JOY IN THE SHADOWS

Dominion, Volume 30, Issue 47, 19 November 1936, Page 6

JOY IN THE SHADOWS

Cinema for Consumptives “MAD DOCTOR” IS REWARDED r pHE romance ended happily, of course, but with a comedy “twist” that 1 brought a burst of laughter from thirty or forty throats. Silence . . . then a faint, paper-like rustle of coughing The lights went up on Wellington’s -most appreciative picture .audience. They had just laughed at a “twist” that amused the cinema world two years ago.

POR the Saturday night filmgoers at x the Ewart tuberculosis hospital at Newtown, however, there are more important things than being “up-to-the-minute.” That possibly is why they differ notablv from the average gathering of humanity at a suburban or city cinema. They have learned the value of living—because they are fated to.

live with a grim shadow, by way of

contrast, in that little theatre, which is a lounge by day and most nights, each face, young and old, is a cheerful face—a face that says, “I enjoyed that! Didn’t you?'’

A FEW hours before, someone had introduced me to an efficient young man in a white coat. “Interested in our work here? Why, certainly we’ll tell you about it,” he said. “Would you care to see the show first?”

On duty they call him, formally, “Doctor.” But in the circles of the elite he is known affectionately as “The Little Man,” and when he starts tinkering with screws and cogs they look at him in sceptical surprise and dub him the Mad Doctor. In the theatre I watched the audience covertly and wondered a little at their so apparent cheerfulness. They laughed and talked and joked like people with no cares. “Well, they don’t look ill,” 1 told the Mad Doctor, almost protestingly. He smiled, a trifle dryly.'“No?” These folk were convalescents, he explained. Some of them had even reached the stage when a ration of tobacco was allowed them. But they had waited long fo r it. “Five years! It’s a weary time in hospital, doctor.” “That’s true. So we try to make things as pleasant as possible for them. It has an important bearing ou treatment, too. They must to a great extent be kept quiet, but amused as well.” “I see. Pictures and so forth?”

“Often concerts, too, and games. There are always kind people to arrange visiting parties.” “Yet it must mean a good deal to see a picture show once in a while. You know. . . . Everybody sees pictures. Sort of normal, isn’t it?” “I hadn’t exactly thought of it like that.”

“gY the way. this is quite the best private talkie plant I’ve ever heard in operation. Good sound and projection as sharp as a needle.” The Mad Doctor’s face lighted up a Ettle. He apologised for having but a single machine. It accounted for that flashing reminder of “silent” days— End of Reel 1, Reel 2.

I tried to get down to tin-tacks and mechanics, but for a man who is reputed to be able to coax life and noisy movement out of any old scrap of metal you care to name, the Mad Doctor was astonishingly vague. He is a man of few words, the sort who is foredoomed to be a failure as fisherman or golfer. “The design of the thing?” he

queried. "I don’t know if you could

rightly say it was designed on any particular model. Orthodox plan, you see, but —er —home-built!” “Remarkable,” I told him. “And you built it all yourself!” “Oh, no, not me.” -he corrected hastily. “The Mad Mechanic and the Mad Scientist did most of it.”

He took me to inspect his fellows in mental disorder. They were crushed into the tiny projection box, fondling the machine lovingly. An amazingly complicated arrangement of pulleys and prisms it was, neat and compact within a few square feet. It made one of the old-time silent projectors seem like a child’s simple toy. The Thin ribbon of film whirred over the sprock-' ets evenly. Perfectly synchronised, sound boomed back from the speaker behind the screen. When the last reel flipped to an end, radio music from the magic box filled the interval.

“I say,” I exclaimed enthusiastically, “you two have done a wonderful job here.”

The Mad Mechanic peered at me out of a slightly oily eye. "Don’t blame us,” he said gruffly. “It was the Mad Doctor’s idea. And he paid the £7O for the scrap-iron in this outfit.” “What, out of his own pocket” “Well, he hasn’t borrowed any of it from me yet,” said the Mad Scientist firmly. “Though I’m wondering what will happen if the owner of a certain abandoned gramophone comes back for his property;!”

r pHE Mad Doctor was studying some part of his whirring brain-child with great care. “Shall wo go in and see the rest of the picture?” he suggested, straightening.

But I lingered. “How long did it take you to build?” The Mad Doctor was patient but offhand under cross-examination. “About six months. We put on the first show on May 10 this year. No hitches. We’ve run her every Saturday night since. The various studios turned up trumps and each gives us a month’s supply of films, just for the love of it. “Quite interesting building one of these things, you know. The hardest part, was getting the board to build a flreproof projection-box. Took us weeks with all sorts of red tape to cross and permits to be had.” “The patients must bless you,” I murmured. “Seventy pounds and six months spare time . .

“Now, look here,” said the Mad Doctor firmly; “I did that job and spent that money entirely for my own amusement and pleasure. Get it? If you imagine you’ve got a newspaper story, I suppose there’s no stopping you. But cut out the sob-stuff. And no names!” The Mad Doctor is a man whose words must be respected. Still . . . I wish when 1 did a job and spent money entirely for my own interest and pleasure I could do it as profitably as the Mad Doctor. His repayment, whether he knows it or not, is in the good coin of laughter . . . that is followed by a faint, paper-like rustle of coughing. ■ —O.M.A.