Decades to multiplexes
K S S Pillai
“There’s a new movie in the multiplex. Care to accompany us?” my grandson asks me.
I have nothing against multiplexes. Nor am I against the popcorn, fast-food or soft drinks sold there with or without pesticides at an exorbitant price. The patrons are usually well-off and do not mind paying a few rupees extra.
Though I am all for moving with the times, I do not feel at home in these halls. I would rather watch films on my television in the comfort of my room, where I can change the channel while the hero and heroine are busy running around trees, singing songs, or the hero single-handedly fighting and downing several armed goons.
Sometimes I compare the multiplexes with the cinema hall in my native town in the 1950s. It had a single screen, unlike the modern multiplexes with several ones that show different movies simultaneously. The film used to change on Fridays. A bullock cart with the posters of the new film on it would take a round of the village and nearby areas.
A man, holding a mike, would announce the details like the names of actors and actresses. At intervals, when the announcer takes rest, songs from the film would be blared from the loudspeakers. A couple of men would sit in the back, distributing leaflets containing all the details of the film, and the summary of the story, abruptly stopping at the climax with the remark, “Watch the rest on the silver screen!”
The cinema hall had a thatched roof. Electricity had just reached the village, and its supply was, at best, erratic. The hall had, therefore, a generator that used crude oil as the fuel. Buying a ticket was a herculean task, as the queue system was not followed strictly, and several hands holding currency notes and coins would be thrust through the ticket window simultaneously.
There were four categories of tickets. The lowest, and the much sought after, was priced at two annas (equivalent to twelve paise). It was just in front of the screen with no seats and the viewers squatted on the sandy floor.
Once the lights were put off, they smoked beedies and children would even urinate in the sand. Behind it was the class where bare wooden benches were provided. Then came the chair class with folding steel chairs. And the one farthest from the screen was the ‘reserved’ class, patronized by the rich and the powerful. The more enterprising among the audience would feel no qualm in jumping over the barrier between two classes and occupying vacant seats in the upper class whenever the opportunity arose!
The film was beamed to the screen from the ‘projector’ room at the back. Since every movie used to have at least four reels of film, there would be a break at the end of each reel, during which the audience went out to relieve themselves or have tea. Boys selling parched groundnuts and booklets containing the summary of the story of the current film and the lyrics of its songs moved inside the hall, wending their wares, throughout the show.
Most of the films were in the Tamil language. Song and dance sequences, races on horseback, lengthy duels with swords, and comic scenes were integral parts of every movie that usually had palace intrigues as the theme. As there were only a limited number of leading actors and actresses, one could expect them in most of the films. That was the case with junior artistes and those taking part in group dances.
The tinsel world was so popular that some heroes, heroines and even scriptwriters later became chief ministers of their state. The situation is not much different even now, and some ageing heroes are busy launching political parties, hoping that they could soon become the rulers of the state with the support of their fans.
(The author is a retired professor of English and a regular contributor to The Kashmir Vision. He can be reached at: pillaikss@yahoo.in)
