This picture was taken in 1982. The two double-features on the marquee are “Personal Best”/“Private Lessons” and “Don’t Look in the Basement/Death Wish 2.” (During its heyday, the 53 showed movies on all three screens year-round, but in its later years it closed during the winters and went down to two screens during the non-summer months.)
This theater was open until at least November of 1986. Beginning as early as 1973, it advertised in the New York papers as the “ART SOUTHERN,” “ART SOUTHERN BOULEVARD,” or just “ART.”
It is sometimes confused with another Bronx theater located at 1 W. Tremont, near the intersection of Tremont and Jerome, that advertised from 1964-1976 under such names as “ART JEROME” and “ART-Jerome Ave.” (It is listed here on Cinema Treasures as “Jerome Theatre”).
This theater advertised in the New York papers as the “ART JEROME” or “ART-Jerome Ave” from 1964 to 1976.
Another Bronx theater, located at 1077 Southern Boulevard, advertised as “ART SOUTHERN” (or variations thereof). In the Photos section, an ad from August 1976 shows both theaters playing the movie “Squirm.”
I only went to this theater two times - but in the same week! Barrington Square was one of the few Chicago-area theaters that showed the dark comedy “Heathers” during its initial 1989 run. I liked the movie so much that I went back again a few days later.
As noted above, the Strand Theatre was rechristened the Avon in 1949. It later closed for a three-month period in 1958 (from January 13 – April 16) and reopened on April 17 as the Avon Art Theatre, following an art-house trend that was occurring in larger cities around the country. A South Bend Tribune article noted that the former Avon had been “remodeled and refurbished” and that a “Parisian sidewalk café coffee bar is being installed and free coffee will be served at all performances.”
Over the next decade, the theater drifted away from art-movie programming and finally dropped the word “Art” from its advertising in mid-1972.
In 1975, the venue was renamed yet again – this time as the Mall Theatre, by virtue of its location on a recently created pedestrian mall (the River Bend Plaza) in downtown South Bend. The Mall Theatre was unveiled on October 24, 1975, having undergone “extensive interior renovations” that included “carpeting, painting and new seating,” as well as removal of the overhanging marquee that had been in place since 1949. The theater’s first feature under its new name was the 1939 classic “The Hound of the Baskervilles.”
The Mall Theatre showed a variety of movies and was by no means exclusively X-rated. It stayed open for a little more than three years, finally closing its doors the evening of January 25, 1979 (after a double-feature of “Up in Smoke” AND “Superfly T.N.T.”) That day’s newspaper ad encouraged readers to “watch for announcement of re-opening,” and the theater was listed for about three more weeks as “closed temporarily,“ but then the ads stopped and the theater never reopened.
At some point, the building’s interior was mostly gutted and the property became a storage space. It continued to deteriorate as the years passed, with mounting renovation costs discouraging the several potential buyers who expressed interest in reopening it as a movie theater or even a live performance venue. (One interested party was the reputable South Bend Civic Theatre, which had been looking for a permanent downtown location.)
Finally, after sitting dormant for 28 years, the decaying structure found a buyer in 2007, when the St. Joseph County Public Library purchased it as part of a proposed expansion plan. Another five years passed before the library announced plans to demolish the building -– triggering the Historic Preservation Commission of South Bend and St. Joseph County to petition the South Bend Common Council for landmark status for the old theater. The Commission’s request postponed the demolition by several months, but landmark status was ultimately denied, on the grounds that the property was structurally unsound and that renovation costs would be prohibitive.
However, in a gesture of goodwill, the library agreed to cover the $69,000 cost of removing -– and delivering to the Commission — the decorative terra cotta tiles on the theater’s façade.
With that last bit of business complete, demolition of the former theater began on December 16, 2012, and was completed in 2013.
I liked this theater. I remember the lobby area being echoey (with tile floors) and all white, with a very modern, sterile, corporate vibe. We used to call it “the airport”—the movie titles and showtimes were presented on electronic display boards, in exactly the same format as airline flights.
