Among stage shows at the Capitol, one that I most remember featured Skitch Henderson. The film was “Every Girl Should Be Married” with Cary Grant, so it must have been in January ‘49. It came to mind the other day when I heard an NPR interview with Henderson commemorating Johnny Carson. (I had no idea that the young Henderson had studied with Arnold Schoenberg and played Mahler with Toscanini!) His performance at the Capitol combined jazzy piano playing and big-band conducting. I also recall being bored by a male commedian who told off-color jokes that I didn’t understand, but which the grown-ups laughed wickedly at. Perhaps the Capitol tried to court a mature audience.
A yet earlier memory of Capitol sophistication was the opening of “Duel in the Sun” there, a much bally-hooed event for which the theater had suspended its stage show policy. We waited on a long line, and upon reaching the box office were denied admission because I was deemed under-age for the adult presentation (June ‘47, I was five). My mom complained loudly, waving her friend’s employee pass and claiming to be part of management (she wasn’t), and then faulted the theater for dropping its stage show when we could have seen the same film at the Alpine in Brooklyn with much less trouble. From scouring old newspapers, I later learned that “Duel in the Sun” had indeed opened in NYC in a saturated booking, playing simultaneously at the Capitol, Metropolitan, and Loew’s nabes (including the Alpine), no doubt because Selznick had concluded that the film might flop and that it would be best to rush it out quick and greedy. Was it worth dropping the live stage show for a celluloid Jennifer Jones?
What a terrific theater! Though long and narrow, it has a graceful rake, and seats are spaced for comfort, leg-room, and staggered viewing. The deep-red tapestried walls lead to a proscenium framed by an Egyprtian entablature. The nicely proportioned screen with perfect masking supports crisp wide-screen projection and a resonant sound system, though I imagine that, because of the narrow opening, the screen’s height would be drastically shortened for CinemaScope films. The most stylish decorative feature is the art-deco sculptural design of its side lights, each sustaining three curved bays lit alternately in red-green-red reflected light. The lobby sports a grand old 35mm projector. As a visitor to town last weekend, I saw the new Iranian comedy, “The Lizard,” played to a moderately full and enthusiastic house. Its sophisticated weekly programming, announced months in advance, concentrates on world cinema, old and new, with some Hollywood classic revivals. Good job!
Warren- Thanks for the terrific account of the Capitol’s last days of stage shows. I remember them (those days and some of the shows) well. A family friend worked in the Loew’s office (at Loew’s State) and provided my parents with full passes for the Capitol. I would have thought that seven week of “Quo Vadis” had met b.o. expectations. I remember seeing it there early in its run, at a packed house. I also remember that it left without much warning— the newspapers suddenly announced that “Westward the Women” would open the next day, New Year’s Eve, and that the Astor would shift its policy from two-a-day Reserved Seats to continuous showings — I imagined that the decision had as much to do with the Astor looking to fill seats as much as it had to do with the Capitol wanting to feature a new show on the lucrative New Year’s holiday.
Theaterat— when you walk though that directionless funhouse today, do you find they’ve dropped a new ceiling to cover the multiplexes? The original height was several stories.
Theaterat: Sorry to hear about your walk through the funhouse. One advantage to having a regular rear-row right-aisle seat by dint of reaching the Children’s Section before anyone else (as I wrote on 3 Feb.) is that, in case of emergency, family members would know where to find you. In Spring ’54, “Julius Caesar†finally played at the Alpine. I had seen it the previous summer during its reserved-seat run at the Booth, from which it had moved on to continuous showings at the Plaza for the rest of the year. On the Saturday morning of its stint at the Alpine, I set out as usual, pencil behind ear, to re-view that MGM triumph. It was a fine Spring day, and my aunt decided that it seemed a shame for a twelve-year-old boy to be cooped up indoors with a Shakespearean film. So she summoned my cousin and with him headed toward the theater, where they persuaded the ticket-taker to allow them inside to retrieve me. Alas, my cousin knew exactly where to look, and he and his mom bribed me away by proffering a trip to Coney Island. All this occurred during the premonitory storm sequence in act 2, scene 2, so I never got to see the actual assassination a second time. The big attraction at Coney Island that season was an enormous blue whale named “Miss Hispaniola.†It had washed up on the Maine shore, had died, and was then embalmed and shipped to NY for public viewing. As I gazed upon its rotting flesh, all I could think was that by now Marlon Brando had reached the plains of Philippi and was pursuing Brutus and Cassius to the death. By the end of the day, however, I would experience my first ride on the Cyclone, having reached the age of twelve and the requisite height for admission. At the top of the chute, I thought fractionally of the storm scene in act 2. O Julius Caesar, thou art mighty yet!
One story might concern “No Down Payment,” with Bette Davis, which opened at RCMH on 15 Feb. ‘51. The film had been made much earlier and then shelved, but upon the success of “All About Eve” was hastily released, though with a new ending that RKO finished on the eve of opening day. The new final reel was reportedly still in flight from LA when the projectionist had started the first screening on W 50 Street, and it arrived in the booth just minutes before it was due on the screen.
