Original subtitles

King's Cross, 1992.

Back then, that was always to me the real London.

The first place that many people saw when they arrived in the capital.

It was buzzing full of a dirty energy.

It wasn't pretty. It wasn't nice.

It was the London of junkies and prostitutes.

Tired commuters.

Grime. Takeaways and sex shops.

The London of films like Mona Lisa.

and a long Good Friday.

It sat at the centre of it, the Scala Cinema, the arthouse cinema club that

the place for all the out -there film lovers, film students and collective

weirdos.

It always had the appearance of falling apart, of a make -do student -led charm.

Once you passed the ticket office and made your way upstairs,

past its graffitied cartoon murals that spread across its walls and ceilings,

its wandering cat to its general state of disrepair, it was in perfect union

with its King's Cross surroundings.

This was the place for the pure joy of cinema, whether it be European new wave,

sleaze, classic British, neo -noir or downright dressed -up porn, this was

the place to see it.

From a wet Wednesday afternoon or a raucous Friday night to one of their

all -nighters, you never knew what you might find.