Cinema

 

This cinema had been on my radar for some time, so I was pretty excited to see it. My primary motivation  was the vintage balcony seats, which date back to 1922 and are still mostly intact. Of the last two cinemas I went to, one was gorgeous but the balcony seats were mostly stripped out, and the other was obliterated in an arson attack. Here I would finally get to see preserved vintage cinema seating in all its dusty, pigeon-shit-drenched glory.

As is often the case with these old buildings, there are numerous photos online that depict it in its glory days.

 

 (Photo not mine, obviously)

 

I don't have an official date for this image, but the movie advertised is "For Heavens Sake," with Harold Lloyd, and that came out in 1926. It's a comedy about a millionaire who accidentally burns down a coffee stand for homeless people, pays the owner to replace it, and is then outraged when the owner spends the money on establishing a mission church. It involves all the usual slapstick humour of the time, and it's apparently the 12th highest grossing film of the silent era.

It's strange to think that this building was entertaining people that far back, but this is actually the second cinema to sit on this spot. Its predecessor was built in 1911 with about 506 seats. But then in 1922 a chap called Leonard Dussault redesigned it, and had the cinema rebuilt into what it is today. 

 

Leonard had previously worked on a bunch of stuff, including numerous houses across the midlands, a factory in 1910, another cinema in 1913, a cafe in 1919 as well as overseeing alterations to a hospital. This is particularly interesting to me because often the architects of these old picture houses specialised almost exclusively in picture houses, whereas Leonard dipped his toes into all kinds of projects. 

I'm not sure how much of the current building actually dates back as 1911. Some say that Leonard merely renovated it, but I read a book that described it as a complete reconstruction, saying that the new building was erected in 1922 on "an old cinema site," extended by the addition of more land, at the cost of £20,000. So it does sound like the old building was removed completely.  

 

 But this is why, if you look really closely at the faded lettering, the cinema name has the prefix "New."

 

And while this text was visible in the 1926 image, and is still visible today, later photos show the triangular ABC logo covering it up.

 

 (Photo not mine, obviously)

 

ABC took it over in 1936, and this image is dated twenty years later. Allegedly they dropped the "new" prefix, too, but I'm not sure exactly when that happened because photos do exist of the cinema still retaining that name while rocking the ABC logo.

 (Photo not mine, obviously)

 

There's no date for the above image, but the cinema is advertising "Love Letters," which came out in 1945. That's a romantic murder mystery, with some multiple personality disorder thrown in for good measure. It actually sounds quite intriguing. 

The 1930s and 1940s were a pretty exciting time in the history of British cinema. The silent era had come to an end, and movie-goers were blown away by this revolutionary new technology. And you have to understand, TV didn't become popular in British homes until the 1960s, and VCRs didn't explode in popularity until the 1980s. Before VCR, the only way to watch a movie was to see it when it was available, so in the 1930s a trip to the cinema was a bit more meaningful than it is today. Once they saw it here, they'd have to come back if they wanted to see it again, and once it stopped screening, that was it. The internet changed all that, obviously, but how many people who watched "For Heavens Sake" in 1926 are going to know it's on Youtube now?

 

Time to slip inside!

 

 

The interior is a glorious wreck. It's trashed, but it's still possible to see signs of the buildings former glory. The curtain still hangs above the stage, visible only through that gap in the wall next to the ladder.  There's also a sign that says "The onus of being heard lies upon the player. Please make your call loud and clear." The sign is a leftover from the buildings time as a bingo hall, which seems to be the fate of many old vintage cinemas. I think this is the fifth cinema I've documented that ended life as a bingo hall. My 100th and 200th blog posts were both of the same bingo hall, but that was a coincidence, and I won't be doing that again. For my 300th blog post, I'll be invading France. 

But I digress.

 

 

Up above, we have the balcony, with all the vintage seats allegedly still up there. 

 

 

But I wasn't getting my hopes up about what I might actually find up there, because as you can see, the downstairs is a tip. So much old furniture has just been dumped here. What's going on? Is this being used for storage? If that's the case, they really haven't been that careful with it. Everything is just strewn around randomly.

 

 

Here's some broken kitchen appliances.

And then at the very back of the auditorium, we have the best part of any abandoned building, the toilets.

 

 

Check out the peeling paint! I actually really like this. As far as urinals go, the decay is pretty attractive. 

 

 

Still in better condition than the toilets in some pubs and clubs, too!

 

Moving on to the front of the building...
 

