Archive for Dr Dolittle

Phantom Electric Theatres of Edinburgh # 2

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 15, 2013 by dcairns

For this exploration of vanished cinema sites, empty shells and transmogrified theatres, we started by getting the bus to South Clerk Street, where alas the first movie house on our itinerary, The Salisbury, is long demolished, with modern apartments slapped on top. Here’s a still from the excellent Scottish Cinemas site, showing the auditorium as demolition got underway ~

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The Salisbury opened in 1925 with the silent THE SEA HAWK, but was damaged by fires in 1939 and 1943 after which it was used as a store.

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A short distance down Clerk Street is the cinema of my childhood. I knew it as The Odeon, and its auditorium (originally one screen with upper stalls, later partitioned into three) was let by constellations of stars in the ceiling. When those lights finally dimmed after the ads, for the main show, the feeling was magical.

Films seen: the original KING KONG — and the De Laurentiis remake — STAR WARS — Godzilla and James Bond double bills — and the LAWRENCE OF ARABIA restoration. Probably this was where I was taken to see my first movie, DR DOLITTLE on rerelease, and started to cry because nobody had warned me it would be dark.

That’s me, above, standing in line.

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Found this online — the cinema is showing NUNS ON THE RUN, which I *saw* there, I’m embarrassed to say. As a fan of some of Handmade Films’ output, I wanted to give it a chance. A mistake. But one which raises the possibility that I might be IN that photo. The figure bottom right — is that me? I don’t think so — but I did own a grey coat like that…

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Here’s the cinema when it opened, as The New Victoria. It’s showing GLORIFYNG THE SHOWGIRL, a movie which doesn’t exist on the IMDb — I’m thinking it’s GLORIFYING THE AMERICAN GIRL (1929), retitled for the UK. But the very first movie screened here was ROOKERY NOOK, an “Aldwych farce” — basically a photographed play, the British film industry’s first response to talking pictures.

The cinema closed in 2003 — among the films showing was TOMB RAIDER, which is appropriate when we come to this gallery of images taken by an urban explorer within the deserted kino-mausoleum.

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Cinema 8

Cinema 28

No, I didn’t take those pictures. I would soil myself with terror in a place like that.

But we have barely begun! Moving down onto Clerk Street, we come to the Festival Theatre, used for live productions but also venue for the opening and closing galas of Edinburgh International Film Festival. Before it was constructed, there was the Empire Palace Theatre, site of Edinburgh’s first ever cinematograph showing. Here’s the programme screened ~

Dinner Hour at The Factory
Children Playing
A Landing Stage
Arrival of The Paris Express
A Practical Joke on The Gardner
Trewey’s Hat
Champs Elysee, Paris
The Fall of The Wall
Bathing in The Mediterranean

The Empire burned down in 1911, in a fire which killed stage magician the Great Lafayette.

Across the road stands a Bingo Hall, originally known as La Scala — a real fleapit in its day. In my day it was The Classic, and it showed naughty films. I was too young to go, but I can remember giggling at the marquee — CONFESSIONS OF A LESBOS HONEY was shown, as was THE CLONES OF BRUCE LEE. The only defining trait uniting the varied programme seemed to be that everything shown had to be crap. The only movie I ever saw listed there that had been reviewed on TV was Tinto Brass’s THE KEY with sugar daddy Frank Finlay.

So I never got to see inside — which makes this image all the more enticing!

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You can just feel that sticky carpet, can’t you? Just keep telling yourself, “It’s only Kia Ora.”

Nicholson Square, former home of Burke & Hare’s patron, Dr Knox, later housed a picture house, The Lyric, later the The Silver Kinema House, which opened in 1913 (an annus mirabilis when countless theatres threw open their doors for the first time), showing THE RIVAL AIRMEN and THE NIAGARA FALLS. It also ran, at that time, Edison’s kinetophone — talking pictures! A year later it was re-named THE LYRIC, which nobody could pronounce. Ironically, the advent of true talkies killed The Lyric, and it closed in 1931 with MARRIED IN HASTE and THE HELLCAT.

Now all that’s left is a bank, supposedly utilising some of the lobby space, and a vacant lot, utilising the rest.

The Lumiere, attached to the National Museum of Scotland, was a lecture theatre awkwardly adapted to serve as a cinema — the wide centre aisle meant that the exact spot you would sit for the best view was occupied by steps, and the seats were steeply raked as if the show were going to be an anatomy lesson. But the programming was great, during the three and a half years it was open (1998-2002) — I saw PLAYTIME for the first time here.

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This little shed, appended to a church, seems to be The Waverley, Infirmary Street. It was known in its day (pre-WWI) as a “penny scratcher,” a literal fleapit, where kids could buy entry upon presentation of an empty jelly jar. Classy. Sometimes, your ticket came with a free orange, in those distant pre-Kia Ora days. Happy young patrons could suck their orange while scratching themselves, making for a truly immersive and interactive experience. A Charlie Chaplin short viewed under such conditions would be the HOBBIT of its day.

