Children of Paradise (eBook)

Midnight Cowboy

Directed by John Schlesinger

1969

The Paradise cinema had a gaudy interior and a pervasive smell of sweet popcorn and mildew. It was built on the ground floor of a block of flats around the time of the outbreak of the First World War, its entrance like the building’s gaping mouth, a sparkling marquee teeth grin with the word PARADISE written in pale yellow neon. They tore down some of the flats to put the cinema in. I imagined someone with a giant cake knife cutting out whole living rooms and bedrooms with people in them, and throwing them away, replacing regular, mundane lives with glamorous Hollywood ones.

I would’ve passed the Paradise without looking if it weren’t for the handwritten ‘We’re Hiring’ sign on its big dusty glass doors. I had just arrived in the city, and in the country, by train, and needed a job.

I’ll call myself Holly, like the girl from Badlands.

The current head manager of the Paradise was named Sally. She looked like she was in her late thirties, but later someone told me she was almost fifty. She wore rockabilly clothes: a vintage dress and a white fur coat with a Betty Boop badge on it. She told me that she had put herself through college by winning beauty contests. She had freckles all over her face, barely discernible under a layer of makeup. She wore a fifties style turban – the only part of her hair that I could see was her red bangs, but I could still tell underneath that she had a face like Judy Garland’s. She was a foreigner too, she had a midwestern American accent, she said she was from the same state Wizard of Oz was set in. Why she moved here didn’t make sense to me. It only seemed natural that someone like her would’ve made her way to Hollywood with a suitcase full of vintage dresses and the last of her beauty queen money rather than a country like this one that seemed to have more graveyards than anything else. Perhaps she wondered why I moved here too.

During my interview with Sally, when she asked my favourite film genre, I said the first thing that popped into my head, as she was sat in front of me in her pale blue fifties taffeta dress. ‘Clowns, anything with clowns,’ I said. ‘And Charlie Chaplin.’ We were sitting at the one table in the tiny bar, attached to the cinema lobby, her coat thrown over the one empty chair. The white fur had yellowish tinges in it, the way popcorn does.

The bar was where customers could get drinks to take into films or drink at the one table or two rickety bar stools by the zinc countertop. Whenever I touched the table or moved my feet the entire bar seemed to rattle, the shelves of oddly shaped glasses for obscure cocktails, the dim-coloured liquors, the jar of pickled eggs, olives with tiny red tongues, cornichons and jalapeños floating in foggy water like dead slugs, Luxardo maraschino cherries and dusty peanuts. There was an Oscar statue standing guard between the jars. I wonder who he had belonged to. There were photographs of famous directors and actors, in gold frames covering the walls – Greta Garbo, Joan Crawford, Kim Novak, Errol Flynn, Uma Thurman, Anna May Wong, Clark Gable – and posters of films like Pink Flamingos,The Breakfast Club, Reservoir Dogs and Heathers. The bartender, a tall blond man with closely cropped hair, was playing Talking Heads, which he turned down when he saw that Sally was giving an interview. It was obvious that he was trying to listen. The Paradise barely got any sun, but the bartender was very tanned and well built like a soldier in a Technicolor film.

Sally told me that the bar had been put in in the late forties and hadn’t been done up since, except for the addition of more posters, headshots and movie stills, which cluttered the walls. Looking at them all crowded there, they seemed ready to suddenly spring into action, hundreds of voices and movements.

‘What do you know about the Paradise?’ was one of her questions.

‘It’s really old,’ I said, which I haphazardly and rightly guessed by quickly looking around me before drinking from the large glass of tepid Pepsi Sally had given me. She had one herself too, with a green and white straw, sipping carefully so as not to mess up her red lipstick.

‘That’s right,’ she replied. ‘The oldest running cinema here. The film festival was founded by one of our former owners. All the movies were shown here. We aren’t currently one of the cinemas used by the city film festival, but I hope that will change soon. You can see he is a little worn.’ It took me a moment to realize the ‘he’ was the Paradise.

