Short Story: More Than Just Movies

The memories and references here don’t adhere to any accurate timeline. Rather, just like the real memories we have,they are not neatly and chronologically catalogued on shelves ready to be picked at will. Instead, the scenes of our lives are played out of order, out of focus, tied to emotions that hit us like an unexpected twist.

Dewi Griffiths, author

He always thought it was such an odd place for this glamorous 1920’s style behemoth of a building, right in the middle of a residential area. On the junction of four very generic UK neighbourhood streets, a mix of bungalows and houses that could have belonged to any middle-class 2.4 children family, it stuck out like someone had taken a jigsaw piece from one set and forced it into another. Golden age Hollywood shoehorned into British suburbia.

It always seemed so glitzy.

As a child, he had imagined it was the kind of place that catered to men in top hats and tails and stick-thin women in gigantic fur coats smoking, from those fancy long cigarette holders. It had that Art Deco look to it. Full of lines, grooves, bold shapes, and curves. At least he thought it was Art Deco. He had no idea what that meant. But he heard people say it and it made sense to him.

He also had no idea that it wasn’t the same ‘Monaco’ as the place – for all he knew the centre of fashion, Formula One, and luxury casinos was named after this cosy little Welsh cinema. A dark sandy yellow, like a big mustard palace, it reminded him of the 20th Century Fox logo he had seen at the beginning of so many movies inside. It was a building that begged for those iconic light beams shining into the sky. At complete odds with the Happy Shopper opposite.

There were never the millionaire socialites of his imagination here, entering from limousines separated from the mere commoners by velvet ropes. Instead, it was the commoners themselves who came here; ordinary kids like him with their parents, teens who smelled of funny fragrances, and local couples on a cheap date night who didn’t want to get a taxi into town.

***

Even with the keys, he still needs a crowbar to pry open the heavy doors, set in place by rust and time.
He makes his way inside.

Wait! Didn’t it have a huge foyer and those fancy sets of double curved stairs? Like something out of Gone with the Wind, or Ritchie Rich? No. It’s just a grubby little space by a ticket booth and a few steps where the carpet is torn. His memory is playing tricks on him.

That booth where he once stood, waiting for his dad to buy tickets, tugging on his coat, and reminding him they had to get snacks – it used to be some unreachable wall he could never quite see over; he just had to hope the sweets he asked for were there. Now it’s just above his waist.

He lays down his toolkit. He puts the crowbar back and takes out a torch. A soft smile develops as he thinks to himself – the last time he was here he was wearing a Buzz Lightyear T-shirt. Or at least, it was one of the many times he had been here. It’s difficult to remember when the last visit was exactly. Now he’s in heavy boots, a high viz vest, and a hard helmet.

He still lives nearby, and when his team got the date to carry out preliminary safety checks, he asked if he could just take a quick look beforehand by himself. His reasons? ‘I’m so close, it’ll help to be prepared and speed the process along etc.’ Luckily, his manager didn’t care enough to need believable excuses. In truth, he just wanted to say goodbye to an old friend one last time in privacy. One doesn’t always get the luxury of knowing when a simple goodbye is the last.

Further in, a cardboard T-Rex welcomes him, albeit flat and trampled on the floor. It’s celebrating the release of Jurassic Park, still, 30 years later. He picks the poor thing up and puts it on its feet. It brings a flashback. The giant beast had loomed over him when he came to see it in its debut role, all those years back. A huge crowd had gathered, queuing out the door and round the corner, just to see this scaly star. The hairs on his neck stand even now as he recalls gasping at the velociraptors entering the kitchen, burying his face in his dad’s side as he did with so many scary parts. He thinks back to not just the fear, but how enthralled he was – shocked, amused, entertained.

He remembers leaving here being practically carried out in a river of people, grasping tightly onto his dad’s sleeve. The crowd hustled out shoulder to shoulder, laughing, repeating lines, asking:

“Remember this part?…”

“What about when…?”

“Mummy, were the dinosaurs real?”

“Did they get hurt?”

