You meet some interesting people at all night movies, but if you’re in search of a little harmless lechery, forget it. ‘A person would have to have his gonads plugged into the wall socket in order to soils his mack…’ 

By Joe Praml

I’ve always been wary of all night cinemas. In the States they’re usually located in the skid sections and are crash places, refuges from the cold which in the winter is bitter. They exhale that peculiar ordour of pathos and defeat at you like some diseased lung. But I remember six Roy Rogers films for 50 cents and one of those little wiseass cops who just make the Force at the minimum height requirement who’d come down the aisle once an hour poking everyone awake with a four foot long riot stick. So it was with some trepidation that I went to check out the all night movie scene here.
    Aside from the Bloomsbury’s War and Peace epic a year or so ago, and an occasional all night bill here and there, there are only a few all night cinemas operating on a regular basis. These few are mostly into 'adult sex films.'
    The first place I visited was the Classic Moulin in Soho. Outside, livid posters promised frolics of prurient sex – valkyrie breasts, deep fissured buttocks, liquid gurgles and pants, orgies, maddened goats, black masses, coagulated clots, entwined bodies bloated with lust, and so forth.
    Inside I was sold a ticket for £1.50 and given a packet of cheese and biscuits. Right off I looked for the legendary men with soiled macs. There weren’t any. The films, known as 'tit 'n ass' movies showed little tit and less ass. A person would have to have his gonads plugged into the wall socket in order to soil his mackinaw.
    The clock struck twelve, and the lights went down – to a notch below floodlight level. The place was packed. It was a good crowd, a Friday night crowd. There were young people and old, couples and foursomes, fresh from the pub, a few pints warm in the belly and a glint in the eye. They were in a nice raucous mood, laughing and joking, hopeful for a little harmless lechery. Something like the crowds Natalie Wood got in Gypsy.
    Halfway through the first film boredom flogged them from the place. As the seats emptied, they were immediately filled by a different crowd, mostly men in exotic headgear: fezzes, turbans, kaffeyehs, topees, rumals, the works. These men spent the remainder of the film staring at the audience. One in splendid regalia almost managed the head turn number from The Exorcist. When an occasional tit or flash of ass appeared on the screen these majestically topped heads snapped frontwards as one, causing air turbulence sufficient to snuff out a match.
    Ten minutes or so into the second film made me realize that, by comparison, the first was the Gone With The Wind of Tit and Assdom. Its theme had something to do with the legalization of pornography and it seemed to take a 'pro' stance. It was mostly discussion. There was much changing of seats during this film. This was action time! Suddenly there was a loud female voice from up front: "Piss off, bugger, yer ain’t my cuppa tea!" which was followed by a gleeful round of applause. Shortly a large turbaned man stalked indignantly toward the lobby. The film ended with the assurance that pornography is liberating. Unliberated, I went to the lobby for free coffee. The large turbaned man was there in conversation with another turbaned man who was shorter, thinner, and a decade or two younger. The small turbaned man kept his hand over his container and the large turbaned man sprayed generously as he spoke. I overheard the large turbaned man: "It is the turban and the dark skin that women find irresistible. And this…" He hunched his shoulders, bugged his eyes, opened his mouth and his tongue flopped down on his chin like a slab of pig melts. "Yoga," he said. "It’s the Lion Position. I just say 'Hi babe' and show them the Lion." 
    I kid you not. I’m giving you straight reporting here. He then confided to the small turbaned man that the best place for action is the girdle department at Whiteley’s. He bought a copy of Cinema X at the ticket counter and left.
    The third feature was an old Carole Baker film retitled The Luscious Body of Brenda and sleep struck the place like shrapnel.
    I left after the next film. By now the dialogue was drowned out by a cacophony of snoring, and the halitosis from a theatreful of open sleeping mouths was rising like steam from some primeval swamp.
