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both grave and mundane added to their charisma. When I think back to my interviews and conversations with the men who ran the shows, engaging, generous, and joyful are the first adjectives that come to mind. At the time I met them, the industry was largely dead and the men were all well past middle age. I can only imagine how contagious their smiles and cheer were when they and the industry they ran were in their prime.

      . . .

      To make their cinemas a success, most theater owners had to employ from ten to twenty men. From a management standpoint, some positions were clearly more vital than others, but from the perspective of each employee—or even from that of a patron—they were all critical to a truly successful show. Beyond that, cinema workers added verve and vitality to the cast of characters that made up a town, coming as they did from various racial, religious, class, and communal backgrounds. When not at work, they were all interwoven into the wider tapestry of urban life, bringing news of cinematic happenings to their neighborhoods and likewise bringing their friends and families in touch with happenings at the central fixture of urban life.

      House managers were certainly at the top of the management hierarchy in terms of responsibility, pay, and communal prestige. Owners often conceded complete control over operations to a trusted house manager, who was paid a respectable but not exorbitant salary to run the theater from day to day.³ Whether the house manager was given the authority to arrange bookings depended on his knowledge of films, his professional relationships with suppliers, and the degree of involvement and control maintained by the owner. But even if the manager was simply given a program of upcoming attractions to bill each week, he still had a lot to do.

      Managers typically determined how many times to run a given film, and if a movie flopped, they were the ones who had to scramble to fill its spot with something more enticing. They supervised advertising and made sure that movie posters were prominently displayed. They oversaw the selling of tickets, the collection of money, the keeping of books, and the delivery of daily proceeds to the owner or the bank. When the theater was closed, they ensured that it was properly cleaned, painted, and maintained. If the projector was broken, the sound system blown, the roof leaking, or the electrical lines down, it was the manager who had to locate and organize repairmen, tools, and supplies. The day of the show, managers greeted guests and made them feel welcome—and when throngs tried to push through the doorway, or ticket window lines got totally out of control, they fought to restore order. Often, they were responsible for things that were simply beyond their control. If a film did not run, if patrons were turned away, or if (heaven forbid), the theater had to be closed for major structural repairs, the house managers found themselves in deep trouble. Their greatest fear was not the wrath of the owner but the disappointment of the fans whose needs they could not meet. Because cinemas were central hubs of neighborhoods and towns, a manager whose theater was closed could not go to the market or get a cup of coffee without encountering endless questions about the status of repairs and the expected date of reopening. It was this pressure from mere acquaintances that could produce ulcers or drive a man near to collapse.

      Since the men who built the cinemas were patrons not just of the arts but of sundry clients and extended family members as well, house managers were sometimes chosen simply because they were a son, a nephew, a client, or a close friend’s relative who needed a job.⁴ The patron-client ties that were forged at the cinema were often inaugurated by the poor and needy. Ally Khamis Ally’s relationship with his fictive-kin father is but one of numerous examples. In his sixties at the time of this writing, Ally was still commonly known as Ally Rocky, a nickname he was given as a child because he followed the proprietor of the Wete cinema, a Goan named Rocky, absolutely everywhere; people even teased him about being the Goan’s illegitimate son.⁵ But Ally ignored the taunts and bore the name of his fictive father with pride. He was fascinated by films, and eventually, his persistence at the theater paid off. While in his twenties, he was bequeathed the management of the Novelty Cinema in Pemba by his fictive father, making him one of the happiest lads in the land. Ahmed Hussein, a poor boy from Dar es Salaam, forged a similarly productive fictive kinship with Hassanali Kassum Sunderji, the eldest son of Kassum Sunderji Samji, who built the Avalon, Amana, and New Chox. Hassanali Kassum Sunderji was nicknamed “Chocolate,” shortened in daily parlance to “Choxi,” because of his love of the treat. His desire for the sweet things in life was indulged by his father, who reputedly allowed him to eat as much chocolate as he liked from the family store. Then, in the 1950s, Kassum Sunderji Samji also built his son a cinema to indulge his passion for film. The cinema was named the New Chox. Ahmed Hussein also had a taste for film, and from the age of ten or twelve, he hung out around the New Chox daily picking up soda bottles, sweeping aisles, or doing whatever chores he could to make himself modestly useful and thus earn admission to the show. At fourteen or fifteen, pesky little Ahmed was finally taken into the projection room, where he would learn his trade. Around town, he then became known as Ahmed Choxi, with his father’s name supplanted by that of his patron and the theater where he was now officially employed.⁶ As a projectionist, he earned more than double the monthly minimum wage, which was considered quite grand for a young man with only a fourth-grade education. A few years later, he was promoted to house manager of the New Chox, which made his parents exceptionally proud. Both Ally and Ahmed were adopted by men of different class, religious, and ethnic backgrounds from their own. But a love of movies bound them with their fictive fathers for life, allowing both boys to turn a childhood passion into a respectable adult profession.

      Figure 2.1 Ad for Mother India, Zanzibar Central Market. Photo by Ranchhod T. Oza, courtesy of Capital Art Studio, Zanzibar

      House managers were nearly always avid film fans; in fact, most were the equivalent of walking, talking film encyclopedias. Typically, they were gregarious crowd pleasers, and more than one was considered quite the ladies’ man. Their skills were first and foremost people skills. Lacking business and accounting abilities did not necessarily make them bad managers. Being able to please a crowd and woo patrons was more critical to business success. A curmudgeonly accountant or even a manager’s mother could keep the books, but it took a big smile and a big heart to manage one of the central institutions of urban life. In more than one instance, a cinema was handed over to a party boy to manage, with the hope that his natural inclinations could be channeled in a respectable, responsible business endeavor. There were few better jobs for a man who loved to be the life of the party. “Not only did you get to watch films, but you got to meet people all of the time, make people happy and really get to know and talk to members of the community,” said one interviewee, Eddy. “Running a cinema was a business that was also a pleasure! Really it was pure pleasure, but you could earn a living off of it as well.”⁷

      Managers were not the only employees who reveled in the ability to show the town a good time and be at the center of urban social life; nearly everyone I interviewed, from doormen to sweepers, stressed the pleasure and benefits they got from their associations with the show. One man who worked as a gatekeeper from the age of eighteen until he was thirty-five told me, “Really I did it just for the fun. It was just a pastime really, the salary was very little, but it was fun seeing all of the people coming and going. It was a great way to make contacts. I enjoyed it a lot!”⁸ Many stressed how they got to know everybody in town. “Everyone knew me,” said one man who worked at the Empress in Dar es Salaam, “and . . . many people came and begged me, begged me to help them get tickets to the show.” A man who worked at a theater in Moshi had similar recollections of his power and popularity: “I remember Andhaa Kaanoon [Rama Rao’s 1983 production, starring Amitabh Bachchan and Hema Malini]. If you could get people tickets to that one, oh people will kiss your feet! Oh I had so many friends, so many friends in those days.”⁹ “Oh yes, and the women,” said another, “they were the highlight of the job! Every beautiful woman in town knew my name.”¹⁰ Another doorman who considered himself quite the Romeo in his day echoed those remarks, “The ladies, the ladies were the highlight of the job. All dressed up in their finest and perfumed! And they all knew who I was.”¹¹

      To spread the word about their offerings, exhibitors often displayed movie posters

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