Now he stands where that mighty crowd once flowed, in an empty corridor for a riverbed – just him and the T-Rex. He once looked up in fear and awe at this mighty beast that filled the screen. He jumped for joy and cheered when it took a heroic turn and saved the day. Now he chuckles as he pats it on its cardboard head.

“Clever girl,” he says.

He ambles along the dusty carpet with just hints of a faded pattern underneath. It was once berry blue with red and yellow squiggly lines randomly drawn between shapes of varying sizes, haphazardly placed squares, and triangles of bright neon green and purple. The kind of thing that would be headache-inducing if it wasn’t for the thick layer of grime acting as a protective filter. He’s sure at one time it was considered ‘rad’. He stares down at antiquated remnants of popcorn scattered on the floor. He instinctively presses down with his foot, smooshing it into the carpet. What’s the harm? It’s seen better days.

He sees a door open to what looks like a supply cupboard. Drawn to it, he finds a treasure trove of merchandise. Neatly packaged tie-ins, posters, stands, and more. All wrapped in plastic, as if brand new, these spares stay unused, all ready to announce upcoming attractions long gone by.

He wonders if this promotional prison is where the T-Rex broke free from.

The spotlight of his torch swipes across the room, illuminating one summer hit at a time. From the darkness, he feels a pair of eyes on him. He shines his light upon them, seeing the sad empty lenses of Darth Vader staring back at him. Another cardboard cutout, but he wasn’t as lucky as his prehistoric cellmate. He’s sandwiched between the wall and some boxed up Titanic banners, a fatal rip going almost all the way across his neck. He decides to put him out of his misery and set him free all at once. He grabs the head, tears it from his trapped body, and takes it with him upon his way.

They travel the corridor together, towards the main attraction. Walking along, holding Darth down by his knees, he’s reminded of walking back from this cinema with his own father, holding his hand, asking, “But … is Darth Vader really his dad?”

This is it, what he really came to see. He pushes his way in, walking up to the giant screen. This simple canvas, where bright lights had projected all manner of colours and shapes to build the worlds of his youth, was now empty and dull. He takes a few steps back. He ponders, then takes a slight risk by sitting on one of the rusty dirty chairs, one of the few still with an intact cushion. He sets Darth Vader on the chair beside him.

They sit together in silence.

Time passes, they remain quietly seated, as if glued to the screen by a great film.

But he isn’t watching anything. He stares into space, thinking of the past. He can hear his father’s gentle reply to his naive question, “I don’t know. We’ll have to find out in the next one.”

“There’s another one!?!” His little heart pounded as he processed the possibility of a second Star Wars adventure. Surely, there could never be enough?

Looking back on this exchange, he smirks, probably the same sly smile his dad had at the time. He’d had no idea that he’d been watching the special edition re-release, and previous generations got their answer a long, long time ago.

Back then, Luke Skywalker’s parentage was among his biggest worries, along with ‘what if toys really have a life of their own’? ‘What if aliens really did come to earth and blow up the White House?’ His biggest fear was ‘what if gremlins are real?’ How would he know when he can start feeding them again? And what if he’s the next John Connor but doesn’t know it, and a Terminator is after him?

The folly of youth.

Now, he worries about bills, the mortgage, blood pressure, a work life balance. His most recent predicament was choosing the right care home for this father. Now his biggest fear is being in the same position, not even recognising his own son by the end.

He looks down at Darth, those big sad eyes. All he sees now is just another Dad.

“It’s not so easy, is it?” he finds himself saying, not knowing if he even expects an answer.

It’s a sign he should leave, a sign he should stop talking to the cardboard of his youth. He slams his hands down on the arm rests, springing dust into the air, and pushes himself up to go. He leaves Vader sat in the seat. It’s a better spot than the cupboard.

After he makes a few steps for the exit, he can’t help but turn back, staring back at the iconic villain.

He knows it’s silly; he knows it serves no purpose.

He knows it’s for no one but himself.

But nevertheless, he speaks to Vader once more.

He hesitates, before letting out a hushed “Goodbye.”

One doesn’t always get the luxury.

He carries on, thankful for the carefree youth he once had.

It was nice of his father to not spoil the surprise.

By Dewi Griffiths