Bonding for Peace in
the Palace of Dreams
Most of the under 40s couldn’t feel the enchantment. Bemused, they wandered around and questioned why
so many of their older friends were getting nostalgic and wistful.
What could possibly be romantic about an industrial site? All that the young could see was a vast yard
of fractured pavers. This was flanked by a concrete two-storey of awesome
ugliness, its overhang shedding soggy sheets of plywood.
Round the sides collapsing steel fences and an invasion of vengeful
vegetation determined to recover its domain. At the other end a tall screen. In
a time far away it may have been white and pure, like youth. Perhaps not. Everywhere decay and filth. Yuk!
Not even worth an Instagram.
Who’d linger for more than a moment?
Yet on a hot Sunday in January hundreds stayed for almost
four hours to reminisce, for this mess was once the Kelud open-air cinema, Malang’s
palace of dreams and open to all.
Here for a few hours every week teenagers with a few rupiah,
or more if they wanted to sit undercover upstairs with the upper classes, escaped
from reality and into a world of weird fantasy, daring adventure and love that
knew no end.
Here magic happened. The
Warkop [warung kopi – coffee shop]
comedy trio of Dono, Kasino and Indro was widely recalled.
In 1980 the comedian Freddy Aris, better known as Gepeng
starred in Untung, Ada Saya
[Fortunately I was there], but few Indonesian films were available.
Former actor Djathi Kusumo, who spoke at the event on the
need for community cohesion and celebration of indigenous culture, said the
local film industry suffered from heavy censorship during Soeharto’s New Order
government and was swamped by imports.
Consequently a
generation of filmgoers was raised not on archipelagic fare that might have
nurtured pride, but an international cinematic diet of Indian romance, Hong
Kong kung-fu and American Westerns, though not everyone came to cheer the
cowboys.
For Kelud was also hormone heaven.
“Some found their life partner here; boys and girls watched
films together and you could meet people from different districts and schools,”
recalled architecture lecturer Budi Fathony.
“In those days going to the cinema was a shared communal
experience. Not like now where people
see TV alone or with a few friends and family, or watch videos on tablets and smart
phones by themselves.
“In the 70s we shared our entertainment. It was a boisterous, democratic experience,
mainly enjoyed by the lower classes, and it bonded us together in the dark.”
This theme was picked up by organizers of the Sunday morning
event and splashed across a big banner reading: ‘It doesn’t matter where you’ve
come from. Here we are all one.’
“I wanted to bring people together so they could understand
how we lived and behaved in the days before television and smartphones,” said
Imam Muslikh who sees film going of the 70s and 80s as a metaphor for a
harmonious society that must be revived to save the nation.
He heads the Neolath Community, named after a nearby street
but spelt backwards and corrupted with additional letters, all for reasons
obscure. He’s also a travel agent who arranges pilgrims’ journeys to Mecca.
“I’m worried about the way our country is breaking up
through politics and religious differences,” he said. “It’s so important that we stay together and
live in peace. I want to preserve and
promote the spirit of Gus Dur [Indonesia’s fourth president Abdurrahman Wahid
who died in 2009] because he preached tolerance and pluralism.
“That’s the message I hope people will take away from Kelud.
We used to live in agreement, enjoy things together and we must do so again. I
want Malang to be a Peace City and to show Jakarta how to behave.”
The projection equipment has long gone to its cinematic
grave so films could not be shown. Even
if the gear had remained coupled to the clunky switchboard the rusting stairs
would have been too unsafe for operators to tread.
Instead there were speeches, mask dancers and an energetic
routine by a student group in multi-hued feather headdresses. They could have
come straight from Bollywood or the Folies Bergere in Paris, except that the
ogglers saw black tights rather than pink skin under their flamboyant costumes.
Writ large on the screen behind the swirling performers were
words that translated as: ‘Don’t stand behind me because you’re not my
follower. Don’t stand in front of me
because you’re not my leader. Stand alongside as a friend.’
The theme linked to the experience of those who packed Kelud
twice a night three decades ago. Hundreds [some claimed thousands] sat on the
cold concrete, though later bamboo seats were provided. The cinema was named after a nearby volcano
and the old rooftop sign, now minus its neon, has been rescued.
Veterans said viewings often turned into audience
participation as the crowds cheered the good guys, booed the baddies and
wolf-whistled the lovelies.
“You always had to remember that there were people behind
and they might get mad if you blocked their view,” said historian Dukut Imam
Widodo (right). “When it rained the foodstalls
were happy. If it was only drizzling and the pictures could push through the
raindrops, then the show would go on.”
Stuck on one wall upstairs is an ancient poster advertising
beer. As with all explorations of the
past, those who lived there have different recall. However it seems alcohol was
available, at least to the elite. Now it’s hard to find a drink in the East
Java city outside the upmarket eateries.
Radio announcer Hari Wijayanto lived next door as a child
and was able to watch films over the wall.
“We got used to the noise,” he said.
“It didn’t matter, it was always fun.”
According to Widodo, Kelud was owned by Brimob, the army’s
mobile brigade which barracked nearby.
Soldiers were allowed free entry and helped keep order
should fans get unruly. This was most
likely when the sole projector changed reels, ruining continuity in the same
way that advertisements upset viewing on commercial TV today. They also had to watch out for kids seeking
free entry by scaling the fences during distracting moments on screen.
The cinema opened around 1970 and closed about 13 years
later after color TV was introduced in 1979.
Till the late 1980s only the government controlled TVRI was allowed to
telecast bland programs and formula news that did little to excite audiences.
After Kelud closed the place fell into disrepair. Now one corner is used as a vehicle workshop
and another as a parking space for dead ATMs from a nearby bank. Employees park their cars in the space
between.
“It was a golden era that obviously won’t return in this
form,” said Budi Fathony.”However the spirit of those times can be recovered.”
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(First published in J Plus (JP) Sunday 15 February 2015)
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