The American movie-going experience, from its inception until nearly the 1970’s, contains a parallel universe, a reflection in a shiny surface: black theaters. In some African American neighborhoods, smaller theaters supported black audiences. In larger cities, theaters, palaces big enough to accommodate a separate audience in the balcony, used that space to bring black/white audiences together — all the while keeping them apart. Such was life before the Civil Rights Act of 1964, which made segregation in public spaces illegal. For seven years, I’ve been working on Starts Wednesday: a Year in the Life of a Movie Palace, and for five of those years writing this blog; still there’s the unanswered question. Was outright segregation practiced in our beloved movie palace? We became theater operators at the St. George Theatre, a 2,672-seat house, in Staten Island, in 1976. The day we opened those red and gold doors for business, twelve years had elapsed since the Civil Rights Act. I haven’t yet found the person who’ll tell me if African Americans were welcomed by our predecessors, but it’s likely, given the practices of the day, that some or another discouragement kept black audiences out.  

In 1976, we inherited two mixed audiences from the operator who preceded us: a largely white suburban population — that had moved out of our neighborhood, to newer subdivisions on the South Shore of Staten Island — and a mixed local white and black population, who kept, at times, an uneasy peace. On April 7 of our theater year, we opened, ironically, with Mel Brooks’ still-controversial Blazing Saddles, a satire about race that Brooks now admits he probably couldn’t make today. The American worm of racial attitude was just beginning to change, and I’m happy to say we were on the just side of that moment.

A friend just sent me a wonderful article on the city of Birmingham (Alabama) and its theater restorations: another revitalization story, thrilling! Any theater saved is a welcome miracle; but surprise!  Two of the theaters listed as restored were black houses, during the Jim Crow era.  One, the Lincoln, has been bought and restored by Andre Holland of Moonlight, who remembers this movie house from his boyhood, apparently not as a theater he attended, but as a vacant space next to a local barbershop, that was, nonetheless, filled with memories for most of the older people he knew. Reading this, I got all excited and googled BLACK THEATERS RESTORED. Then, AFRICAN AMERICAN THEATERS RESTORED. Okay, I found a few, and there’s always the compelling story of the Apollo on 125th Street in Harlem. But like so much else having to do with things black and white in America, results in the black column are a little disappointing. There just aren’t that many. I’m sure it’s a tale of bucks: it can take as much as fifty million dollars and, working on the fast track, five years, to restore a run-down theater, even a small one, according to Jerry Martinez of Martinez and Johnson, an architectural firm out of D.C. It’s about deep pockets and lots of time, and donors able to give. These things are scarce everywhere, but can be doubly hard to come by in black communities. 

Still, despite discouragements, I present a few tales of black theater restoration; with time, may there be more.

The previously-mentioned Lincoln Theatre in Bessemer, Alabama comes to mind first.  Andre Holland, its owner and savior notes, "It's good for people — particular young people — to have something to be proud of in their neighborhood... The Lincoln was [before 1964] the only movie theatre you could go to. Everyone who went has memories of it. They remember first dates there, they remember the titles of all the movies they saw." A 400-seat theater built in 1948, the Lincoln has a balcony — likely in a stadium configuration — and orchestra, and functioned until around 1970. Before Holland enter the lists, there were two other Lincoln enthusiasts who got the ball of restoration rolling forward: Jake Bivona, a local attorney and “big movie fan” formed the Lincoln Phoenix Project back in 2013, apparently enlisting the efforts of an actor and filmmaker, Kevin Wayne , best known for his role in The Magnificent 7. Wayne planned to make a documentary. Whether this film exists is hard to determine; likewise, whether Andre Holland is a partner or colleague of these early Lincoln boosters is unclear, but every person in favor of restoration or preservation is, I think, a natural ally. One thing is clear; when the Lincoln is complete it will offer both movies and live acts and give a needed boost to Bessemer’s sad downtown — so much of what theater restoration is all about.

The Howard Theater in Washington, D.C. is the oldest African American theater in the U.S., predating even the Apollo. Duke Ellington, Ella Fitzgerald, James Brown, Aretha Franklin and a number of other performers have graced its stage. Martinez (quoted earlier) recalls that the Howard was in pretty dismal shape, “...It had been vacant for decades when we started work on it. It was a solid building, but the interior was totally gone. The only thing that was left was the shape of the proscenium and the shape of the balcony.”