At the time, it was a big deal for independent movies to play in the conservative northwest suburbs. I remember watching the 1994 lesbian film “Go Fish” there in an almost-empty theater, and being amazed at where I was.
The 212 was located about 60 miles from Chicago. It didn’t advertise independently in the Chicago papers, but its name would sometimes appear below the ad for a specific movie (as part of the list of theaters where that movie was playing). I haven’t found any “mentions” beyond 1982, so that year might have been the 212’s final season.
As part of a 1981 feature on area drive-ins, Chicago Tribune critic Gene Siskel noted that the 212 “looks as though it hasn’t been painted since it was built in the ‘50s. Weeds bloom through the site, and a playground full of rusted and broken swings offers little entertainment value to children.”
Siskel also pointed out that the theater was “operated by Chicago-based Kolhberg Theaters, Inc., which has long held the reputation as our town’s worst film exhibitor.”
The Decatur Drive-In operated through the 1985 season, closing in September of that year. The last movies to play there were a double-feature of “Return of the Living Dead” and “The Stuff.”
The property was purchased by the city and demolished one year later in November 1986, to make way for a parking facility for city vehicles.
The Rogers Theatre’s last day in operation was August 30, 1984, showing “Purple Rain” (see ad in Photo section).
The building sat vacant for almost 11 years, until a new owner purchased it in Summer of 1995. His stated intention was to convert the property into a package-liquor store and warehouse, but he failed to win a liquor license in the city of Decatur’s lottery. The building caught on fire in October of that same year.
After wranglings over whether the demolition cost would be paid by the building owner or the city, the Rogers was finally torn down in February of 1997.
The Phil-Kron Drive-In Theater opened on July 3, 1947, with the comedy “Two Guys from Milwaukee.” The theater was co-owned by Ken Phillips and Peter Karonis, and its name was a fusion of their surnames. There was capacity for 800 cars and seating for 400 walk-in patrons.
Opening in conjunction with the drive-in was the Phil-Kron Country Kitchen, an adjoining restaurant that was positioned directly behind the screen.
In 1958, the Kerasotes chain purchased the drive-in and restaurant and changed the theater’s name to the generic “Drive-In Theater,” while the restaurant was re-christened the “Sinorak” (“Karonis” spelled backward).
Both businesses suffered two major fires. The first occurred in 1963 and destroyed both the restaurant and the theater’s screen; however, they were restored and reopened later that same year.
The restaurant closed in 1980 and remained vacant while the drive-in continued to operate. In September 1984, just six days after closing for the season, the theater was damaged again when the abandoned restaurant building caught fire. (Three local youths were eventually charged with arson). The owners made some initial attempts at refurbishing the property, but ultimately decided not to reopen the theater. Meanwhile, the screen remained standing until 1988, when it was demolished by a ferocious thunderstorm that swept through the area.
The final double-feature to play at the theater in 1984 was “Tightrope” / “Sudden Impact.”
In March 1977, the Ritz briefly caused a stir when it began showing X-rated movies. Business was better than it had been in years, but many of the residents were predictably unhappy, and the theater was even the target of an attempted firebombing within days of the new policy. Finally, a local businessman took matters into his own hands by purchasing the theater (in December of that year) and eliminating the X-rated movies.
The Del-Van was a tiny theater (450 seats) located on Locust Street in downtown Delavan, a country town of about 1,800 in Central Illinois.
The theater struggled with low audience turnout in the 1950s and 1960s, at one point even closing its doors for several years. Determined to boost business, co-owner Charles Thomas took note of the tremendous success being enjoyed by a theater in Momence, Illinois – a small town similar to Delavan — that was showing X-rated movies.
On May 23, 1973, the Del-Van unveiled its first X-rated attraction: “The Erotic Adventures of Zorro.” Business surged to near-capacity business almost immediately.