Unless you worked at Loew’s Alpine, I doubt whether you could have spent more time there than I did in the late ‘40s and early ‘50s. My parents got a huge bang out of going to the movies, and they took me a lot, frequently to B’way first-runs. But the Alpine was our neighborhood house of choice, since it showed the great MGM, Paramount, and Columbia films that seemed superior to any RKO, 20C-Fox, and Warners fare at the rival RKO Dyker. I won’t rehearse the scores of films I remember seeing with them as a tiny kid.
When I reached the age of nine in Spring ’51, I was allowed to go to the movies by myself, and at that point I became a screen-crazed addict. The first solo film I saw there was “Father’s Little Dividend,†and I went back almost weekly after that. Even when I had already seen a film at the Capitol or RCMH, I’d revisit it at the Alpine (“Quo Vadis?†“Ivanhoeâ€). By Summer ’52, I made sure to arrive at the head of the box office line for the first show (“The Quiet Man,†“High Noonâ€), and then I’d race to the Children’s Section for the rear-row right-aisle seat, which had an unobstructed view of the screen owing to the curve of the aisle and the angle of the seat. I did that nearly every Saturday during the school year (except when the Dyker offered a film that grabbed my attention, such as a Disney live-actioner or the occasional Doris Day romp). During summer and holiday vacations (“The African Queen,†“The Prisoner of Zendaâ€), I switched my shift to Wednesdays when the new programs opened. Children under twelve paid thirty cents.
By Fall ’53, I began to complain that other kids were a noisy distraction, so I decided to attend noteworthy films after school in an emptier house, usually on Friday (the main feature started conveniently around 3:20 pm, but I’d skip the co-feature to arrive home before supper: “The Blackboard Jungle,†The Desperate Hoursâ€). In the eighth grade, I fell in with a bunch of tough kids and would occasionally go with them to the Alpine on Sundays (though I still reserved serious films for private showings: “The Rose Tattoo,†“Picnicâ€). Often we would evade the matron in the Children’s Section (after all, we’d paid the adult price of sixty cents) and head off to the opposite side for the Smoking Section, where we’d puff on Lucky Strikes or Kool cigarettes. I can still taste tobacco when I think of Martin and Lewis in “Three Ring Circus†and “Artists and Models.â€
That all ended when I reached high school in ’56 and hung out with a bunch of like-minded cinephiliacs. On Saturdays, we’d take the subway to B’way first-runs which cost ninety cents before noon, or else we’d go to MoMA or to assorted revival or foreign films shown around town (“The Lady Vanishes,†“Rififi,†“The Seven Samuraiâ€) and eventually to live theater (day-of-perf. standing-room mat. $1.50) and music (Met Opera family-circle standing-room $1.25). I financed these expeditions by turning my thirty-cent school-lunch money into subway tokens and movie tickets. Like most addicts, I grew very pale and certainly very thin. For many years afterward, I hardly went to the Alpine (though I recall standing on line there for “Psycho†when they denied admission after the feature had begunâ€"a gimmick associated with this film’s release in Summer ‘60). Certainly appropriate, the last film I saw at that theater was “Midnight Cowboy†in Fall ‘69.
A note seconding Vito’s comment that the Paramount’s VistaVision looked better than RCMH’s. I recall that when seeing “White Christmas” with my parents, we arrived late at the end of the morning show and took the last available seats in front row left, just next to the organ. The slanted perspective was grotesque, of course, but I remember wondering what all the fuss about sharpness and clarity meant, since the picture seemed just a picture. After the stage show, we moved back to the center auditorium to see the film from start to finish. Its sharpness and clarity appeared merely ordinary. Later I saw “Funny Face” and “North by Northwest” there (the latter from the third balcony, smoking cigarettes), and could say the same thing about the presentation.
RCMH’s screen was flat, and the size of the place dwarfed all critical proportion. And Stereo sound effects, if any, were lost completely (I believe that RCMH didn’t have true stereo until the ‘70s, no?). The Paramount’s magnificent curved screen certainly enhanced its presentation. In some theaters, such a screen covering the entire proscenium invited an awful shutter flicker that had a negative effect. (This was true especially at the Astor.) But at the Paramount, the VistaVision projection lived up to its reputation, and the Stereo sound reverberated as true stereo. I saw “The Man Who Knew Too Much” and perhaps a few others there. VistaVision at the Capitol (“Vertigo”) and the Criterion (“The Ten Commandments”) seemed wholly unexceptional.
Warren— Last July you provided a link to photos from the opening in ‘36 — your post deserves repetition:
Some good photos of the Criterion and a history of the B.S. Moss family can be found at www.bowtiepartners.com I thank Barry S. Goodkin for bringing this to my attention.
posted by Warren on Jul 20, 2004 at 10:04am
Benjamin— You were an active theater-goer in ’61, the year most of those plays opened (perhaps I foisted a Playbill questionnaire upon you at one time?). For standee prices, the years I referred to were ‘56-’64, when I patrolled the terrain on active duty (so-to-speak). And during this time, expenses remained agreeably constant. I would think of the estimates you cite as those at neighborhood movie houses.