The Howard opened in August, 1910, a legitimate/Vaudeville house, its facade done in Beaux-Arts, Neo-Classical, and Italian Renaissance styles. Apollo, at the top of the facade, played his lyre over T Street, while the inside featured a copious balcony with eight boxes and a proper number of dressing rooms. Not surprisingly, the Howard Players from nearby Howard University often took the stage, as well as the Lafayette Players.

The ups and downs of the Howard mirror the trials of many palatial theaters from the thirties into the bad old seventies. Serving mostly black audiences, and, beginning in the early Depression, black movies, along with live acts, the theater was a hot spot, attracting top talent like Lena Horne, and offering competitions, like its rival, the Apollo, in New York. During WWII, it hosted  a number of balls, attended by Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt, and, in these instances, offered the likes of Abbott and Costello and Danny Kaye, in addition to popular black performers.

Though management was black, the theater seems always to have been owned by white management companies, during its serious working years. These companies faded away by the fifties, when the Howard went Rock and Blues. Beyond the fall of single-screen movie theaters, two things did the Howard in: ironically, desegregation, and the riots of the late sixties. It served briefly as a church, then simply closed, despite its designation on the National Historic Register. 

Its recent re-opening in 2012 after a full restoration by Martinez and Johnson, have given the Howard renewed purpose, recalling its peak during wartime. As the theater’s website observes, “When the nation was deeply divided by segregation, The Howard Theatre provided a place where color barriers blurred and music unified. The Washington Bee dubbed it the ‘Theatre for The People’...the place where dignitaries, like President Franklin D. Roosevelt and the First Lady gathered with everyday folks to see both superstars and rising stars...” Billy Eckstine, Billy Taylor, the Ink Spots, the Supremes, Marvin Gaye, Chuck Brown, Aretha Franklin, Dizzy Gilespie, Dick Gregory, Redd Foxx, Moms Mabley (I haven’t even gotten started) either debuted there, or used the Howard as a touchstone for their careers. Like the Apollo and the Cotton Club in Harlem, the Howard seems to have survived and prospered by vaulting over the impediment of segregation.

Finally, here’s a brief nod to the Carver Performing Arts Center in Birmingham, a city on fire--in the good sense-- with theater restoration. The Carver Theatre was an African American cinema, opened in 1935 with roughly five hundred seats. Recent restoration has made it, among other things, the new home of the Alabama Jazz Hall of Fame Museum. The theater’s location in what is considered the Birmingham Civil Rights District probably made restoration a must-do for local civic officials, and a good thing too.

If single-screen theaters of all kinds suffered vacancy and neglect in the seventies, from a combination of multi-plexing and television, then other factors, like white flight (which, arguably, has never gone away), and the desegregation of public places, put additional pressure on black theaters coast-to-coast. Fortunately, people of all backgrounds love their local theaters, and there’s always someone willing to fight to preserve, restore or rebuild them. 

Afterthoughts: 

1. I didn’t include the Apollo in this post, as it seems such an obvious example of a black theater with a fascinating past, but if you want to read a little about it, here’s a good treatment. 
2. For a glimpse at how the neighborhood near the Howard (and its sister, Howard University) has gentrified, read this.

I have a sixth sense when it comes to identifying buildings that used to be movie theaters. Decommissioned churches are marked by their steeples and stained glass; but theaters that have become warehouses, boutiques, sporting goods stores, even parking garages, have their own traits: broad low porticos, with perhaps a marquee or the remains of it, ticket windows, balcony fire escapes at the back or on the side of the building. One other thing theaters, especially palaces, often exhibit is ornate decorative effects that refer in some way to the theatrical.

