed after a few months.  Films continued until 1993 when the tabs closed for the last time.  My last visit to the cinema, like the first, was to see a reissue of a family feature; this time Disney’s The Jungle Book.

     The fate of the building was in jeopardy until it reopened as a Wetherspoon’s pub in 1997. Once again, the Embassy is a thriving concern, with many original features still apparent.  The name remains at the top of the frontage and the circle seating is untouched. The bar stands in front of the screen, which occasionally shows (in a reduced size format) special TV events such as Euro 2004.  Members of staff have been spotted sitting in the circle to view these, although the area remains closed to the public. The art deco designs on either side of the proscenium have been restored, and are complimented by a specially-created carpet featuring the same design.  The dividing wall between the foyer and the stalls has been removed to make an open plan bar area. Not perfect: at least the Embassy has not suffered the same fate as many contemporaries and disappeared altogether. 

     In November 2002 cinema returned in the shape of the 12-screen Cineworld.  Business was good from the start and remains so.  We in Braintree can consider ourselves fortunate that we have 12 screens to view the latest releases, and ageing enthusiasts like me can have a pint at the Embassy on the way home and reflect on days gone by.

1              Central Cinema

2              Embassy still  as cinema  in 1987.

3              Embassy ante-proscenium plenum grille today (former stage on right).

4              The former Embassy as Wetherspoon’s today.

5              The 12-screen Cine-World.

All the photographs in this article are by the author.

IN RETROSPECT

Notes by the late George Clark

The following article is the first in a series by George Clark, who was an active cinema historian and enthusiast until his death in December 2001. These were published by the Society in his book The Cinemas o Lincolnshire. As this is now out of print, his long-standing friend Brian Hornsey considered they were worth a larger audience.

I suppose I must blame my father for my interest in cinemas, since as early as 1930 I enjoyed visits to the local cinema whenever funds became available. A surprise Christmas present in the form of a toy projector and a few lengths of 35mm film furthered my interest. In those days acetate film could be bought in many shops and a length of cartoon film in a tin could be bought for around 1/- .

Various model projectors came my way over the years including a Pathé France clockwork driven machine which when fully wound drove a 33 ft cassette of 9.5mm film. Illuminated by a 4½ volt battery it gave a small but clear picture helped by the vertical cut off shutter, a refinement sadly lacking in most toy projectors. This machine would of course have been a collector’s item today.

After leaving school my interest in all things electrical continued and over a two-year period I studied at evening classes, resulting in the appropriate qualifications being gained and an offer to continue at Leicester College. However the desire to earn a living overcame the desire to learn and I started working for Alfred Mynard’s Imperial Sound. The job was not quite what was expected, but it was interesting to see a new sound system being developed in the lab. and experiencing the testing of an air-raid siren, which nearly deafened the entire workforce when it was tested in the work’s car park. The siren was eventually situated on the top of Lewis’ department-store tower in 1939: it could be heard miles away.

My interest in all things cinema continued and I watched as the Savoy Cinema in Belgrave Gate was built by ABC, and I was one of its first patrons when it opened on the 27th June 1937. The Knighton Cinema had opened near my home in 1936 and a nice cinema it was, well looked after and a pleasure to visit. When the Odeon came along crowds surged to see this new addition but for me the Savoy remained my local, albeit being over two miles away.

On a visit to Lincoln in 1938, a chance meeting with a former operator suggested I pay a visit to the Central Cinema, which was in need of staff. A word with the manager Mr. Pratt brought forth an offer which I was pleased to accept, as I was not by this time happy, ‘pushing a pen’. I well remember my first day carrying thirteen reels of film up to the rewind room, and being shown by the Chief how to remake a faulty join in a satisfactory manner, using his method of ‘blooping’ the sound track to avoid clicks in the speakers. I was both excited and very nervous running my first reel, as in the cinema business one mistake is seen by hundreds of people. The Strong arcs in use had to be constantly checked as they had a habit of parting very quickly and the light could go out. The Gaumont machines at the Central sat on Western Electric Universal bases, which in order to get them up to speed had to be hand turned before switching on the supply, otherwise one could miss a changeover.

By 1939 staff began to be disappear into the forces or oblivion, as many did to avoid call up. This often meant extra work for the remaining staff. 1940 came and so did my call to join the ranks, and after the usual period of square bashing I was posted to the Royal Corps of Signals as a Radio/Electrician.

During overseas service many calls were made for assistance from the Mobile Cinema personnel who seemed to know surprisingly little about the equipment they used. In Italy on one occasion I was asked to help a unit giving an outside show from the back of the cinema truck, projecting a film onto a screen lashed to the side of a lorry. The film, a Betty Grable movie, was being enthusiastically received by the audience who were loudly showing their appreciation of the star’s numerous talents, when an almighty bang disintegrated the lorry carrying the screen, the film continued to run and so did the audience! I never did finish the repair of that projector.

Whilst on loan to ENSA I assisted in the re-fitting of cinemas in the Naples area. One such cinema in the village of Baiano had been damaged by enemy action; I was told that I had three weeks to opening. After checking the damage, (which included speakers without cones, no tabs, lights, or carbons) the main structure was quickly patched up. An army of volunteers then set about painting and cleaning the seating and floors etc. Meanwhile, turning to the Cinemeccanica projector of vintage years, it was found to be repairable, but the water-cooled condenser system needed a good clean and polish plus a supply of running water. New continental spools had to be found, together with suitable carbons for the arc. Armed with a supply of compulsory purchase orders we set off to scour the area around Naples. After a tiring three days we had everything we needed. Working into the night we managed to rewire where required and even put up tabs and fitted new speakers into position. After stripping and cleaning the projector we began testing and miraculously everything worked. We changed the Italian name to the Radion and it was opened by a posse of VIPs who declared it the best show this side of home!