The public outcry in Delavan was equally swift. Many communities across the country were grappling with the sudden presence of pornographic movies in their midst, and the Del-Van’s switch to adult fare coincided with a Supreme Court ruling in Summer 1973 that allowed communities to establish their own standards of decency.
As a result, several of the Del-Van’s films were subpoenaed, and Thomas found himself facing multiple counts of obscenity. At one point the Delavan Police Chief was ordered by the City Council to attend the theater on a nightly basis (!) to determine whether obscene films were being shown, and assistant state’s attorneys from the county were dispatched to the theater with stopwatches to time the onscreen sex scenes.
When “Deep Throat” played at the Del-Van in November 1973, Thomas (along with his sister and brother, who were employees of the theater) was arrested and charged with obscenity. In response, he changed the theater from a commercial business to a private club, and it became “The Del-Van Adult Motion Picture Film Club.” Members were required to pay $2 in annual dues and a $2.50 fee for each viewing.
The legal battles continued. During one two-month period, Charles Thomas was arrested literally every night … however, he always managed to post bond and the movies continued uninterrupted. Frustrated by the court’s apparent inability to keep dirty movies out of Delavan, one resident even resorted to cutting the theater’s electrical lines.
In 1981, Thomas bought the Morton Cinema in nearby Morton, Illinois, and began showing X-rated movies there as well – meaning that, with the Del-Van still in operation, he now found himself facing fierce opposition on two fronts.
Morton officials were able to close down the Morton Cinema in early 1983, after less than two years, and reinstate “family” movies. Inspired by this success, a Delavan minister joined forces with with the Delavan City Council and organized a fundraising effort to prosecute Thomas – and after ten years of legal wranglings, the Del-Van finally closed its doors in August 1983.
The theater sat empty for several years. After Charles Thomas’ death of AIDS in 1986 (at age 45), his parents inherited the building and donated it to the city as a community center. It fulfilled that function for about two years before being purchased by a neighboring church in 1989 and demolished.
The Irvin opened on August 26, 1915. It had 1,100 seats. It became the first theater in Bloomington-Normal to install air conditioning and the only one to feature a CinemaScope screen.
In 1974, the Kerasotes chain purchased the theater from Plitt, which had owned it for more than 20 years. As business declined, the theater became a $1 house in 1981.
The Irvin’s last day in operation was January 7, 1982 (playing the Burt Reynolds comedy “Paternity”). After closing, it stood vacant until 1987, when it was purchased by a neighboring church. It was torn down in October of that year to make way for a parking lot.
The exterior of this theater appears in the opening credits of SOLE SURVIVOR (1983), a low-budget horror/sci-fi movie that was released on DVD in 2008.
The lights on movie theater marquees in Chicago’s Loop have been flickering out one by one over the years, and the Loop’s last marquee was to go dark Sunday as the Woods Theater closed its doors.
The demise of the theater where “Gone with the Wind” premiered on a reserved-seat basis in 1940, beginning an engagement that lasted an entire year, will make Monday the first day in more than three-quarters of a century that the city’s Loop will be without a movie theater.
The Woods, on the northwest corner of Randolph and Dearborn Streets, will close to make way for a 30-story office building, becoming the latest victim of the Loop’s decline as an entertainment center and its growth as a commercial center.
The 1,100-seat Woods is the last movie house to join the scrap heap of the once glittering film palaces that radiated like brillant necklaces near the intersection of State and Randolph Streets.
“There was always a festival air surrounding the intersection of State and Randolph, the center of the Loop’s night life,” said Edward Barry, a veteran newspaper cultural critic.
“I still recall the first of the great silent Harold Lloyd comedy films, `Safety First,‘ at the Chicago in 1923, in which he hung from the Wrigley Building clock.”
The late Danny Kaye, the funny man whose uproarious first movie, “Up in Arms,” graced the Woods marquee for a year in 1944, would weep if he could see the Loop today, devoid of even a single silver screen.