Variety lists the following scale [the first figure represents morning or matinee prices; the second, evening prices] for first-run houses in Dec. ’56: the Roxy, $1.25-$2.50 for “Anastasia†with stage show; the Astor, $.75-$2.00 for “The Mountainâ€; the Rivoli, $1.25-$3.50 for “Around the World etc.†roadshow. In Dec. ‘60 prices held steady: RCMH, $.90-$2.75 for “The Sundowners†(the Roxy had closed the previous Spring; prices for “Li’l Abner,†its final Christmas show, were $.90-$2.50); at the Astor, $.75-$2.00 for “Inherit the Windâ€; at the Rivoli, $1.50-$3.50 for “The Alamo†roadshow. In Dec. ’64 tickets went for $.95-$2.75 at RCMH for “Charadeâ€; $1.25-$2.00 at the Astor for “Lillies of the Fieldâ€; and $2.50-$5.50 at the Rivoli for “Cleopatra†roadshow. I could be mistaken, but I remember standee prices as likewise stable (my tight, tight budget made me acutely aware of these costs).
I know of no public or parochial schools that made live theater so lavishly available to young students. That proved wonderful for you! And I know of no special deals for school-groups at the Roxy or elsewhere. I do recall that some Catholic elementary schools arranged upper-grade outings (at regular prices paid by interested students) to Christmas and Easter shows at RCMH. I also recall that at RCMH, regardless of the season, you’d always see habit-clad nuns attending morning performances; because of their obstructive wimples, they sat self-effacingly in the rear orchestra rows. Perhaps the Chancery at nearby St. Patrick’s had struck a deal for clergy prices (doable as long as the picture got a General Patronage nod from the Legion of Decency, no?). “El Cid†opened at the Warner on 14 Dec. ’61. James McCourt writes of standees celebrating the Roxy in “Mawrdew Czgowchwz†(first ed., p. 23; 2nd ed., p. 17). I lack the grace of commitment.
Warren— whew! that’s quite a tale of the thuggish ‘30s. I remember the '37-'59 decor of the Astor as being curtained-over with pale blue draperies. The entire proscenium was covered by them, and they extended over the tapered area where box-seats had been (the boxes had been removed). There are photos of the pre-'37 Astor in Nicholas von Hoogstraden’s book about theater architecture, no? The wide screen that the Astor installed in '53 was much too big for the theater— so big that an annoying shutter flicker spoiled every film I saw there from then until “On the Beach.” (A few weeks ago I vowed not to name films on this page, but now that I’ve broken my own rule I’ll mention Rita Hayworth in “Separate Tables” and Katherine Hepburn in “The Rainmaker."among thosepresentations.) Thanks for this incursion into the Astor’s history.
At my age, perhaps martinis and some supper at the Brass Rail, or maybe a nightcap there, would complete the fantasy. It would sure beat the dietary austerity we submit to.
Vincent— thanks for confirming my hunch that the mezzanine cutout ,was eliminated (along with other fine features in that theater) in ‘55. Speaking as one who nearly killed himself at an early age by falling through the Rivoli’s oval, I find that reassuring. And yes, the terrific billboard on 7 Avenue was magnificent, even though it was not studded with blinking lights as were those of the Astor, Victoria, and Mayfair. The sign for “Cleopatra” did create such a controversy( the things we New Yorkers got heated up about in '63!), , but the sign I remember most was for “Salome” a decade earlier. Disney’s “Peter Pan” was playing at the Roxy in Feb '53, and I stood on line with parents and a bunch of kids for the 10 am show on Lincoln’s Birthday. Workers were putting up the sign for “Salome”, and I watched them closely as bit by bit a ravishing Rita Hayworth came to life. Next to the Brass Rail Restauraant obetween 49-50 Streets stood one of a chain of restaurants that specialized in omlettes named after American states (The Floridian?). From the second-floor overflow section of that restaurant, you had a dead-on view of theRivili’s billboard. Hayworth’s legs and specialty eggs!
Benjamin— Yes, Hagstrom’s old Theater District map is fun to look at. Besides the peculiar rendition of the Paramount (whose stage wall abutted W 44 Street), there’s another of Loew’s State (whose stage wall abutted W 46 Street, and whose ticket lobby occupied only a small space on B'way). The Victoria and the City Center likewise get improbable cut-outs. And the Mayfair (aka DeMille or Embassy 2,3,4 on this site) had only a small lobby on 7 Avenue. The Blackfriars' gets a box within the Hearst building, necessarily because that theater was constructed inside the building (as do nightclubs within hotel buildings: who’d want to forget the Plantation Room at the Hotel Dixie?). Some (but not all)Fifth Avenue stores are marked: de Pinna; Scribner’s; Black, Star, & Gorham. Oddly, Florsheim Shoes gets included in that august company.