The end of the war found me in Graz, Austria, where I was voted onto the camp entertainment committee. I was asked to plan the building of a camp cinema/theatre/dance hall. A large barn like building was put at our disposal and we prepared plans for the conversion and were given the go ahead.

We were assisted with the help of German POWs who did an excellent job in carrying out duties they were instructed to do. We completed the stage, PA sound, projection room, subdued lighting and air conditioning. Two weeks after opening I was demobbed and on my way home.

After returning home I formed a Mobile Cinema Unit with a relative. We used two GB L516 projectors and an 8ft x 6ft screen with a non-sync. unit. Venues ranged from church and village halls to private parties. Things went quite well for a time until the winter of 1947, which nearly put us out of business. Bad weather and electricity cuts meant poor audiences and on one occasion power failed part way through a show, meaning we had to return the admission prices. Other factors such as tax and the high cost of film hire (we always used the best available to us such as MGM) saw profits eaten up so we reluctantly sold up in the early summer-time.

left The Knighton Cinema, Leicester & right the Leicester Odeon at opening

(Pictures from the Brian Hornsey Collection)

left The Central Cinema & right the Regal / Picture House, both in Lincoln

After a spell at the Lincoln Ritz, marred somewhat by staffing problems, a job at the Radion (Lincoln) came available, which I readily accepted hoping it would be a more stable position. The Radion was the last Lincoln cinema constructed before the war; built on the stadium principal with all 850 seats on one sloping floor, opening on March 27th 1939 with Barry K. Barnes and Valerie Hobson in This Man is News and Gracie Fields in We’re Going to be Rich. The original equipment was Kalee 8 projectors and arcs, with RCA sound and a Kalux Super Matt screen. The interior was painted a warm apricot colour speckled with gold; the doors throughout were painted peppermint green.

After the war and requisition by the army, the cinema reopened under the ownership of the Emery Circuit of Fylde, Blackpool. Much work was needed to re-establish the building as a cinema: seating capacity was reduced, making it the best spacing of any cinema in the town. In the false roof was the remains of the neon lighting, which after test was found to be mostly working. The lighting pieces were regassed and sealed with the whole being fixed to the exterior where it was to remain in use until the building closed as a cinema. It reopened on 4th August 1947 with R. G. Ascot as manager.

When I first saw the machines in the box, my heart sank, how could such a new cinema use such antiquated equipment? Apparently it was a stop-gap until the new Westrex equipment was available. Nevertheless, the Kalee machines did an excellent job, which with the Mirrophonic sound system gave us very little trouble. Then unexpectedly crates began to arrive and the Westrex equipment was on its way.

With valiant work in preparation for the changeover by Syd Donaldson, our local engineer, wires were pulled through conduits, switches fitted, crates unpacked and projectors assembled, new arcs fitted to the bases: all was ready for the change.

As the last reel was being shown the other machine was being dismantled and placed in crates, as the final reel ended the other machine suffered the same fate, together with all the surplus wiring. Slowly the new machines were nudged into place, wired and checked. By mid morning everything was in position, all systems checked and in working order. All that remained was to run a sound check, balance the readings between each machine, run the test film several times to check for sound levels in the theatre and all was ready.

Home for a quick wash and brush up, a spot of lunch and back at the cinema by 2.30 for a continuous run until 9.30pm. Then home to bed, the first sleep since Friday night and more than welcome. No wonder someone said, “There is little social existence outside the cinema.”

In my time at the Radion I saw three changes of management. The operating staff settled down to myself, Brian Hornsey and a chap called Derek. Though many films were second run, our patrons were prepared to wait as they preferred to watch the films in the comfort of the Radion. During 1959 I heard on the grapevine the long expected news that the cinema would be closing in the New Year. Brian and I started to look at other options: he moved to Stamford and managed a local photographic shop, helping keep the Radion running until a replacement could be found, and then temporary staff kept the place going until July 16th 1960 when I returned to show the last reel of the Danny Kaye film, The Five Pennies. The end of an era.

After closure the Radion served for a short time as a supermarket, followed by a spell as a branch of a dry cleaning firm, until it was taken over by the BBC in 1980 as a base for Radio Lincolnshire.

The late George Clarke in typical pose at Bourneville in the 50s. From a colour slide by Brian Hornsey.

Extracts from a taped interview with Fredrick Norris

The following article appeared in the Mercia Bioscope no. 86, February 2003, and wais the third reprint from George Clark’s The Cinemas of Lincolnshire published by the Society in 1994. As this is now out of print, his long-standing friend Brian Hornsey considered they were worth a larger audience. The second was in the previous issue, while the first, with Syd Donaldson as an early cinema sound specialist, was in Nov 98 issue 69 p.6

Around 1910, as a young lad in his early teens, Fred took an intense interest in the new-fangled Bioscope that had appeared at the local fairground. He toured any local venue where such a show appeared and pestered the owner of the equipment for information of ‘the works’. About this time shows began to appear at Lincoln’s Monks Road Hall, where the ‘Happy Hour’ was being held. This was a show based on an ‘in-out’ basis, each lasting an hour, at the rate of three per night. Gleaning some information from these early offerings, he went on to the Theatre Royal, where he got a job helping the stage hands on the lighting, and often operating a spotlight from the ‘gods’.

The treasurer of the residential concert party was W. Gadsby, and when they went into liquidation, he managed to raise the money to pay off the outstanding debts, and bought the Central Hall, which he turned into a cinema.