The Cinema House stood for a long time, an incongruous low building next to the imposing Grecian frontage of the Surgeon’s Hall. Opened in 1903, it used to provide a fee cup of tea with every ticket, and was the first Edinburgh cinema to provide “continuous” programmes from 2.30 to 10pm. Hard work for the poor pianist! The Cinema House closed as a cinema in 1930 (with Mildred Harris in SEA FURY, supported by THE LOVE OF THE ATLANTIC), was used by the Salvation Army, then fell into dereliction — finally it was knocked down in 2004.

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The Roxburgh doesn’t look much like a cinema today, but it opened as such in 1919 with THE SILVER KING starring Barbara Castleton. As the cinema did not advertise regularly, Thomas is unable to provide a closure date, but reckons it did not survive the coming of talkies. The triangular top to the facade is the only hint of the Roxburgh’s theatrical origins.

Ignominy! The Tron Cinema (no relation to the Disney movie) is now a bar/restaurant. As a cinema, it opened in 1914 with screenings of A VISION OF THE WORLD and FROM SKY BLUE TO PURPLE DEEP, neither of which merits an IMDb entry. “Take the tram to the Tron!” was the cry. Talkies killed the Tron, it seems.

We nipped along Chamber Street, once home of the Operetta House, now totally demolished. Originally a theatre, then a music hall, it began showing film subjects in the early twentieth century, with titles such as THE DIAMOND THIEVES and HOW THE POOR CLOWN’S PRAYER WAS ANSWERED. This theatre did make it into talkies, but seems to have closed in 1939.

On Forrest Road, the first address I lived at after leaving home, there is a building called Oddfellows Hall, which apparently screened movies at one time — things of a religious nature designed to improve. No more of that.

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The New Palace on the High Street opened in 1929 with HER NEW CHAUFFEUR, a talkie. It wasn’t one of my Dad’s regular haunts, but he does recall being taken there to see SHE WORE A YELLOW RIBBON when he was ten. You can still see the stone-carved letters declaring “PICTURES”. But the narrowness of the building prevented modernisation, and the introduction of Todd-AO reduced seating from 1050 to 950.

The doors closed in 1959 with CAPTAIN KIDD, SMART BOYS and EAST SIDE KIDS. Thomas quotes Bernard McGowan’s account of the last picture show: “youthful audiences tried singing ‘Auld Lang Syne’, the usherette cried ‘Stop that racket! You’re barred the lot of you. You’ll no’ get in next week!'”

The Star on St Mary’s Street is a great old building, but totally unrecognizable as a former cinema. It opened in 1914 and closed in the twenties. It was known locally as “The Starry,” but nothing else is recorded about it.

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Still not quite exhausted, we trudged down to the Calton Studios, still open as a music venue. Once this was a base for the Edinburgh Film Festival, after having been a TV studio. It opened in 1977 with THE FRONT, under the management of Bill Landale and Steve Clark-Hall (now a successful film producer) but phased out cinema operations as the Filmhouse took over as Edinburgh’s main art cinema.

The building has great cyborg sculptures sticking out of it, which we admired.

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And that was enough for one day. Nodding in the direction of the Regent, Abbeymount, of which no trace remains, we headed home. Last films screened at The Regent: CARRY ON AGAIN DOCTOR and THE TRAP, with Oliver Reed and Rita Tushingham.

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Primal Screen

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , on August 7, 2012 by dcairns

The first movie I was taken to see as a kid was DR DOLITTLE, the Cinemascope bloater coughed up by 20th Century Fox in an attempt to  make a roadshow family picture which capitalized on Rex Harrison’s turn as a lovable misogynist in MY FAIR LADY.

This is a history lesson.

Firstly, I was born the year of the film’s release, and I don’t think my parents took me as a baby, so that tells you something — tattered, speckled prints of this gigantic flopperoo were still circulating tiredly in the provinces at least three years after the film died like an obese dog (looking up mournfully, tail wagging in a sluggish but heartbreakingly hopeful manner) at the box office. Film distribution was clearly a whole different thing in the early seventies.

Three seems to be the age at which most children are introduced to the movies. I guess these introductions are managed a bit more carefully now, with the aid of the mass media and so on…

My parents report that my first response to a movie on the big screen was to start bawling. Nobody had told me it would be dark in the cinema.

Now, I just half-watched the film (I wouldn’t attempt a proper review without whole-watching a film, but DR D does rather resist the full attention) with the intent of checking to see if I remember anything about it.

There was one image in my head, divorced from any of the glimpses of the film I’ve caught on TV over the years, and from the bits everybody knows are in it, like Harrison speak-singing “If I Could Talk to the Animals.” I had an image of a ship, or possibly a raft, on a stormy sea at night. But for some reason I had a doubt that the image might have come from Altman’s POPEYE, another family film that flopped, released much much later, which I also saw at the cinema.

The image is there! It’s a couple of hours into the film (which is purportedly about a voyage but takes that long to get properly under sail). The ship gets wrecked and then the characters are on rafts. “I told you Flounder was a terrible name for a ship.” Whereas Robin Williams in POPEYE begins the film on a raft, at sea, at night in a storm.