Bob Hope, that other funny man who once stood penniless outside Loop theaters in the 1920s before his star ascended, would certainly look in amazement at the shuttered show houses and sites of razed cinema palaces whose marquees once were emblazoned with the names of the brightest stars in Hollywood’s firmament:
Actors such as Bing Crosby, Al Jolson, Charlie Chaplin, Jack Benny, Fred Astaire, John Wayne, Jimmy Stewart and Spencer Tracy.
Actresses such as Greta Garbo, Bette Davis, Katharine Hepburn, Joan Fontaine, Judy Garland, Ingrid Bergman and Barbara Stanwyck.
The Chicago Theatre, long the flagship of the sumptuous Loop show places, was saved from destruction through a massive civic effort to refurbish it as a center of live entertainment.
But shadows overhang its future since its operator, Chicago Theatre Productions, went into bankruptcy last summer, and the theater has been reopened only for an occasional event since.
Gone forever are such popular show houses as the State-Lake Theater, across the street from the Chicago.
The Loop, just south of the Chicago, which for a time featured newsreels, is long gone.
The Roosevelt, a block south on State, and the opulent Oriental, on Randolph just west of State, gave way to stores.
The United Artists, down the street from the Oriental and kitty corner from the Woods, closed last year.
The Garrick, onetime neighbor of the Woods, was replaced with a parking garage.
The Apollo, just west of the Garrick, made way for the Greyhound bus terminal, which itself is now to be razed so that twin office towers can be built on Randolph Street.
The McVickers Theater, on Madison Street just west of State, was taken over by film producer Mike Todd to feature his Todd-A-O process films, beginning with the screen version of the musical “Oklahoma.”
North of the Woods on Dearborn Street, the two Dearborn Cinemas had a short-lived existence after opening in the old Michael Todd and Cinestage Theaters.
The properties, owned by Todd’s estate, are to be sold to the developer of the Greyhound property and restored to their original names, Harris and Selywn, and their original use as playhouses.
Also long gone from the scene is the Palace Theater, in the Bismarck Hotel complex, once known as the home of the wide-screen Cinerama films.
At one time, the Palace, like the Chicago, the State-Lake and the Oriental, featured not only first-run films from Hollywood but they also hosted live stage entertainment.
“From childhood on, going to movies was a big thrill,” recalled Herman Kogan, Chicago historian and newspaperman. “On Saturdays, that meant going to one of the big Loop show palaces, where you could see stage shows as well as first-run films.”
There were other, smaller theaters scattered about the Loop where B films or reruns of first-run movies could be seen, usually for a cut-rate price.
These included the Monroe, the Clark and the LaSalle, which stood on the site of the present-day St. Peter Catholic Church at 110 W. Madison St.
The Today theater, located on Madison Street just west of Dearborn and which specialized in newsreels, also disappeared.
The movies came to Chicago’s Loop-traditionally defined as the city blocks lying within the “loop” of the downtown elevated tracks-early in this century.
“The movie parlor that grew into today’s cinema palace really began with the opening of Jones, Linick and Schaefer’s house on State Street on Oct. 5, 1905,” according to a historical piece by the late William Leonard, longtime Tribune night life critic. The pioneer facility was a 300-seat amphitheatre on the east side of the street, between Monroe and Adams Streets toward the south end of what is now the Palmer House building.
Today’s theater owners believe that placing movie houses closer to where people live and shop is the future of the film industry. Movie houses have sprouted in off-downtown areas of the city and in suburban shopping centers. The theater chains also prefer to have several smaller theaters in one complex, showing several films simultaneously and offering greater variety to moviegoers.
The Cineplex Odeon theater chain, which owns the Woods, last month opened the new 5-screen, 1,250-seat Burnham Plaza Cinemas at 826 S. Wabash Ave., in the south-of-the-Loop residential areas of Printer’s Row and Dearborn Park.