    I couldn't believe that the sex film could be so devoid of sex, so a few nights later I checked into the Charing Cross Classic, the other all-nighter in town which also features 'adult sex films.' The theatre again was packed. This was a weekday crowd so the couples and foursomes weren’t there. The turbans, rumals, etcetera, were. I didn’t stay long, only a few films. I realized that unlike the wedding at Cana in Galilee, the purveyors of London shot you the best right off. The high point of the night was a film which featured an animated drawing of a cutaway uterus in which a squadron of tadpoles launched a neat commando-type assault on one of the Fallopian tubes.
    As I was turning into the lobby, I was startled by catching a blurred movement out of the corner of my eye. Defensively, I planted my right elbow into my stomach and ducked my head behind my open right hand at the same time cocking my left. It was purely instinctive and happened in a split second. The object was a wiry man, about 50 or so, standing barely over five feet. He stepped back in surprise, then his wizened face lit up. "You’ve been in the ring!" he said with a happy rasp. I’d done some amateur boxing in my University days, but mostly learned moves like that where I grew up or else.
    "Was a natural flyweight meself," and he hacked at his gut with his fist. "Still hard as a rock!" He told me he had over 200 professional fights. His features suggested a good many of them must have been over the weight matches with welterweights. "Called me The Brighton Express," he said.
    He asked if I was coming or going and when I said going, he eyes narrowed. "Has someone been troubling you, lad?" I said no, it was the lousy movies. "It's a sorry state," he continued, "when you can’t even sit in peace and enjoy a good flicker without being troubled by these bloody perverts!" He swept his arm taking in the score or so in the lobby quietly drinking coffee. Ahh! I thought, here was meat for my article. There must be some reason why these places were so packed. Perverts?
    "Homosexuals!" He bit off the word. I said nothing. Several customers turned to look at us. The Brighton Express returned glares that would disable a tank.
    "Can’t say I’ve been troubled by anyone," I told him finally. "Consider yourself lucky, lad," he said, "if they don’t find you attractive like they do me."
    I counted my blessings as The Brighton Express continued. "They don’t have shame anymore, these perverts. I could tell you tales that would make your backhairs stand up, lad. Last week I’m standing in this very spot enjoyin’ a cuppa coffee when six blokes in top hats, striped trousers and tails and each of them carrying a walking stick march by in a line straight to the men’s lavatory."
    I looked at him closely to see if he was putting me on. He was serious.
    He went on: "I had to relieve myself, so after I finished me cup, I went in too. An’ what do you think was there waiting for me? There were these six blighters, standing in a row. Seein’ me, they bent over, balancing themselves on their walking sticks, and flipped up the tails of their coats completely revealing their netherparts which was showing through circles they’d cut in the seat of their trouser. One of them tips his hat at me an’ says "Have a go, luv, at the Kinky Chorus of Camden Crescent!" I was speechless with rage, I was. I went down the row in a flash and planted me number nine brogan in each of their backsides!
    And do you think this was a lesson to them? No! The six of them tipped their hats all together and the one had the effrontery to ask me to a party they were giving. "And don’t forget, luv," he says, "don’t forget to bring your brogans.'" I was so disgusted and livid with anger I turned and left before I used me mitts on the whole lot of them! They had no shame. Now tell me, lad, is that a way for nicely dressed blokes like that to behave?"
    I had no answer. He calmed down then and we talked boxing again. Suddenly The Brighton Express shot a punch which stopped just short of my stomach, causing me to spill the rest of my coffee down the front of my shirt. "Ha!" he shouted happily, "had you with that right now, didn’t I? Still pretty fast for an old geezer, eh?" I assured him he was still fast as a rattlesnake, which pleased him, and I left.
If you’re still game:
Classic, Charing Cross Road, WC2
(930 6915) Leicester Square tube.
Classic, Moulin, Great Windmill Street, W1 (437 1653) Piccadilly Circe tube.
See Film West End and Late Night for programme details.