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Two men and a picture palace. Watch The Ring Putlocker. MANY MOONS AGO, before editing books was a glimmer at the end of my nib, I worked as an usher at Hoyts Midcity Cinemas on Bourke Street in Melbourne. It was the mid 1.

I don’t know how I landed the job. More likely than not, I asked and was given. You could do that in those days. You walked into an establishment that looked vaguely desirable and wouldn’t be too soul destroying and you asked if there was a vacancy. People rarely turned you down and if one day you didn’t show up they presumed you’d given up and moved to Frankston to live on the dole. I had no idea what I wanted to do. Not much was expected of me and I expected less of myself.

Drifting from one dead- end job to another was habitual. I tried it all: shoe salesman, car salesman, storeman’s assistant in a factory, and a brief stint as a model. On it went. I was not overly interested or very good at any of it and nothing lasted for long. The only passion was movies. Reality was an adjunct to be tolerated between wondrous, magical bouts of cinema. During high school, I played truant many times to stay home and watch the midday movie. Though I was well versed in contemporary cinema, I had a soft spot for Hollywood movies from the 1.

European cinema, especially French and Italian, ranked high, as did horror movies. I was an eclectic viewer and an insufferable film snob. Anyone who fell into my sphere of influence was inducted to the cause and browbeaten into appreciating the films I held in high esteem, whether they wanted to or not. I don’t recall how I became an usher, but I know why: free movies, day in, day out, dusk till dawn. And you got paid to watch them. To live forever in that flickering, ghostly world and to rarely encounter daylight is paradise for a nascent cinephile. What I couldn’t have known was that Hoyts Midcity Cinemas was a rough place. Watch House Party 2 Streaming. The multiplex backed on Chinatown, which was pretty seedy, and it screened a lower class of film than the Cinema Centre up the road and Greater Union round the corner.

It was a safe bet that if a film had a number after the title, Midcity screened it. Gems like 9 1/2 Weeks, Runaway Train and Blue Velvet were rarities and, much to my disgust, played to near empty houses. How we ended up with the revival of Some Like It Hot is anyone’s guess. Our patrons reflected the content perfectly. No one in their right minds could mistake them for ‘discerning’ filmgoers.

They were more likely to stab you than discuss Stroheim’s influence on Peter Greenaway. Security was tight. Burly uniformed bouncers were employed to keep the ushers safe and to stop patrons from hurting each other during Chuck Norris and Charles Bronson extravaganzas. You never knew where or when violence would erupt. The volatile environment fostered strong relationships between employees. We were a close- knit group.

There was Trish at the candy bar; Peter, the manager; James, the uni student making ends meet; Ross, a young upstart who did god knows what in head office; an unemployed actor with attitude; and Ivan, the projectionist who looked like the biker from Village People. When a session was underway, we gathered in the foyer to gossip and philosophise, the air rich with the stench of popcorn, Fantales and Coke. Many things were uttered in the best tradition of standing around and gabbing. Most if not all was hot air, filling the hours as we waited for a shift to end. Being a cool customer, I didn’t seek out friends.

Nor did I particularly want to talk to anyone. Yet talk sought me out. Happiness was watching films in the dark and walking to my flat at midnight. As to what impression I left on the minds of my colleagues, I didn’t give it a thought. I was detached and floating, knowing the job would soon be over. AT MIDCITY CINEMAS ushers had absolute power.

We were entrusted with collecting tickets at the entrance, seating late arrivals, cleaning up between sessions, and patrolling the premises. Rules were strictly enforced. Recalcitrants punished without mercy. I was the usher from hell. No one got away with playing up on my beat. Bad behaviour was met with worse behaviour from me.

Tempers flared, voices were raised, threats were made. If anyone looked disruptive during a movie I was on to them like Thor’s hammer. Once a ‘hood’ pulled a knife when I tried to confiscate his alcohol during a screening of a bloodstained epic. A bop on the head with the plastic torch quickly put him out of action. Security took care of the rest.

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On another occasion a man stole a packet of chips from the candy bar. Trish yelled ‘Stop thief!’, as if she were in a bad movie. The thief dashed across the orange and brown foyer and I gave chase. Just as it looked like he would escape, I leapt on his back and brought my torch down on his skull. He collapsed beneath me like a sack of potatoes.

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Security magically appeared to toss him into the cold night. It was never clear to me how the security guys knew where the action was.

They were never there when you needed them, yet they always appeared to clean up the mess. Later I discovered that the head usher and the manager sat in the back office, watching my antics on strategically placed security cameras. It appears my unorthodox customer relations were relished for their entertainment value. Though it must be said, I was lenient on teenagers who sat up the back during screenings of Re- animator to canoodle. Two incidents stand out from this time. Both involve lavatories. One Saturday evening – it was the last session of the night – a man approached me in the foyer. You better go check out the dunnies up the back,’ he said.

Something fishy going on there.’ I alerted security and, without waiting for them to arrive, headed to the facilities. They were at the rear of the building – perfect for shenanigans. Tinny muzak accompanied by the automatic flushing of urinals greeted my ears as I entered the smelly sanctum. Of the three cubicles against the wall only one presented a closed door. A peek under the gap revealed one pair of feet – bare and not in a position that indicated a seated individual.

Feeling silly, I asked if everything was alright. When an answer was not forthcoming, I entered the next cubicle, stood on the toilet seat and peered over the partition. A stark naked man was in a frenzy of excitation. ‘Excuse me,’ I said. Sorry to disturb, but security’s on the way. If I were you I’d leave.’ Turned out he was a sailor. He couldn’t find a girl and didn’t want to waste money on a brothel. So he thought, why not..?

The truncated history of his life to this point was related to me as he quickly pulled on his clothes. But jeez mate, you sure gave me a scare appearing like that outta the blue,’ he finished off. ‘You better go out the back door,’ I advised. Otherwise you’ll bump into security.’ The look of gratitude in his eyes added to the farce. Thanks, mate. See ya later.’ Needless to say management was not amused when my Good Samaritan act flashed up on the ever- watchful security cameras. Though they were infinitely grateful when I was drawn into a greater, more tragic drama in the women’s toilets some time later. I was obliged to enter the forbidden zone, sequestered behind Trish’s sugary kingdom, when a patron reported blood seeping from under a cubicle. When the individual locked inside did not respond to my knocking, I again entered the next cubicle, stood on the toilet seat and peered over the partition. A young woman was wedged between the wall and the toilet bowl.