Fred, in the mean-time, had obtained a job at the newly-opened Picture House in Lincoln’s High Street, operating a No 6 Powergraph projector. On the first show, No.1 machine failed to operate, and Fred on No.2 started up with the film on his machine, which was a single reeler called Two Brothers, and Mary Pickford was in the cast as an extra. Working from 1pm to 10pm for six days earned Fred 15/- per week. The Chief Projectionist earned 25/-, and the future Mrs. Norris in the cash box earned 9/9d.

The Theatre Royal in the meantime had been leased to Messrs Payne & Seddon, who presented regular Music Shows at 7.15 pm every night except Saturday, when Mystery plays were a regular feature, on a twice-nightly basis. Business was poor, and other attractions were being considered.

The talk of London at that time was a show of Kinemacolor. This was a system of projecting a black & white film at twice the normal silent speed, using the cut-off shutter to apply the colour to each frame as it passed through the gate. Each segment of the shutter of which there was two, one of which was orange/red and the other b1ue-green. The correct filter had to be before the correct frame in the gate, as an incorrect frame in the gate produced brown grass and green skies! Moving images across the screen left a rainbow trail.

The Theatre at this time did not have an operating box, so in order to show this system, they knocked a hole in the rear wall, at the Kings Arms yard end, and put a tin box there. The film to be shown was The Construction of the Panama Canal, which ran for two weeks. When the film broke, as it often did, as moving at 32 frames per second, which is faster than the sound films run today, the film shot through the port hole and into the auditorium. Not an outstanding success, and it was replaced by the theatre’s own projector. This was to show a 30-minute film in subdued lighting whilst the audience found their seats for the Musical Show.

When the summer season started, the Royal became a full-time cinema for a trial period of three months. Next to the Royal, on the corner was a tailor’s shop, and behind the shop where the gents toilet is today, was an undertaker, which had to be walked through in order to get to the ’spots’ and replace the carbons! This was usually done on a Sunday morning. In the photograph of the Royal of the staff members, sits a little chap, that is Fred, and was taken on May 5th 1913. The lessees are also in the picture.

By 1914 Fred had acquired a second-hand projector and accessories, and was planning to go into business as a mobile showman, as the ‘Empire Picture Co’. Having had posters printed by local printer Hedley Slack he set about distributing them in the Coningsby area. These advertised a show at the Temperance Hall. Spotting a convenient telegraph pole at the junction of Railway St. and the road to Tattershall, he proudly and prominently displayed his poster.

On the day, he hired a horse & cart to transport everything, including the heavy gas cylinders of oxygen & hydrogen used in providing a light for his projectors. All set to show, when the village constable appear­ed, and after a longish chat, and the parting of five passes for his family to see the night show, the constable told him the sad news. He was obliged to take out a summons for sticking a poster on a telegraph post! Taken before the magistrates in Horncastle, he was fined 7/6d. Whilst he was there he put in an application for a licence, which was granted on the spot.

Lincoln’s Theatre Royal staff in May 1913 – the young Fred Norris centre front.

At another venue in Bardney, the Unionist Hall, now part of the canning factory, was almost a disaster, for having prepared every­thing in readiness for the show, a matinée for children, very nearly didn’t see the screen, as the roof was made of glass! Fred however, not to be outdone, did a few conjuring tricks, told a few jokes, end generally entertained the kids until it was dusk enough to show the films.

Another show at Coningsby, after plenty of billing in the area, a full house waited for the show to begin. Some had travelled some distance: people from Dogdyke and New York arrived by pony & trap to see this new entertainment. At that time, Fred’s gas cylinders were supplied by Penny & Porters from their premises at the corner of Broadgate and Rhumbold Street, where the telephone exchange stands today. Unfortunately for Fred, they had given him an empty cylinder. Unable to provide light for his machine, he had to apologise and make refund for the tickets sold. There was nearly a riot and poor Fred was chased out of the hall, never to return.

Hiring a horse and cart and now joined by another enthusiast, they loaded up the cart and set off for Sturton-by-Stow. Billed in advance, the show was for Boxing Day. Arriving around midday, they stabled the horse at the local pub, and arranged for tea for after the matinée. They set about getting ready for the show, his assistant set up the ancient gramophone behind the screen, to play music for the films being shown. Time to open, and not a single person to be seen, the village appeared empty! Back at the pub, the old lady told them they had picked the wrong day, “as there’s a do on at the church, and another in the chapel”. Returning to the hall to pack up, and feeling very despondent, in total darkness he stumbled into someone who asked him where he thought he was going, Fred said to the hall, back came the reply, ‘then get in the ruddy queue’. Half the village was waiting for the doors to open.

After a successful show, and around 10-0pm, they started the journey home. Then it rained, soaking wet amid the deluge, the lights on the cart extinguished by the wind, they plodded on to the Saxilby turnoff and on toward the racecourse where they managed to relight the candles in the coach lights before being seen by a local ‘bobby’. They arrived at the Stonebow in Lincoln at 12.20 am. All for £3 10s, the nights takings.

Fred was also a member of the Lincoln Amateur Dramatic Society, and later its treasurer. His wife also a member played the lead in several productions; one such show, Dorothy, was presented at the Central Hall. Recalling those early cinema days at the Central when the Temperance Society presented silent films twice nightly at 6pm and 8pm, at prices of 2d 4d & 6d with a matinée on Saturday afternoons, when a stick of nougat was offered as a bribe to the kids to tell their parents about the wonderful show, and sometimes an orange as an extra on the way out, brought a smile and a laugh from him as Fred enjoyed so much recounting those far-off days.

His interest in the cinema never waned, and in 1936 he ran a very successful 9.5mm. Pathé film library, mainly comedies of the Charlie Chaplin type. Which brings me to the place where I first met him, as I asked to borrow my first film, price 9d for the weekend.

