When I was a kid, I used to go to the movies on a Saturday morning. Or, as my late Uncle ( Mum's brother ) used to call it, The Flicks. Others called it “ The Pictures “ or “ The cinema” … no matter, we went to see a movie and it cost a shilling. In fact, I had friends who called it the Flea House, though I never really understood why.
We would all sit down in our seats, the lights would dim and a movie of a Lady on a horse would appear. We would stand up for the Lady on the horse and sing about saving the Queen. Only after we had sung about how wonderful she was and how important it was that we love our country, only then, could we sit down again and wait for the lady with the ice creams to come around.
It was magical. The crowded theatre; the Lady on the horse, the lady with the ice creams and the lady with the torch that led latecomers to their seats.
I would often stand there, while we stood for the Lady on the horse and wonder how big the sewing machine was that stitched the hems on those massive curtains… how could anyone possibly cut and hang those draperies that parted each Saturday morning to reveal the wonders hidden beyond their folds?
But I would soon be gathered up in a swirl of enchantment as I discovered that this particular Saturday morning, I would be confronted by an evil cowboy, a rogue rotter or a dastardly dinosaur.
Fortunately, I never worried. Deep down inside, I knew that the good guys would win, but that I had paid a shilling to see the baddies attack the goodies and I needed to get my money’s worth.
And I did.
The baddies would be mean, attack the innocent townsfolk, abduct ( or attempt to attack a wonderful woman ) but the good guy would come along and rescue her and they would ride off into the sunset together.
Only, after, of course, shooting all the baddies, rescuing the goodies and becoming a hero who, as he rode off with his fair maiden, would be declared a “ mysterious stranger “ who saved their town.
We would all clap, cheer and laugh, boo and hide behind our fingers – yet part those same fingers long enough to glimpse the baddie being very bad and our hero being shot at, kicked and abandoned by doubting townsfolk who had come to believe that the mysterious hero was a fraud.
Yet our hero would forge on, fight for the cynical townsfolk and deliver the body of the baddie to Boot Hill.
After he had rescued the town and the girl whose dog had been shot by the baddie, he would ride off, with his lady love and the town would be forever safe.
The music would play – we would stand up, walk out, pretend to shoot each other with our finger guns and consider it a shilling well spent.
As our eyes adjusted to the daylight, we would be collected by our parents and we would enthusiastically tell them about the Cowboy who rode into town and saved the people and we stood up for a Lady on a horse.
“ Was it a good flick? “ my Uncle would ask.
Oh, yes, it was.
The baddies lost and the goodies won.
That is all that mattered. The rest was window dressing. It did not matter that the little girl’s pet dog was shot by a baddie sent from a greedy Governor of a new Western State – that was part of the drama, and the dog was just acting dead - we always knew that the baddies would lose and the goodies would win. All because of the cowboy who rode into town in the nick of time and had a gun with more bullets than a six shooter could possibly ever have – we didn’t care.
Perhaps we've lost something when we've become so clever about stories that the child sitting in the dark no longer knows who to cheer for.
Back then, the goodies always won.
I wonder if this is what is wrong with our kids today?
I don't mind a complicated story. Life is complicated enough without pretending otherwise. But sometimes I would quite like to sit down with my shilling, watch the curtains open and know who to boo and who to cheer without being told. .
No wonder we don’t go to the flicks anymore.
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