Ian Judge is correct. A mezzanie floor (not a seating area in the auditorium, but “mezzanine” in the technical sense of a low story between two other stories of greater height) was nestled above the Rivoli’s lobby inside its balcony overhang. And yes, an oval cutaway opened upon a portion of the rear orchestra below. I believe the theater might have covered it up during renovations upon installing Todd-AO in 1955, likely because noise from the area above could annoy the high-ticket patrons below. At least, I don’t remember the oval from later visits to the Rivoli (the last film I saw there as “Compulsion” in ‘59). I do vividly remember it from earlier visits, notably upon seeing “Samson and Delilah” there in Dec. '49. After sitting through the film twice (entranced, especially at the expanded Cycloramic screen in its final sequence; when seeing films at first-run palaces, my parents would in any case stay on for a second showing on grounds of having paid double the neighborhood price and getting no second-feature with it), we left our seats and my elders retired to rest rooms on the mezzanine. I remained outside those facilities and hung over the oval’s railing in an effort to glimpse the start of the new performance. At the age of seven, I later wondered whether the audience below could hear me get bawled out for taking on such a stupid trick.
Who would want to call a theater “the IFC Center”? Six syllables make for so much wasted breath. For me, “the IND Eighth-Avenue to Jamaica” is so much more descriptive and accurate than “E.” With subways, I’d expend any number of syllables in order to know exactly where I’m going.
Yes— red corpuscles and all! Benjamin has mentioned Carol Krinsky’s 1978 book on “Rockefeller Center,” which I’ve just examined. The composite photo on p. 175 (recalled from a 50 Street display case) is an at least double composite, with Rockettes superimposed upon a crowded stage superimposed upon an open proscenium. Writing on the eve of the theater’s change of policy, K refers to “giantism” as “the fatal flaw of the RCMH” (p. 180) and speculates about its future as “some sort of multi-purpose structure, or even a department store” (p. 183) (!).
For me, the most interesting visual in K’s book is the theater’s full floor plan and section cut on p. 169, showing the rake below street-level and the various scene docks and stage assembly rooms. What I had never encountered before is the small protruding room at the rear of the stage, elevated to mezzaine level and extending into the Associated Press Building behind RCMH. It appears to be labeled “projection room” (?) and was used for rear-screen projection?
Warren — thanks for the recall of “The Tender Years” with Joe E. Brown, likely the reason my dad agreed to forego the Coney Island rides to see a movie with that comic actor. I remember that the coming attraction at the Tilyou was for “The Woman in White,” based on Wilkie Collins’s novel, an apparently overheated film that would have appealed to my toddling sensibilities. When it came to our local RKO nabe the following week, we didn’t see it, much to my disappointment.
Benjamin: Your description of Krinsky’s photo seems weirdly familiar, and I’ll check it out on Monday. The most familiar photo of the Rockettes in full proscenium is Herbert Gehr’s, taken for Life Magazine in ’42 and reprinted in Charles Francisco’s “The RCMH.†The set depicts a WWII aircraft carrier, on whose deck the full-thirty-six kick up a storm in sailor-suits. (I have memories of this routine from my first visit to RCMH in Sept ’45 to see “Our Vines Have Tender Grapes†at the age of three, but that would take paragraphs to explain and verify geometrically.)
RCMH devoted one display case to “Camera Highlights of the Current Stage Show.†It was located among the front doors, second case from right on the 6 Ave side. (Francisco’s book provides a picture of it in the first color photo insert, third page verso.) If you went to the opening Thursday of a new production, that case would be bare: the pictures were likely taken during the early-morning dress rehearsal and were evidently still in the developing room when the first show let out at 1:15 pm. Unlike the other display cases that exhibited pictures only in b&w, this one offered color.
On 16 Jan. you mentioned the scene in “The Godfather I†shot in the lobby as Pacino and Keaton exit from the Christmas show of ’45. The film was “The Bells of St. Mary’s†(I saw that there too then, but it would take paragraphs to… my strongest memory of it has my grandfather laying a few bucks in the hand of an usher who then smuggled us inside through the 51 Street doors; whoever said the entire white-gloved platoon was incorruptible?). Coppola got the display cases right with their b&w stills of Crosby and Bergman. That’s exactly the format followed in those years, as those of us who stood on long lines around the block remember. About the marquee light bulbs, I know nothing, but a glance at the DVD might help answer the question.
If your dad didn’t take the tip money, my grandad likely slipped it into your dad’s pocket when unawares—he did things like that. And the Tilyou: yes, that theater caught my eye at The Oyland, too. Once on an outing there with my parents, I drove them crazy about going to see a movie at the Tilyou instead of wasting time on the Whip and the Loop-the-Loop. I remember we saw “The Iron Curtain” there, so it must have been Summer in the same ‘48.
“Show Boat” with Helen Morgan at the Capitol! And before the film version of ‘36 (which opened at RCMH). I guess the Capitol did court sophistication.