The apartment building I had grown up in had old, half-rotting numbered cinema seats in the yard that had been found in a dump. Children liked to play on them, pretending they were at the movies. I told Sally this, trying to impress her, but she just smiled sadly. She got up and told me to leave my drink at the table, saying that Otto – I assumed he was the bartender – would clean it up.

‘The Paradise shows the latest films, the money makers, but also classic Hollywood ones like It’s a Wonderful Life, The Wild Bunch, The Great Escape, African Queen or Wizard of Oz,’ Sally said.

The kind of films in my mind you’d see snippets of as a kid when visiting your grandparents, the wood panelled television set tuned all day to a golden oldies rerun channel, the kind of films synonymous with shag carpets, porcelain figurines, stale indoor cigarette smoke and lukewarm cups of soda pop. I noticed that when Sally had mentioned The African Queen, her eyes lit up. She added that it was her favourite film.

‘When the Paradise first opened, it showed silent films with Buster Keaton and Lon Chaney.’ She went on to tell me about the elderly ladies who didn’t know how to read, and how they would bring bags of sweets and feed them to children they asked to sit beside them, whispering the titles into their ears.

She gave me a tour of the whole building, which I guessed meant that I had the job. I don’t know why she hired me, but I later learned that Sally had mysterious ways of doing things. The Paradise was a Frankenstein’s monster of a place. Over the years, rooms were added and rearranged but with all the same old rotting pieces, the same red, white and gold paint retouched, another layer put on.

There was a chandelier in the lobby, red carpeted floors, gold trim on the white walls, wide and narrow mirrors which gave it the feeling of a funhouse though they distracted from the oppression of the flats above – layer upon layer of furniture, crockery and lives. There was a ticket kiosk – a cavern built into the wall which also sold popcorn, sweets, and Pepsi on draught. The kiosk housed the big old-fashioned popcorn maker, like a glass cage, which staff had to heat up and fill with kernels every morning. It was very important it was done before the first film of the day, said Sally, because the sound of the kernels popping was like many miniature explosions. There were grand, dusty parlour palms in golden pots, living off the weak light of the chandelier, copper racks holding Paradise programmes which were made with a black and white photocopier.

The cash tills were so old they looked like Victorian churches perched on the countertops, and the tickets were small ‘admit one’ types, pale pink with black lettering like tiny, tattooed fingers, without the name of the movie on them. The usher had to rip them when a customer went in so that they couldn’t be used again for a different movie. Sally showed me how, ripping one almost in half before throwing it into a nearby bin. ‘Never rip it into tiny pieces,’ she told me. ‘Customers often like to keep them, as a memento.’

I noticed a framed newspaper article on the wall about Orson Welles attending a film festival at the Paradise which read: ‘Orson Welles limped into Festival cinema yesterday and said, “The film industry is dying-dying-dying.”’

A set of doors past the ticket kiosk led to the auditorium, an electric sign which said ‘CINEMA THIS WAY’ above the doors. Sally took me into the screen as it was between shows.

Sally continued her monologue. ‘You’ve seen that famous French animation about the Paradise?’ I nodded, hoping she wouldn’t pick up on my ignorance. It didn’t matter, she told me the story anyway. ‘In it, a man comically runs into the cinema then out again when a Jacques Tati film is playing. Fans of the animation will sometimes come in and try to do the same. Though I don’t think we ever showed a Jacques Tati film during my time here. Perhaps I ought to.’

She paused. ‘Unlike chain cinemas, we only have the one screen. Imagine having several screens, it would be like having several brains,’ she said with distaste.

The auditorium had Grecian columns with plaster torsos of beautiful nymph-like men with curly hair holding them up, their arms lifted. A young man with dark hair, dressed in black who looked exactly like the nymphs, was hurriedly sweeping the auditorium. He looked so tiny against the vast, temporarily empty room. His skin was whitish grey like he had just walked out of a silent film. Sally didn’t say anything about him.

A mustard yellow curtain hid the screen until show time. The ceiling was curved and covered in cracks: water stains and plaster mouldings of couples kissing, perhaps not quite human, with...