In 1946/7 I renewed my own interest in the cinema, with a Mobile 16mm sound Cinema Unit, covering many villages in the region, even through the extreme weather of the winter of ‘47. I can vouch for Fred’s remarks of “You earn every penny.”

Sadly Fred died a few months after this 5^th October 1971 interview at his home in South Park, Lincoln. He was a really splendid character in the early showbiz scene.

Bardney Village Hall set up for a show in 1947 for George Clark’s mobile unit.

We apologize for the poor quality of these illustrations, but The Cinemas of Lincolnshire was published in our former ‘cheap & cheerful’ format – i.e. expensive photo-copying and poor quality. This policy has long  been abandoned by the society.

A  LINCOLN  REWIND  BOY

Frank Cossey

In 1937, at the age of 14, I started as a rewind boy at the Central Cinema Lincoln, on 8 shillings a week for 6 (full) days a week. This may seem low, but Grammar School boys with School Certificates were being set-on by one local department store at nothing a week, and then kept on if they were any good, after a year’s trial. You know what happened! Another timber store, whose owner was a Grammar School governor, employed them at 5 shillings a week: and he took off tenpence for their National Insurance stamp, whereas my 8 shillings was clear of the stamp.

The cinemas run by the same firm (the Segelman brothers – J.O.G.S. Cinemas), differed a lot in their operating staff. The Central was run by Ollie Carbutt as chief, with a settled staff. The Exchange had George Everitt in charge about that time. The Ritz had Charlie Brown – a morose mono-toned chap whose mother had run silent cinemas in Scotland in earlier days. The pay was small and I seem to think Brown got only about 27/6 a week, but that was better than being on the dole which dominated any thinking about jobs in Lincoln at the time, with several thousand unemployed.

The Central had been a Public Hall before being converted into a cinema, and the box was an elevated structure in one of the rear upper rooms, with the battery room underneath it. The rewind and film store was below the steps at a window overlooking St Swithin’s church. The non-synch was in the original operating box at the back of the stalls, and one was sent down there to operate it when the cue light came on, and they faded it out on the upstairs amplifier when they required.

The Exchange had one of the longest throws in the country and on Saturday night, before the interval between performances when the fans in the roof were put on to suck up the fumes and dust, it was necessary to add 10 amps to the arc lamps to penetrate the fog!

The Ritz was new, having opened on 22 February 1937, and was the first cinema in the country to install Western Electric’s new Mirrophonic sound system, but more of this building later.

The Plaza and the Grand were flea-pits and were run by staff which seemed to have a big turnover, meaning they were often quite inexperienced operators – at one time the Plaza was run for 25 shillings a week!

After a few weeks, I was moved from the Central where Mr Pratt, a nice old gentleman, was the manager, to the Ritz. Here Streets was the manager and a more surly, pompous, and arrogant man I had yet to meet. Here I met Charlie Brown, the chief operator.

Before looking at further events, mention must be made of the two ABC circuit cinemas in Lincoln. The Regal chief was Bill Croft, who became a great friend of mine in later years. He eventually moved to the Savoy. The Regal was well known for its rats. The screen tabs had to be operated by hand by someone going down from the box and this involved going under the stage end, where some poor rewind boy could encounter one of these animals.

Working at the Ritz had one great difference from the Central – the collection of the new films on Monday morning. These were all delivered by the Film Transport Service (FTS) to the Central to save money, and we had to meet there at 10am to collect and carry them on our shoulders or however down to the Ritz. Fortunately, they were collected from each cinema by leaving them at the side door, so we did not have to take them back to the Central. If you had a 12-reeler this was something to carry. I had an old school pal working in the market under the Corn Exchange, and after a week or two of the lugging I arranged with him to borrow a set of wheels, which made things much better. The newsreel was also shared with other cinemas; I can only remember sharing it with the Exchange but there may have been others. This meant the programme timetable had to be arranged to suit. It also meant carrying it across as a single reeler not in a transit tin but covered up in a bag, which would have upset the Health and Safety people of today.

I seem to remember the projectors at the Central were Kalee(?) which were open affairs while those at the Ritz were Simplex(?) reconditioned and called Kaplan ! These were enclosed on the picture head with a side door. The main difference was that the Kalee projectors would take 4-sprocket hole ‘V’ cuts quite comfortably while the Kaplan machines were not happy with anything above 2 ‘V’ cuts. This made quite a difference when it came to having to make joints.

The box at the Ritz was much better than the Central. It was spacious but the house lights and dimmers were at one and with the double-rack amplifier near the rear wall and the non-synch. in an alcove at the other end. The amplifier had two change-over switches when we went over to non-synch. One on the left panel changed over from projectors to non-synch, while that on the right-hand panel changed over from the horns behind the screen to side horns, which were behind the grilles each side of the stage and were illuminated by coloured lights controlled on the dimmer board.

We only played organ records by the best players and most people were convinced we had a real organist even if they could not see him. Charlie liked the job done properly and I had an ear for music if nothing else – we always liked to start records with a proper start and not a fade in. I also liked to arrange the curtains closing after the slides so that they finally met at the very end of the last note of a record; by which time the lights had been dimmed and we were ready for the film again. I knew which note was the cue on every record. These were changed weekly by the manager, the delightful Streets.

Most of the short time I was there, we had several ’second’ operators, the turnover being as bad as that at the Plaza. They came from Leeds, mainly, and often were refugees from affiliation orders, which meant when things got hot they disappeared without trace. Once Charlie was told he had to appear in court next morning; he was not told why, but when he got there, he found our latest second operator also present, and there was the usual affiliation order dispute. Cannot remember what happened to the erstwhile lover: I had neither time nor money for such activities.