Also typical today is the 8-screen, 1,900-seat Webster Place at Clybourn and Webster Avenues, opened last July by the M & R theater chain in a once-industrial corridor now lined with shops and restaurants that draw from rehabbed North Side residential neighborhoods.
In December, Cineplex Odeon opened a 6-screen, 1,855-seat complex in the River Oaks shopping center in Calumet City, which complements an existing 8-screen complex.
The historic Woods, like several other Loop theaters in recent years, had faded into a showhouse largely for films highlighting themes of sex, violence and racial exploitation.
The last films scheduled to be shown at the Woods are “I’m Gonna Git You Sucka” and “Hellbound: Hellraiser II.”
“The Luna: Sticky Floors, Sticky Seats and 3 Years of Ben Hur”
by Joseph Marconi
You might say that the package that arrived with the Wednesday morning mail hit me like a brick.
Actually it didn’t hit me at all. It was a real brick, however, like the ones houses are made of. It was gift-wrapped.
Having spent several weeks immersed in research for a book on the Mafia, I looked for the symbolism. Alas, there was none. But there was a note from my childhood friend Richard informing me that enclosed was the last of it: The Luna Theater was now officially dust.
“Oh, no!” I shouted.
As is the custom in Chicago these days, my shouts went unnoticed. I quickly phoned Richard for the details of the demise of the movie palace of my youth on Belmont Avenue, a few buildings east of Cicero.
“That’s it,” he said matter-of-factly. “The whole block’s flat. Nothing’s left of the old Luna except the brick. I sent it to you because I know you’re sentimental about those kind of things.”
Sentimental indeed, I thought, reflecting on a time well past when I, then much younger than my children are now, would join the line at the Luna for… .
But wait!
As I think about it, there never was a line at the Luna. Not even for the big blockbuster movies that played there about a year after everyone in town had seen them.
And I guess it wasn’t really a palace either, being kind of seedy, as I recall. It was a very small theater by almost any standard. It didn’t even have a real lobby, just a curtain behind the last row of seats.
Anyway, I remembered the Luna. I think “Ben Hur” played there for about three years. Tickets were cheaper than at nearby rivals, the Portage and Will Rogers theaters, but that didn’t help.
The Luna, like the barely lamented DiGeorgio’s Pizzeria next door to it, is gone. Today’s audiences want cushy seats in multi-screen movie houses with parking lots and Dolby sound. I guess they want franchised generic pizza places, too.
Who shall eulogize or mourn the Luna, that place where little children were taken to see their first cartoons on a big screen and where we neighborhood kids would walk with our dates when we were too young to drive? Who will recall the confusion we experienced when the intermission elves sang “Let’s go out to the lobby … ” and we had nowhere to go? The memories of the sticky floors, the sticky seats, gone now … forever.
I hadn’t been to the Luna in about 20 years. So what? I haven’t watched “American Bandstand” for 20 years, but I liked knowing it was still there.
If you remember the Luna, please join me in a moment of silence. If you don’t remember the Luna, but if you ever went to a neighborhood movie house in your youth, feel free to join in. And be glad, at least, that we still have Dick Clark.
“Final Curtains Coming Down on Met Theater — Community Split on Whether Razing of Landmark is Loss”
by Jerry Thomas
Toni Constonie circled the streets around the old Metropolitan Theater all morning Tuesday. From her blue van, she kept an eye out for the wrecking ball crew.
But neither her vigilant watch, nor the protests she helped organize, nor the last-minute calls she made around the city could save this once-popular show house at 4640-48 S. King Drive in the city’s Grand Boulevard neighborhood.
The city decided on Tuesday to finally tear down the building, which had lingered in demolition court for almost 10 years. A construction crew arrived shortly after noon with a crane for the four-week project of razing the 81-year-old, red brick and terra cotta building, which closed in 1979.