Among stage shows at the Capitol, one that I most remember featured Skitch Henderson. The film was “Every Girl Should Be Married” with Cary Grant, so it must have been in January ‘49. It came to mind the other day when I heard an NPR interview with Henderson commemorating Johnny Carson. (I had no idea that the young Henderson had studied with Arnold Schoenberg and played Mahler with Toscanini!) His performance at the Capitol combined jazzy piano playing and big-band conducting. I also recall being bored by a male commedian who told off-color jokes that I didn’t understand, but which the grown-ups laughed wickedly at. Perhaps the Capitol tried to court a mature audience.
A yet earlier memory of Capitol sophistication was the opening of “Duel in the Sun” there, a much bally-hooed event for which the theater had suspended its stage show policy. We waited on a long line, and upon reaching the box office were denied admission because I was deemed under-age for the adult presentation (June ‘47, I was five). My mom complained loudly, waving her friend’s employee pass and claiming to be part of management (she wasn’t), and then faulted the theater for dropping its stage show when we could have seen the same film at the Alpine in Brooklyn with much less trouble. From scouring old newspapers, I later learned that “Duel in the Sun” had indeed opened in NYC in a saturated booking, playing simultaneously at the Capitol, Metropolitan, and Loew’s nabes (including the Alpine), no doubt because Selznick had concluded that the film might flop and that it would be best to rush it out quick and greedy. Was it worth dropping the live stage show for a celluloid Jennifer Jones?
What a terrific theater! Though long and narrow, it has a graceful rake, and seats are spaced for comfort, leg-room, and staggered viewing. The deep-red tapestried walls lead to a proscenium framed by an Egyprtian entablature. The nicely proportioned screen with perfect masking supports crisp wide-screen projection and a resonant sound system, though I imagine that, because of the narrow opening, the screen’s height would be drastically shortened for CinemaScope films. The most stylish decorative feature is the art-deco sculptural design of its side lights, each sustaining three curved bays lit alternately in red-green-red reflected light. The lobby sports a grand old 35mm projector. As a visitor to town last weekend, I saw the new Iranian comedy, “The Lizard,” played to a moderately full and enthusiastic house. Its sophisticated weekly programming, announced months in advance, concentrates on world cinema, old and new, with some Hollywood classic revivals. Good job!
Warren- Thanks for the terrific account of the Capitol’s last days of stage shows. I remember them (those days and some of the shows) well. A family friend worked in the Loew’s office (at Loew’s State) and provided my parents with full passes for the Capitol. I would have thought that seven week of “Quo Vadis” had met b.o. expectations. I remember seeing it there early in its run, at a packed house. I also remember that it left without much warning— the newspapers suddenly announced that “Westward the Women” would open the next day, New Year’s Eve, and that the Astor would shift its policy from two-a-day Reserved Seats to continuous showings — I imagined that the decision had as much to do with the Astor looking to fill seats as much as it had to do with the Capitol wanting to feature a new show on the lucrative New Year’s holiday.
Thanks, Gerald, for information about those bookings at the Cinema Barberini (and Metropolitan) — do you have other titles to share?
Right— “On Demand,” not “No Down”— sorry for the slip. The date is accurate. Is the story about the projection booth true?
Theaterat— when you walk though that directionless funhouse today, do you find they’ve dropped a new ceiling to cover the multiplexes? The original height was several stories.
Theaterat: Sorry to hear about your walk through the funhouse. One advantage to having a regular rear-row right-aisle seat by dint of reaching the Children’s Section before anyone else (as I wrote on 3 Feb.) is that, in case of emergency, family members would know where to find you. In Spring ’54, “Julius Caesar†finally played at the Alpine. I had seen it the previous summer during its reserved-seat run at the Booth, from which it had moved on to continuous showings at the Plaza for the rest of the year. On the Saturday morning of its stint at the Alpine, I set out as usual, pencil behind ear, to re-view that MGM triumph. It was a fine Spring day, and my aunt decided that it seemed a shame for a twelve-year-old boy to be cooped up indoors with a Shakespearean film. So she summoned my cousin and with him headed toward the theater, where they persuaded the ticket-taker to allow them inside to retrieve me. Alas, my cousin knew exactly where to look, and he and his mom bribed me away by proffering a trip to Coney Island. All this occurred during the premonitory storm sequence in act 2, scene 2, so I never got to see the actual assassination a second time. The big attraction at Coney Island that season was an enormous blue whale named “Miss Hispaniola.†It had washed up on the Maine shore, had died, and was then embalmed and shipped to NY for public viewing. As I gazed upon its rotting flesh, all I could think was that by now Marlon Brando had reached the plains of Philippi and was pursuing Brutus and Cassius to the death. By the end of the day, however, I would experience my first ride on the Cyclone, having reached the age of twelve and the requisite height for admission. At the top of the chute, I thought fractionally of the storm scene in act 2. O Julius Caesar, thou art mighty yet!
