No,the halls were definitely nothing much to write home about. Creaking fans, broken seats with torn upholstery, stinking toilets & rank bad audio-visual systems. But what gorgeous names they went by! Wellington, Paragon, Plaza, Gaiety, Globe, Casino.....And on the distaff side, Chitra, Shanthi,Kamala, Bhuvaneswari....not to mention the royal clan comprising Maharani & Maharaja....
Ages ago, when Chennai was still Madras and Jayalalitha was still our endearing Ammu, our salvation lay in our cinema theatres. Cinema was, and still is, in the life-blood of the average Madrasi. Fridays were eagerly awaited not for the succeeding week-ends but for the latest block-buster from Kodambakkam. That was when, if MGR fans swarmed to Devi Paradise & Agasthya, the army of arch-rival Sivaji Ganesan stormed Shanthi and Crown. Towering cut-outs then too dotted our promenades, as they do now, only that the local ward councillor's cut-outs dwarf the tinsel world hero's, nowadays.Those were the days when every Tamil movie was released in three theatres! In a combination that would not be altered. (Sivaji's were always in Shanthi, Crown & Bhuvaneswari. One other well-known combination was Devi Paradise & Agasthya.). Around a 100 metre radius of Mount Road's Anna Statue were at least eight temples promising instant deliverance - eight edifices housing cinema theatres, witnessing influx of pilgrims from Mannadi to Mirsahibpet, Aminjikarai to Ambattan Varavathi.
Going for a movie was an elaborate exercise those days, requiring careful advance planning. Much thought went into the planning and execution. The movie's release would be announced about a week early. Advance booking would start 5 days early i.e. on Monday. The first two weeks bookings would be gobbled up by the fans associations and so the commoners can plan advance booking from the third week onwards. The ticket rates those days strictly classified humanity into three distinct classes without much fuss - lower class, middle class & upper class. Rs.1.50, 2.90 and Rs.4.50 respectively. The rate band for the top and bottom rungs slightly varied from theatre to theatre-oscillating within a band of 50 paise but 2.90 was always 2.90 in all the theatres for about two decades; middle class was so clearly identified and defined. The 2.90 middle-class!
And how proud we were to be in that 2.90 class! To appreciate the art of movie-going and experiencing the chaotic bliss, it pays if you hail from Triplicane. Oh, what a place! All the heavenly destinations were just a furlong away from Triplicane. Marina at the eastern end, Chepauk stadium at the northern & all those majestic picture halls of Mount Road at the western.
Yes, coming back to the 2.90 class experience. Show starts at 6.30 in the evening. The entire day in school spent day-dreaming about the adventure for the evening (if the film-going event is slated for a week day, that is). Return from school at 4.30. Drape yourself in your elegant best. Walk the half mile if the destination is Star or Paragon. Better still, catch a PTC bus from Ice-house, pay 10 paise for a ticket and alight at Adam Market and walk through the gully to reach Devi theatre's rear end. Enter through the back gate, enjoy the cool spray from the building's air-conditioning plant up there, exit through the front gate, take a right turn and there it is, Shanthi theatre in all its glory! As you enter, seeing the milling crowds, your spirits wane. A long queue in front of the 2.90 counter. You join the queue and immediately start praying. Invoke all known Gods. And make a secret pact with Big Street Pillayar to enrich his coffers by 10 paise the next day, if in turn, he manages to transport you to the inside of the hall this evening. A bell rings. The matinee show crowd rushes out. You scan the faces exiting. All seem smiling. 'Well, the film is good, then.' Your spirit soars. Another bell! the ticket counter opens. The heart just started beating louder. The queue moves forward inch by inch. You crane your neck and try to see the man behind the counter, dispensing tickets. He finishes one bunch and stretches his hand to reach for another. Your heart already misses two beats. 'Sold out so early?' the mind races. The stretched hand resurfaces with another bunch. You heave a sigh of relief. 'Another 100 tickets are there'. You start mentally counting the number of heads in front of you. 98. Or is it 99? Count again. 'No, it's 101. I am sure I will not get a ticket. Pillayarappa, don't desert me.' The queue moves further up. Only three in front now. 'Will I, won't I?' Two exit. Just one left. You crane your neck further to look at the inventory at the counter-man's hand. Is it one or two? To add to your misery, the man ahead just bought two tickets. 'How unjust' you curse, 'only one man at the counter and how could two be given away?' Miraculously it is now just you in front of the counter-man with no one in-between. And bless the lord, he still has one ticket left. You tender the two rupee and one rupee notes, carefully tucked between your fingers for the last 10 agonising moments, the lone ticket is transported to your hand with the change of 10 paise. No sooner did you retract your hand from the counter than the sign-board 'House full' was placed!
How can this moment of triumph be adequately expressed? Even as you exit the turnstile, you can't resist turning back and witness at least another 100 people in the queue behind you, disappointment writ large on their faces. Your heart swells with pride and involuntarily you lift your head, heave your chest and exit the queue with a feeling of exhilaration. Triumphed against all odds! Beat 100 men in your quest for a tryst with destiny!
You enter the hall and take your pride of place. The first feeling is one of relief that the newsreel is not already running. The 2.90 class in me expects full paisa-vasool for the hard labour just endured. That means being parked comfortably in your appointed seat much before the lights dim, thoroughly savour the moment the screen is lifted and "Shanthi welcomes you" slide is displayed, followed by "No smoking", "Head ache? Take one Saridon", " Relax, have a Charminar" , "Daily 3 shows". The slide show ends, the ad-reels now roll out. "That's why I always use Palmolive shave cream", explains the original Tendulkar. This is followed by the news reel which is, as always, abruptly cut off even as Indira Gandhi is half-way surveying the floods in Bihar. The main movie begins, to the accompaniment of the orchestra of whistles and cat-calls. What an experience! The 2.90 experience!
Where are those Paragons, Plazas and Wellingtons gone now? Movie going is a lot hi-tech today, what with DTS, surround sound, net-booking, 3D et al. Getting into a hall now is simple but the movie, as life itself is, has become a lot more complex. Those were the days when the three hours preceding the actual start of the movie were more adventurous than the movie-watching itself. Those were the days when spotting a "100th day" wall-poster of your favourite hero's picture plastered all over town made your heart swell with pride. Those were the days when 10 paise change was returned by the ticket vendor. Those were the days when a bombshell called Jayamalini attracted half of Madras to Paragon over a 100 day period to watch her 'horror'-cum-historical magnum-opus called 'Jagan Mohini'.
And those were the days when two care-free adolescents from Ice House, Triplicane, had the gumption to watch Jayamalini's gyrations in Paragon just 15 hours before the commencement of their SSLC public exams! In 2.90 class splendour! One of the two is yours truly. The other, though at the other end of the globe now, would not deny this either!
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