So it was the Sunday before last, as we walked up Broadway in Manhattan, headed for 175th Street and the United Palace of Cultural Arts, that we happened on an interesting building at 165th St. There, on the East side of the street, was a fascinating structure, 3940 Broadway, with an arched inset depicting in great detail Neptune, god of the sea riding a magnificent oared ship. The facade is a mix of oxide green and teal, set in beige tiles. Decorative work surrounding the arch over the entryway features lyres and comic/tragic faces. Oddly, given all the sea imagery, faces of foxes line many of the windows. Foxes? Of course. We paused to admire what we later identified as Thomas Lamb’s Fox Audubon Theatre, commissioned by none other  than William Fox himself, in 1912, three years before he founded Fox Film Corporation in those bad old days when moguls both built and owned theaters and the movies shown in them. 

You probably know that my interest in — and ability to recognize — old theaters comes from the time I spent obsessed with one, the 2,672-seat St. George Theatre in Staten Island, which for one fateful year, 1976, I had a hand in running. The St. George has, like the Audubon Fox, worn a variety of hats (in the case of the St George: flea market, roller rink, church). But the Audubon, functioning now as a multi-use facility under the aegis of Columbia University, is famous or notorious in a whole other respect. Built with both an auditorium and an upstairs ballroom, it’s where, on February 21, 1965, Malcolm X was shot, and its life and uses after that event reflect, in part, that notoriousness.

There were so many Foxes. Wikipedia lists around ninety theaters, some built by William Fox himself, others joining the chain when Fox West Coast merged with the original Fox Films. The Audubon appears to be the only one of the Foxes known as the site of an assassination, but stay tuned and get a load of some pretty interesting alternate uses of other Fox theaters that have survived.  

The Kingsport (Tennessee) Fox Theatre a small neighborhood house, celebrated its opening on August 22, 1940. According to local journalist Vince Staten the Fox first featured the film “...Alias the Deacon on screen, starring Bob Burns as a ‘hillbilly deacon who is actually a cardsharp in disguise’... The Fox was the first Kingsport movie theater to show movies on Sunday...” (and was subsequently raided for (what else?) showing movies on Sunday). The theater survived as a single-screen house until 1963 when plans were laid to convert it to some kind of off-premises cafeteria for the new high school. As it was determined that students would not be allowed to leave the school, renovation was subsequently halted, giving a local barber the opportunity to set up shop in the lobby. Eventually, the theater became a country music recording studio, lasting at that trade until the early nineties. Rumor has it these days it’s morphed into a beauty parlor.

The Bunkie Louisiana Fox is the kind of storefront I’d spot and instantly know as a former theater, if I passed it by. Hideous though the black and white aluminum siding on its front may be, you can see that the black is disguising what once was a facade/marquee. The de-bunked Bunkie currently serves as, on the right, City Hall Annex/ Court and, on the left, as the local Bunkie library. 

These previous two are humble country Foxes, but there are some famous ones — still standing and otherwise — on that long list of ninety movie houses I just mentioned.    

Arguably, the “Super Foxes,” all palaces built before William Fox’s empire crumbled are: The St Louis Fox (aka “The Fabulous Fox”), The Detroit Fox (aka “The Magnificent Fox”), the tragically demolished San Francisco Fox, and the marvelously resurrected Atlanta Fox. 

The St. Louis and Detroit Foxes are said to be “twins,” built in Siamese/Byzantine style, whatever that is, and seating 4,500 people. Here’s a brief description of the lobby of the St. Louis  house, clipped, I freely admit, from Cinema Treasures:

In the lobby, a pair of huge golden griffons flanked the grand staircase, and deep red faux marble columns ringed the mezzanine level. From every corner statuary peeked out—including a group of large gilt maharajahs. The cavernous auditorium was spectacular in scope, dramatic in its lighting and swirling decor, and when the Governor of Missouri appeared on its stage on opening night to dedicate it, he was nearly at a loss for words.  

Both the SL and the Detroit remained theaters all their days, though they suffered steep declines in the dark times of the seventies.The Detroit, slightly larger, by 500 seats, continued, showing Martial Arts and Blaxploitation, and was landmarked and revitalized in the eighties. 

The Atlanta Fox, was reputedly inspired by a combination of the Alhambra in Spain and Egypt’s Temple of Kharnak. It was begun by the Shriners organization in the late twenties, who were intent on building the most opulent temple possible, then (lack of funds) leased the half-finished structure to William Fox, who finished the job, opening in 1929 with a premier of Steamboat Willie, Disney’s first cartoon starring Mickey Mouse. As is usually the case with movie palace big beauties, it was saved by a local group starting in the mid-seventies, and brags that it has the only full-time restoration staff of any current saved theater. 
 
