INTRODUCTION

“We sell tickets to theatres, not movies.” — Marcus Loew

This is a book of shadows.

Recollected through words and pictures, it embraces a time gone by, places that no longer exist, and the people who made it happen. Mostly, it is about rose-colored glasses — which is, after all, what the cinema has always been about. Movies offer a touch of fantastic to a sometimes too harsh reality.

This sense of wonder is magnified through the eyes of a child, when the surrounding world seemed exaggerated and larger than reality — perhaps because the smaller we are, the bigger we make everything around us. Is it any surprise that memories of that first movie experience are awash with more than the usual rose tinting?

Understandably, the screen — for that matter, the whole auditorium — seemed equally large at that age. As the smell of candy and popcorn permeated the air, we sat in chairs way too big for us, some with the spring-loaded seats that we could barely weigh down. The fear of darkness swelled uncontrollably as the house lights dimmed, plunging the auditorium into black — only to be dispelled as that first image appeared before us on the screen.

I remember — if only in bits and pieces, which is to be expected from a five-year-old. Early childhood recollections are elusive and slippery, not quite tangible in the way of later experiences. They come in flashes of half-formed moments.

Yet I remember the theatre clearly ... and as much as I would like to claim those early memories to be that of a spectacular picture palace, with its grand, antique-filled foyer leading to a massive auditorium adorned in gold trim and deep, plush velvet curtains — my recollections instead are of a worn-out small town movie house not far from Houston.

The old downtown Alvin Theatre had long since seen its glory days. The seats were worn and torn, the floors sticky from the layers of candy, mixed with soda syrup, the air reeked of stale popcorn — and of age. It had accumulated a lot of that. The passing years had slowly diminished whatever magic had been entrusted to those walls. This was a modest, unpretentious, bare bones kind of affair. The darkness that enveloped the auditorium helped to mask the neglect that the theatre had endured over its three decades of existence.

In short, the theatre was a rattrap. That’s what my brother called it and even joked of the tug-of-war he had waged with an oversized rat after dropping his Mars bar to the ground. The tug-of-war was dubious; the oversized rats were not. The place was a dump.

Of course, none of that mattered to us kids. The Saturday matinee was the never-never land for us. Movies offered escapism, and made little difference whether the cinematic fare was a western — naturally popular in a small Texas town — cartoons, or cheap science fiction.

The attraction on that particular day was Godzilla vs. the Thing, featuring a man in a rubber monster suit and some really bad dubbing. I had tagged along with my older brother, who more than likely had been given parental orders to take me with him.

After a visit to the cramped concession stand, positioned in the matchbox lobby behind the ticket window, we took our seats in the kid-filled auditorium. The lights dimmed. The projector lit up the screen. My life has never been the same since.

Eventually, my parents forbade us from going to the Alvin movie-house, having something to do with the nasty condition of the theatre. This reason made little sense to us kids. What did we care if the floors were sticky, and the walls were destined to fail the white glove test? Regardless, it was deemed off-limits. The old theatre would close soon after that, leaving Alvin without an indoor theatre until a new one was built in 1968. When the old theatre eventually opened its doors again, it was as a revival house, and people came for prayers and sermons, not cowboys and Indians. Eventually, it would close for good, falling into disrepair before facing demolition in 1996.

* * *

Long’s Alvin Theatre, as it was originally called, was quite a big deal when it opened in 1936. The local paper touted its modern design and construction, with a stage for vaudeville presentations accented with rich crimson velvet curtains, and large dressing rooms on either side. The townsfolk flocked to the February 23 gala event, paid their 25-cent admission, listened to a mayoral dedication, and then watched the Harold Lloyd comedy The Milky Way. The Alvin High School Girls Pep Squad presented each patron with a spring flower arrangement as they entered.

This was the fifteenth theatre in Johnny G. Long’s theatre circuit, with houses in towns such as Bay City, Port Lavaca, El Campo and Beaumont. His was an independent chain that booked second-run films, usually after their initial showings in the Houston movie palaces. Long had previously bought the Alvin Grand Theatre, which had been showing flickers since 1919.

For Alvinites, Long’s Theatre was a center of activity, back in much simpler times. People would “go downtown” on Friday and Saturday nights for a movie, or just sit in their cars and watch the crowds go by. That was Saturday night entertainment.

Aside from a steady stream of motion pictures, live appearances were also a common occurrence, with such luminaries as Tex Ritter and his Musical Tornadoes, Ramblin’ Tommy Scott, and Luke McLuke. A Bonnie and Clyde stage show, complete with a bullet-ridden Model A Ford parked in front of the theatre, would sell out the house. Midnight spook shows with live productions were also held, as were occasional church services.

The popularity of television, among other forms of entertainment, took its toll, not only on the old Alvin Theatre but Long’s entire theatre chain. By the sixties, the Alvin Theatre was a pale ghost of the past. Finances were thin, repair and upkeep difficult, and for the wages paid, janitors did a bare minimum. Finally, the roof that had been long weakened by water damage gave way. It came crashing down into the auditorium during an evening feature. Amazingly, only one minor injury occurred. The patron was quite satisfied with the theatre management covering her doctor bill, and never was heard the discouraging word, “lawsuit.” Again, these were simpler days.

The roof was rebuilt but the theatre’s end was in sight. Long’s closed down, and excepting its brief stint as a revival house, sat dormant, neglected, and forgotten. The roof would eventually collapse again, exposing the balcony to the elements. A few years shy of demolition, the balcony itself would fall, effectively barricading the lobby entrance. Rusted theatre chairs and torn remnants of the movie screen were all that was left inside.