The order to raze the building has caused mixed reaction in a neighborhood trying to recapture its legacy as the center of entertainment and commerce in the African-American community.
“We are much concerned and very angry that they will move ahead with the demolition without the support of the citizens from the 3rd Ward,” said Harold Lucas, president of the Black Metropolis Convention and Tourism Council, a community organization.
But some neighborhood residents only questioned why demolition took so long.
“When I was going there, rats were running across the stage; I saw more rats than actors,” said a middle-aged man who declined to give his name.
For those who joined picket lines, made appearances in court and telephoned elected officials and preservationists in an attempt to save the building, the Met is one of the last landmarks along the old 47th Street entertainment and business corridor, where blacks could also shop for food and clothing. Operation PUSH once used the theater as a meeting place.
“I am disappointed, but it’s not the first building I lost,” said Constonie, mentioning the Jordan Center, at 35th and State Streets, and the Regal Theater, 47th and King. “(The Regal) was one of the most famous buildings, only second to the Apollo in Harlem. We had it torn down for a parking lot.”
Opponents of the demolition also see the city’s action as evidence that elected officials do not value landmarks in the black community as much as they do in other neighborhoods. Two years ago, the community stopped the demolition of the Supreme Life Building at 35th and King, and now that property will be converted into a visitors information center, Lucas said.
About 1,500 residents, he said, had signed a petition objecting to the Met being razed; Lucas said several entrepreneurs have expressed interest in the building.
Much of the neighborhood criticism is aimed at Ald. Dorothy Tillman (3rd), whose office sits directly across the street from the Met. Several people questioned why she has failed to find an adaptable use for the property, and they hold her accountable for allowing somebody to steal the terra cotta symbols from the building.
Tillman said the criticism against her is politically motivated by those seeking her ward seat.
She stressed that she prevented the building from being torn down for the past eight years because she got a stay of protection.
Now, however, she supports the demolition because the building has been deemed structurally unsound and she believes construction of the long-awaited Lou Rawls Cultural and Resource Center will begin next year. “We will look like Chinatown and Greektown,” she said.
City officials, however, reject the claim they were not protecting the best interest of the community.
“I think everyone realizes the city is totally in favor of rehabbing when the resources are there. I personally feel like nobody can argue that point,” said Kathleen Walsh, public information officer for the Department of Buildings. Walsh said she didn’t have information available on the current owners of the Met.
“Sometimes,” she said, “I think the city gets unfairly blamed when it is the owners of these properties who have walked away, and then the burden does become that of the community. It represents the challenges we face. What happens tomorrow if a child gets raped in that building? Then, it is the city that did not move fast enough.”
“The past peels away — Return trip to Roseland"
by Curtis Lawrence
I guess it’s an exercise repeated generation after generation. We trek back to our childhood neighborhoods looking for pieces of the past.
My dad, who grew up in Englewood, still does it. Even though in his late 70s, he’s often in awe that many of the houses where he and his three sisters grew up are now gone.
Recently, my trek was to Roseland. I’ve been back within the last several years and have seen the demise of former haunts – the Roseland Theater on 113th Place and Michigan and Gately’s Peoples department store on 112th.
The Roseland, where my brother and I would go to see movies like “Cotton Comes to Harlem” back in the 1970s, is now boarded up.
Looking through one of the open windows recently, I could see the paint peeling off the walls.
The signs are still up for Gately’s, but it’s been long closed and chopped up into smaller stores like Giant Beauty Supply.
So I found myself wearing the same puzzled look my dad often wears when he goes back to Englewood. To try to figure things out, I looked up a former teacher who still lives in Roseland, and a longtime housing activist.
“It was abandoned by a lot of people who should not have abandoned it,” said J. Quinn Brisben, my old history teacher at Harlan High School who has lived near 100th and Cottage Grove for more than 30 years.
“A lot of people thought it was the end of the world,” said Brisben, who is white.