One story might concern “No Down Payment,” with Bette Davis, which opened at RCMH on 15 Feb. ‘51. The film had been made much earlier and then shelved, but upon the success of “All About Eve” was hastily released, though with a new ending that RKO finished on the eve of opening day. The new final reel was reportedly still in flight from LA when the projectionist had started the first screening on W 50 Street, and it arrived in the booth just minutes before it was due on the screen.
Unless you worked at Loew’s Alpine, I doubt whether you could have spent more time there than I did in the late ‘40s and early ‘50s. My parents got a huge bang out of going to the movies, and they took me a lot, frequently to B’way first-runs. But the Alpine was our neighborhood house of choice, since it showed the great MGM, Paramount, and Columbia films that seemed superior to any RKO, 20C-Fox, and Warners fare at the rival RKO Dyker. I won’t rehearse the scores of films I remember seeing with them as a tiny kid.
When I reached the age of nine in Spring ’51, I was allowed to go to the movies by myself, and at that point I became a screen-crazed addict. The first solo film I saw there was “Father’s Little Dividend,†and I went back almost weekly after that. Even when I had already seen a film at the Capitol or RCMH, I’d revisit it at the Alpine (“Quo Vadis?†“Ivanhoeâ€). By Summer ’52, I made sure to arrive at the head of the box office line for the first show (“The Quiet Man,†“High Noonâ€), and then I’d race to the Children’s Section for the rear-row right-aisle seat, which had an unobstructed view of the screen owing to the curve of the aisle and the angle of the seat. I did that nearly every Saturday during the school year (except when the Dyker offered a film that grabbed my attention, such as a Disney live-actioner or the occasional Doris Day romp). During summer and holiday vacations (“The African Queen,†“The Prisoner of Zendaâ€), I switched my shift to Wednesdays when the new programs opened. Children under twelve paid thirty cents.
By Fall ’53, I began to complain that other kids were a noisy distraction, so I decided to attend noteworthy films after school in an emptier house, usually on Friday (the main feature started conveniently around 3:20 pm, but I’d skip the co-feature to arrive home before supper: “The Blackboard Jungle,†The Desperate Hoursâ€). In the eighth grade, I fell in with a bunch of tough kids and would occasionally go with them to the Alpine on Sundays (though I still reserved serious films for private showings: “The Rose Tattoo,†“Picnicâ€). Often we would evade the matron in the Children’s Section (after all, we’d paid the adult price of sixty cents) and head off to the opposite side for the Smoking Section, where we’d puff on Lucky Strikes or Kool cigarettes. I can still taste tobacco when I think of Martin and Lewis in “Three Ring Circus†and “Artists and Models.â€
That all ended when I reached high school in ’56 and hung out with a bunch of like-minded cinephiliacs. On Saturdays, we’d take the subway to B’way first-runs which cost ninety cents before noon, or else we’d go to MoMA or to assorted revival or foreign films shown around town (“The Lady Vanishes,†“Rififi,†“The Seven Samuraiâ€) and eventually to live theater (day-of-perf. standing-room mat. $1.50) and music (Met Opera family-circle standing-room $1.25). I financed these expeditions by turning my thirty-cent school-lunch money into subway tokens and movie tickets. Like most addicts, I grew very pale and certainly very thin. For many years afterward, I hardly went to the Alpine (though I recall standing on line there for “Psycho†when they denied admission after the feature had begunâ€"a gimmick associated with this film’s release in Summer ‘60). Certainly appropriate, the last film I saw at that theater was “Midnight Cowboy†in Fall ‘69.
A note seconding Vito’s comment that the Paramount’s VistaVision looked better than RCMH’s. I recall that when seeing “White Christmas” with my parents, we arrived late at the end of the morning show and took the last available seats in front row left, just next to the organ. The slanted perspective was grotesque, of course, but I remember wondering what all the fuss about sharpness and clarity meant, since the picture seemed just a picture. After the stage show, we moved back to the center auditorium to see the film from start to finish. Its sharpness and clarity appeared merely ordinary. Later I saw “Funny Face” and “North by Northwest” there (the latter from the third balcony, smoking cigarettes), and could say the same thing about the presentation.
RCMH’s screen was flat, and the size of the place dwarfed all critical proportion. And Stereo sound effects, if any, were lost completely (I believe that RCMH didn’t have true stereo until the ‘70s, no?). The Paramount’s magnificent curved screen certainly enhanced its presentation. In some theaters, such a screen covering the entire proscenium invited an awful shutter flicker that had a negative effect. (This was true especially at the Astor.) But at the Paramount, the VistaVision projection lived up to its reputation, and the Stereo sound reverberated as true stereo. I saw “The Man Who Knew Too Much” and perhaps a few others there. VistaVision at the Capitol (“Vertigo”) and the Criterion (“The Ten Commandments”) seemed wholly unexceptional.