 

The main foyer of the cinema is similarly just a dumping ground of junk. It was impossible to really do justice to what was once a grand cinema entrance. The reception is still visible though, poking out of a sea of clutter. But unfortunately, in order to appreciate this area, we have to rely on vintage images. 

(Picture not mine, obviously)

As you can see, it was once pretty grand. I can't even get a comparison shot because of all the mess.

 

 

There's a school uniform here for some reason.

 

There's a sign here directing customers to a payphone, but as we can see, the phone is long gone.

 

 

The local kids aren't too shy about pointing it out either. 

 

 

On the wall, there's still contact details for Liberty Cars, no doubt next to the phone so that bingo-goers in the 1970s could arrange a ride home. This taxi company still exists, but this card is pretty old, and the details on it are out of date. I checked the premises out on historic street view, and they seem to have relocated around 2011. It's now a salon called Virginity. Probably the only virginity you'll find in that part of Birmingham.

 

 

Moving behind the reception desk, I found a lot of clutter, but this at least seems to be relevant clutter. This is no doubt the same seat once occupied by the posterior of the bingo hall staff.

 

 

I didn't think much of this at first, but I later found out that "Roll out the Barrel" belt buckles are collectable Budweiser-themed belt buckles, and they fetch quite a bit of dosh on Ebay if they're still in the packaging. Whoever removed these totally missed out.

 

 

Here are some old electric meter cards from 1974. Presumably these were the last meter readings before the bingo hall closed its doors for the last time.

 

 

Alongside the foyer, two parallel staircases lead down towards the toilets. But these stairways are pretty treacherous, littered with all manner of clutter. The stairs down to the gents have a load of belts scattered along them.

 

There's also a microwave, just because this stairway doesn't have enough trip hazards.

 

 

And here's the gents toilets. As you can see, nobody is getting to the urinals today.

 

 

The cellar also splits off to this little area, where the original "No Smoking" sign is still painted to the brickwork. 

 

 

Next up, the ladies loos!

 

 

And just look at the clutter on these stairs! Keep in mind, it was pitch black in here, and all this junk was unstable, shifting under my feet as I made the scramble down. Is this really worth it, just to see a damn toilet? 

Yes it is! For all I know, there could be something really awesome down there like a fantastic graffiti mural, or a dead urbexer, or something.

 

 

Well, none of those things were down here. But there is something intriguing, at least to me. On the outside, the door to the ladies toilet is just a plain brown door with the classic toilet depiction of a one-legged woman on it. But on the other side of the door, we can see that the door used to have a window with "ladies toilet" written on the glass.

 

 

Seriously, this is the same door! At some point, a huge brown panel was added to the front of the door, but the original features are still visible on this side. Presumably the gents toilets are the same, but there's just too much clutter to check.

 

 

The toilets themselves are fairly generic. 

 

 

Moving on back upstairs!

 

 Here are the stairs leading to the upper floor, where we finally get to see those balcony seats!

 

I just love the architecture!

 

 

I guess a graffiti person left their paint on this little shelf, and now it's gone. 

 

 

Here we are on the balcony. The quality of graffiti is... still naff, actually, but at least they're trying.

 

 

And here's the view! It has been a hundred years since these seats saw their first arses, as folks piled in to watch "The Game of Life" in 1922. This is the view that has been enjoyed by groups of friends, families and couples on dates from that point onward, right up until 13th February 1965, when it showed "À Couteaux tirés," a movie about trying to find sunken Nazi treasure. 

Check out the seats!

 

 

I found them quite photogenic and took way more pictures than I needed to. But hey-ho.

 

 

Just think how many people have farted in these seats. There's real history here. Multiple generations came here to watch the latest movies, back in the days when all the plots we call cliche today were still original and exciting. Now it's all wrecked, but it's still retaining its charm in spite of its decay.

 

 

 

As for why it closed, I don't know. But the cinema was curiously nicknamed the Flea Pit even in the 1960s when it was still open, which seems to indicate that maybe it was falling into a state of neglect or disrepair even then. Perhaps that led to a decline in customers and eventual closure.

Nevertheless, many do have fond memories of it. It was, allegedly, one of the hardest local cinemas to sneak into, which sure didn't stop people trying. The common method, apparently, was for one person to buy a ticket and then go to the toilet and open the windows so that their friends could come in. 

Of course, sometimes it helped if you knew the right people too. The projectionist lived across the street and used to sneak his neighbours in. The girl working the desk used to let her brother in for free too. 

