BEHIND THE BOX OFFICE

Greymouth Evening Star, 20 December 1934, Page 12

BEHIND THE BOX OFFICE

THINGS AUDIENCES FORGET. Let us forget for a moment the reigning stars, their careers and their caresses, their quarrels and their quiddities, their temperaments -and their tempers, and concentrate on the massive fabric which ultimately brings success to the box office, writes a contributor to the “Sunday Chronicle.” Let me, for the nonce, act as a modest Boswell to that vast collection of wise Dr Johnsons, the Great British Public. As cinema-goers they are a curious race—and that means you and I. Stunned by excitement or bemused bj r boredom (which you will) they leave autobiographic details behind them in the cinemas they frequent. Like “A Gentleman in Khaki Ordered South,” they “leave a lot of little things behind them.” In other words, every cloakroom tells a story. I have been inspecting the returns of 375 Gaumont-British local managers. They were asked to report on anything unusual which happened in their cinemas, anything curious left behind, any curious requests from their clientele. The result is a feast of delight. I pass lightly over the one-month coloured baby which was left behind in a AATillasey cinema and for whom a policewoman gave a receipt when it had not been claimed. Let us get a general example of the normal flotsam and jetsam which remains behind in a picture house after the last show. This one is typical. The foreman going round on one occasion reported he had found one market basket con-

taining six bottles of beer (this was in Liverpool, believe it or not); three pounds of greens, three pounds of potatoes, ssve'ral judgment summonses, a. box of toy soldiers, some pawn tickets, one engagement ring (did romance end there?), a jig-saw puzzle, one woman’s shoe (how did the poor lass get home?), and a set of false teeth firmly embedded in •some succulent toffee. Just a typical salvage. False teeth, I am told, except for umbrellas, are the most usual inhabitants of the lost property office. I wonder why this is? Out of the countless examples of human frailty that I saw, let me pull out some specially delightful examples of the Great British Public At Birkenhead a woman arrived one Saturday afternoon with a parcel. She found herself a comfortable seat, and placed her parcel on the floor beneath her. Throughout the afternoon members of the audience told the manager what a delightful smell there was about the cinema. At 7.30 an attendant woke the woman up. She reached for her parcel. It was the Sunday joint well and truly cooked. Unknowingly she had placed it on a radiator. She made a bitter complaint to the management that her joint was ruined. Every Saturday afternoon at Newcastle a small boy used to bring his father to the cinema, and buy him a 4d ticket. At seven the wife would fetch him. Once the manager asked her why. “it’s the only way,” she said, “while 1 am charring, to be sure he will bring his wages home.” But perhaps the most poignant story of all is that of an elderly Don Juan. From 7.30 in the morning till nine

o’clock the manager’s private bell went unceasingly. At last he went down. There was an ageing gentleman with a black handkerchief over his head, He had not been home all night. He dared not. His wife did not know that he* was bald, and he had left his wig in the cinema. I liked, too, the charming story of the Southport woman vftio rang up for ten stalls. “At what time does the big picture come on?” she asked. “7.45,” was the reply. “You must pu't it back to 8.15 J” she commanded, “my dinner party will not be over till then.” A woman with one eye insisted that because of her infirmity she should get in for half price. All true stories. Funny people, aren’t we?