by Gifford and Eileen Eardley
It is not very difficult to envisage the impact the introduction of moving pictures made on the community at large in the early period of the twentieth century. The magic lantern was in use, on special occasions, for public entertainment for several years prior to the advent of the “Movies”, hence the latter title coming into every day use. Lantern shows as such were generally staged at public halls, rented for the purpose, and were regarded as being ideal for teaching the young. Biblical slides, garishly coloured, were in great demand at Church and Sunday-school functions. The display subjects were usually taken from the pages of old-time illustrated Bibles, and the black and white slides thus obtained were hand tinted in primary colours to enhance their attractiveness. Lantern shows were more than often accompanied by a long, tedious discourse relative to the merits or otherwise of the characters being displayed. The glory of Heaven and the fiery discomforts of Hell, particularly the latter, were popular with religious-minded persons and gave the younger generation serious food for thought. The Chinese savants of yore had a wise adage to the effect that “One illustration is worth a thousand words”, and this saying is literally true, to see is to believe.
Perhaps one of the first examples of a picture that moved, portrayed per medium of the magic lantern, was shown in the early eighteen-nineties and depicted a heavily bewhiskered face of a man engaged in the dubious pastime of swallowing rats. A rotary mechanical device had been incorporated in the design of this particular slide, whereby the action of turning a small handle caused the lower jaw of the said bewhiskered face to open. At the same time the picture of a rat was so arranged, on a rotating circular piece of transparent celluloid, to pass into the gentleman’s mouth. After this manoeuvre the mouth snapped shut. This diverting scene, repeated several times, was usually the grand finale of any magic lantern show, secular or otherwise, and could always be relied upon to bring the house down. As the showman would say “Ighly entertainin”.
Moving pictures, according to old residents, were brought to Arncliffe on a commercial basis by Mr. King, a railway employee, who established his theatre on a vacant block of land sited at Nos. 3 and 5 Barden Street. As it was necessary to isolate the screen to prevent viewing by a non-paying public, the property was surrounded by a high wall, constructed of rough-sawn timber, and covered with flat sheets of galvanised iron. The street facade, of imposing proportions, was of extremely poor architectural design, its upper regions being decorated in painted lettering denoting that the edifice was “The Elite Picture Show”. However the elite of the neighbourhood, whilst duly impressed, chose to call the place “The Tin House”, and certain vulgar people know it as the “Flea House”. The proprietor, Mr. King, by virtue of his royal surname, also chose to use the name “Rex”, which was tastefully outlined in bare electric bulbs attached to the top portion of the screen. This innovation was regarded as being the last word in modern advertising, even today we have King Size this and that commodities.
At eye-level along the Barden Street facade were fastened the billboards to which were pasted posters depicting the current programme, together with forthcoming releases. The bills were printed in garish colours, and usually incorporated a striking scene taken from the particular film concerned, still a popular form of advertising today.
Admission charges were in keeping with the times, the seats at the back, which gave better viewing and lessened the eye-strain caused by the pictures flickering, ranked at sixpence, the more popular front seats were threepence per head. A most familiar ditty of the time, well known to the youngsters and sung with a swinging lilt, was worded: Come to the pictures. Make no delay. Back seats sixpence. Front seats a tray. Plenty of music, Plenty of fun. Plenty of programmes to and so on and so forth.
Seating accommodation was truly spartan, consisting of long slatted forms with hardwood backs, but as one went to the pictures to be entertained, comfort was secondary and of little importance. Narrow footways of mother earth divided the rows of seats, whilst beneath the seats the natural grass and weed growth flourished exceedingly, to the chagrin of young Harry Walker, who inadvertently dropped a whole shilling into the mass of foliage, and, after much searching, was forced to lament its loss. In addition to watching the stars on the screen, the audience could raise, if they so wished, their eyes and gaze upon the stars in the heavens far above, where the wonders of Jupiter, Venus, amongst a myriad of others, could be clearly discerned and fully appreciated. The management thoughtfully considered this aspect and did not provide a roof over the “Elite” picture show, although, in wet weather, patrons had an idea that the innovation was desirable.
(Courtesy of the Powerhouse Museum)
Advertising was largely carried out by means of handbills distributed at the Arncliffe Railway Station to the homecoming crowds during the evening peak hours. Some five-thousand bills, or “dodgers” were printed and placed in the care of young lads, aged about twelve or so, who received payment for their eager services in the shape of a free ticket admitting them into the coveted sixpenny back-seat area. Competition amongst the lads was fierce and competitive, and several of the more enterprising amongst them discovered a quick method of distribution by the simple method of pushing the bundles of Bills up the nearest gutter drain pipe. This method however was severely frowned upon by the management and Mr. King, in person, made a periodic examination of these and other hide-outs, and promptly de-barred offenders from further service in the show business.
The electricity requirements for the arc-lighting of the cinematograph machine was engendered on the premises, where a large gas-engine drove, by means of a belt, a generating, dynamo. Surplus current was used to light the outside facade and internal arrangements, and also to dazzle the eyes of patrons who, at this period mostly came from either gas or kerosene-oil lighted homes. The exhaust from the gas-engine, a real chug-chug-chug noise, was diverted from the show arena by means of a bend fitted at the top of the exhaust pipe, giving the neighbouring residents the full benefit of the monotonous racket.