The San Francisco Fox, completed in that fateful year, 1929, is the only one of the four Super Foxes not to survive a wrecker’s ball. At 4,651 seats, it’s a near twin to the (smaller) Los Angeles Theatre, 1932 by S. Charles Lee, who imitated many of its design features. By 1963, the powers that be in SF saw to its demolishment, with a gilded demolition ball. Here is the saddest description you can imagine of its final moments as a standing hall:

The steel wrecking ball, painted a lackluster gold for the occasion, crashed through the west wall of the opulent Market Street movie palace at 10:33 a.m. high above some 200 generally disinterested bystanders. Inside, on the abandoned third floor, a wall-length mirror shattered in the .cavernous ladies’ lounge. A stained glass sign, made in 1929 by Tiffany’s, swung violently in a corridor lined with faded red satin.

When the Fox opened June 28, 1929, at 1350 Market St., it was the largest theater west of Chicago. 
In a general sense, the story of the altered lives of Fox theaters is the story of what became of palaces and smaller neighborhood theaters nationwide, which have managed to stand for second and even third lives.

Sometimes they return to their roots, like our own St. George, not a Fox, but grand enough, and these days a mixed house, showing movies, welcoming magicians, local dance and theatrical troupes, comedians, solitary but still-famous rock musicians, you name it -- and even the occasional major act. Well it’s a living, it’s show biz, it’s community and it’s what these giant fantasy castles were meant to do. 

Afterthought 1:
The Audubon, which, as I noted, contains the now-infamous Audubon Ballroom where Malcolm X was shot, has had an interesting journey from movie theater and meeting place/union hall to its current incarnation as, among other things, the Shabazz Center. Recognize the name?  Betty Shabazz was Malcolm X’s widow and fought hard to revitalize the building and memorialize her husband. She didn’t live to see the completion of this project, but it did finally come to fruition. 

Afterthought 2:
Interestingly enough, the facade of what was once the Audubon Fox, with its amazing depiction of Neptune in the prow of a trireme (ancient Greek ship), shows to better effect, now that it doesn’t have to fight with a marquee and blade sign, which utterly obscured it when it was actually a theater. 

How does a movie palace become a church? And what happens after that?  At the St. George Theatre, which I had a hand in running in 1976, we hosted a single Evangelical church service. It was a hired-out affair. The minister and his staff arrived promptly at nine in the morning, strewing the stage with flower petals and erecting a portable altar; a man with a cassette tape duplicating machine set up his table in the lobby; to him would fall the task of quickly duplicating the sermon and other key parts of the service for sale in the lobby. The agreed-upon amount of time for transition from theater to church and back again was supposed to have been four hours; but when one o’clock came, congregants were still dropping their crutches and heading for the stage, and the tape duplicating guy was doing a land-office business. Respectfully, we approached the minister’s second-in-command who promised to speak to the big guy himself. No dice; as long as crutches were falling to the auditorium floor and cassette dollars were changing hands, the St. George was going to remain a church. Well, nobody can resist the smell of fresh-popped corn for long; accordingly, at 1:10, we fired up the popper and got ready to tear tickets for Taxi Driver, due to hit the screen at 1:45. This got the minister’s attention; time for singing and praying had run out, and his check had cleared the bank. In a few minutes, the congregation headed for the buses, buying enough popcorn on the way out to cut a little into the cassette duplicator’s sales. Moviegoers arrived and mingled with the outgoing worshippers, and, by 1:45, we were on-screen.

That very same day, on 175th Street in Washington Heights, twenty-five miles north, in upper upper Manhattan, Reverend Ike’s United Church Science of Living Institute was just wrapping up a service. Already in its seventh year of operation in what had been one of New York City’s five Loews “Wonder” theaters, the newly-televised service filled all 3,400 seats, with standing room at the back. The Rev (as a friend who worked camera for that church used to call him) was, in addition to being deeply charismatic, a very smart businessman. He’d seen the Loews 175th Street as a perfect gleaming home for his growing congregation, originally headquartered in Harlem at a much smaller theater, the Sunset, whose marquee was so narrow, he’d had to shorten his moniker from Reverend Eikerenkoetter to Rev Ike. 