“I tried to tell them it wasn’t.”
I wouldn’t have expected Brisben to go anywhere. He’s a longtime civil rights activist and was a former member of the Congress of Racial Equality. I even had the privilege of voting for him when he ran for U.S. president on the Socialist Party ticket in 1992.
But many of his white neighbors did pull out, with businesses and jobs hot on their trail.
While the main business strip on Michigan Avenue was hit hardest, Brisben said large parts of Roseland haven’t changed much.
It’s still a working-class neighborhood, with faces changed from white to black. And the housing stock is starting to make a comeback.
“A number of people have gotten their places fixed up and you don’t see the boarded-up windows like you used to.”
Willie Lomax, longtime director of the Chicago Roseland Coalition for Community Control, sees it too.
“In the last five years, Roseland has begun to turn around,” Lomax said. Banks, some encouraged by lawsuits, have done better jobs of investing in the community.
A mini-mall at 115th and Michigan is on the horizon and Lomax said he’s more optimistic than he’s been in a long time.
Lomax, who was a janitor at the old Walgreens on 111th and Michigan in the 1950s, knows the story of Roseland better than just about anybody.
But there are days when even he’s stunned by the transformation.
“Sometimes you look at the vacant lots and the abandoned buildings and you say to yourself, `What happened?‘”
July 1980
“The Black Stallion” played at the Dolton for two weeks in the summer of 1980, from July 11-24 (see ad in Photos section).
This photo is the Thunderbird (later the Century) theater in Hoffman Estates, Illinois. It closed in 1986.
This picture was taken in 1982. The two double-features on the marquee are “Personal Best”/“Private Lessons” and “Don’t Look in the Basement/Death Wish 2.” (During its heyday, the 53 showed movies on all three screens year-round, but in its later years it closed during the winters and went down to two screens during the non-summer months.)
This theater was open until at least November of 1986. Beginning as early as 1973, it advertised in the New York papers as the “ART SOUTHERN,” “ART SOUTHERN BOULEVARD,” or just “ART.”
It is sometimes confused with another Bronx theater located at 1 W. Tremont, near the intersection of Tremont and Jerome, that advertised from 1964-1976 under such names as “ART JEROME” and “ART-Jerome Ave.” (It is listed here on Cinema Treasures as “Jerome Theatre”).
This theater advertised in the New York papers as the “ART JEROME” or “ART-Jerome Ave” from 1964 to 1976.
Another Bronx theater, located at 1077 Southern Boulevard, advertised as “ART SOUTHERN” (or variations thereof). In the Photos section, an ad from August 1976 shows both theaters playing the movie “Squirm.”
I only went to this theater two times - but in the same week! Barrington Square was one of the few Chicago-area theaters that showed the dark comedy “Heathers” during its initial 1989 run. I liked the movie so much that I went back again a few days later.
As noted above, the Strand Theatre was rechristened the Avon in 1949. It later closed for a three-month period in 1958 (from January 13 – April 16) and reopened on April 17 as the Avon Art Theatre, following an art-house trend that was occurring in larger cities around the country. A South Bend Tribune article noted that the former Avon had been “remodeled and refurbished” and that a “Parisian sidewalk café coffee bar is being installed and free coffee will be served at all performances.”
Over the next decade, the theater drifted away from art-movie programming and finally dropped the word “Art” from its advertising in mid-1972.
In 1975, the venue was renamed yet again – this time as the Mall Theatre, by virtue of its location on a recently created pedestrian mall (the River Bend Plaza) in downtown South Bend. The Mall Theatre was unveiled on October 24, 1975, having undergone “extensive interior renovations” that included “carpeting, painting and new seating,” as well as removal of the overhanging marquee that had been in place since 1949. The theater’s first feature under its new name was the 1939 classic “The Hound of the Baskervilles.”
