The Big Whatsit

It’s the debate that has raged in many cinemagoer’s head - fleapits, or multiplexes? The purist in me argues that I grew up on the former, and there’s something slightly magical about them that today’s 2,000-screen monstrosities just doesn’t have, whether that’s backrow seats built for two, some architectural/design wonder, or simply being the only places to still sell Kia Ora. Multiplexes can retort in almost deafening fashion, thanks to their top of the range surround sound systems, not to mention their more comfortable seats, bewildering range of drinks and confectionary, and the sheer choice they offer to any visitor.

Either choice is fraught with good and bad points, but like many people in their thirties, I grew up with small, one-screen fleapits, and my natural inclination is to look back at those early moviegoing days kindly. As a child, my ‘local’ was the Regent in Redcar, a dilapidated theatre on the sea front that, for a time, was never certain to be open or closed. Its catacombs were the stuff of youthful legend as they were rumoured to be the haunt of glue sniffers and a place to which you could take the ‘looser’ local girls. The cinema itself never showed films as they were released. You either had to wait several weeks for it to obtain a copy, or go to Middlesbrough’s ABC on Linthorpe Road instead, which seemed to be a temple of celluloid, thanks to its three (three!) screens and thus a choice of entertainment.

The Regent cost a pound per ticket during the mid-eighties, so lord knows what it charged beforehand. By today’s standards, it was ridiculously cheap, and so was the grub, served from a single kiosk next to the box office, and from where you could procure your Kia Ora, maltesers and wine gums. Upon admittance, you could choose to sit in the stalls (the seats to either side of the walkway were smoking areas), or pay a bit extra to watch your movie from the ‘circle.’ The curtains pulled apart - no idea what this obsession with curtains was all about, but I sort of miss them - and your programme started with a ’second’ film, which was usually some fifteen-minute montage of clips showing people bulfighting, or arsing around on motorbikes. If you were really lucky, you got an animated short instead, though this was normally some surreallist bobbins that might have provoked critical jizz from older viewers, but meant nothing to us kids. Afterwards came a series of Pearl and Dean fronted adverts, generally for local places, and produced as cheaply as possible. The one I remember best was for the only curry house within fifty miles of the cinema, which showed an Asian waiter smiling on benignly as a Ferrero Rocher couple tucked into what can only be described as a large turd resting on a bed of rice.

Once the trailers had been and gone, the lights came up and the curtains closed again with a waft of dust for those unlucky enough to be sat in the front row. You then had to hang around for ten minutes for patrons to make use of the conveniences, whilst some poor staff members waited at the end of each aisle selling choc ices and glamorous beyond belief Cornettoes to a steady queue of punters. Why people simply didn’t buy these things when they entered the cinema is a mystery to me, and presumably part of a ritual that had lingered on in cinemaland since time immemorial. In any case, once all that was over with, the lights would slowly dim, meaning the main feature was about to start. There were no requests to leave mobile phones switched off, no ‘illegal copies’ warnings, both practices remaining firmly in the future. All we got was the card from the BBFC, and then it was straight on to the flick, a mere forty minutes after you had taken your seat.

Mine parents have told me about a misty-eyed era when you could visit the cinema whenever you liked. Halfway through the movie? No problem - you simply sat and waited for the next show to start. It’s at this point that my mum would wink and say ‘We didn’t see much of it anyway,’ a comment I didn’t really want to have anything to do with. In any case, many of the above traditions have since been eroded away, much like the fleapits themselves. Multiplexes don’t bother with curtains. They wouldn’t consider stopping the film for the purchase of choc ices, and the shorts have mercifully been done away with, unless you go to see a Pixar film, in which case they’re often as good as the main feature. I remember when the Regent reopened after optimistic new owners plugged money back into it. The first feature was E.T., which was being shown just a year after its release. On Saturday mornings, the cinema put on a special matinee for kids, which was a hopeless succession of dull Children’s Film Foundation fodder about kids on bikes foiling jewel thieves in Amsterdam, though the Regent knew what it was doing, saving CFF serial, Chico the Rainmaker, until last. A cult favourite for all the wrong reasons, and hopelessly politically incorrect, the story concerned Chicopacobacowana, a shrunken head from a long forgotten Amazon tribe that came to life and possessed the amazing power to ‘make-a da rain.’ The head’s owners were some plucky kids who, you guessed it, were chased by thieves who wanted Chico’s talents for themselves. And yes, that is a young Leslie Ash in the photo, together with the lifeless head, and, er, Chico.

