The lights came on in the picture house, a dim yellow glow at first, increasing slowly, as the film ended, and was replaced by film of the young Queen Elizabeth, on horseback, saluting her troops, as the National Anthem struck up. Loud banging signified warm seats being upturned and the iron bars of the side doors being opened for the crowd to spill out onto the street. The world of cosy, cinema illusion was giving way to a cold draught of damp Lancashire air, and the opening doors revealed yellow street lamps, falling drizzle and a blue-black sky.
The Majestic cinema was a popular venue for the people of this northern town, as were the other two cinemas up the road. It showed two features every three or four days, mainly American films – this was the 1950s – and with television still a rarity among the working class population, going to the pictures was the main form of entertainment.
The Majestic was BBC to the Carlton’s ITV feel, while the Theatre Royal felt exactly that, a theatre, and bit more up-market. When I think about it now, the Majestic auditorium was just a great box of seats on an incline, but the entrance to this dark world and the stage itself all induced a sense of awe in the filmgoer.
Front of house was a wide entrance with a marble floor. Box office was plate glass and three-sided. As for the corridor leading down to the auditorium, this was red carpet, highly polished wooden panelling and photographs of American film stars, smiling at you as you went by.
The stage was huge, with a great sweep of dark red curtain that would silently swish back to reveal the screen on to which would be projected the great stories of romance and violence to enthral the watching crowd. This was the world of John Wayne and Clark Gable and Rock Hudson, of Ava Gardner and Doris Day.
The only other building that could compare was the local church that I attended weekly. It too had a grand entrance porch, with window views of the interior, and two doors either side by which to enter the holy of holies. Inside, like the cinema, it was a box of seats all in rows, right up to the front where the sanctuary began.
At the sanctuary, instead of curtains, there were the altar rails to screen off the auditorium from the place of action, the high altar and the tabernacle. Only the stars of the show entered this sanctuary, the priest and the altar boys. Around the church, especially near the back, as you came in, there were statues of saints, Patrick, Teresa, Joseph, Mary. These were the holy film stars, smiling on you as you entered the God’s house.
These two buildings competed in my mind for attention. Which one gave me the right view of the world? The Majestic was fun and excitement. The church was serious but inspiring, and the actual world I lived in was just more ordinary.
I resisted the lure of the cinema. It somehow did not inspire trust. I followed the church and put my trust there. But far too soon, and I was trapped in it for years.
There is a lot to be said for ordinary life and damp Lancashire skies
Erris Poetry 