But this meant that often Charlie and I were on our own from, say, 1.50 pm till 11pm. Fortunately, we had a café below the box and we did odd jobs for the manageress and her staff, so they kept us supplied with tea -and sometimes they were good enough to provide food.

One day Charlie was sent over to the Plaza because Streets came up and said they had been showing on only half the screen for some hour and a half. The other curtain would not open. He went and I was on my own doing everything. This involved rewinding outside the box and just leaving the projector working. It also involved at the end of a film being on the dimmers and bringing up whatever lights were required, be it the colours or the house lights. Also closing the screen tabs. Then dashing over to the projector, closing the arc-lamp damper and shutting the machine down to be followed by a dash to the amplifier to change the two switches over and then, to my distress, fading up an already primed record on the non synch. Starting a new film, I did the same in reverse. Charlie was away for over two hours. Was I glad to see him back!

There were several occasions like this with problems at the Plaza, the Grand, or the Exchange. This was when the café came in handy. At the north end across the flat roof from the box steps to the steps to below there was the ventilator to the café kitchen. One would dash over there and tell Miss Graves, the manageress, the problem and she would send up some baked beans on toast or something because normally I dashed home for my tea. This was their quid pro quo for the odd jobs we did for them.

Once, however, Charlie was in an even worse humour than usual and when the call came from Streets that they had not had a light on the screen at the Plaza for over an hour he said, “Send him over: I’m fed up”. The ‘him’ was me!

Fortunately I had covered there a bit in emergencies. I knew the ropes. To get to the box you had to go up an iron ladder which meant that on Monday or when getting films ready they had to carry a few spool boxes at a time because the transit boxes ware too heavy to get them up the ladder. Up I went.

That was after Mr Pratt, who was by that time manager there, had taken me in the hall and said, “Look at this, Frank”. There it was – a foot circle of light in the middle of the blackened screen. There were only about four men and a dog perhaps in the auditorium.

These ‘projectionists’ were two lads with little idea of the job. The problem was that they had antiquated hand-fed arc lamps, where there was no centring device for setting the crater: They had not got the sense to centre the light on a projector gate without film in the gate. What they did not know was that there were two marks on the front wall of the box, which by means of a hole in the arc lamp top gave an image when the crater was in the correct place. There was not much film left on the ending reel so having set up the other reel’s arc-lamp I just changed over to it. Mr Pratt was in the hall and he assured me that the screen nearly fell over when the bright light hit it!

Fortunately, the arc lamps at the Ritz were auto-feed and that meant you could leave them when you were on your own, otherwise it would have been chaos.

There was a canopy on the east and north sides of the frontage and on the north section was a 48-sheet billboard onto which it was our job to paste the new poster over the old, every Friday morning. The board slanted from its left side being near the main building to the west side on the very edge of the canopy. To stick most of the east side on we used a short ladder on the canopy itself. But for the west side we had to get a very long and heavy ladder from the rear of the building near the boiler-house. It was a job carrying it, and it was a long way on from the ground to the top of the billboard. Behind the board were the kitchen windows for the café and there were the usual struts holding the board in place. We had an idea after a bit to go out of the window and climb up the struts behind the board and hand over to the front and using a long paste brush do most of the top half near the canopy edge. The lower bit was then done by precariously leaning out and pasting them on. Then we put on short strips saying ‘next week’, which were removed on Saturday by covering them with ‘this week’. What modern Health and Safety regulations would have said to this sort of billposting I fear to think!

One Friday Charlie said “We’ll have to strip the board next week, they’re getting too thick”. The next Friday as we went to work (I always called for Charlie on the way) we went up the High street and met a north wind blowing bits of billposting towards us. Charlie had already decided to cancel the idea because of the wind. Wondering what was happening we went on and when we got to the cinema found the doorman stripping the boards. He had helped us as usual the week before and thought he would start without us.

Another job one often got was going down to the area behind the screen to the boiler-house, which involved going under the stage past the room where the usherettes got ready. This was on the way to do something to the Plenum air-washing plant, also in the boiler-house area. As a lad it was illuminating to hear what was being discussed in the usherettes’ room about their prowess (and otherwise) with boy friends and those they had picked up in connection with their work. I found it amusing but not of much use to me; my hobby was fishing which I did every Sunday to get out in the fresh air. Not much time for anything else, and in any case no money, even after the small pay rise that the job had been given.

Charlie was a stickler and everything had to be clean in the box, but in fact, I got on with him very well and he became a friend for life. Eventually he managed to get a job as a civvy electric­ian at R.A.F. Swinderby airfield. He was so well-known amongst Electric Trade Union members in Lincoln that they had a special meeting to make him an accredited electrician in spite of his lack of apprenticeship. He was there for many years and ended up at Ruston Bucyrus in Lincoln as a technician, and he used to baffle me with electronics and other matters which he had to deal with. One university man there told me one day that, without Charlie, a lot of their younger men would have been lost.

Myself, perhaps I was quick on the uptake or just lucky, but I managed to do a lot of things that I would never have believed possible previously.

Eventually I left the Ritz as I had managed to get on the railway as a cleaner in the engine sheds because my father was a railway guard and his father had been a railway porter before him. In those days you had to have a relation on the railway before they would even look at you. I cannot remember what my final pay was at the Ritz, but I do recall that my wage as a cleaner was 27/2d. a week, which must have been more than the Ritz.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

An artist’s impression of the Ritz exterior at opening in February 1937.  Taken from a colour painting by Stephen Clarke in The Cinemas of Lincolnshire, Mercia Cinema Society, 1997.

The Savoy box in 1937, by the light from the No. 2 machine arc. At the rear are the dimmers with capstan master wheel and slow-motion gear.  All box pictures are from glass negatives taken by Frank Cossey at the time.

