Anticipation.
We’ve had the book, now it’s time for Scala: the movie.
Enjoyment.
A fun, filthy jaunt though the life of London’s cinematic answer to CBGB.
In Retrospect.
Very glad that everyone was able to have such fun.
Kings Cross’ long-defunct Scala has been etched into legend by a tattooed and body-pierced coterie of cinephiles of a certain age. This is due to its innovative grindhouse programming, the in-house cats who would wander the aisles during screenings and, err, its “colourful” locale. Co-directors Ali Catterall and Jane Giles have made a film packed with anecdotes by the people who were there on the filthy ground, and despite the fact that this is a celebratory, aggressively romantic document of a shit-flecked idyll, as an objective observer it’s not so easy to see the appeal.
Screenings were often interrupted by the sound of passing Tube trains, and interviewees such as Adam Buxton attempt to reframe this irritant as something that enhanced the grimy ambience. And the fond, tut-tutting recollections of hosing cum off the walls of the fire exits, or getting stabbed on the walk home, doesn’t translate as the film thinks it does.
Get more Little White Lies
My grandmother often tells me how she had an amazing time during the Blitz, and even though I don’t think she’s lying, it’s hard to relate. And that’s a bit like this – how can something that looks so wrong have been so right? Scala! is a very well made and extremely entertaining film, and all the talking heads bring a curious titbit to the mix. It lays on the nostalgia very thick. In the end, though, this is an exhaustive and lively document of a cult scene that you’re very happy it existed, but maybe don’t want to be a part of yourself.