How did it all begin? In March, 1969, Loews 175th Street blasted into outer space with its last movie, 2001: A Space Odyssey. It was a fitting way to close out operations as a movie house and take on the mantle of Ike’s salvation palace. Ike’s purchase would also be the salvation of the palace itself, which he had more than enough money to repair and restore. Washington Heights, where the theater still stands, was, like so many neighborhoods in those days, in flux: losing delis and gaining Bodegas, as black and hispanic residents replaced Greeks and the grandchildren of Eastern European Jews who’d fled the Holocaust. The movie palace had to go; Loews was pulling out, but, just when it might have kept an appointment with a wrecking crew, the Reverend Ike stepped in, purchasing the near-four-thousand seat Indo/Chinese/Assyrian Thomas Lamb fantasy structure for half a million dollars.

The Loews 175th opened on February 22, 1930,  with Norma Shearer in Their Own Desire, and a stage show from the Capitol Theatre in Times Square, it being the mission of Loews’ fifth “Wonder” theater to “bring Times Square entertainment nearer your home.” Original seating was 3,444 seats, making it, even now, at 3,400 the fourth-largest theater in New York City. Meant to resemble an Assyrian fortress on the outside, it’s interior, designed by Harold Rambouch (Waldorf Astoria, Radio City Music Hall) can variously be described as Indo/Chinese. When you take the tour, get a load of the grand (Hindu) staircase, which concludes in a fantasy of the Aurora Borealis. A movie house didn’t get to be a NYC Wonder Theatre if it didn’t sport a Morton Wonder Organ, and it is the honor of the UPCA to have retained its original 4 manual 23 rank instrument in situ. (For the tale of what happened to the other four Wonder Organs, check out the second-to-last post).

I’m a great fan of this theater. It’s one of the few I know of that has served as a church without its occupants altering its grand interior or original pagan raison d’etre, the way a sister Wonder Theatre, the Valencia did. Perhaps it was Reverend Ike himself, dissatisfied as he was with established Christianity’s pious reverence for poverty who gave the thumbs-up to its movie-palaceness; what could be better for worshippers whose core belief is in a successful and positive-thinking self,  than a golden temple that gleams every bit as much as it did the day Norma Shearer first flashed on screen?

Critics of Rev. Ike will say, to this day, that he was only in it for his own prosperity, insisting as he did on cash donations, but he raised the self-esteem of many parishioners who promptly took their place as entrepreneurs in the America he sprang out of.  Meanwhile, the palace gleams from years of good upkeep, when many movie palaces, like, for example, a sister Wonder Theatre, Loews Kings in Brooklyn, required millions to bring it back to spit-polish condition. 

After the Reverend’s death, at 74 the theater continued on for some time, for the most part as a church, until, in recent history, his son Xavier F. Eikerenkoetter, who taught, it is said, drumming to homeless boys on a California beach, decided the church could serve both secular and sacred functions in a changing neighborhood. 

These days, in a newly-prosperous Washington Heights, what can’t you do at the UPCA? An Open Heart Conversation on Bhakti Yoga (May 19)? A Shamanic Circle (June 1)?, The Matrix (June 30)?, Chantings (May 8)?, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (May 5)? or Nicky Jam Tour 2019 (May 10)?
You may have noticed that two of the above are movies, one generally featured every month. Which brings the theater full circle to its movie palace roots.

