Saturday arvo.We’ve been extra good Billy and me for one self-serving reason.
The flicks! We now pester our Mums to let us go, citing our helpfulness.
Success! Our bare feet washed (sissies wear shoes), coat over play clothes, we’re away.
Coins clutched in hand we join the stream converging on the Town Hall matinee.
We stand stiff for the anthem. It’s wartime and we’re Empire’s patriotic sons.
Gaumont British news reel. War tide’s turned. The Japs and Nazis run. Loud cheers!
The serial and it’s a beauty called ‘The Shadow’. “I am The Shadow. Ha! Ha! Ha!”
By day District Attorney, by night disguised crime fighter and he’s good.
The crime boss is invisible and powerful. Even his henchmen don’t know who he is.
Exciting stuff. A pity that they cheat. Each week The Shadow’s left with no escape,
With certain death. Next week we get reprise of this week’s climax, see the bits left out.
He’ll quit the house before it blows to bits, leap from the car seconds before the train.
This first half’s shorts, never a double feature. After all we’re only kids with sixpence.
The town owns the projectors, leases them to contractors who’re out to make a quid.
Anything is good enough, the sweepings from the studio floor. Kids have no weight.
The program’s mostly rubbish yet there’s one bright spot, a cartoon, Popeye. Choice!
But from these heights we’re plunged to stupid Edgar Kennedy. Chorus of groans.
Someday up in the box they’ll get our message. Ahhh! The lights come on. Half time.
And then the race! Into and up the aisle, across the foyer, out the front door,
Up the street, past the alley and the R.S.A. to beat the pack into the dairy.
What will we buy? Our topic of intense discussion all the way from home
‘Cos thruppence doesn’t go far. Robinson’s ice-cream in cone?–or tub? Or liquorice?
Chocolate cigarettes? Aniseed balls to throw round in the dark? Jaffas cost too much.
As the scrum packs down behind we’re ready with our carefully reasoned choice, ice cream.
Though comedies and war films feature often, ramshackle westerns still predominate.
Today Tim Holt rides into town with distant mountains painted on the sound-stage wall.
His horse, hitched out the front, stands under a back window when his master jumps.
Prescient horse! It’s 1870s but a boy has scored a model aeroplane. Smart kid!
Soon a miner found near death in minutes has a horse, vitality, and rides off with the posse.
And the most familiar piece of back-lot trail is passed and passed and passed during the chase.
They must think that we’re stupid and perhaps we are.
We’ll do our best to be back here next week.