my universe
2003-11-25
"No matter how long we exist, we have our memories - points in time which time itself cannot erase. Suffering may distort my backward glances, but even to suffering, some memories will yield nothing of their beauty or their splendour. Rather they remain as hard as gems."
-Anne Rice, "Blood and Gold'
For some strange, wonderful reason, I was reminded tonight of a particularly special time in my childhood. During this period, I was probably aged somewhere between eight or nine years old. It was way back into our earlier days here in Adelaide. Mum was still working as a cleaner back then, trying to support two kids and retain her pride by piecing together a few odd jobs to supplement the family benefits payments. You might be wondering by now why I referred to this time in my childhood as ‘particularly special’. It was special because it constituted the ephemeral peak of my tenure as a child. During those years, I was truly a kid, completely embroiled in the ways of childhood.
I can vividly remember mum’s cleaning jobs. In the school holidays, I would often come along to ‘help’ her out and I never tired of exploring the vast world of other people’s houses. Don’t get me wrong, I never pried and ventured into people’s bedrooms; I was always a restrained child. Besides, I never needed to. I usually only sat at the kitchen table or played in the backyard, but that was enough to get a feel for the people who lived there. I never saw the owners, but the houses themselves were the outward reflections of their lives. I can clearly remember trying to imagine what they looked like and who they were just by looking at their homes.
Every house had its special attraction. In one house, it was the great, sprawling walnut tree that shed its fruits on the soft, green winter grass beyond the peeling French doors. In another, it was the lurid canary yellow kitchen and the retro 1950s décor. Perhaps the best house was the one with the fairytale back garden: concrete stepping stones leading to an old fountain filled with the sequined glitter of dozens of goldfish; a rusty park bench beneath a weeping willow, and countless cats basking in the afternoon sun or hiding underneath the house. I’d find these special things and gravitate towards them. I’d take in the strange smells and wonder at the personal meaning of the countless ornaments and knickknacks that occupied shelves and ledges, all the while taking these impressions and adding them to the pictures I had in my mind of how these people looked and lived.
But as much as I loved encountering that weird and wonderful universe and marveling at how people could possibly make so much mess in a week (or grow icky green mould in their refrigerators and leave the grimy, oily water in the bathtub for god knows how long), none of that compared to mum’s ultimate cleaning destination. Michael and I both loved it. In fact, it was our favourite haunt during the school holidays. The time we spent there still recalls long lost feelings of magic and adventure.
That most favourite of all places was a small, independent cinema on the outskirts of the city called the Capri. Just looking at it made you feel as though you'd stepped back into the 1940s or 50s. The building hadn't changed much since that time. It still had the old-fashioned façade, with the imitation marble steps leading to a row of double doors. Usually, the outer side walls of the older cinemas – which aren’t really visible from the front - are drab, even a bit decrepit, but painted on one of the walls of this cinema was a huge mural of actors and movies from the past.
Inside, it was even better. The foyer – if I can remember – still had the original carpet (as evidenced by a few worn patches here and there) and the ticket box - a crème, solid brick booth decorated by a central square of amber glass tiles - hadn't changed from the earlier days either. Even the candybar, with its peach and green formica counter and the benches and stools facing the window, remained relatively unchanged.
The whole place only had one cinema, split into two levels – upstairs (for the general public) and downstairs (for functions and matinees). The staircase leading to the upper level was a white imitation marble. If I remember correctly, I think the first few steps were wide and tapered, and the balusters were a beautiful milky ivory. I remember how it made me feel as though I were a princess ascending a royal staircase in my fairytale palace.
I always felt that way when I visited the Capri. As soon as you stepped on to the second floor, you certainly felt as though you’d been transported to another world. The original carpet still covered the floor up there as well - an intricate floral pattern against a rich burgundy background – and the windows of the foyer were covered by long, heavy drapes of a similar burgundy, trimmed with a golden weave and scalloped at top and bottom. If I recall, the walls were a crème stucco and a very 1950s art deco cornice pattern bordered the ceiling. Even the toilet doors were old fashioned, with brass doorknobs and the words: ‘ladies’ and ‘gents’ painted in cursive below respective silhouettes of a woman with a feather in her hat and a cigarette in her gloved hand, and a man in a top-hat.
But what always enchanted me the most was the cinema itself. The upstairs section had the old leather seats - which granted, weren't all that comfortable - but they were still divided into the original sections. The seats nearest the balcony were plush and padded, whereas the ones closer to the projection room were a little skimpier – an artefact from the days of first class seating in cinemas. But what was extra special about that cinema was its ‘key attraction’: an organ that rose up onto a stage in front of the big screen. I don’t know if they still use it today, but I did manage to see it being played on a few occasions. The organ would emerge from below stage a few minutes before a feature. An old lady would be seated at its keys, which was a bit of a bizarre sight. As the organ and the lady rose from beneath the stage like a musical phantom, the huge curtains on either side of the projection screen would slide open to reveal a pair of 10 to 15 metre high windows which displayed the massive pipes and architecture of the organ, lit up in the colours of the rainbow. It was a very odd but nevertheless nostalgic sight, almost like viewing the cross-section of a giant music box.
