My father volunteered to join up in August 1914. He drove the first tank into the war zone. Over the years he was injured a number of times and only on the occasion of receiving a message that his 5 year old son was dying was he able to get leave to travel to London. On the way to his home he stopped at his brother’s Barber shop to ask “How is my Georgie?” to be told that the child had been buried that morning.

After being discharged from the Army in 1919 my father returned to England a broken and very sick man. He was being treated in a London Hospital for “heart troubles”, but it was not until traveling on a tram to visit the hospital when he had a massive lung hemorrhage. It was then discovered that his real problem was in his lungs due to having been gassed in the war zones. The Doctor at the hospital who cared for my father had to explain to him that, “Had we known what the problem was two years ago we might have been able to save you.”

Later, knowing he was dying, he applied to be examined by a panel of doctors in the hope that he would be classed as a war casualty and then his wife could claim a War Windows Pension. This, when it was finally paid after my father’s death, amounted to the “massive” sum of an extra two shillings and sixpence a week (about 50 cents at that time). This was added to the Widows Pension on which my Mother had to keep herself and three children.

I needed to write this piece of history in order to help a person understand the reason why it was such a mammoth thing for my Mother to spend some money on something that appeared to be frivolous. For in spite of taking jobs of house cleaning, washing and ironing, child minding, etc., we could just manage to survive and thus this cinema outing was so very special to her. Although I was only 5 or 6 then, my Mother told me what had happened to my Father time and time again. I can still remember whilst growing up over the years how sad her eyes always were, but on a “cinema day” her facial expression would change in the anticipated hope that, at least, for a few hours her world would become more bearable, and, perhaps, bring a spark of hope for our future.

I remember very well the day my Mother told me she would take me to the cinema. What a surprise! And a joyous and exciting occasion! I was beside myself with happy anticipation and eagerness to get there. We had to hurry because it was essential to be in the line-up before 5 p.m. as the tickets were then sold a lot cheaper.

It was raining quite hard when we left home and I had difficulty in keeping up with my Mother’s pace, but I would not complain for fear she might change her mind and suggest I return home. I raced along beside her, stumbling through the puddles. The speed at which we walked soon rubbed a large blister on my heel. I realized it was caused by a hole in my sock.

On reaching “The Palace”, as the cinema building was so rightly named, we immediately stepped into the line-up and from that moment onwards I was swept into another world as I studied the posters on the outside of the building. It appeared to be a world of fantasy, imagination, delight, terror and excitement – bringing day dreams such as I never thought could exist. Shortly after taking our place in the line up a London “Busker” started to entertain the crowd. I can’t remember exactly what he did but I do remember sensing how nervous my Mother became, and it frightened me.

I asked her, “Mum what’s the matter”? and she said “Don’t look at him when he comes round with his hat, I only have enough money to get us into see the film. Our seats cost 6 pence each”. We both crouched close to the wall in an attempt to miss the man’s outstretched hand. He pushed a very grimy cap in front of everyone’s face for his expected penny.

As we moved forward I asked my Mother “Where will we sit?” She replied “In the front.” “Why there Mum?” “Because that’s the cheapest seat.” “Oh, what do the others cost?” “Well, the next lines of seats go up to 9 pence, then one shilling.” “Wow, that’s a lot of money!” She then told me that the upstairs seats start at one shilling and 6 pence. This seemed like so much money to me so I asked, “Who can afford to go up there?” and Mother replied “Young couples mainly.” “Why?” “Er, well, oh look we are finally going in.”

On entering the stately entrance of the cinema I was thrilled with the coloured stucco, enormous chandeliers, carpeted aisles and red velvet drapes. We were shown to our seats by a young lady wearing a tight fitting uniform in a vibrant shade of blue and a cute little pill-box hat perched on the side of her head. She indicated where we should sit by shining a large flash-light. I found the seats fascinating as they tipped up and down with a loud banging noise, and I enjoyed tilting mine back and forth until I finally fell through the back of the seat onto the cold floor. Recovering, I felt a bit of a fool – I also found some crushed peanut shells in my hair!

At last the great moment arrived. The lights went down and the program started with the “Movietone News.” It showed people of all shapes, sizes and colors.

People with such weird accents that I could not understand what they were saying. I also glimpsed what it was like to live in other countries and the different ways that other people lived. This was my introduction to yearning to travel and visit as much of this wonderful world as I possibly could.