The Regal (ex-Picture House) Lincoln, c.1946. From the Winfield section of the Gould Theatre Collection.

The Ritz projection box with the original equipment. On the left we look across the rear wall to the amplifier rack, and on the right we step back to see machine no.1 with front shutter and sound-head door open.

The Ritz’s cramped motor-dynamo room. Switch-gear (and a gas-meter – how did they get away with that conjunction?) with the motor bottom right, and on the right the full picture.

The Ritz as run by Barrie Stead, having been bought by Rank in 1956, run as an Odeon, and then closed and sold by them. It was finally closed on the opening of the Rank multiplex and converted to Wetherspoon’s Ritz. Photo: Mervyn Gould 1990s

MEMORIES OF A FLEA-PIT

19th December 2006 marks (marked) the 25th anniversary of the closure of the Pavilion cinema, Ormskirk, Lancs. Although I provided the news to the Mercia Bioscope at the time, it was never reported. Here follow my reminiscences combined with such facts as I have been able to obtain.

Ormskirk, a market town presently of some 20,000 people, is situated about ten miles north east of Liverpool and seven miles south east of Southport. In the early days films were shown at the Institute, then in about 1911 the Pavilion (known as the ‘Pivvy’) was built in Moorgate for Lancashire Picturedromes Ltd. By 1927 the proprietor was E.W. Locke, of Liverpool, and the Institute had evidently ceased showing films. In 1935 competition arrived in the form of the 1000 – seat Regal and the following year the Pavilion was taken over by a Mr. F. Donaldson. In that same year Noal Orme became manager and later married Alice Winrow, one of the usherettes. The Regal bowed out in the mid 1960s in favour of a Tesco supermarket, leaving the Pavilion on its own again.

I had been commuting on a weekly basis between the Wirral and Blackburn, Lancs, via the Ormskirk bypass, since 1974 but it was not until 1977 that I ventured into the town to seek out the Pavilion. It was then being run by Mrs. Lily Prince, widow since 1959 of Arthur Prince who had taken it over in 1955 (he also ran the Imperial and Palace, Bootle, among the others he had inherited from his father, cinema pioneer George Prince).

The Pavilion was a typical example of cinema buildings erected between the passing of the Cinematograph Act of 1909 and the start of the First World War and was still structurally unaltered by the time I arrived. It had a characteristic though not especially ornate frontage and a rectangular auditorium with approximately 350 seats (500 originally) on a single, slightly raked floor and a barrel-vaulted ceiling. Tickets were bought prior to entering the building, via a hatch to the left of the main entrance. (When the wind blew, pound notes would be scattered all over the office behind !) When the cinema was not open to the public, a rickety wooden gate was unfolded across the entrance. On passing through the front doors, one could walk straight ahead down the central aisle of the auditorium or turn left into a passageway, passing the sales kiosk on the left, before turning right into the aisle down the left hand side of the auditorium. Or one could turn right into the passageway, passing the toilets, then turn left into the auditorium’s right-hand aisle. There was no foyer other than this passage. The sales kiosk was in fact a hatch from the same room which contained the paybox at the other end. This narrow room also served as the office, fridge room and staff room. From the passage on the right hand side of the entrance there was a door leading to a staircase, so steep that it was little more than a ladder, from which one emerged onto the roof before entering the projection room. Also leading from this passage were the toilets, containing just one pot for the ladies and one for the gents. There were no wash basins or toilet paper in either and the gents was always awash with an inch of water (or worse) which seeped into the passage carpet.

The projection room, above the entrance and behind the Pavilion roundel, contained Western Electric 206 (3A) soundheads (with two canvas belts driving a large flywheel) and Westar 2001 mechanisms. There was evidence that the previous mechanisms had been Kalee 7 or 8 and up to 1936 a Culkin sound system was listed in the Kine Year Books. It was remarkable to discover that this cinema, so basic in other ways, contained 4-track magnetic stereophonic sound reproducers; also equipment for MGM’s ‘Perspecta’ sound system. By this time, however, only the basic mono sound was needed or even operational, and much of the ancillary equipment was defunct or had been cannibalised.

The auditorium was lit by three large, rather curious and incongruous Chinese lantern -style houselights, but had no permanent form of heating. The previous gas heating system had been condemned or else the fuel bills had not been paid, I’m not sure which. The seating was in two price brackets : the rear half, priced at 85p, was in reasonable condition and contained some double seats; the front section, almost dropping to bits, cost 75p; there were reduced prices for children. The contoured screen curtains appeared to be a GB-Kalee installation of CinemaScope vintage, and, rather surprisingly, parted in the middle. The screen itself looked as if it had been keelhauled and had at some time been resprayed without the masking having been covered up. On closer inspection, it was also discovered to be covered with gardening staples, presumably fired by an elastic band by the younger element of the audience. There were four exit doors, two on each side of the auditorium, leading directly outside. On the left side, however, there was a lean-to canopy for the benefit of customers awaiting admittance. Through the bottom left exit one could also reach the switch room and another room containing the arc lamp rectifiers, above which someone had thoughtfully installed metal canopies to protect them from the leaking roof. Another room contained the emergency lighting battery. Either side of the stage there was a doorway and a short flight of stairs leading to a room on one side and a door to the shallow stage on the other. The rooms had presumably been dressing rooms for cine-variety, but now contained only rubbish and reeked of dry rot.

At the time of my first visit the auditorium was being heated by a calor gas radiant heater which was removed prior to the start of the film, after which the atmosphere soon cooled to freezing point. After a short time a paraffin blow heater, such as was used in garage workshops or warehouses, was hired. This was installed next to the rectifier and ducted into the hall. The initial equipment was badly designed or maintained and filled the auditorium with fumes which made one’s eyes water and gradually obscured the view of the picture. This was soon replaced by another model which worked on the same principle but was actually quite satisfactory, except for the audible drone and the fact that people forgot to fill it up from time to time.