In case of fire the “Elite” frontage was provided with. wide exit doors, marked by a small red “Exit” notice placed within the glass of an oil lamp, just in case, as often happened, the electricity supply should fail and the whole place plunged into darkness. The efficiency of the emergency door arrangement was proved one evening when the gas-engine back-fired and the resultant explosion blew the exhaust silencer vessel. to smithereens. On this occasion the whole audience was out in Barden Street in a split second, their nerves in a shocking state, and 21 wondering as to what on earth had happened. It was usual in unavoidable circumstances such as machinery breakdowns, fil-fires, etc. to issue patrons with a ticket available for a future showing when conditions had been returned to normal.
A musical background was provided by a lady pianist, who, ensconced in front against and below the screen, played pieces of music suitable to the actions taking place immediately above her head. Tender love scenes demanded tender love songs, waltzes necessitated a rendition of “The Blue Danube”, or its equivalent whilst any old piece sufficed for the “Cowboys and Indians” as nobody would be listening to the piano when such absorbing and exhilarating actions were taking place The equanimity of the pianist was sometimes disturbed through the efforts of the youthful, pea-shooters, whose aim at their intended victim was not as good as it should have been. All in all the pianist had to be a most versatile musician, one capable of switching heir playing, say from the “Dead March” to “Napoleon’s Last Charge”, in the twinkling of an eye, subtly blending the notes of one piece into those of the other.
There was also another background to the films in the way of sound effects. This important department was generally administered by a youthful enthusiast, who also had to watch the theme of the film story. Galloping horses, for instance called for unremitting toil on his part in synchronising the hoof-beats, per medium of two half-sections of coconut shells, beaten in a clonkity-clonking way on the flat surface of a sheet of marble, said sheet being obtained from the top of an old discarded bedroom washstand. The beat of horses in the distance was simulated by transferring the action of the half coconut shells to a leather-covered piece of boa Storm scenes on the screen were handled with great gusto, the roar of thunder being conveyed to the attentive audience by means of bending and unbending a flat sheet of galvanised iron, thus providing a satisfactory ripple of sound which was beyond criticism. The swishing sounds of rain, according to the severity of the downpour, was brought about by swirling a number of peas around inside a tin film container. Every time a motorcar of the period appeared on the screen its program was heralded by the constant braying of a rubber-bulbed motor horn, a standard fitment on all cars at the time, The excitement afforded by the popular “Cowboys and Indians” films was greatly increased by the constant firing of cap-pistols, the noise of which made the welkin ring, arid, coupled with the banging of the coconut shells, brought about a cacophonous range of sounds greatly desired under the circumstances.
Admission tickets were sold from a small window located within the entrance portal to the “Elite” picture theatre. The tickets, individually numbered, were detached on sale from a single width roll which could be bought commercially at the time from Messrs. Harrington’s Limited, of George Street, Sydney, an old established firm which has long since gone out of business. As before mentioned the entrance charges were sixpence for back seats and threepence for front seats, a distinction being made between these groupings by issuing tickets of a different colour range, a system which assisted the ushers in the execution of their torchlit duties.
There were other methods of entry which were availed of by the impecunious pre-teenage children of the district. It appears that several sheets of flat iron, forming the western wail of the “Elite” Theatre, had been prized apart from the timber framing, without the knowledge of the management. Access to this aperture was gained by passing through the backyards of certain houses confronting Union Street, and, after “lights out” in the picture show, a fairly constant stream of would-be viewers stealthily pulled the sheet-iron apart, and crawled along the inner walls to reach an unoccupied seat. It has been related that on one particularly wet night, with a resulting poor attendance, the cashier, after selling about half a dozen tickets, wandered into the theatre to watch the show. He was amazed to see some twenty-five or so people, young and old, calmly watching the screen proceedings. He grabbed one youngster, who in his fright, was unable to state clearly how he had got into the theatre, and had the satisfaction of bundling him out into the rain-filled street. Said youngster then raced down Barden Street, turned into Station Street, and then into Union Street and the aforementioned backyards, where the unofficial entry facilities were again utilised. Once ensconced he kept a very wary eye on the movements and whereabouts of officialdom.
It is amusing to recall the reactions of the audience to the particular film being shown. Keystone comedies were in full blast, with the famous “Cops” well to the fore, likewise the custard tart throwing and receiving. The masterly mime of the late Ford Sterling, whose goatee beard and facial contortions never failed to bring the house down in paroxysms of laughter. He was eventually succeeded by the equally famous Charlie Chaplin who, in his early days, co-starred with Mabel Normand and the irrepressible Fatty Arbuckle. Advice and warnings were freely shouted at the screen portrayal, particularly from the region of the threepenny seats, and in the more tense scenes there was wailing and the gnashing of teeth. William S. Hart, the strong, silent cowboy, who was always on the side of righteousness, and Tom Mix, who acted in a similar theme, were both greatly admired, whilst Theda Bara and Olga Petrova held people entranced. Then there was Mary Pickford, whose pathetic adventures brought tears to many eyes, and simpering thoughts of love to her male admirers. After one particularly tense scene, which as usual, had a glorious ending, one tear-stricken female, going home after the show, remarked to another tear-stricken female, “They will be happy now”.