Next was a feature film – which I don’t remember at all. Then came an event called “The Interval”. This started in a very dramatic way. A strong beam of light was projected from the back of the darkened theatre. In the beam, one of the Usherettes was standing in front of the stage. She held a large tray which was attached to white ribbons around her neck. I asked my Mother what she was selling and was told “Ice cream tubs.” I had eaten one of these on another occasion, but knew now that this was not the time to ask for one. It was all very new and exciting for me – far more than I ever thought possible! I watched carefully as the Usherette moved up the aisle and noted that people in the rows of seats indicated by their hand that they wished to buy from her. They then called out their order and persons sitting next to them passed up the money and also passed back the ice cream tubs. I was very impressed!

My Mother and I gravely watched the “Fire Curtain” being dropped and raised on the front of the stage. I asked why this happened and I was told “Because it’s the Law”. I didn’t really know what this meant but sensed that it was something very important. After this ceremony was over, the most magnificent velvet curtain dropped in front of the screen. It was of a very rich “royal” color. The patterns on it were all a-glitter. I was overawed beyond all measure. My Mother told me if it hit someone as it was being lowered it could kill them. I decided there and then never to let myself get into such a situation.

Suddenly my ear was stung by something being thrown from behind. I looked back and saw a boy peeling an orange. He grinned at me in a fashion that I knew meant “Do you want to make something of it?” and so I sank down into my seat and once again started to tip it up and down – until I was told to stop. The only other happening that disturbed me in the cinema was the cigarette smoke haze that hung over the audience like a transparent blanket.

Just as the lights dimmed once more, one of the Usherettes walked down the aisle carrying a very large sort of gun in her hands. As she pumped it, the most beautiful scented aroma shot into the air. I thought it was simply fantastic and quickly positioned myself at the end of the row in the hope that some of the spray might fall on me. My Mother explained that the spray was a precaution against colds etc.

Finally, the lights went right down and at last, the big picture (as the main feature was then known) started. It was about a young man and woman who were down and out but trying very hard to make a living in New York. Ultimately, they got the breaks they needed to become stars on Broadway. I was utterly entranced by the story and lived every moment with the actors. The dancing, singing and clothes were more glamorous than anything I had ever seen.

Going to the cinema was a turning point in my life. I became a film fan of intensity. I saw and wanted other ways of life. I daydreamed incessantly. It gave me ambitions about things unknown. It also gave me a fantasy world into which I could drop when I needed a break from the world in which I had to live. For this was a world that could not hurt me, one in which I could live and in which I was very happy. I still am a film buff, but very selective now about what I see. However, I don’t regret one penny or one moment that I have ever spent in the cinema.

Photo Credits

London 1920’s – Wikimedia Public Domain

Red Velvet Theatre Curtain – Wikimedia Creative Commons

Vintage Movie Screen Snapshot – Wikimedia Public Domain

Feature Image – Red Velvet Theatre Curtain – The Microsoft Office Clip Art Collection

Movie Tone News On Youtube

Edited by Wanda Lambeth

Guest Author Bio

Mary Piggott
Mary was born in London, England, the youngest of four children. Her Mother was widowed when Mary was only one year old. This led to her Mother working long, hard hours at whatever she had the opportunity to do. A lifetime of “making do” and scraping was the only life the family knew and this also resulted in each child having to leave school early to find work. Mary always had the ambition to travel and has visited over fifty countries. In 1967 Mary and her husband Colin emigrated to Canada with their little daughter. Mary is a talented artist who enjoys painting, writing and the challenge of crossword puzzles.

Thursday night. Nothing to do. “Want to go to a movie?” I ask my husband who is almost asleep in his chair. “I have the perfect one. It stars Johnny Depp for me … and Angelina Jolie for you.” My husband is awake now. I knew he had a thing for Angie baby. And hey, Johnny Depp is great actor who is, let’s be honest, easy on the eyes. So off we go to see The Tourist, the new flick starring the two biggest deities of the big screen. I figure this is going to sizzle. I mean, they are both so delicious looking, how could they not have great onscreen chemistry?

But they don’t. At least I don’t see it.

Yes, they are both professional in their roles. Angelia slinks like a big cat through her part as a femme fatale and Johnny is wonderful as Frank the math teacher — and that’s all fine — but they just don’t seem like they belong together.

