It is a rainy Tuesday night and about a dozen people have come to the Moskva Cinema to see "The Crow," a new American thriller starring the late Brandon Lee, son of martial-arts maven Bruce Lee. But the movie is not the main attraction.
Just past the ticket window, women sit at tables selling shares of a new joint-stock company. Beyond that, there is a bounty of desks, chairs and other fancy office equipment for sale in a makeshift showroom. The movie? It is upstairs and to the right, in a big, barren hall.
Such is life for Moscow moviegoers these days. It has become more expensive and dangerous to go to the cinema, and a lot of the attractions of earlier times -- a good snack bar, for example, with sandwiches, ice cream and drinks -- have been shouldered aside by the force of the market. Many movie houses are falling apart and nearly all have been unable to keep up with the audio-visual advances of the times. Ticket prices have soared, and the rising crime rate has made people too scared to walk home in the dark after an evening film.
Yet all is not gloomy, in part thanks to businesses like the Moskva's office furniture suppliers. Some cinemas have managed to survive and profit by renting space to night clubs, auto showrooms and home appliance dealers. Although this probably makes movie purists squirm, it has invigorated the dying state-run theaters.
"I don't care about property or who owns what," said Mark Lisogor, head of the cinema section of the Moscow Department of Culture, adding that the idea of privatized movie theaters appeals to him. "If a private owner obeys the law, then he should be left alone. Smart managers can make anything happen. Maybe soon there will be competition, and I think there must be competition between cinemas."
Lisogor gives as an example the Odessa Cinema, which is in the southern part of the city near Sevastapolskaya metro. It is still a state-run movie house, but its director, Semyon Peterburg, has found creative ways to make the place prosper. A small auto showroom occupies part of the lobby, as does a home appliances store. With the rent money he receives from these two sources, Peterburg has opened a pleasant cafe in the lounge. The extra cash also makes it easier for him to get more famous movies from private distributors.
Innovation such as this is desperately needed. According to Lisogor, the motion-picture industry in Moscow is in a sick state. He said that cinemas are only filling about 8 percent of their seats, even on weekends, and that figure might be optimistic. During a recent weekday afternoon, 11 people went to see "Death Warrant," a new Jean-Claude van Damme film at central Moscow's Zaryadye Cinema, which seats 800. For the record, its snack bar offered pungent sausage and bread sandwiches, stale European tea cookies and cognac.
Aside from the obvious economic reasons for the decline in attendance -- people do not have as much money to spend on leisure, and movie tickets generally cost 3,000 rubles -- Lisogor says technology is responsible as well. People have video-cassette players and cable television and would rather sit at home than stay out late in the city. In fact, convenience is a big issue.
"Before, people used to stop in and see a movie after work," Lisogor said. "I used to go to the Udarnik Cinema and have dinner in the cafe there before the movie. They had good sandwiches and cookies. Now the cafe as I knew it does not exist and it is too expensive. I'm better off going home, eating dinner and watching television all night."
To survive, some famous cinemas, such as the Moskva and the Rossiya, are following the Odessa's lead. The Karo night club occupies one of the smaller auditoriums in the hulking Rossiya; instead of paying rent, Lisogor says, Karo is remodeling the main theater, which holds 2,500 people. The Moskva's office furniture scheme appears to have worked, as they are able to get relatively high-quality Western movies such as "The Crow," while giving almost equal time to films from Russia and other republics.
The cinemas themselves are elaborate relics of grandiose Soviet architecture. After World War II, Lisogor said, the state drew up an ambitious plan to provide 20 cinema seats for every 1,000 people. As a result, most of the movie houses are huge; the recent trend in the West for complexes of several smaller theaters passed Russia by "because by the time that started happening, our country had become too poor" to follow suit, Lisogor said.
Instead there are odd, alluring structures that have interesting stylistic touches: The Udarnik looks like an early steam engine; the Rossiya could be an international airport terminal, and its auditoriums are allegedly air-conditioned by the cool water of a 260-meter deep spring; inside the Havana, the immense curtain is actually a tapestry that depicts a Cuban folkloric scene.
That may not be enough to lure audiences back, but for now the projectors are still on and the reels are still spinning.
