In 1950s/60s Dublin, we didn’t catch a movie or take in a show; we went to the pictures.  For a brief moment, “the flicks” threatened to supplant “the pictures” in local terminology, but tradition quickly regrouped and the challenger was routed.

My own first experience with the pictures came on Christmas Eve 1950.  Some weeks previously, the Evening Herald had started to run a daily Roy Rogers comic strip to which I became addicted.  So when the Herald’s cinema listings indicated that one of Roy’s pictures was going to play in Dublin the week before Christmas, all the persuasive wiles of a six year old were put into play.  The emotional blackmail duly worked and my father agreed to take me on Christmas Eve afternoon.

The cinema was the Theatre Deluxe on Lower Camden Street, perhaps a fifteen or twenty minute bus ride away from where we lived in Rathfarnham.  Although its physical attributes weren’t something I appreciated at the time, the Deluxe was an attractive venue with an Art Deco façade and a seating capacity of 1,200.  Designed by the architect R.M. Butler, it had been built in 1920 for the then substantial sum of 30,000 pounds.  While it wasn’t a first-run house, it was probably the city’s most important second-run venue, and certainly several steps above the local cinema level.  All in all, an auspicious way to start.

After that, the bulk of my early experience was more modest.  In 1951, we moved to Clondalkin, then a village several miles from the city.  Although Clondalkin was relatively small at the time, and chiefly known for its 8th century round tower, it boasted its own full-time cinema.  Not surprisingly, it was called the Tower.

Opened in 1939 by a local man named Peter Ging and two other investors from Portlaoise, The Tower became Ging’s sole property in 1941.  By the 1950s, it was under the management of his son Laurence.  The building itself had previously been a bus garage, belonging to the Irish Omnibus Co., but appropriate modifications had turned it into a very serviceable local cinema.  With seating capacity just shy of 500, it changed its programme at least four times per week, often drawing an audience from further afield than Clondalkin itself.  There was one show each evening, starting at 8:30, and a matinee on Sunday afternoons.

In my childhood circle, that matinee was one of life’s highlights.  When the programme for the coming week was posted on Friday or Saturday, we’d anxiously watch for Sunday’s fare, hoping that it would be something “good”, such as a cowboy or adventure picture, rather than a soppy romance or boring drama.  As the matinee programme would be the same as that shown for the adults on Sunday evening, sometimes we won, sometimes we didn’t.

In the early 1950s, the matinee usually came in three parts.  First, there’d be an instalment of an ongoing serial -- featuring a hero like Congo Bill or Jungle Jim --   followed by a double bill of regular features.  Serial episodes invariably ended with the hero in jeopardy, so they were a marvellous hook for ensuring regular attendance.  Of course, much of what we saw was somewhat less than current, being anywhere from five to fifteen, even twenty, years old.  But as long as there was a maximum of action and a minimum of kissing, we were happy.

The other memorable part of the matinee experience was the atmosphere.  In our house, the Sunday lunch -- or dinner as we called it -- was put on the table between one and two.  When it was done, it was a five minute canter from home to the Tower.  For the matinee, the house operated a single price policy.  All seats were four pence, first come first served.  If your friends had arrived first, hopefully they’d have saved a seat for you.  If they had been really early, that seat would be one of the plush ones, rather than on the wooden benches at the front.  And with almost 500 children and adolescents yakking and vying for each other’s attention, the buzz would be amazing.

Although the Sunday matinee was the staple diet, there were occasional evenings at the Tower.  My father took me and my older sister to see Treasure Island in 1952, and after a couple of years a protocol evolved whereby one was allowed to go to the pictures at night twice during summer holidays and once each during Christmas and Easter.  Easter 1953 was a disaster.  The Tower was playing the classic Errol Flynn version of Robin Hood for one night during Easter week and I had prior approval to go.  Alas, that morning I awoke with the measles.

As a teenager, my territory expanded a bit to sometimes include the Apollo in Walkinstown and the Star in Crumlin.  Being southside suburban cinemas, they were quite accessible from Clondalkin, and also larger and tonier than the Tower.  Unfortunately, they were also a tad pricier.

Of course, the ultimate experience in Dublin picturegoing involved a visit to one of the first-run cinemas on, or just off, O’Connell Street in the city centre.  They were a truly a grand lot.  O’Connell Street itself had the Metropole, the Savoy and the Carlton.  Off O’Connell Street, there was the Ambassador on Parnell Street, the Capitol on North Prince’s Street, the Adelphi on Middle Abbey Street and the Corinthian on Eden Quay.

Each had its own particular distinction.  The Savoy was the largest, and perhaps the grandest, with a capacity just shy of 2,800.  Running a close second in terms of size, the Adelphi had the added cachet of being the venue for live performances by international pop stars in the early 1960s -- the Beatles, Cliff Richard, Roy Orbison and Bob Dylan being among those who played there.  The Ambassador was the oldest, having opened its doors in 1910.  The Capitol had introduced talking pictures to Dublin when it screened The Singing Fool, with Al Jolson, in 1929.  The Metropole had a special penchant for long-running films, such as Witness for the Prosecution, Lawrence of Arabia, Mary Poppins and Doctor Zhivago, the latter running for an amazing forty-three weeks.  The Carlton’s distinguishing niche was horror films.  As for the Corinthian, its Dublin nickname, “the ranch”, says it all.

For children, going to one of those grand places was invariably a special occasion, organised and supervised by an indulgent adult.  My own early excursions came courtesy of an aunt, with the Metropole being the destination.  In addition to the cinema, the building had shops, a ballroom and a restaurant.  And unlike the Tower, the pictures ran continuously through the day, so if you missed a bit, you could sit through it again, provided, of course, that the accompanying adult was in an accommodating mood.  To top it all off, there was a fresh popcorn machine.  For a child, this was heaven.

The first Metropole experience was Alice in Wonderland, where my vocal outburst of terror at the “off with their heads” command duly embarrassed my aunt.  Then there was The Pickwick Papers -- being based on a literary classic, my aunt thought it would be culturally uplifting.  But the most memorable excursion came on the eve of the 1954 All Ireland hurling final.  With Christy Ring going for his 8th medal, my cousins were up from Cork.  So my aunt organised a Metropole trip to see Rob Roy.  Taking a party of six children required either considerable self-confidence or an appetite for living dangerously.  The picture itself was a splendid adventure story with lots of derring-do from Richard Todd in the title role.  Perhaps inspired by Todd’s twinkling defiance of authority on screen, one cousin made a unilateral decision to stay for a second showing.  My aunt was not pleased and a public clip on the ear was called for.  I think it was the last time she organised such a large party of nephews and nieces.

Interestingly, coming from Dublin to Toronto in 1965 meant moving from one big film town to another.  At the time, Yonge Street had its full share of large picture palaces like the Imperial, Loews and, just off Yonge, the Carlton.  The latter even had something I’d never seen in Dublin -- an organist who seemed to materialise out of the floor to give a mini-recital before the show started.  Then alas, the grand cinemas were sub-divided into shoebox-sized multiplexes.  Regardless of the quality on screen, going to the pictures was never quite the same again.         

Author

A native of Dublin, Pat Murphy presents the month-end edition of The Long Note on CKLN.