Electric current
The story of W11’s wonderful Electric Cinema
Above: The Electric Cinema in the mid 1980s
It’s Academy Awards time in Hollywood and among the international films widely tipped for a prize in the marathon back-slapping ceremony is Volver, starring Penelope Cruz and directed by a hero of arthouse movie fans, Pedro Almodovar.
Whether Almodovar gets his hands on an Oscar or not, he can rest assured that his name is already legend in Notting Hill film folklore. It was back in 1992 that Almodovar stumbled across a double bill screening of his work at the Electric Cinema in Portobello Road. According to The Evening Standard at the time, Almodovar, “in the company of a micro-skirted blonde of dubious gender” was spotted by fans packing into the Edwardian picture house and asked to say a few words before the curtain was raised. He duly obliged, rambling incoherently about the film and his visit to London before paying homage to our city, claiming it was his second home… and then announcing to a stunned crowd: “I love New York!”
Almodovar may have lost his bearings a little that day but in the history of this local landmark it’s simply another oddball tale to add to the list. Today the Electric is a plush uber picture palace with a reputation for stylish comfort – there are even double seats for visiting moviegoers – and a clientele as famous as those appearing on its big screen. But this is all a far cry from the ‘bug-hole’ as Notting Hill residents once knew it. For one generation of locals, a visit to the once flea-infested venue would be a blood-letting affair.
It never started out that way, of course. When The Electric screened its first film – exactly 96 years to the day of the 2007 Oscars – it was a state-of-the-art purpose-built cinema and it is now the oldest surviving one in Britain. Designed by a young architect called Seymour Valentin, who used the music halls of the time as his template, the then 600-seater Electric opened its doors to the public for the first time on 27 February 1911. The launch blockbuster shown on that day was a film of the actor Sir Henry Beerbohm Tree appearing in Henry Vlll at His Majesty’s Theatre. Entrance was 3d for the stalls – literally a wooden bench – while those who paid the premium price (one shilling) for reserved seats also got an orange and a bun, bought in bulk from the market stalls on Portobello Road.
As changes in fire safety regulations forced an end to the practice of showing films in converted theatres and shops, the modern Electric began attracting fans of the moving image from across London. Many were awestruck by its ornate mosaics, barrel-vaulted auditorium and Art Nouveau foyer with timber ticket booth, all features that thankfully remain in the Grade II* listed building today. But from its earliest screenings on, the cinema has also been dogged by controversy and financial misfortune.
Valentin was killed fighting at Loos in World War One and it was during that time that a group of local vigilantes, convinced that the German manager of The Electric was signalling Zeppelins from the roof, stoned the cinema. Such hostility played a part in The Electric being sold and renamed The Imperial in 1919. As The Imperial it underwent the first of many refurbishments to improve its acoustics and accommodate the arrival of the ‘talkies’. The picture house thrived in the golden age of the cinema, so much so that the manager’s war-time daybook records how audiences remained glued to the screen while air-raid sirens sounded outside. It was at this time too that The Imperial employed one John Reginald Halliday Christie as a part-time projectionist and the ghost of the infamous serial killer from 10 Rillington Place (now Rushton Mews) is said to haunt the cinema to this day.
By the 1950s, as financial austerity and waning popularity took their toll, so the cinema began to suffer and The Imperial became a ‘bug hole’ in the eyes of locals. Those who still patronised the place grew accustomed to the leaking roof, flooding from the Portobello Road sewer and rows of seating collapsing mid-show.
Shocked at its decline and keen to revive its fortunes, a group of young movie buffs formed The Electric Cinema Club. They spruced-up the dilapidated decor – thoughtfully leaving the one-inch-thick layer of nicotine on the ceiling untouched – and embarked on a scheme of inspirational programming. The club offered 12 films a week and late-night weekend showings of sci-fi movies, Hollywood classics and Hitchcock horrors, all of which earned the re-christened Electric cult status in the swinging 60s.
But money worries were rarely far away. Through the 1970s and 80s, The Electric was re-packaged as an arthouse venue, a repertory showcase and even, briefly, the UK’s first black cinema. But by the 1990s the age of video and the explosion of the multiplexes struck a death knell for it once more. In spite of a reportedly 10,000-strong campaign to keep it open – which included such eminent signatories as Sir Anthony Hopkins, Julie Christie and Audrey Hepburn – The Electric was cut off in 1993 and remained in the dark for eight years.
In 2001 The Electric was saved from becoming an anonymous retail outlet by the Soho House Group. It underwent a major refurbishment – reducing its seating capacity to just 98 – and turning a trip to the ‘bug-hole’ into one of the world’s most luxurious cinema experiences. “When you board a plane everyone wishes they could turn left (into business class) instead of right – with The Electric we offer filmgoers that option,” Nick Jones of Soho House told The Hill. “The key to the success of the refit was the hi-tech screen,” he adds. Because the arch surrounding the original screen is prtoected by English Heritage, an ingenious expanding monitor has been created so visitors can see Cinemascope movies.
Today the future of The Electric seems secure, allowing many more film fans – and, who knows, even a few visiting directors – to enjoy a cinema with a past so chequered that it deserves a full-length feature of its own.