The projectionists, all part-time, were Tony Winstanley, who was the mainstay, Billy Stuart who did Friday nights and Lil, one of Mrs. Prince’s daughters, who filled in and did some of the matinees; the cinema was always closed on Sunday. Tony, who worked for a Ford garage by day, was moved to another establishment and I soon got sucked in to help. Another enthusiast, Harry Woodcock, who was caretaker at a couple of mothballed cinemas in Wigan, also participated. Being of a rather non-technical disposition and a little highly-strung he could, on occasions of breakdowns or such disasters, be found on his knees in the projection box crying out, alternately, “Hail Mary” and “Shittin’ hell”. Within a short time we were joined by a couple of lads from the nearby Focus cinema at Skelmersdale, then a friend of mine from another cinema did the odd day and between us we kept it going till the end, joined for the last few weeks by David Raybould, a projectionist who had worked there in earlier years.

I often ended up with Monday and Thursday nights and was regularly called in at the last minute to do Saturdays when others cried off. Mondays, and frequently Thursdays, were in those days the start of a new programme, often a double feature. It would be quite a rush to get from my day job in Blackburn via a 45 minute journey to Ormskirk and then start making up the programme in time to be on the screen for about 6.15pm on some occasions. This usually meant getting a couple of reels onto spools, starting the show and then making up the rest as I went along. What with film prints of variable condition, a cement splicer and the adverts and trailers to assemble as well, it was usually well into the main feature before I had finished making up ! If the heating in the auditorium was erratic, it had nothing on the projection room. It was freezing in winter and I had to take the precaution of wearing about three pairs of socks and a pair of fell boots. Evening meals, when time allowed, were obtained at ‘the Grease’, as the local chip shop was called.

We projectionists were all enthusiasts and skilled in our various ways. I, for one, always felt that on each occasion I left the cinema better in some way than when I arrived. The projector illumination left a lot to be desired (at matinee shows in winter, the sunshine low in the sky could obliterate the picture when the front doors were opened) and eventually I replaced the erratic Monarc arclamps with a pair of Peerless Magnarcs which I had cobbled together out of spare parts. There were three circuits of footlights which I put into working order using light bulbs and gels which I had scrounged from somewhere. This was the pattern, especially towards the end; carbon rods, light bulbs, trailer titles and various odds and ends were begged from other cinemas where I was working at the time. One problem which was never dealt with was the two poster frames either side of the entrance. First one was vandalised or fell apart, then the other. After that there was no front-of-house publicity except for a small category board above the paybox window.

The annual licensing inspection was always an anxious time. There were light bulbs to be replaced, carpets to be tacked down and the emergency lighting battery (whose cells gradually collapsed one by one) to be put to rights; not to mention repairing the seats. The electrical certificate was the main problem. The authorities would not be satisfied that the installation was safe (which it, er…, wasn’t) and eventually remedial work was insisted upon. Luckily the local authority made a grant towards this. The work was done and although the lights in the ladies’ toilets and other circuits were subsequently found to have been disconnected, we did at least have an electrical certificate. Another dubious benefit was that the switch for the cleaner’s lights was now positioned next to Mrs. Prince’s seat at the paydesk. Her solution to any uproar in the auditorium (typically on a Friday night) was to switch these lights on. Unfortunately she didn’t always remember to switch them off again. Even after the work was finished the amber footlights still blew their fuse on a fortnightly basis, for reasons I never discovered.

Vermin became a problem. A black-and-white kitten was employed for their disposal, but escaped to what I hoped was a better life. He was replaced by a little tabby, who also had to spend about 20 hours a day on his own. Many times I stayed after the end of the show just to play with the cat ! Eventually the poor creature was given to the RSPCA and I hope that he, too, found a better home.

Other fond memories include the occasion when all the felt was blown off the roof on the right hand side and for a period we had to seat the audience on the left. Then, on a (fairly rare) busy night I was ushering two old ladies to their seats. “But there’s no seat here !” – “Oh, so there isn’t; I’m terribly sorry madam”. Then there was the time that the screen curtains split, due to the rufflette tape having hardened and cracked. I had to link the hooks with cord to stop it getting any worse, but the curtain was never repaired.

In due course Mrs. Prince went into hospital for the first of what turned into three hip-replacement operations (one was a failure and had to be re-done). We muddled through with Mrs. Prince’s daughters taking it in turn to manage. We all mucked in and for several weeks I compiled the newspaper advertisements. But it was the beginning of the end. I believe the daughters may have given an ultimatum and a decision was made.

Mrs. Prince was back in harness for the last few months, but a closure date was announced. The usual expressions of regret were made in the local paper, combined with people’s reminiscences.

The last night was Saturday 19th December 1981, with a double-bill of ‘Friday 13th Part 2′ and ‘The Warriors’, an all x-certificate programme. The snow was so deep that I couldn’t open the projection room emergency exit in order to clear it from the roof and stop the water dripping into the foyer passage. The performance came to an end, the National Anthem was played specially and the audience of 30 or so filed out for the last time. My four-year association with the Ormskirk Pavilion came to an end; it had been hard work, but it was good fun. And daughter Lil kindly confided that if it hadn’t been for me, the cinema wouldn’t have lasted as long.

