There was a movie advertised in late August. It was to start screening on September 16th, slap bang in the middle of our overseas trip. I would miss it. It wasn’t one of those films that would have an extended season…it would have most appeal to the cult for whom it was created. Directed by Ron Howard…that said something. He wouldn’t be involved in anything not considered as worthwhile.
Perhaps it would be part of the screen entertainment on our flight. Alas…not a mention. Bus shelters in San Francisco and Vegas screamed at me with blazoned billboard posters advertising the show. But that isn’t what you do on a trip, not when Alcatraz and the Grand Canyon are begging to be visited. You don’t
go to the movies, especially when your husband hasn’t been part of the
cult. I let it go…there would be a DVD eventually. That would have to do.
On our return, I was pleasantly surprised to see that my film was still screening at selected cinemas. However, all was not coming together. None of my fellow culters were available. It wasn’t the type of film I could see alone. It needed to be shared with someone who understood. I watched its movement closely, watched it disappear from Palace Balwyn, watched it disappear from Kino in the city. Just one more chance- Palace Westgarth.
The extended Cup weekend holiday – everyone was going away including me. I was returning home on Monday evening, anticipating a quiet Cup Day. The phone rang – a fellow culter! Was I busy at 4.10 tomorrow? I certainly was not!
To our surprise, the cinema was quite full. Are there more of us than I realised?
I smiled and I didn’t stop smiling until the credits finally finished. For close on two hours, I journeyed through the touring years of The Beatles, remembering and reliving every song that they performed. I had been part of the hysteria, just as they had been part of my early teenage years. It was more than nostalgia. Their music and lyrics were linked with my life. Every mind blowing or catastrophic event was laced with their sound.
The film finished with their final live performance on top of the Apple Corps building in London in January 1969. I felt a certain sadness in watching that performance. The credits rolled to “Eight Days a Week”. No one moved. Then something happened that I have never before witnessed in a theatre. Everybody sang. They even added all the double claps in the right places.
Hold me … Love me …
Hold me … Love me,
Ain’t got nothin’
but love babe,
Eight days a week.
Finally, together, the entire audience applauded. It seemed irreverent to exit.