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Art deco madness, or... (by Sam Maxfield 2001) © Touch Nottingham (internet magazine and What's On guide)
At the end of January, the Odeon closed, the velvet curtain in screen one sweeping to a close twelve years of my life, and more than half a century of history. Did you know that the Beatles played the Odeon in the 60's? By the time it closed it might well have been shabby (although the delightfully eccentric ABC had been shabbier), but it still retained the feeling of a cinema. The minute you walked through the door the carpet yielded plush and soft beneath your feet, popcorn wafted its aromatic smell into your nostrils, and your subconscious registered the moment, the silent, electric second before you entered another world, one where the lights are dim, seats flow behind and up, and forward and down like the ripple of a wheatfield by night. This is not 'stadium seating'. This is theatre. Drama. Drama is always an illusion, the creation of an effect, one in which both the illusionist and spectator must participate in. But it seems to me that in order to be successful it must have a sincerity and affection behind; an illusion still, but one intended to enthrall and involve, not simply a con. That then is magic, and it is the subject of magic that draws me back to Warner Brothers. It has none. It is the con. And like all skilled con-artists it has no regard, or respect for prospective victims (aka customers). There is no affection behind the illusion, no real interest in providing delight, only a cold, hard eye to fleece the victim of money. This is a harsh conclusion to reach after I've only visited once since opening, and after I've elucidated my reasons, I'll try to offer some solutions, but let's take a trip, you and I around the building. I mentioned Art Deco in my opening. Art Deco coincided with the golden age of cinema, the 1930's when the depression drove people flocking to this cheap form of escapist entertainment in masses, and glorious 'Dream Palaces' reproduced like bunnies in towns and cities everywhere. The idea central to the Dream Palace was that the cinema itself was as glamorous and exciting as the film itself, if not more so. Check out the old Elite building on Parliament Street, wonderfully ornate, sleekly elegant, it even came complete with a Gentleman's writing room. (The best view of the Elite is from the top floor of the Warner's Cinema). From the outside the Warner Complex is towering. If on the inside it's gone for Art Deco Moderne, on the outside it seems to have an adopted a rampant 1950's vulgarity, cladding it's concrete body in faux sandstone. This isn't a problem - in fact it's fittingly Hollywood. As a punishment for working there, perhaps all the staff in TGI Friday should dress as 1950's stars - Monroe, James Dean, Brando. So, from the outside, pretty breathtaking in a way that goes for scale not taste. Open the doors and step inside and... Oops, no shops yet. You've effectively stepped into a shopping mall, a vast, white, bland space with a central chrome banistered escalator, that spirals to the top floor. A man is measuring along a wall; white chalky footsteps leave a ghostly, builder's trail along the inlaid strip of cheap, blue carpet; 'To Let' signs line the walls. A security man in a burgundy jacket smiles nervously, on patrol. It's a shopping mall, without any shops yet, and where's the cinema? Where's the plush, hush tread and wafting buttered popcorn? Where's the anticipation, the building of the dream? It's two floors above. Every floor is the same, and being the persnickety Miss that I am, I started looking. Really looking at what's around me. There are cracks appearing in the ceilings; a strip of masking tape hangs despondently, unpeeling from the virgin wall like a nicotine-stained band-aid. Paint splashes the enormous windows, which need a good cleaning. This is shoddy, unfinished 'who gives a shit anyway' work. The cinema itself opens on two floors like a dark womb. Here, finally, is the hush, the carpet, dimmed lights and neon tubes. Popcorn, and Baskins Robbins. At last the familiar crinkle in my tummy. The stirrings of magic and the six year old child inside me. Give me that when I walk in the door please. Give me some sense that you want me here. That you are willing to put some effort into the illusion, some genuine love for the art, for what you do. Put seats around the sterile floorways. Put in plants, gets the shops up and running. Let the good citizen's who work in the city bring sandwiches and eat their lunches looking out of the beautiful sky line, or give them cafes. Make the building in to a central hub, bring some heart into this soulless space. It's early days, you can do it, get it right, make it better. Let's not assume, that because Warner Brothers has a monopoly over the centre's mainstream cinema, that we simply have to accept the con. Children will love it because they bring their magic with them, teenagers will love it because they haven't the eyes to see past the scale and newness. Treasure them for it, but don't let it be a reason for a multi-billion pound corporation pull a fast one. Demand the magic, not the con. Demand attention to detail, over cheap workmanship. Demand plush carpets, spaces for people that are ready on time, staff that know what they are doing. Ask for the dream-palace. Make some noise. Don't hand over your money until you get it. Demand Art Deco madness, not the big pile of shite. The End. read more rants and raves |
