A FRIEND WHO is a keen amateur of psychology persuaded
me the other day, rather against my will, to gd to 'Rock Around the Clock' at the Elephant and Castle. But I must say I enjoyed the experience. The film is a judicious mixture of predigested plot and overwhelmingly infectious music; the audience a well- defined mingling of genuine devotees (mostly in the one-and- tenpennys) and interested spectators waiting and hoping for the worst (in the more expensive and safer seats, less exposed to the tug of the music or a charcoal-grey Edwardian elbow in the face). Any urge I or anyone else might have to roll (or rock) in the aisles was most unfairly curtailed by armies of Gaumont flunkeys—presumably reservists recalled during the crisis— and an ostentatious band of policemen who miraculously patrolled the gangways, without a sign of breaking into rock- rhythm. Outside it was the same—the road was solid with people waiting for something to happen, none of them prepared to brave the police who were coupled off up and down the street like mating starlings. The inspector on duty struck the official note when I asked him if he had enjoyed the film. 'Not much,' he said. 'I don't mind rhythm, but I don't like noise.'
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