Have you ever watched post-millennial people in an open-and-functioning-as-such movie palace?
When they’re not looking at the screen, they’re looking upward. Just last Sunday, when the United Palace presented 2001: A Space Odyssey on the roughly 40th anniversary of it’s last 1969 showing, we were there. Forty years ago, the Reverend had just purchased the palace for half a million clams, and was looking towards the Easter Sunday opening of what would become his Palace Cathedral.
A lot of things have changed since the movie 2001 first opened. Arthur C. Clarke, its author, and Stanley Kubrick, its iconoclastic producer, are both dead. Kubrick (d. 1998) didn’t even make it to 2001, a good thing, considering what that year has truly come to represent in the minds of those of us alive at this moment. Some of the things the movie predicted have never come to pass (routine travel to the moon, manned missions to places beyond the moon). Successfully predicted are: Skype, the space station itself, and at least the beginning of verbally receptive A.I. HAL is, fortunately, not extant yet, though there are dire predictions. What to make of the apes/people in the opening scenes? I thought they were silly back in 1969, but these days I’m willing to discuss their viciousness, and that hurled bone that becomes a space station, one the most brilliant jump cuts in the history of cinematography.
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We couldn’t find parking anywhere near the theater, so took a twelve-block hike up Broadway. About halfway there, we stopped in front of a building with a facade so ornate it had to have been a theater — once.  I’m pretty good at spotting decommissioned movie palaces, and I was right. At home later, we determined that this green-trimmed archway, with lyres and the prow of a ship with none other than Neptune himself on the prow, was, as a matter of fact, the old Audubon Theater. Like the UPCA, it was a Thomas Lamb creation — and something more. Above the theater’s auditorium, I learned from Cinema Treasures, is what remains of the Audubon Ballroom. If that locale sounds vaguely familiar, it’s because it’s notorious; there, in February, 1965, Malcolm X was shot. I thought of the ape-men in the movie I’d just seen, and wondered at the drama of human violence on — and off — screen.     

Afterthought:
In 1969, when 2001 played at the Loews 175th Street, it was already a second-run movie. Perhaps unknown to most of Stanley Kubrick’s (and Arthur C. Clarke’s or Keir Dullea’s) current devoted fans, the film hadn’t done so well on it’s first release in 1968. Who were those apes dancing around a megalith? What was the meaning of the megalith anyhow, and how did the captain, played by Keir Dullea, end up on Jupiter in what seems like a French hotel room? Finally, how was he reborn as a “space baby,” and why? Sci Fi audiences, nerds of a particular order, wanted what Arthur C. Clarke kept arguing for, a narrative. But Kubrick was Kubrick, so the film remained as mystical and obscure as the obelisk that keeps appearing throughout the film. It was re-born after being re-branded as “the ultimate trip,” appealing to the LSD and Cannabis crowds.

Have you ever looked up at a massive chandelier, hanging above your head and wondered with, perhaps, trepidation, how many tons it weighs?  I was doing that yesterday in a church, where the chandeliers aren’t all that big, only 12 “candles.” Still I thought, “Wonder if those chains are strong enough?” Well back in 1976, when I was a theater operator, wow did we have chandeliers! The three stained glass ones in the lobby of the St. George Theatre are good-sized, but at the time seemed to cast hardly any light. How could that be? They seemed completely opaque; I imagined they were made of copper sheeting. After the light bulb salesman paid us a call, with his wonderful plug-in traveling case full of incandescents of all shapes and sizes, we looked again at the three dark shapes hanging from the lobby ceiling and wondered if bulbing them would accomplish anything.

Enterprising folks that we were, one of us figured out how to lower each chandelier, from a set of cranks he found in the wall. I wasn’t there to watch them descend, one at a time, from their positions near the ceiling, but I did marvel, after the night he spent with a bucket full of water, soap and ammonia. By daybreak he’d taken out, washed and replaced every one of a number of stained-glass sheets that made up the body of each chandelier, and voila! They shone like three suspended suns! Why had I thought the chandeliers were made of some kind of metal? All those years of cigarette smoke wafting to the ceiling gave a pretty chilling demo of what happens to the lungs of a serious smoker. 

We hadn’t worried too much about grinding the lobby chandeliers down on their then fifty-year-old cranks; how much could they weigh — a couple of hundred pounds? But the main chandelier, suspended like an alien spacecraft over the orchestra, was of another order. It too had a (very large) crank, in, I believe, the catwalk of the dome. How much did the gigantic fixture weigh? A tall basketball player using his body to measure its diameter would certainly have come up short, so in all probability it weighs (yes, it’s still up there) at least a ton, but probably more. No cranking that one down. Not only could somebody really get hurt, but its crash could destroy the orchestra and put us immediately out of business. As it turned out, we’d be out of business in a year anyhow, but at least without broken glass (only broken hearts). So whatever old bulbs were still lit in the main chandelier stayed that way, for our brief time as operators. 

