<p>Settling down to watch an afternoon show, I was disconcerted to discover that I was the only person in the hall. Although I had arrived at the multiplex on my own, I found it strange to sit in the hindermost row in solitary splendour. A few others trickled in gradually and took their places, but their seats were so scattered that I may as well have been alone. I went on to enjoy the sort of exclusive screening that was once reserved for celebrities. <br /><br /></p>.<p>Youngsters may wonder what I mean, since they are not only familiar with near-empty auditoriums but entirely at ease in them. Occasionally, when ‘Spiderman’ or ‘Superman’ draws sizeable numbers, they probably miss the extra elbow room to balance their snacks and beverages. I, on the other hand, never cease to be surprised at low audience turnouts. I grew up in an era when picture-houses were packed, particularly when extravaganzas came to town. <br /><br />In 1965, George Cukor’s ‘My Fair Lady’ proved a stupendous success. It had a remarkable run at the Capital’s recently opened Shiela Cinema and, although we lived some distance from that venue, my parents, brother and I repeatedly revisited the musical masterpiece. We could not get enough of it and neither, it seemed, could the rest of the city! Night after night, Audrey Hepburn and Rex Harrison enthralled capacity crowds. People only stopped raving about ‘My Fair Lady’ when it was superseded, a year later, by that other enchanting Academy Award winner, ‘The Sound of Music’.<br /><br />Sparkling were the celluloid gems of my schooldays, but gaining access to them was a challenge. Reservations were made not online but in line! Queues to get tickets, particularly for new releases, could be long and tedious. Often, on reaching the sales counter, one would be snubbed by a ‘House Full’ sign.<br /><br />Bockbusters featuring acclaimed actors and actresses were so heavily booked that we had to bide our time, till the rush to see them abated. Such was the situation in the early 1970s, when Rajesh Khanna was at the height of his fame. I was among the thousands who thronged the theatres to gaze at the superstar. I also admired him on Chitrahaar. <br /><br />My friends and I eagerly awaited that popular programme of film songs but, as it aired only on Wednesdays and was disappointingly brief in duration, it left us longing for more. We also looked forward to the weekly Hindi movies but, excluding exceptions, those were instructive rather than interesting. Besides, hard though it might be to imagine, the television of my childhood was not ablaze with colour but a prosaic black and white. <br /><br />No wonder then that, when it came to cinematic entertainment for members of my generation, there was never a contest between large and small. The big screen was all in all!</p>
<p>Settling down to watch an afternoon show, I was disconcerted to discover that I was the only person in the hall. Although I had arrived at the multiplex on my own, I found it strange to sit in the hindermost row in solitary splendour. A few others trickled in gradually and took their places, but their seats were so scattered that I may as well have been alone. I went on to enjoy the sort of exclusive screening that was once reserved for celebrities. <br /><br /></p>.<p>Youngsters may wonder what I mean, since they are not only familiar with near-empty auditoriums but entirely at ease in them. Occasionally, when ‘Spiderman’ or ‘Superman’ draws sizeable numbers, they probably miss the extra elbow room to balance their snacks and beverages. I, on the other hand, never cease to be surprised at low audience turnouts. I grew up in an era when picture-houses were packed, particularly when extravaganzas came to town. <br /><br />In 1965, George Cukor’s ‘My Fair Lady’ proved a stupendous success. It had a remarkable run at the Capital’s recently opened Shiela Cinema and, although we lived some distance from that venue, my parents, brother and I repeatedly revisited the musical masterpiece. We could not get enough of it and neither, it seemed, could the rest of the city! Night after night, Audrey Hepburn and Rex Harrison enthralled capacity crowds. People only stopped raving about ‘My Fair Lady’ when it was superseded, a year later, by that other enchanting Academy Award winner, ‘The Sound of Music’.<br /><br />Sparkling were the celluloid gems of my schooldays, but gaining access to them was a challenge. Reservations were made not online but in line! Queues to get tickets, particularly for new releases, could be long and tedious. Often, on reaching the sales counter, one would be snubbed by a ‘House Full’ sign.<br /><br />Bockbusters featuring acclaimed actors and actresses were so heavily booked that we had to bide our time, till the rush to see them abated. Such was the situation in the early 1970s, when Rajesh Khanna was at the height of his fame. I was among the thousands who thronged the theatres to gaze at the superstar. I also admired him on Chitrahaar. <br /><br />My friends and I eagerly awaited that popular programme of film songs but, as it aired only on Wednesdays and was disappointingly brief in duration, it left us longing for more. We also looked forward to the weekly Hindi movies but, excluding exceptions, those were instructive rather than interesting. Besides, hard though it might be to imagine, the television of my childhood was not ablaze with colour but a prosaic black and white. <br /><br />No wonder then that, when it came to cinematic entertainment for members of my generation, there was never a contest between large and small. The big screen was all in all!</p>