It could have been my first professional cinema opportunity. I approached Mrs Prince about the chance of taking over. Our respective solicitors were put in touch, but the required information was never passed from hers to mine. The prevarication continued and the lease expired before it could be transferred to me. It was not to be the only time that my ambitions of taking over particular cinemas were (perhaps deliberately) thwarted. In this case maybe it was just as well. I was newly married and the time and money required to turn the business round would have been tremendous. But if someone could have renovated the cinema, I believe they would have had a good business for at least 20 years before the multiplexes encroached.

A week or so later I returned to remove the Peerless arcs and a few seats (including a double !) for my private cinema. The snow was thawing and I could hear water dripping at various places in the building.

In due course the cinema was incorporated into the indoor market next door and an upper floor created which became a pub / club, known initially as ‘Brahms and Liszt’. I believe it still stands.

C. Morris, November 2006 (version two)

Ormskirk Pavilion from Keith Parkinson, St Helens

Charles Morris’s Memories of a Fleapit, Mercia Bioscope 102, differ from my own memories of that market town cinema, which I visited in the 1950s and 1960s. Of course twenty years makes a big difference. The Pavilion regularly played to almost full houses and it was a good idea to book seats for Saturday evening performances.

I lived in Rufford, a small village some six miles distant from Ormskirk. My local cinema was the Derby in Burscough Bridge. The Derby was just three miles away from home and with a thrice-weekly change of programme it served most of my picture-going needs in those days of double bills. My cinema visits to Ormskirk only occurred once every two or three weeks. When the Derby closed in the early 1960s I used to travel to Ormskirk to visit either the Regal or the Pavilion. When the former became a Tesco supermarket that left the Pivvy, which happened to be my favourite of the two anyway.

Despite Charles’s memories, the gent’s toilets were always in a decent state. I have memories of the CinemaScope experience being enhanced by the striking effects of stereophonic sound in what was a comparatively small auditorium. There were other added sound effects from time to time. That is because there was then a main railway line from Liverpool north to Preston and beyond which ran some way at the back of the Pavilion, Although it was nothing like The Smallest Show on Earth experience it was still possible to check whether or not British Railways was adhering to the published timetable. Well into the 1960s there were also Sunday evening, for one night only, presentations. The Pavilion must have changed to Monday to Saturday only in the 1970s. At least it never disgraced itself by going over to bingo.

I passed the Pavilion a couple of days ago. As Charles stated, it is now a Brahms and Liszt nightclub. The back cover of the last Bioscope shows the cinema’s final programme – a double bill of Friday the 13th Part 2 and The Warriors. Later this month the newly formed Ormskirk Film Society screens its first film. Attendance for the inaugural presentation is free. That film happens to be The Warriors.

UrbExers are drawn to large buildings like abandoned hospitals, factories – and theatres. Often the photos taken of a venue are the last ones ever likely to be seen before demolition or internal destruction beyond recognition.

The Society are grateful to the site www.exploremanchester.co.uk for giving us permission to publish a number of photographs taken of an incursion into the derelict Manchester Odeon, the original 2,920 seat Paramount Theatre of 1930. The CTA broke the story of how much of the decorative interior plasterwork had been stripped out (to minimise the risk of re-listing) and these photos collaborate this (but also show that much remains).

The photographers were not intimately acquainted with the building before their visit so have not always been in a position to clarify where the photos were taken inside. The commentary is therefore speculative based on the Webmaster’s intimate knowledge of the similar 1931 Paramount Newcastle.

The original building had three audience levels (two balconies) and over the last thirty years or so was progressively carved up into seven screens. Here are the details from Odeon Cinemas: From J. Arthur Rank to the Multiplex:

Opened 10 June 30. Architects: Sam Beverley & Frank Verity. 2,920 seats.
To Odeon 27 Nov 39. Re-named 8 April 40.
By 1966: 2,737 seats.
Closed 21 July 73.
Re-opened 25 Jan 74 – 1,030 (2: ex-stalls), 1: 629 ex-circle
10 June 79 – 3rd screen in mezzanine
1992 – ex-stalls (No 2) closed for tripling + on-stage & ex-restaurant screens:
So:
3 in former stalls – 326, 145, 142
1 in former circle – 629
1 in former mzzanine 211
1 on stage – 97
1 in former basement restaurant – 97

Closed 2 Sept 04.

Note that all photographs are taken using improvised lighting conditions and are presented in camera sequence order. Because there are a large number of photographs which would make the page slow to load, please click on the read the rest of this entry below to unfurl the posting.

We start in the main lobby, looking towards the street doors which are boarded up on the outside.

One of the two mini-cinemas constructed in the rear stalls area.

This is thought to be the larger screen in the front stalls area, seats mostly stripped out.

The other rear stalls mini-cinema, smaller than the one next door.

We now move on to the Boiler House. These modern gas fired systems replace a pair of large Lancashire Boilers that were originally coal fired and then converted to fuel oil.

A typical backstage corridor, this one probably underground.

Some curious structural steelwork in the basement. Note the concrete footer for the upright, the angled girders appear to be providing some form of lateral bracing.

We are now in the Plenum Chamber. A cast iron column in the foreground (or possibly a steam pipe), a belt driven impellor fan beyond. The safety guard would have been added at a later date. There are several photos taken in the Plenum area.

Photos looking up and down Oxford Street

There are a few more miscellaneous views at the end of the sequence, possibly from another camera:

A staff closing day behind the scenes “in joke”

There is one other image of the circle foyer, exposed to show the extent of the plasterwork stripout. It is credited “converse1″. Note that the lights are on in this photograph.

(Photos courtesy of http://www.exploremanchester.co.uk )

Photos by Mervyn Gould.

Committee members (Left to Right)- Ian Grey (Treasurer/Webmaster), Paul Smith (Bioscope Editor) Frank Wright, Frank Manders, Kate Taylor (Chairman).

More photos, taken by Ian Grey can be found on his Weblog here and here.