A MOORISH MOVIEHOUSE.

Dominion, Volume 22, Issue 72, 18 December 1928, Page 56 (Supplement)

A MOORISH MOVIEHOUSE.

Arabs as an Audience.

If there is anywhere a person suffering from movie boredom, let him visit a film presentation somewhere east of Suez, in a Moorish picture-house where the audience is a collection of excitable Arabs, delirious with delight. For centuries these people have been discouraged by their religion from indulging in the arts of pictures and painting, and perhaps it is because of this that they have developed the art of storytelling to a wonderful degree. Their picture theatres have been their own imaginations, as all those who have read “ Arabian Nights ” know well. They have great power of visualising the written or spoken words, and so the movies bring to them a new joy as the action flashes before their eyes on the screen.

In these Moorish theatres, serials of the kind that we see in our smaller theatres, are run throughout a day as the Arabs do not consider this too long a time to spend in a land of enchantment. However, instead of an orchestra there is an Arab story-teller

who gives a graphic account of the story picturised. This' abolishes the necessity of sub-titles and music, of which the most moving cannot rival in effect the storyteller’s enthusiasm, in playing with the emotions of his audience. Arab picture-fans judge their entertainment by the reputation of the storyteller, whose name appears upon the billboards, and not by the movie stars.

The crowd is an extremely emotional one, and it is wonderful to see how its feelings are worked upon by the Arab master of ceremonies, with his yells, sobs, and prayers for the safety of the heroine, the bloodchilling frenzied yells at the ride to the rescue and the terms of endearment and detailed, picturesque passion at the end. Indeed so enthusiastic are these dusky spectators, that it was necessary to change the screens from cloth to wood, so as to withstand the showers of sticks, stones and other missiles, which the wild tribesmen, raised to the heights of frenzy by their spokesman, insist in showering upon the villain as he reels beneath the blows of the conquering hero. No doubt they see themselves often in these serials, of course, a little less grimy, and a great deal more handsome. It is to be wondered at that the country is not overrun with imitation screen shieks carrying off damsels in distress. Whatever feelings may be roused in these movie houses, there is certainly no room for boredom with such an audience. There would be probably more amusement there in one day than in a whole year at a city theatre.

“He who puts his hand to the plow,” screamed the cross-roads orator, “must not turn back!” “What is he to do when he gets to the end of a furrow?” asked the auditor in the overalls.

Throughout, the christening ceremony the baby smiled up beautifully into the clergyman’s face. “Well, madam,” said he to the young wife, “I must congratulate you on your little one’s behaviour. I have christened more than 2,000 babies, but. I never before christened one that behaved so well as yours.” The young mother smiled demurely, and said:

“His father and I, with a pail of water, have been practising on him for the last ten days.”

“You paid the instalments on the furniture, the books, the house, the radio, and the oil furnace?” asked the husband.

“Yes,” replied his wife. “And had five dollars left over?” “Yes, and the same thing happened last week,” was his spouses proud re-