Warren— Last July you provided a link to photos from the opening in ‘36 — your post deserves repetition:
Some good photos of the Criterion and a history of the B.S. Moss family can be found at www.bowtiepartners.com I thank Barry S. Goodkin for bringing this to my attention.
posted by Warren on Jul 20, 2004 at 10:04am
Benjamin— You were an active theater-goer in ’61, the year most of those plays opened (perhaps I foisted a Playbill questionnaire upon you at one time?). For standee prices, the years I referred to were ‘56-’64, when I patrolled the terrain on active duty (so-to-speak). And during this time, expenses remained agreeably constant. I would think of the estimates you cite as those at neighborhood movie houses.
Variety lists the following scale [the first figure represents morning or matinee prices; the second, evening prices] for first-run houses in Dec. ’56: the Roxy, $1.25-$2.50 for “Anastasia†with stage show; the Astor, $.75-$2.00 for “The Mountainâ€; the Rivoli, $1.25-$3.50 for “Around the World etc.†roadshow. In Dec. ‘60 prices held steady: RCMH, $.90-$2.75 for “The Sundowners†(the Roxy had closed the previous Spring; prices for “Li’l Abner,†its final Christmas show, were $.90-$2.50); at the Astor, $.75-$2.00 for “Inherit the Windâ€; at the Rivoli, $1.50-$3.50 for “The Alamo†roadshow. In Dec. ’64 tickets went for $.95-$2.75 at RCMH for “Charadeâ€; $1.25-$2.00 at the Astor for “Lillies of the Fieldâ€; and $2.50-$5.50 at the Rivoli for “Cleopatra†roadshow. I could be mistaken, but I remember standee prices as likewise stable (my tight, tight budget made me acutely aware of these costs).
I know of no public or parochial schools that made live theater so lavishly available to young students. That proved wonderful for you! And I know of no special deals for school-groups at the Roxy or elsewhere. I do recall that some Catholic elementary schools arranged upper-grade outings (at regular prices paid by interested students) to Christmas and Easter shows at RCMH. I also recall that at RCMH, regardless of the season, you’d always see habit-clad nuns attending morning performances; because of their obstructive wimples, they sat self-effacingly in the rear orchestra rows. Perhaps the Chancery at nearby St. Patrick’s had struck a deal for clergy prices (doable as long as the picture got a General Patronage nod from the Legion of Decency, no?). “El Cid†opened at the Warner on 14 Dec. ’61. James McCourt writes of standees celebrating the Roxy in “Mawrdew Czgowchwz†(first ed., p. 23; 2nd ed., p. 17). I lack the grace of commitment.
Warren— whew! that’s quite a tale of the thuggish ‘30s. I remember the '37-'59 decor of the Astor as being curtained-over with pale blue draperies. The entire proscenium was covered by them, and they extended over the tapered area where box-seats had been (the boxes had been removed). There are photos of the pre-'37 Astor in Nicholas von Hoogstraden’s book about theater architecture, no? The wide screen that the Astor installed in '53 was much too big for the theater— so big that an annoying shutter flicker spoiled every film I saw there from then until “On the Beach.” (A few weeks ago I vowed not to name films on this page, but now that I’ve broken my own rule I’ll mention Rita Hayworth in “Separate Tables” and Katherine Hepburn in “The Rainmaker."among thosepresentations.) Thanks for this incursion into the Astor’s history.
At my age, perhaps martinis and some supper at the Brass Rail, or maybe a nightcap there, would complete the fantasy. It would sure beat the dietary austerity we submit to.
Vincent— thanks for confirming my hunch that the mezzanine cutout ,was eliminated (along with other fine features in that theater) in ‘55. Speaking as one who nearly killed himself at an early age by falling through the Rivoli’s oval, I find that reassuring. And yes, the terrific billboard on 7 Avenue was magnificent, even though it was not studded with blinking lights as were those of the Astor, Victoria, and Mayfair. The sign for “Cleopatra” did create such a controversy( the things we New Yorkers got heated up about in '63!), , but the sign I remember most was for “Salome” a decade earlier. Disney’s “Peter Pan” was playing at the Roxy in Feb '53, and I stood on line with parents and a bunch of kids for the 10 am show on Lincoln’s Birthday. Workers were putting up the sign for “Salome”, and I watched them closely as bit by bit a ravishing Rita Hayworth came to life. Next to the Brass Rail Restauraant obetween 49-50 Streets stood one of a chain of restaurants that specialized in omlettes named after American states (The Floridian?). From the second-floor overflow section of that restaurant, you had a dead-on view of theRivili’s billboard. Hayworth’s legs and specialty eggs!