"So they sell refrigerators at the Odessa," Lisogor said. "Who cares? Maybe it will even attract more people."
Just past the ticket window, women sit at tables selling shares of a new joint-stock company. Beyond that, there is a bounty of desks, chairs and other fancy office equipment for sale in a makeshift showroom. The movie? It is upstairs and to the right, in a big, barren hall.
Such is life for Moscow moviegoers these days. It has become more expensive and dangerous to go to the cinema, and a lot of the attractions of earlier times -- a good snack bar, for example, with sandwiches, ice cream and drinks -- have been shouldered aside by the force of the market. Many movie houses are falling apart and nearly all have been unable to keep up with the audio-visual advances of the times. Ticket prices have soared, and the rising crime rate has made people too scared to walk home in the dark after an evening film.
Yet all is not gloomy, in part thanks to businesses like the Moskva's office furniture suppliers. Some cinemas have managed to survive and profit by renting space to night clubs, auto showrooms and home appliance dealers. Although this probably makes movie purists squirm, it has invigorated the dying state-run theaters.
"I don't care about property or who owns what," said Mark Lisogor, head of the cinema section of the Moscow Department of Culture, adding that the idea of privatized movie theaters appeals to him. "If a private owner obeys the law, then he should be left alone. Smart managers can make anything happen. Maybe soon there will be competition, and I think there must be competition between cinemas."
Lisogor gives as an example the Odessa Cinema, which is in the southern part of the city near Sevastapolskaya metro. It is still a state-run movie house, but its director, Semyon Peterburg, has found creative ways to make the place prosper. A small auto showroom occupies part of the lobby, as does a home appliances store. With the rent money he receives from these two sources, Peterburg has opened a pleasant cafe in the lounge. The extra cash also makes it easier for him to get more famous movies from private distributors.
Innovation such as this is desperately needed. According to Lisogor, the motion-picture industry in Moscow is in a sick state. He said that cinemas are only filling about 8 percent of their seats, even on weekends, and that figure might be optimistic. During a recent weekday afternoon, 11 people went to see "Death Warrant," a new Jean-Claude van Damme film at central Moscow's Zaryadye Cinema, which seats 800. For the record, its snack bar offered pungent sausage and bread sandwiches, stale European tea cookies and cognac.
Aside from the obvious economic reasons for the decline in attendance -- people do not have as much money to spend on leisure, and movie tickets generally cost 3,000 rubles -- Lisogor says technology is responsible as well. People have video-cassette players and cable television and would rather sit at home than stay out late in the city. In fact, convenience is a big issue.
"Before, people used to stop in and see a movie after work," Lisogor said. "I used to go to the Udarnik Cinema and have dinner in the cafe there before the movie. They had good sandwiches and cookies. Now the cafe as I knew it does not exist and it is too expensive. I'm better off going home, eating dinner and watching television all night."
To survive, some famous cinemas, such as the Moskva and the Rossiya, are following the Odessa's lead. The Karo night club occupies one of the smaller auditoriums in the hulking Rossiya; instead of paying rent, Lisogor says, Karo is remodeling the main theater, which holds 2,500 people. The Moskva's office furniture scheme appears to have worked, as they are able to get relatively high-quality Western movies such as "The Crow," while giving almost equal time to films from Russia and other republics.
The cinemas themselves are elaborate relics of grandiose Soviet architecture. After World War II, Lisogor said, the state drew up an ambitious plan to provide 20 cinema seats for every 1,000 people. As a result, most of the movie houses are huge; the recent trend in the West for complexes of several smaller theaters passed Russia by "because by the time that started happening, our country had become too poor" to follow suit, Lisogor said.
Instead there are odd, alluring structures that have interesting stylistic touches: The Udarnik looks like an early steam engine; the Rossiya could be an international airport terminal, and its auditoriums are allegedly air-conditioned by the cool water of a 260-meter deep spring; inside the Havana, the immense curtain is actually a tapestry that depicts a Cuban folkloric scene.
That may not be enough to lure audiences back, but for now the projectors are still on and the reels are still spinning.
"So they sell refrigerators at the Odessa," Lisogor said. "Who cares? Maybe it will even attract more people."
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