I suddenly flashed on the possibility that my parents had turned up in the middle of the film. We did that sometimes in those days. I certainly remember double features where we entered midway through the B-picture. Yes, there were films running in repertory then, and double bills (Roger Moore as Bond, Godzilla versus whoever was around, HERBIE VS CHRISTINE) and people still sometimes turned up without consulting the listings and went to see whatever was on, regardless of whether it had started. Alfred Hitchcock tried to wipe out this deleterious practice by banning late entrants to PSYCHO, but it didn’t completely stop careless punters from turning every film into a non-linear adventure in piecemeal narrative composition.

(I still quite like seeing a film where I’ve caught a bit of it years ago and never knew what it was or what was going on…)

So I suspect I was a distressed three-year-old because I was dragged into a giant dark auditorium in the middle of a scary sea-storm at night. Dark in the cinema and dark onscreen. Maybe an usherette with a torch to add further nocturnal drama and hushed urgency, maybe not. Maybe not, maybe we entered during the ads or trailers like civilized people, I don’t know.

I think I was repelled by the pushme-pullyou, also. Say what you like, it’s not natural.

What? Ah! Way to go!

Posted in FILM, MUSIC with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 23, 2008 by dcairns

Pretty in Pink

So, WHAT A WAY TO GO! is available on DVD and SOME CAME RUNNING isn’t. That makes sense.

I’m hoping David Ehrenstein can tell me more about the history of this film, because the question of how it came to be is a vexing one. This piece is not so much a critique of the film as a cry for enlightenment. The film itself is a glorious horrible accident, like a twelve-car pile-up with multiple fatalities that’s somehow arranged itself into a pleasing composition on the motorway, just before bursting into flames.

The facts: Shirley MacLaine stars as a fabulously wealthy widow telling the story of how all her husbands became rich, successful and dead.

Big Night

The TRUE facts: Shirley MacLaine wears seventy-two insane Edith Head creations (including about four in the course of a single spoken sentence — honest, I’m not making this up!) and a half million bucks in jewellery, also Bob Mitchum, Dean Martin, Dick Van Dyke, Bob Cummings, Paul Newman, Gene Kelly…

The background facts: Arthur P Jacobs, soon to be responsible for the overweight turkey DR DOLITTLE, somehow was given the run of Fox, where he got gorgeous lifelike color by Deluxe and cameraman Leon Shamroy to shoot it. Comden & Green scripted, creating something like a musical without songs. And then very strangely somebody (though not Comden & Green) thought it would be a great idea to get J. Lee Thompson to direct it.

(Say goodbye to facts, we’re into the woozily subjective now.)

Phone Call

He was a good director in his day (there is an ignominious decline into Charles Bronson pictures — BAD ones) but I don’t recall anybody ever accusing him of having a light touch. Which I would guess is what’s needed here. Thompson is used to shooting Dutch tilts of Diana Dors looking homicidal, so he does the same with Dick Van Dyke. The effect is undeniably arresting.

His approach to comedy is to undercrank and have people run around — I guess he’s been looking at ZAZIE DANS LE METRO or something. It’s all very positively unfunny — the desire to laugh leaches away as soon as Van Dyke widens his mouth and juts his chin, or MacLaine squints or shrieks (she does a lot of shrill stuff in this one).

There ARE a few laughs, and a few surprises, though. A chimpanzee is dressed in mourning. Mitchum grabs a bull by the pizzle and gurns, “Forgive me, Melrose!” before being kicked fifty feet in the air. Gene Kelly plays a horrifically self-important movie star — “Ah, the little people — how I love them!” And there are those dance numbers:

Did you spot Terri Garr in the chorus? Me neither.

Meanwhile, surrounded by all-pink sets and chorus lines in sailor suits, the man who helmed THE GUNS OF NAVARONE asserts his heterosexuality as forcefully as he can:

Ben Dover

Backless

The Tit and the Moon

It’s the kind of film where, as Billy Wilder put it, the director spends half his time devising shots where the leading lady leans forward to pick up a pepperpot.

The ’50s-’60s studio taste for gigantism is everywhere to be seen. There are jokes at the expense of LB Mayer, Ross Hunter and CLEOPATRA, as if this movie were any different. Only expensive things are beautiful here. MacLaine and Newman are the most beautiful and among the most expensive. Newman, as artist Larry Flint (!) is actually kind of funny, and certainly enjoyable. He seems to be having fun, and Newman having fun can be infectious. Mitchum also gives one of his unique performances – -you think you know this guy and then he’ll pull a random variant on his style that knocks you for a loop.

During the major “what-will-she-wear-next?” number, there’s a swell slomo shot of MacLaine burling around in a yellow cape, and as Fiona says, you don’t notice her because the spectacle of Mitchum just WALKING in slow motion is so beautiful:

(This clip strobes a bit — sorry, not my doing — but you sort of get the effect.)

Because everybody involved has some kind of (mis-matched, out-of-control) talent, the effect is never less than watchable, and never actually unalloyed pleasure. In fact, it may be the most heavily alloyed light entertainment ever bolted together.

But, you know, worth a look.

The Couch Trip

How did it happen, David?