The longest queue I ever saw at the Regent was for Ghostbusters, and I first broke the law by going to see Gremlins, which scandalously had been given a 15 certificate. I was 12. A few years later, I’d break it again, this time to take in the 18-rated sexfest, Scandal. On one occasion, some mates and I found a way to break into the cinema through a back entrance and catch a movie for free. I did it once, having spent the film’s running time consumed with guilt, convinced that at some point that the lights would go on followed by a nervous manager taking to the stage and explaining to his audience that the police were waiting in the foyer.

But was the Regent really any good? My memories are all about the rites of passage that involved it, or the films that I saw there, the best of which was surely Back to the Future. Apparently, it’s still on the go, now run by a lad I went to school with, who’s enough of a Star Wars enthusiast that at night time, an image of C3-P0 appears on one of the walls. But it’s a labour of love, the sort of personal commitment that few fleapits can afford to offer. When I moved to Manchester, the choices were Cine City in Withington, or the Tatton in Gatley, which was the slightly nicer choice, though harder to access. Neither is open anymore, though in both cases little had been done with the buildings when I last had an opportunity to check. It’s as though both are waiting for a kindly new owner, one with an unbridled love of cinema over common sense. Cine City was admittedly awful, though it did have seats on the back row that were double-sized, which I think was a lovely touch. Amorous patrons might have been put off by the fact the men’s toilets were right behind them, however, little more than an open sewer that smelled as if materials like bleach were inventions of the future.

The alternative to these were the multiplexes that had spring up at Belle Vue and Salford Quays, and the Odeon on Oxford Road. It was easy to get to the latter. A quick bus into town did the job. As for the others, the journey was difficult without a car, and sadly, these were the shape of things to come, as the massive cinema complexes that have sprung up since then all tend to be built on out of town retail estates that aren’t, in all truth, located with public transport dependents in mind. Since moving to Rochdale, I had to get taxis to and from the Odeon in Sandbrook Park if I was desperate enough to catch a movie. A car has changed all that, of course, but I remember wondering if it was really worth going to see something like Troy, if the trip’s cost was doubled thanks to £6 taxi fares each way.

For all that, I find multiplexes something of a guilty pleasure. True, there’s something vulgar about the way they mark all their exits clearly enough to declare ‘After you’ve seen the film, please fuck off as quickly as possible to let the next herd in.’ Neither do I like the fact that the adverts no longer seem to support local businesses, instead showing the usual guff for cars, perfume and various big name brands that you can see during the commercial breaks on your telly. I appreciate there are legitimate reasons for both the above, but find it a pity that I could go to a multiplex in Aberdeen or Truro, and they’ll look the same, play identical adverts and offer the same confectionary. Any localised character these places might have has been sucked out, instead offering an anodyone experience that’s centred around shipping punters in and out of the building as briskly and neatly as possible.

But that’s the downside. It’s easy to forget, as I wax lyrical about my fond childhood memories, that the Regent was very cold, in no way compensating for the fact it basically faced the North Sea. Air conditioning was non-existent, and in response to complaints the cinema installed a range of fan heaters that meant you could occasionally take your coat off, but you might not hear the movie all that well. The seats were dilapidated and uncomfortable, the management no doubt reckoning that punters wouldn’t be too concerned about the exposed chair stuffing, vermin problems and the accumulated dirt of a thousand spilled Kia Ora containers because, hey, it was dark in there, right? In terms of sound quality, the Regent simply couldn’t hope to match the systems offered by multiplexes. Add to that the background chorus of pops and other damage, and it was a little like comparing a much-played vinyl record to a brand new CD. The picture wasn’t all that good either, often showing signs of colour fade, and serious contrast problems.

Multiplexes generally don’t have these problems, offering perfect comfort to the viewer and crystal clear images featuring top drawer surround sound. Their features are as the filmmaker intended them to be, and it’s virtually impossible, as I sat back in my reclining chair to watch Hot Fuzz at the Odeon last Saturday, to imagine going back to the fleapit experiences of yore. We had coke and popcorn, which meant more to the cinema in cold profit than our tickets did, and if we didn’t like the movie we might even have gone straight back to the box office and paid to see something on one of the other eleven screens.

I’m sorry. I know that fleapits meant a lot more in the general scheme of things, that they had a degree of character and warmth (not literally, mind) that your AMCs, IMAXs, Warner Villages and Showcases will never - and are not even trying to - possess. Multiplexes are all about money, and I agree it’s terrible that they charge £2.50 for a bag of Dorito’s when you could get them from Asda for under a quid. I accept all that, and I admit I am weak. But in terms of quality, there’s no comparison, though by all accounts the Regent now boasts Dolby Surround Sound. Hmm, maybe when I go back to Redcar…