27 December marked the 115th anniversary of Birmingham’s Electric Cinema. However, this milestone carries a bittersweet note, as the iconic venue closed its doors earlier this year on 29 February. Adding a layer of irony, Birmingham was recently announced as the host of the First World Screen Tourism Summit, set to take place in the summer of 2025. The event will spotlight the growing trend of ‘set-jetting,’ where tourists flock to locations featured in their favourite films and TV shows—a celebration of cinematic landmarks, even as local treasures like the Electric Cinema face erasure.
Station Street has long been a cultural hub in Birmingham. During the Industrial Revolution, the clangourous symphony of metalworking echoed through its cobbled lanes. It is home to the Electric Cinema, the city’s first cinema and the oldest working cinema in the country, as well as The Crown, famously known as the birthplace of heavy metal. Both venues have now been closed, with their owners remaining silent about their future, describing the situation simply as “for the foreseeable future.” This has sparked significant public outrage, with many campaigning to preserve their local history and generational memories, which they view as being threatened by cultural vandalism. It’s widely believed that these closures are tied to plans for redeveloping Station Street into a 50-storey apartment block.
The Electric Cinema has been a beloved institution for generations, attracting diverse audiences throughout its long history. In the early 20th century, between the 1900s and 1930s, it showcased silent films accompanied by live piano music, as well as repertory screenings. From the 1950s to the 1970s, it became known for arthouse films, continental pictures, cartoons, and even adult films. From the 1980s, the cinema embraced a mix of arthouse, mainstream, and exploitation genres. In more recent years, it also served as a venue for the local Flatpack Festival.
Unlike mall or franchise cinemas, the Electric Cinema was a street cinema—a medium that brought stories directly to the public, often focusing on marginalized communities and social issues. This approach made cinema accessible to a wider audience and allowed it to serve as a powerful tool for social commentary and activism. It sparked dialogue and raised awareness about critical issues within the community. Art is an antidote; it heals both the artist and those who consume it.
The Electric Cinema bore witness to many significant events, from the Second World War to the 2020 pandemic—a particularly challenging period that led to mass redundancies among its staff. It adapted to major shifts in how audiences consume films, evolving from the age of television and video rentals to the era of streaming. Throughout its history, the cinema underwent numerous renovations, name changes, and reopenings. In its later years, it operated with two screens: one equipped to show digitally-shot films and the other capable of screening 35mm prints.
For many Brummies, the Electric Cinema holds cherished memories. It has been more than just a venue for films; it’s been a place where society could come together, bridging socio-economic divides, political fractures, and social tensions. In a world increasingly dominated by the internet, where connection often feels superficial and divisive algorithms deepen societal rifts, the cinema offered a genuine sense of community. That said, high ticket prices and limited accessibility at some venues have, at times, created barriers for certain audiences.
As we reflect on the Electric Cinema’s 115 years, it’s clear that its impact extended far beyond entertainment. This iconic venue was a space for storytelling that shaped Birmingham’s identity, bridged divides, and amplified diverse voices. At a time when digital platforms dominate, spaces like the Electric Cinema remind us of the importance of preserving our collective history and fostering community.
In the face of redevelopment and change, we must actively fight to preserve spaces like the Electric Cinema—not just for nostalgia, but to ensure future generations can experience the magic of storytelling in a communal, inclusive setting. For someone who is not born and bred in the region, but has lived here for a few years, the Electric Cinema was on my Brum’s bucket list.
But the Electric Cinema’s story isn’t unique. Across the world, cultural spaces like it are falling victim to profit-driven redevelopment, leaving behind hollow reminders of what once was. The question we face is this: how much of our shared heritage are we willing to sacrifice for steel and glass? In losing places like the Electric, we don’t just lose a building—we lose a piece of ourselves.
As Birmingham prepares to celebrate cinema on the world stage in 2025, perhaps it’s worth reflecting on the meaning of these spaces—not as tourist attractions but as vital threads in the fabric of our cities. The Electric Cinema is gone, but its legacy asks us to reconsider: What kind of stories will our cities tell if the places that hold them are erased?
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