“On paper, a movie with Angelina and Johnny should work. They’re both very pleasing on the eyeballs and are pretty good at the whole showing off in front of a camera thing,” reports the celeb site 3 am. “So why does it feel like they’re acting in different films in this clip?”

I hardly ever agree with celebrity sites but I have to agree with this. Johnny had none of the onscreen chemistry he shared with Juliette Binoche in Chocolat and Angela had none of the fire she shared with Antonio Banderas in Original Sin.

I have a theory: I think these two are just so equally amazing looking and equally charismatic that they cancelled each other out. Watching them, the response the brains of some audience members like yours truly was the neurological equivalent of blowing a breaker. WARNING: CIRCUIT OVERLOAD. SHUT DOWN TO AVOID FATAL ERROR.

It all got me thinking about people I’ve met who just seem so right…and those who really don’t. I met a couple last year who were wildly in love, they said, yet they just didn’t seem like they belonged together. Something was, well, off.

He was very handsome in a surfer-dude kind of way and she was very pretty in an Audrey Hepburn kind of way, and the sum of all this was zero. When I saw her a few weeks ago with her new post-surfer man, I saw the difference chemistry makes. Her new guy wasn’t nearly as striking as the surfer dude but there was rhythm between this couple. They fit together, highlighted each other, and contrasted with each other — and the air around them snapped with electricity.

Once, long before I was married, I had a major crush on a guy for about a year. And I think he had one on me. After a year or so, we finally went on a date together. In my mind, this was to be the date of the century. How could sparks not fly after all of the days and nights of build-up? But guess what? No chemistry. Zilch. We looked good together. We had enough in common but I didn’t feel it and I’m sure he didn’t. No one’s fault. It just…wasn’t. For whatever reason, we cancelled each other out (and no, I’m not saying we looked anything like Depp and Joilie!).

Charles Darwin firmly believed animals use a very deliberate process to choose their mates. Symmetry, health, pheromones etc etc etc. It’s a zillion little details that all add up to something called chemistry. Actors like Jolie and Depp, who love others in their offscreen lives, have to manufacture this chemistry for the screen. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t.

As an aside, I have to say that not only was The Tourist overwhelmed with the good looks and charisma of Depp and Jolie, the movie was set in Venice, a city so enchantingly beautiful it becomes the real scene stealer with a charisma that stands alone. Maybe it’s unfair to target Jolie and Depp because they look good. Maybe they just didn’t bring the goods or maybe the director needed to demand more of these two major stars. Maybe.

So go see The Tourist because it’s a fun action flick with a twist, but don’t expect the onscreen magic of Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton because it’s just not there.

And please, don’t hate Depp and Jolie because they’re beautiful!

The Role: The kind of ostentatiously picky eater who hacks any given menu into shreds and reassembles it into a post-modern interpretation of the entrée list. Think Niles Crane from Frasier, who routinely micro-manages orders like hazelnut lattes with “a whisper of cinnamon – NOT A SCREAM!”

The Actor: One of the pickiest eaters on the planet, true, but one who tries to respect that line cooks are humans who might just have greater concerns than whether my medium-rare steak is the precise hue of a maidenly blush.

The Scene: An upscale burger and beer bar, dining with my best friends and ex-boyfriend. While they gaily chattered about their days, I studied the menu with increasing dismay, striking whole pages at a single glance. Let’s see: no lettuce or tomato, obviously; no mushroom; no mayo-based sauces; dairy and condiments must be separated by a vegetable layer — the ordeal of picking a simple burger read like an LSAT practice problem.

Frig it, I decided. I’m going to order off the big-kid menu for once.

Cute little waitress skipped to our table, and nodded through my friends’ orders — no pad or writing utensil in sight. That didn’t bode well. Her smile faltered when I launched into my request: “Southwest burger, but turkey instead of beef, no lettuce or tomato, definitely no aioli, extra side of barbecue, double onions — and can we switch that to the challah roll? Oh, and half rings, half fries. Obviously.”

Round the first: After about twenty minutes, the waitress floated over, weighed down with four plates of food. Three of them were perfect. And then there was mine: well appointed, to be sure, but moo instead of cluck. Flagged the waitress, who ran up, still perky.

“Sorry, there’s a little problem with my burger. I ordered turkey. I don’t eat beef.”

“Religious reasons? Or can you eat it anyway?” she asked, in a coaxing tone, eyeing the long walk back to the kitchen. Sorry, sweetness, but no dice. Sending back the first attempt is practically how I say hello to a new restaurant.

