04Dec2003
Monday was a great day for Wellington. It was wall to wall with Lord of the Rings. So there it was on a brilliant early summer Wellington evening. Blue skies. Windless and a red carpet stretching endlessly back almost to Taranaki Street. In its commanding position at the end of Courtney Place was the Embassy Theatre. Resplendent in a new coat, of paint completely refurbished inside.
As a small boy growing up in Wellington the Embassy played a large part in my life. In those days the Theatre was called “The DeLuxe”. Regularly on a Saturday afternoon I got the tram from Northland and with sixpence in my pocket I was off on a journey into a world of fantasy. There were other theatres like “The Kings”, “The Plaza”, “The State’, “The Tudor” and “The Majestic” but the “Embassy” was the grandest of them all. Appropriately it’s the only theatre which has survived from those early days. When you got inside it was like going into a temple of dreams. Part of my sixpence got me into the front stalls. The lights started dimming and in the right-hand corner a Wurlitzer organ began an overture of popular tunes of the day. The sounds of the organ swirled around the whole theatre. It was magnificent. The curtains sheltering the screen became whirlpools of light. Every colour in the rainbow and then some more. They rose and dimmed with the swell of the music. The colours would go racing, chasing, arching across the ornate ceiling. I used to sit there mesmerised in this world of make-believe. Then almost imperceptibly the lights dimmed, the music died and the great curtain drew slowly back to reveal the silver screen. The show had started.
The days performance was divided into two parts. Then first half which we called “the shorts”. This part of the programme was not named after Peter Jackson’s favourite mode of dress. The second part was the main feature. The “shorts” were just a warm up for the main event. Of course there was the traditional cartoon. Maybe “Popeye the Sailorman and his dutiful wife Olive and daughter Sweet Pea”. Then a serial with the Lone Ranger and his faithful companion Tonto. Then there were the war newsreels. Montgomery’s tanks ploughing through sand blown North African desert firing endless salvos over the horizon as they drove Rommel and his divisions into the Mediterranean. When I come to think of it the theme of the shorts was Lord of the Ring like the triumph of good over evil. The goodies always won. Then came the interval. From the three pennies I had left I invested one of these in an Eskimo pie. A chocolate coated icecream in a foil wrapper. At that point I furtively transported myself upstairs to the dress circle. As did just about everyone else who had occupied the front stalls for the first half. In the “DeLuxe” the dress circle was the place to be. There was carpet on the floor and the seats were soft and plush. The lights dimmed for the second half. The screen lit up. And a rampaging lion which was Metro-Goldwyn-Mayers trademark roared out at all of us. Ushers with torches searched in vain through the rows of the dress circle in an endeavour to find those who had previously occupied the front stalls. Melting chocoloate from the Eskimo pie dripping down my wrist. I used to lay very low. And suddenly there in brilliant technicolour was a beaming Gene Kelly resplendent in the uniform of an American sailor. He seemed to be continually jumping off tables, racing around decks of aircraft carriers, dancing and singing “Anchors a weigh” – accompanied by a host of demurely clad bright eyed young women in the chorus. Within an hour this world of make believe would come to an end. The lights would come up and I would wander downstairs into the bright afternoon that was Courtney Place. Blinking, still humming Gene Kelly’s tunes. I’d wait for a number 2 tram to take me home to the hills of Northland.
It all came back to me last Monday seeing the DeLuxe now the Embassy. The trams have gone. On that day the red carpet had replaced them as it created a pathway up to the doors of the DeLuxe. Temple of Dreams. I didn’t see anyone with an Eskimo pie though.
As a small boy growing up in Wellington the Embassy played a large part in my life. In those days the Theatre was called “The DeLuxe”. Regularly on a Saturday afternoon I got the tram from Northland and with sixpence in my pocket I was off on a journey into a world of fantasy. There were other theatres like “The Kings”, “The Plaza”, “The State’, “The Tudor” and “The Majestic” but the “Embassy” was the grandest of them all. Appropriately it’s the only theatre which has survived from those early days. When you got inside it was like going into a temple of dreams. Part of my sixpence got me into the front stalls. The lights started dimming and in the right-hand corner a Wurlitzer organ began an overture of popular tunes of the day. The sounds of the organ swirled around the whole theatre. It was magnificent. The curtains sheltering the screen became whirlpools of light. Every colour in the rainbow and then some more. They rose and dimmed with the swell of the music. The colours would go racing, chasing, arching across the ornate ceiling. I used to sit there mesmerised in this world of make-believe. Then almost imperceptibly the lights dimmed, the music died and the great curtain drew slowly back to reveal the silver screen. The show had started.
The days performance was divided into two parts. Then first half which we called “the shorts”. This part of the programme was not named after Peter Jackson’s favourite mode of dress. The second part was the main feature. The “shorts” were just a warm up for the main event. Of course there was the traditional cartoon. Maybe “Popeye the Sailorman and his dutiful wife Olive and daughter Sweet Pea”. Then a serial with the Lone Ranger and his faithful companion Tonto. Then there were the war newsreels. Montgomery’s tanks ploughing through sand blown North African desert firing endless salvos over the horizon as they drove Rommel and his divisions into the Mediterranean. When I come to think of it the theme of the shorts was Lord of the Ring like the triumph of good over evil. The goodies always won. Then came the interval. From the three pennies I had left I invested one of these in an Eskimo pie. A chocolate coated icecream in a foil wrapper. At that point I furtively transported myself upstairs to the dress circle. As did just about everyone else who had occupied the front stalls for the first half. In the “DeLuxe” the dress circle was the place to be. There was carpet on the floor and the seats were soft and plush. The lights dimmed for the second half. The screen lit up. And a rampaging lion which was Metro-Goldwyn-Mayers trademark roared out at all of us. Ushers with torches searched in vain through the rows of the dress circle in an endeavour to find those who had previously occupied the front stalls. Melting chocoloate from the Eskimo pie dripping down my wrist. I used to lay very low. And suddenly there in brilliant technicolour was a beaming Gene Kelly resplendent in the uniform of an American sailor. He seemed to be continually jumping off tables, racing around decks of aircraft carriers, dancing and singing “Anchors a weigh” – accompanied by a host of demurely clad bright eyed young women in the chorus. Within an hour this world of make believe would come to an end. The lights would come up and I would wander downstairs into the bright afternoon that was Courtney Place. Blinking, still humming Gene Kelly’s tunes. I’d wait for a number 2 tram to take me home to the hills of Northland.
It all came back to me last Monday seeing the DeLuxe now the Embassy. The trams have gone. On that day the red carpet had replaced them as it created a pathway up to the doors of the DeLuxe. Temple of Dreams. I didn’t see anyone with an Eskimo pie though.
posted by Lundon at 1:48 PM
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