Of course, anyone caught sneaking in was swiftly thrown out after a good bollocking, but as an urbexer I can appreciate that this just adds to the excitement.

 

There's a fire hose here for anyone who wants to abseil off the balcony. 

 

And then, of course, we have the balcony toilets.

 

There was still a maze of corridors behind the balcony area, leading to different floors. I decided to seek out the projection room next.

 

 

The graffiti reads "That which dwells within isn't always evil," and they have an adorable pentagram to give it that Satanic edge.

 

 

There's a load of vintage crutches up here, which is odd. 

 

 

And we have this lovely store room. 

 

 

And here's an eerie fucking stairway.

 

 Graffiti on the walls tells us that this leads to the Gods, which is a theatre term for the upper-most level.

 

 

And here's the projection room! Isn't this amazing? The projection and lighting equipment is all long gone, but there's still a chair up here, and  somehow it all still retains its vintage vibe.

The cinema closed in 1965, and operated as a bingo hall briefly until closing in the 1970s, and as is often the case when a bingo hall opens in an old cinema, they used maybe 30% of the building, leaving the rest to still retain its cinematic charm. It's likely that these rooms were largely unused throughout the 1970s.

Since closure, there have been plans to use it as an amusement arcade, which does sound pretty cool. But alas, these plans never took off. Further plans were drawn up in 2009 to turn it into a church, and someone else said something about a community hall, but so far nothing has happened and this epic chunk of history is just left to gradually deteriorate.

 

 

There are more "No Smoking" signs painted onto the walls up here.

 

 

I don't know why I love painted signs so much. They just have a nicer, more vintage vibe than posters and noticeboards. 

 

 

Up here we have evidence of squatters, and they seem to have picked the room with the prettiest window.

 

 

It sure did smell up here though. I put up with a lot of odours in this hobby, but none disgust me more than the smell of unwashed human. 

 

 

There's a little crawlspace here that leads into a storage area. 

 

Back here we have an old games table. 

And then, lastly, we have the attic.

 

For some reason there's a birdcage in the attic.

 

A sign warns people to keep to the established walkway, and with pretty good reason. This attic actually extends out, directly above the auditorium area. If the roof were to collapse, it's a long way down, and the landing is covered in clutter to break ones spine on. 

 

There is rooftop access too!

 

A small window leads out onto a ledge. It's not much, and it offers a pretty hideous view, but nevertheless, I find being up high to be quite relaxing. Down below the human race plods along, moaning about how miserable they are, and thinking that making other people more miserable will help make them less miserable. Up on the rooftops all that nonsense slips away, and one can just sit and relax. It's all really therapeutic, and pretty good for de-cluttering the brain.

But now it's time to leave.

 

Here's a huge staircase that spirals downwards, all the way to ground floor.

 

Someone has ripped out the big metal radiator here.

At the bottom of the stairs is a giant cigarette sign. Players No6 was the UK's top cigarette brand in the 1960s and 1970s, but was totally forgotten by the end of the 1980s. Perhaps the Bingo Hall had an area to buy cigarettes, and this was hung up there.

The cinema, in conclusion, truly is a rather fun mooch back through the decades. Even after the cinema era, stuff like this cigarette sign dating back to the 1970s make it a bit of a museum of lost stuff that people probably forgot that they even lost. There's a bit of nostalgia here for the generations that predated the millennials. But as said, it's the cinema seats on the balcony that drew me in. They've been here for a hundred years now, and they shine a light on a completely different era. They're special because they are perhaps the best preserved part of this entire building. 

The cinema remains quite a popular one among urbexers, who continue to flock here. They aren't exactly subtle either but people come and go, and nobody seems to care. This old place truly is abandoned. 

As I was about to leave, a small group of urbexers started entering, so I did the sporty thing and hid just by the entrance and jumped out at them. Once I'd given them a fright, we got to talking, traded Instagrams, and I disappeared out of their lives forever. Or at least, forever so far.

That's all I got for this place! For my next blog, I'm returning to Shropshire, to talk about some old cave dwellings. It truly baffles me that there were still people living in caves in Shropshire during the Victorian era, and I really want to look into that! And then after that, it will be my 300th blog post, and I'm celebrating by invading fucking France! I'm very excited!

Anyway, in the meantime, follow me on Instagram, Vero, Reddit, and the ones nobody likes, Facebook and Twitter. I did contemplate getting Hive, but that apps buggy as fuck. Give it a year or so to work itself out though. It's got potential, and lets face it, social media needs some fresh new alternatives.

Thanks for reading!