Why am I thinking about chandeliers? 

Wandering around the ‘net the other day, I found this:
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COLUMBUS, OHIO — The Ohio Theatre's chandelier is beautiful, and to keep it that way it has to be kept clean. That cleaning happens about every 18 months, and the Ohio Theatre brings the famous 21-foot high chandelier down to be cleaned. The chandelier weighs two and a half tons, uses 339 light bulbs, and is 11 feet wide.
 
That last sentence really got my attention. Two and a half tons!!!  The Ohio Theatre, which, like almost every saved movie palace, has its own perilous history of near-demolition, has figured out how to safely crank down the big baby. It takes a crew of 7 the better part of a day, hand-cranking it from inside the dome. Two people work the cranks at a time, with plenty of back-up, and, not surprisingly, getting it back up to the ceiling is harder work and takes longer. I notice from the video in the link above that the giant fixture twirls rather merrily as it descends; that movement would have terrified me, if I’d been part of the crew. There is something to be said for doing this exercise at regular intervals, just to keep the crank in good working order.
  
The Ohio has its own near-tragedy story, and I won’t hold back. This 2,779-seat Thomas Lamb Spanish Baroque hall had a normal movie palace childhood, beginning on opening night March 17, 1928 with Greta Garbo in Divine Woman, a stage show, and six acts of Vaudeville. Live acts, predictably, didn’t last, but, through the middle of the twentieth century, Loew’s saw to it that the Ohio never wanted for prime movie product, along with the occasional live appearance, such as a young Judy Garland, and organ recitals featuring the Robert Morton organ. The Ohio drifted contentedly into movie palace middle age, its audience slowly disappearing to the suburbs. I could tell you this story and then plug in the names of dozens of palaces, done in by a combination of suburban sprawl and television. Loew’s sold out in 1969, to the 55 East State Company, who planned an office tower. Enter The Temporary Committee for Continued Use of the Ohio Theater, wisely shepherded by the American Theater Organ Society, who finagled a demolition delay from the developers and held off Loew’s, intent on stripping the place. At this point, three entities intervened to keep the theater standing:

1. On March 28, 1969, the Columbus Symphony Orchestra gave a free concert at the Ohio, demonstrating its fine acoustics.  The Temporary Committee however failed by a long shot to raise the thirty thousand dollars it needed to keep the theater open. 
2. The wife of the symphony’s conductor called a prominent local citizen, one John W. Galbreath, who was able to get a stay of execution, long enough to begin organizing the entity that would eventually become the theater’s owner, Columbus Association of Performing Arts(CAPA).
3. But the true savior  of the Ohio turns out to have been anonymous, a woman said to be “of modest means,” who apparently gave her life’s savings to pay only half the option to secure the Ohio for a period of time. The tale goes that without her donation, CAPA could not have been formed quickly enough, and the theater would have been demolished. 

So what saved the Ohio Theater, whose marvelous chandelier is cranked down every two years without fail, was, to begin with, its organ. Then there was the American Theatre Organ Society, acting behind the temporary committee, who got salvation started. The theater’s own remarkable acoustics and the Columbus Symphony also deserve applause, as do the conductor and his wife. Beyond that,  “anonymous” ought to be given a standing ovation. Whoever she was, I hope she lived to go to plenty of concerts, and sits even now looking up at the gleaming chandelier!

Afterthoughts:
1. I found the details of the Ohio’s salvation in a comments column appended to the Ohio Theatre’s Cinema Treasures entry. Keith was quoting The Ohio Theatre by Clive David, published in 1978. A brief search turned up no book by that title, but thanks anyhow to Keith and Cinema Treasures.

2. The current management of the St. George Theatre apparently re-bulbs our main chandelier, and sees to its upkeep on a regular basis. We were mere renters, but they own the building and the right to the risk. I’m only sorry I missed watching the great extraterrestrial object descend the first time, after all those decades.

3.The Ohio has a Robert Morton Organ, same company whose organs grace the five Loew’s “Wonder’ theaters in New York City I wrote about last week. 

4. For the story of a chandelier that started in Omaha, disappeared for a while and reappeared recently in Springfield, Missouri at the Gillioz Theatre.