Last Thursday evening, in Theatre 1, a scattered handful of customers sat slumped low in the high-back seats and quickly twisted their necks at the sound of an open door. In Theatre 2, every seat was empty.

The few moviegoers do little to challenge the archetypical image of porn-theatre patrons: old men, hands in their pockets, their eyes darting around suspiciously. They say nothing as they shuffle along the worn carpet around the corner, past the display of sex toys, into the darkness. The pungent odour is as much cleaning solution as it is sweat and rot.

Only the light from gyrating flesh on the screen makes the vintage red velvet curtains of the two screening rooms visible. About half the movies shown are recently produced DVDs. The others are older 35 mm films, culled from a collection of more than 1,000 reels that sit stacked next to the boiler in the building’s basement.

Local resident Mike Stafford is typical of those who walk by the theatre every day. “I kind of want to go in there just to see it,” he said. “But I’m always too chicken.”

It’s a long way from the glamorous movie house that operator Manny Stein opened in 1938. In Hollywood’s Golden Age, the Art Deco style theatre was a key player, notable for an opening night fire that garnered coverage in the local dailies.

In 1979, with the credits already rolling on the independent neighbourhood movie palaces, Mr. Green’s father, Sadru, purchased the business for $800,000. But when the elder Mr. Green’s plan to show Bollywood movies in the aging theatre was stifled by distributors, The Metro was sent to the adult film margins.

After The Eden 2 and The Eve (both owned by Famous Players) closed their doors more than 15 years ago, The Metro was the only adult theatre in the city left to service an increasingly shrinking clientele.

“The market was never there after the ’90s,” Mr. Green says. “As soon as the videotapes came out, it was over. [Porn] now is a private thing.”

He has seen the writing on the wall. The building has been on the market for the past five years. Mr. Green says he hasn’t yet received an offer that would pay off his mortgage, with a little nest egg left over. But the era will likely soon end without a whimper, when Mr. Green is finally persuaded to sell and cut his losses.

The owner’s fondness for the dank theatre where he’s spent most of his adult life will continue, however, long after the last seat cushion has been scrubbed.

“It’s like I’m going to miss a wife that I have been married to for 30 years,” he says. “That’s the best way to put it.”

Mr. Green cracks a smile as he describes his economically reckless loyalty to the business.

“It is not depressing,” he says. “This place paid my bills a few years ago. . . . I am certainly emotionally attached to it.”

And how does he explain the attachment of his small, loyal clientele?

“Loneliness,” Mr. Green says. “They come here just to spend time somewhere for five dollars. Where else could you go and spend a whole day, without anybody telling you to move?

“Here you have seats, you can sleep. You can do whatever you have to do. . . It’s basically a home for five dollars, that’s what I call it.”