The advent of the Cowboy and Indian films, coupled with the hair-raising exploits of Buffalo Bill, brought about a change in the games of boyhood, and the former diversion, of “Bobbies and Bushies” was to all intents and purposes abandoned. The scrubby hillsides of Arncliffe afforded excellent cover for incipient Indians, complete with feather head-bands (the feathers being obtained from convenient poultry yards) and bows and arrows. The cowboy section sported murderous looking toy revolvers, and on foot, skulked amongst the bushes seeking the opposing Indians. The movements of both war-like groups were generally betrayed by their dogs, who also thought the game was great fun, and so it was, and still is, fifty years later.
It was most unfortunate that the proprietor of the “Elite” Picture Theatre, Mr. King, met an untimely death when he was trapped between the buffers of railway vehicles whilst engaged in shunting operations during the course of his regular employment. After his demise the “Elite” Theatre lay dormant for some time before it re-opened under the control of Soper Brothers, local butchers, whose business premises were located at the corner of Firth and Done Streets, near Arncliffe Railway Station. The new owners overcame the wet weather lack of attendance problem by roofing the enclosure, and providing side curtains of canvas, above the original iron walling, which could be moved at will in accordance with the prevailing climatic conditions. This innovation certainly gave a degree of comfort to the patrons but was not at all popular with the overlookers who preferred to gaze at the show from the slopes of the adjoining Barden Hill, and thus retain their sixpences in their own pockets. No doubt attention was also paid at the same time to the loose sheet iron which gave surreptitious entry from the backyards of Union Street.
A gentleman with the unusual surname of Blackadder, who had previously established another picture show, named the “Lyric”, near the corner of Stanley Lane and Forest Road, Arncliffe, purchased the “Elite” Theatre as a going concern. Lack of patronage eventually brought about the closure of the latter concern and the premises came into use as a store for materials of divers sorts. It was later demolished and the site is now occupied by two modern type brick homes.
The Lyric Theatre, Arncliffe
The “Lyric” Theatre was initially constructed of galvanised iron, after the manner of the “Elite”, but the rear section was half roofed over, giving a measure of comfort, during inclement weather, to the patrons who could afford the higher priced seats. However, it was customary during, or rather at the beginning, of showers of rain for the front seat viewers to dash willy-nilly for the protection furnished by the half-roof, much to the annoyance of the management. It was also customary for Mr. Blackadder, in person, to mount a small rostrum adjacent to the screen, and deliver a sometimes lengthy discourse on the subject matter of the films that were to be shown and also of any interesting features that were marked for the next change of programme. This vocal interlude was usually hastily terminated by the younger fry scooping up handfuls of ashes from the floor and hurling same at the now unfortunate speaker.
The gas engine and dynamo of the electricity generating plant at the “Lyric” was housed next door in the yard of the former Highbury Barn Hotel. The equipment was contained within the confines of a galvanised iron shed to which access was gained from the theatre. On one particularly wet night, the youth group from the front seats had foregathered at the rear of the sixpenny enclosure, keeping very in order to avoid managerial interference with their well being. All of a sudden terrific bang, bang, bang, was heard, instantaneously followed by the arrival with the precincts of the theatre of the piston and back portion of the gas-engine which had come adrift from its mountings and burst its way through the flimsy wall. The startled audience went in all directions, and the lights went out. It was indeed fortunate that nobody was injured, or even killed either by the whirling machiner or the ensuing melee, which bordered on a general panic and was far from lyric Repairs took some little time hit the theatre was a bit chary of advertising shocking dramas for the next month or so.
It has been related that evil days descended on Mr. Blackadder, who, according to local gossip, committed suicide, his body being found in a small office adjacent to the theatre entrance. A Mr. Prideaux took over for a while and he in turn was succeeded by Mr. Matters (or Matherson) who, so it has been said, was responsible for surrounding the theatre with a brick wall and providing an upper gallery which catered for patrons prepared to pay higher prices for their entertainment. Said patrons were also free, to a certain extent, from the attentions of pea-shooters who invariably came into operation when the lights were low.
Other changes of ownership followed and eventually the “Lyric” came into the hands of “Hoyts Theatres Limited”, a concern which instituted a complete modernisation of the old building, in the course of which the name “Lyric” was dropped in favour of the short crispness of “Hoyts”. The renovated concern flourished for many years but did not survive the introduction of the home television sets. The building was placed on the open market and was eventually demolished together with the adjoining remnants of the former Highbury Barn Hotel and its frontage of refreshment shops. Today a petrol service station occupies the site and all traces of the former occupancy has vanished from human ken.
In conclusion we must thank Mr. Fred Markham, Mr. Harry Walker, and Mr. Fred Allen, together with many other people, who have so kindly helped with the preparation of the article dealing with the bygone picture shows at Arncliffe and their vicissitudes.
This article was first published in the April 1965 edition of our magazine.
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