The old Alvin Theatre was razed in 1996, as part of a downtown vitalization program.

* * *

Tales of the big city are not that different from its small-town cousin. In an early seventies edition of The Houston Post, there ran a short paragraph, paying homage to one of Houston’s great movie houses. Accompanying the text was series of photographs of the abandoned theatre, taken by a staff photographer. Below these images ran the following copy:

In January 1923, reporters hailed the new Majestic Theatre at 908 Rusk as the “playhouse the duplicate of which cannot be found in America.” On opening night, Houstonians from Rev. Peter Gray Sears to Mayor Oscar Holcombe flocked to the Majestic to see Henry B. Walthall starring in The Unknown. This week — after almost 50 years of vaudeville, musical productions, dramatic performances and movies — little is left from the Majestic except for the rubble of demolition crews. Modern economic conditions and contemporary entertainment trends had taken their toll. Now the broken and discarded remains of Greek statues, Roman pillars, Italian Renaissance fixtures and electric exit signs are mute testimony to the tears gone by.

Architectural obituaries such as this are rare. Unless it is a noteworthy landmark, most buildings fall with little or no fanfare. This is especially true of Houston’s movie houses, with no crowds, reporters, or klieg lights to herald their end, as there were at their ribbon-cutting births. Instead, there may only be a passively curious onlooker as the demolition crews do their work.

Left behind are the memories, along with newspaper clippings and photographs, that represent our legacy of the past. Reduced to rubble, these structures are swept away to make room for newer structures, freeway construction, and that ever popular use for property, the parking lot. Some are converted to retail space, their innards ripped out and discarded in the name of commerce. Kindly said, it is called progress. For Historians, it has another, less favorable word, but by any other name, the buildings are forever lost.

What remains today of the downtown theatres can be counted on one hand. The 1926 Ritz/ Majestic Metro Theatre is the only downtown movie house to be restored, and now functions as a venue for special events. The artistic integrity of the restoration rivals that of the suburban Alabama Theatre which was restored and reopened as part of the Bookstop retail store chain. In both cases, despite their non-use as a commercial cinema, they succeed for other uses because the architecture remains faithful to its original intent. In fact, they are more appreciated now for their “theatre-ness” than they were during their final years of running flicks.

The building that housed the Isis, Houston’s first deluxe theatre, sat unused for years, before undergoing a restoration in 1998 (although the theatre itself was long gone). Only a few architectural remnants remained from its movie house days. The Zoe/Capitol building, at 719 Main, still stands but the theatre is long gone. The Scenic, at 113 Travis, was neither glamorous nor expansive, merely a nickelodeon-style business operating in the early teens. It is now is part of Treebeard’s Restaurant in Old Market Square. The eatery takes up the former 113, 115, and 117 lots, and the space to the former movie house is still visible on the floor.

Historical respect is an elusive thing, especially when dealing with intangibles such as what makes a thing historic. If the qualifying factor is age, then at what point does it make the transition?

Here, a structure is eligible for historical status after 50 years, with the ill-fated Shamrock Hotel (1946-1986) razed after only 40. Other buildings don’t last even that long, falling fast to the impact of the wrecking ball.

Dallas, San Antonio, and Austin have all held on to their Majestics, refurbishing them into performing arts centers. Efforts made to raise public interest, find sponsors, and much-needed funds, effectively make a losing proposition a profitable one. Houston missed the boat on this account. Yet with the current revitalization of the downtown area, and conversion of previously vacant buildings into private lofts, the prospect of such a restored performance center could have been quite feasible. The downtown theatres originally died off because of the push towards suburbia. Now the district is rediscovering itself, but sadly, none of the original showplaces stand for restoration. More’s the pity.

Likewise, the original suburban theatres, which lured patrons from the downtown area, have also faced extinction. These were never the palaces of the grand scale as their predecessors. Instead, they offered what is now considered to be the stereotypical theatre design, rich in art deco, and exteriors of bold neon.

Of this period, from roughly the thirties through the fifties, only the River Oaks has survived intact and active. Some others still stand, either gutted and serving other functions, or closed and abandoned. The rest are gone.

Taking the place of these theatres are the multi-cinemas and megaplexes, which have grown to as many as thirty screens. After a long period of “matchbox” theatres, the spectacle is slowly working its way back into the buildings themselves. Stadium seating, the reappearance of large-scale auditoriums (and large-scale lobbies), and food bars are all part of the redefining of the modern cinema.

Still, even the most expansive of these new cinemas can’t hold a candle to the palaces of the twenties. Nowadays, it would quite simply cost too much to build. No more Greek statues, mezzanines filled with fine antique furniture, or Egyptian temple interiors. All this was of a different time when movies were magic, along with the places that showed them — palaces of light that did not stand the test of time.

But a wealth of photographs do survive. It is these photographs, along with a wide variety of documentation, that is the heart and soul of this book. For those too young to have never known the Metropolitan, Loew’s State, or the Majestic, this is as close as we we'll ever get to experience their grandeur. Going to the movies was meant to be a spectacle, both on the screen and around us. It was meant to be larger than life. It was meant to be remembered.

Here, then, is a celebration of what once was and will never be again, to an age when going to the movies was a magical experience. If you look hard enough, you may very well find that the photographs here still contain that magic

Sit back, enjoy, and don’t forget the popcorn.

©2006 David Welling