I’ll never forget the days spent helping mum out at that cinema. It was a kid’s dream come true. The manager, who was Michael’s absolute favourite person in the world, let us sneak into the downstairs section of the cinema whenever a movie was on that we liked. No one upstairs could see us and I remember that when “Jurassic Park” screened, we watched every session that was ever on while we there. I think we must have seen it about fifteen times. No matter how much we both tried to prepare ourselves for it mentally, every single time the raptor let forth its chilling scream, Michael and I would jump in fear.
I remember that we were also allowed to help ourselves to the drinks in the candybar. I can still recall the selection: Schweppes cola, pineapple, orange and lemon mineral water, lemonade, chocolate and strawberry milk boxes, and – my favourite – ginger beer. I spent all day sipping one can of ginger beer, letting the fizzy, spicy liquid swish around in my mouth, making my tongue all tingly. It was heaven.
In the early mornings, when the place hadn’t yet opened, we’d follow mum up to the second floor and help her clean the cinema. For us, this basically involved picking up discarded cans and lining them up on the balcony banister or wherever we could find a space. It was like a treasure hunt and you’d never imagine how many different places where the cans could be hiding. Michael and I turned it into a competition: whoever got the most cans won. He always won, but at least I tried. I think it made the job much easier for mum. We’d race up and down the rows like crazy, collecting cans as though they were Easter eggs. At the end of our collection spree, we’d take the garbage bags full of cans to a staff room downstairs where we emptied any remaining liquid into the sink and put them in the bin to be recycled.
Each time we went, there was something new to explore: down in the catacombs where the organ lurked; behind the scenes in the projection room; selling tickets from the ticket booth with the manager. At times, Michael and I would get bored with a movie we were watching and we’d decide to go on an adventure. One time, when we knew mum was putting the rubbish out the back, we got down on our hands and knees and crawled slowly down the left aisle towards the curtains bordering the projection screen. A movie was screening at the time and I kept saying to Michael: “The people upstairs will see us!! They’ll see us”. He didn’t care of course. We eventually made it to the curtain and managed to slip quietly behind it without ruffling it too much. It felt like I was Alice in Wonderland when Michael pushed open a door, revealing a small, bare space behind the screen, where metal supports jutted overhead and a weak light poured through a few high windows. It was like we had stumbled into some other dimension: the dimension that lies behind a movie screen. I think we ended up finding our way down to the labyrinthe passage that led to the bay where the organ slept during the day.
During the quiet times, I’d practice my gymnastics routines in the upper foyer, picturing myself as a star gymnast. As I turned cartwheels and jumped into the splits, I would hum the tune of the theme song to which my well-practiced floor routine was timed and judged. The quiet of that place early in the morning was incomparably soothing. Only the gentle hum of traffic could be heard outside, and as I practiced my moves and slid gracefully down the staircase banister, I became wholly indulged in the childish fantasy that this was my palace and I was the princess ruler of my own kingdom, where peasants came from far and wide to view motion pictures made in the exotic lands of Hollywood.
The first movie I ever saw at that cinema was the sequel to “The Never Ending Story”. Ever since then, the place became for me imbued with its own magic, its own sense of timelessness. When I stepped inside, I stepped into a universe which stood apart from the world outside; apart in time and in context. For Michael and I, it was our own universe; a place where kids ruled and adults were outsiders. New cardboard cut-outs and posters for upcoming features appeared each visit. I can remember the cut-out of Tom Cruise and other cast members from “A Few Good Men” standing stalwartly beside the staircase, as if guarding the entrance. I can remember posters of “Fried Green Tomatoes” and “Jurassic Park” and “The Piano” lining the front doors. The smell of popcorn occasionally wafted from the candybar when business was firing up, but even with all this adult activity and evidence thereof, it never seemed as though anyone else was really there besides Michael, mum, myself and the manager. Everyone else was just a fleeting apparition from the ‘other’ world.
I have sometimes considered going back to that place; to see for myself whether it has changed. But I never do. I never do, because I know that to do so would probably break the spell of childhood that it once held. I would go there, and it would all seem somehow small and shabby and outdated. I would go there, and it wouldn't be half as 'grand' and magical as the still-life images in my mind recall.
That cinema, that period of my life, has always represented the essence of my childhood. It was a time of unbridled imagination, unhindered wonder, and insatiable curiosity. It was a time when adulthood was another world away entirely. It was a time when going to the movies was the most magical thing in the world. It was a time when adventure could be found in the most unlikely of places. It was a time when everything seemed ageless, eternal. But most of all, it was a time when you could feel like a princess just by imagining it.
That time, that place, was my own little universe.
