Saturday at the Bioscope

Saturday at the Bioscope: Dial M for Murder

The mid-1950s in Worcester were defined by specific rituals, and none were as anticipated as the Saturday matinee at the Scala bioscope. On the occasion of my birthday, the air was thick with the kind of excitement only a group of friends and a younger brother, David, can generate. The destination was not just a movie theater; it was a sanctuary of flickering light presided over by the formidable Mr. Luff. Victor Luff was the personification of old-world discipline. Clad in a black tuxedo and a bow tie that never seemed to tilt, he was the guardian of the Scala’s decorum. His most distinctive feature, however, was his artificial leg. To this day, the sound of that leg—"squeak, squeak"—remains a visceral memory. It acted as an early warning system for any children attempting to migrate from the sixpenny "cheap seats" below Row O to the more prestigious 1s 3p seats further back. The moment that rhythmic squeak echoed down the aisle, accompanied by the sharp rattle of his walking stick against the wooden seats, a desperate scramble would ensue as we dove back into our assigned places, trying to look as innocent as possible.

The theater itself was a cloud of blue smoke, as smoking was an adult privilege exercised with abandon in those days. Before the main feature, we were subjected to the local business slides—the 1950s version of pre-show advertising. They were static, silent, and excruciatingly boring for a group of sugar-fueled children. Following these, the curtains would close, and the theater would fall into a solemn silence for God Save the Queen. It was a tradition that marked the era, eventually replaced by Die Stem around 1957. Once the formalities were over, the real magic began. The African Mirror newsreel would flash onto the screen, followed by Movietone or Pathé News. These were our windows to the world, even if they were a month out of date by the time they reached Worcester via the mailship and the railway’s horse-drawn wagons. A wagon pulled by two cart horses made the delivery from the station, a slow-moving link to the global events of the day.

But what we really lived for were the cartoons. The Beep Beep of the Roadrunner and the antics of the Looney Tunes crew—Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, and Porky Pig—were the highlights of our cinematic lives. If we were lucky, a short film like Behind the Eight Ball or The Three Stooges would come on, sending the entire theater into fits of howling laughter. Just before the interval, there was always a serial. It functioned on the logic of the cliffhanger—a stagecoach would dangle over a precipice, only to be resolved the following week. At interval, we would dash to the Good Hope Cafe next door, where Mr. and Mrs. Gratchos scooped Rooikrans ice cream into cones or bakkies.

The main event that day was Alfred Hitchcock’s Dial M for Murder. We watched in rapt attention as the plot unfolded, though it’s doubtful we understood the complexities of the betrayal. Things started to get intense; sometimes it got so bad that you put your hand in front of your face and peered through your fingers. The really scary part is when the villain enters the flat while the woman is in bed and he waits in the darkness. The phone rings and the woman goes to answer it. Then the evil bad guy comes up behind her holding a scarf and tries to strangle her but somehow she manages to grab a pair of scissors and stab him in the back. Brother David, who was years younger, couldn't bear it any longer. The suspense was too much, and he wanted out. We quietly left and waited outside until the film ended. In hindsight, it wasn't the most appropriate birthday film, but it left an indelible mark. We finished the day at van Vuuren’s milk bar, playing the jukebox and washing away the cinematic terror with ice cream sodas or a frosted malt.