Benjamin— Yes, Hagstrom’s old Theater District map is fun to look at. Besides the peculiar rendition of the Paramount (whose stage wall abutted W 44 Street), there’s another of Loew’s State (whose stage wall abutted W 46 Street, and whose ticket lobby occupied only a small space on B'way). The Victoria and the City Center likewise get improbable cut-outs. And the Mayfair (aka DeMille or Embassy 2,3,4 on this site) had only a small lobby on 7 Avenue. The Blackfriars' gets a box within the Hearst building, necessarily because that theater was constructed inside the building (as do nightclubs within hotel buildings: who’d want to forget the Plantation Room at the Hotel Dixie?). Some (but not all)Fifth Avenue stores are marked: de Pinna; Scribner’s; Black, Star, & Gorham. Oddly, Florsheim Shoes gets included in that august company.
yes— that’s the correct term — thanks, Warren
Ian Judge is correct. A mezzanie floor (not a seating area in the auditorium, but “mezzanine” in the technical sense of a low story between two other stories of greater height) was nestled above the Rivoli’s lobby inside its balcony overhang. And yes, an oval cutaway opened upon a portion of the rear orchestra below. I believe the theater might have covered it up during renovations upon installing Todd-AO in 1955, likely because noise from the area above could annoy the high-ticket patrons below. At least, I don’t remember the oval from later visits to the Rivoli (the last film I saw there as “Compulsion” in ‘59). I do vividly remember it from earlier visits, notably upon seeing “Samson and Delilah” there in Dec. '49. After sitting through the film twice (entranced, especially at the expanded Cycloramic screen in its final sequence; when seeing films at first-run palaces, my parents would in any case stay on for a second showing on grounds of having paid double the neighborhood price and getting no second-feature with it), we left our seats and my elders retired to rest rooms on the mezzanine. I remained outside those facilities and hung over the oval’s railing in an effort to glimpse the start of the new performance. At the age of seven, I later wondered whether the audience below could hear me get bawled out for taking on such a stupid trick.
Who would want to call a theater “the IFC Center”? Six syllables make for so much wasted breath. For me, “the IND Eighth-Avenue to Jamaica” is so much more descriptive and accurate than “E.” With subways, I’d expend any number of syllables in order to know exactly where I’m going.
Yes— red corpuscles and all! Benjamin has mentioned Carol Krinsky’s 1978 book on “Rockefeller Center,” which I’ve just examined. The composite photo on p. 175 (recalled from a 50 Street display case) is an at least double composite, with Rockettes superimposed upon a crowded stage superimposed upon an open proscenium. Writing on the eve of the theater’s change of policy, K refers to “giantism” as “the fatal flaw of the RCMH” (p. 180) and speculates about its future as “some sort of multi-purpose structure, or even a department store” (p. 183) (!).
For me, the most interesting visual in K’s book is the theater’s full floor plan and section cut on p. 169, showing the rake below street-level and the various scene docks and stage assembly rooms. What I had never encountered before is the small protruding room at the rear of the stage, elevated to mezzaine level and extending into the Associated Press Building behind RCMH. It appears to be labeled “projection room” (?) and was used for rear-screen projection?
Right— The coming attractions were always a great part of the show.
Warren — thanks for the recall of “The Tender Years” with Joe E. Brown, likely the reason my dad agreed to forego the Coney Island rides to see a movie with that comic actor. I remember that the coming attraction at the Tilyou was for “The Woman in White,” based on Wilkie Collins’s novel, an apparently overheated film that would have appealed to my toddling sensibilities. When it came to our local RKO nabe the following week, we didn’t see it, much to my disappointment.
Benjamin: Your description of Krinsky’s photo seems weirdly familiar, and I’ll check it out on Monday. The most familiar photo of the Rockettes in full proscenium is Herbert Gehr’s, taken for Life Magazine in ’42 and reprinted in Charles Francisco’s “The RCMH.†The set depicts a WWII aircraft carrier, on whose deck the full-thirty-six kick up a storm in sailor-suits. (I have memories of this routine from my first visit to RCMH in Sept ’45 to see “Our Vines Have Tender Grapes†at the age of three, but that would take paragraphs to explain and verify geometrically.)
RCMH devoted one display case to “Camera Highlights of the Current Stage Show.†It was located among the front doors, second case from right on the 6 Ave side. (Francisco’s book provides a picture of it in the first color photo insert, third page verso.) If you went to the opening Thursday of a new production, that case would be bare: the pictures were likely taken during the early-morning dress rehearsal and were evidently still in the developing room when the first show let out at 1:15 pm. Unlike the other display cases that exhibited pictures only in b&w, this one offered color.
On 16 Jan. you mentioned the scene in “The Godfather I†shot in the lobby as Pacino and Keaton exit from the Christmas show of ’45. The film was “The Bells of St. Mary’s†(I saw that there too then, but it would take paragraphs to… my strongest memory of it has my grandfather laying a few bucks in the hand of an usher who then smuggled us inside through the 51 Street doors; whoever said the entire white-gloved platoon was incorruptible?). Coppola got the display cases right with their b&w stills of Crosby and Bergman. That’s exactly the format followed in those years, as those of us who stood on long lines around the block remember. About the marquee light bulbs, I know nothing, but a glance at the DVD might help answer the question.
If your dad didn’t take the tip money, my grandad likely slipped it into your dad’s pocket when unawares—he did things like that. And the Tilyou: yes, that theater caught my eye at The Oyland, too. Once on an outing there with my parents, I drove them crazy about going to see a movie at the Tilyou instead of wasting time on the Whip and the Loop-the-Loop. I remember we saw “The Iron Curtain” there, so it must have been Summer in the same ‘48.