Round the second: After half an hour of purloining my friends’ fries, out rushed a piping hot turkey burger. Dripping with mayonnaise and crammed sky-high with raw tomato and shredded lettuce. The restaurant was filling up and my heart physically ached when I flagged the waitress down again to explain that I couldn’t eat it.

“Can’t you just scrape it off?” she sighed. “Or are you allergic or something?” I offered to pay for the replacement. She kindly refrained from smashing the plate into my head.

Round the third: This time, the chef took no chances. Bun. Turkey. Cheese. And that’s all she wrote. By this time, my companions were pushing the left-out-of-politeness fries around their plates. Called the fuming waitress over one more time. “This burger isn’t feeling too southwestern. Would you mind bringing the rest of the toppings on the side?”

And thus, ten minutes after everyone else had eaten their last bite, I came in possession of the perfect burger. Five minutes later, the bill arrived. And I didn’t just tip — I damn near capsized.

The Review: Two (blessedly non-mayo-smeared) thumbs way down. Aggressively fastidious orderers in movies and TV shows come across as quirky and endearing. In real life? You’re just the needy jackass whose irrational lettuce-phobia rallies the kitchen around a common enemy. And that’s the key difference: screen waitresses are bit players with no backstory, no intrigue, and barely any on-screen dialogue. Real servers, on the other hand, are currently starring in their own dramas, and have more pressing concerns than playing the butt of an overly long gag. I guess next time I’ll stick to the kid’s menu.

Photo Credit

Burger © weheartit.com

The Role

The Actor: As a fairly miffed, if not outright angry, feminist with an urban upbringing, I’m hard to shock. On the rare occasions that a man harasses me, I remain a perfect lady: politely ignore his comments, flash a sunny smile, and pleasantly tell him to go suck a used tampon.

The Scene: A lovely lunchtime stroll through the vibrant borderline-cesspool neighborhood I work in. Said office is surrounded by public housing, a public hospital, public sidewalks — it only makes sense that a good majority of the usual street loiterers have a hard time with the concept of private property. Like a woman’s body. On a particularly muddy day, it’s not unusual for me to pop out for the 500 yard dash to the bank and return with as many as six separate sets of handprints visible on my person.

But this girl is nothing if not adaptable, so I’ve taken to swaddling myself up like a polygamist compound refugee.  And when the dude in front of the 7-Eleven gets all grabby-grabby, I intercept his hands with a friendly knuckle-bump. No big deal. Until one day a few months ago.

As a west-coast transplant, I have one firm weather mantra: “Dress for the weather you want, not the weather you’ve got.” Which is how I ended up on an unseasonably snowy day in a short-sleeved sweater and slightly abbreviated skirt, exposing the only visible flesh in the whole downtown area.

Now don’t get me wrong: I’m not one of those lithe little beauties men hit on all the time. But due to some confluence of the neighborhood and the lack of other street-flesh, within 30 seconds I’d already been eye-bukaked like the last doughnut at a Weight Watcher’s meeting. At one point, I literally looked down to see if sometime since breakfast I’d accidentally changed into a g-string made of banker’s bonds and Vicodin prescriptions.

Still, a girl’s got to eat, so I skipped to the grocery store, distracting myself from my insurance company’s hold music by playing a mental game of “homeless or hipster?” Out of nowhere, Contestant #3 forced himself in my path.

“Give me a cigarette!” he requested, firmly but not unpleasantly. Just then, my insurance representative picked up the phone, so I waved him away while talking to her. “Screw you, bitch!” yelled my charming interlocutor, simultaneously reaching his hand up my skirt.

“Can I call you back?” I chirped to the insurance girl. Then calmly dropped my cigarette, slipped my phone in my purse, and slapped the jerkwad so hard my palm went numb.

The Review: While my life didn’t flash before my eyes in the next 30 seconds, I’ll admit a few visions of my death did. Slapping a stranger in the face: satisfying; empowering; really friggin’ stupid. Fortunately, he was too stunned to make any other moves toward me, so I scampered to the grocery store in relative safety. However, while this is obviously a movie trope best left to the screen, indulging in it did give me a greater sense of confidence when dealing with future jackasses. Now every time I get harassed, I can spin my rings around and think, “Hoo boy, if you only knew the brand of justice I could unleash on you…”

Photo Credit

“The Slap”