It’s Wonderful
Sometimes Radio City Music Hall gets to be tiresome. All is so perfect — the best mechanical stage in the world, the best dancers, the best pictures, and the very best ushers. Even the best can become monotonous, and it is then that you turn to the worst. It’s like coming out of the Stork Club and going down to some “dive” in the Village for excitement. But what can you do when you leave Mr. Rockefeller’s “Show Place of the World” feeling in need of another picture as well as a little less splendour?
You simply walk over to Broadway, invest thirty-five or forty cents and find a seat if you can in the balcony of either the Globe or Central Theatres. If you’re a lady or even if you are not, make certain that you have a couple of protective-looking guys to escort you. You’ll have need of them for there are no theatres in the whole of New York City like these. The pictures are atrocious, the ushers indifferent, and the audiences are outspoken. It’s really wonderful!
Let us say that you have arrived at the Globe. You follow your escorts up the stairs, a long-winding dreary flight leading to the balcony. On the way you pass two young boys leaving. They are indulging in post-mortems. You don’t have to eavesdrop since one remarks in a loud voice: “That sure was a lousy picture.” His friend agrees: “I’ll say. A baby could have seen through that murder.”
So far, so good. At length you reach the top step and search for the usher. You find him hiding in a corner — but he assures you that if you look, you will find seats down front. As you stumble down the dark balcony steps, machine-gun shots assail you from the screen. Seats finally come to light in the center of the second row. You glance timidly at the burly-looking man sitting on the aisle, murmur an apology, but he remains motionless. Somebody in the row behind hears these excuses and yells: “My God, a lady in the house Just trample over him, honey!” A sensitive individual in the last row shouts: “Hey, you, less noise down there!”
As you and your companions become the center of eyes as well as smirks, you climb in desperation over frozen feet and legs. After you reach the vacant seats, and sit down with a sigh of relief, you find that your feet are resting on a mound of peanut shells and slightly used chewing gum. You forget your discomfort, however, when you discover on the screen that the heroine in wearing about her throat the long fingers of a determined-looking monster. But there is no need for alarm for just in the nick of time the G-man rushes in. The audience greets him with cries of “Here comes the Lone Ranger!” and “Hi ho Silver!” These remarks are followed by a great deal of deprecatory laughter.
In the excitement you have forgotten to remove your hat, but the gentleman behind announces your lack of good manners by growling: “Say, if that’s what you call a hat, take it off; I want to see what’s going on.” You comply in extreme haste. By this time the heroine is in the arms of the G-man and the picture ends, the final fade-out sent on its way with loud hisses and long “boo-o-o-o”s. One contrary-minded person applauds and a voice calls out: “There’s a capitalist in the joint.” The newsreel flashes on the screen and the gentleman who wanted to see, dashes from his seat, dragging his overcoat across your head as though getting revenge for the hat you had forgotten to remove. As soon as the seat is vacated, two patrons start a race to it from the opposite aisles. The race is a tie, and for five breath-taking minutes it appears that somebody is going to get a punch in the nose. If only they don’t start throwing bottles. But the controversy is settled and the man with the bag of Indian nuts wins the decision. On the screen Roosevelt is telling his friends how happy he is. The audience wahoos in joy. The man behind is simply spitting Indian nutshells to the floor. Hitler’s form is shown on the screen and causes a riot of catcall, boos and jeers. To relieve the tension, pictures of Florida bathing beauties succeed and the hisses switch to whistles of delight and enthusiastic outcries of “Wow!”, “Oh boy!” and “Oh, baby!”
In the meantime someone has opened the fire-exit door and a cool almost welcome breeze is pouring in. Churchill is deserted while the entire balcony demands to know: “Who opened that door?” The usher is discovered after many loud inquiries and shuts the door through which you suspect two stowaways have slipped in.
The preview-picture, a British mystery attempt, has started, and the hero, a Scotland-Yard G-man, opens the dialogue with a request in very British accents for someone at the other end of the telephone wire to send him up a dash of tea. What an opening. A voice from the rear of the gallery booms: “Send him up a slug of gin!” The entire audience breaks into wild laughter. Nobody cares what’s going on at Scotland Yard. Imitators try to outdo the impromptu gag. Everybody is having a grand and friendly time. Strangers look at each other and laugh. The girl three seats away forgets to crack her gum. It’s wonderful!
At length the attention is gradually returned to the overworking actors and the picture progresses peacefully. Four murders are committed and the murderer disappears. Not even our young Holmes has a clue. The patient audience endures this naivete for just so long, then, when the “sweet” old philanthropist who isn’t fooling anyone except his fellow actors, totters onto the screen, another voice in the darkness calls out: “Hey, Pop, take off your wig. We all know you.” After that nobody pays any attention to the picture. The comedians in the audience receive all the applause and the picture comes to the usual conclusion with the frightened heroine reposing in the arms of her rescuer.
A few voices spur our hero on with cries of “Go on, kiss her. Get it over with!” He does and loud smacking sounds from the audience improve on the sound mechanics.
After this, the feature picture starts all over again — but since it’s already three o’clock you feel you had your forty cents worth of excitement and leave, murmuring, “What a picture! What a theatre! And boy, what an audience!” It’s wonderful!
Peggy Stebbins, circa 1939