The Mall Theatre showed a variety of movies and was by no means exclusively X-rated. It stayed open for a little more than three years, finally closing its doors the evening of January 25, 1979 (after a double-feature of “Up in Smoke” AND “Superfly T.N.T.”) That day’s newspaper ad encouraged readers to “watch for announcement of re-opening,” and the theater was listed for about three more weeks as “closed temporarily,“ but then the ads stopped and the theater never reopened.
At some point, the building’s interior was mostly gutted and the property became a storage space. It continued to deteriorate as the years passed, with mounting renovation costs discouraging the several potential buyers who expressed interest in reopening it as a movie theater or even a live performance venue. (One interested party was the reputable South Bend Civic Theatre, which had been looking for a permanent downtown location.)
Finally, after sitting dormant for 28 years, the decaying structure found a buyer in 2007, when the St. Joseph County Public Library purchased it as part of a proposed expansion plan. Another five years passed before the library announced plans to demolish the building -– triggering the Historic Preservation Commission of South Bend and St. Joseph County to petition the South Bend Common Council for landmark status for the old theater. The Commission’s request postponed the demolition by several months, but landmark status was ultimately denied, on the grounds that the property was structurally unsound and that renovation costs would be prohibitive.
However, in a gesture of goodwill, the library agreed to cover the $69,000 cost of removing -– and delivering to the Commission — the decorative terra cotta tiles on the theater’s façade.
With that last bit of business complete, demolition of the former theater began on December 16, 2012, and was completed in 2013.
I liked this theater. I remember the lobby area being echoey (with tile floors) and all white, with a very modern, sterile, corporate vibe. We used to call it “the airport”—the movie titles and showtimes were presented on electronic display boards, in exactly the same format as airline flights.
At the time, it was a big deal for independent movies to play in the conservative northwest suburbs. I remember watching the 1994 lesbian film “Go Fish” there in an almost-empty theater, and being amazed at where I was.
The 212 was located about 60 miles from Chicago. It didn’t advertise independently in the Chicago papers, but its name would sometimes appear below the ad for a specific movie (as part of the list of theaters where that movie was playing). I haven’t found any “mentions” beyond 1982, so that year might have been the 212’s final season.
As part of a 1981 feature on area drive-ins, Chicago Tribune critic Gene Siskel noted that the 212 “looks as though it hasn’t been painted since it was built in the ‘50s. Weeds bloom through the site, and a playground full of rusted and broken swings offers little entertainment value to children.”
Siskel also pointed out that the theater was “operated by Chicago-based Kolhberg Theaters, Inc., which has long held the reputation as our town’s worst film exhibitor.”
Video footage of the Skylark, taken in May 1988 after the theater closed for good, is available on YouTube at:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r4c9s7i7KUA
The Decatur Drive-In operated through the 1985 season, closing in September of that year. The last movies to play there were a double-feature of “Return of the Living Dead” and “The Stuff.”
The property was purchased by the city and demolished one year later in November 1986, to make way for a parking facility for city vehicles.
The Rogers Theatre’s last day in operation was August 30, 1984, showing “Purple Rain” (see ad in Photo section).
The building sat vacant for almost 11 years, until a new owner purchased it in Summer of 1995. His stated intention was to convert the property into a package-liquor store and warehouse, but he failed to win a liquor license in the city of Decatur’s lottery. The building caught on fire in October of that same year.
After wranglings over whether the demolition cost would be paid by the building owner or the city, the Rogers was finally torn down in February of 1997.
The Phil-Kron Drive-In Theater opened on July 3, 1947, with the comedy “Two Guys from Milwaukee.” The theater was co-owned by Ken Phillips and Peter Karonis, and its name was a fusion of their surnames. There was capacity for 800 cars and seating for 400 walk-in patrons.
Opening in conjunction with the drive-in was the Phil-Kron Country Kitchen, an adjoining restaurant that was positioned directly behind the screen.
In 1958, the Kerasotes chain purchased the drive-in and restaurant and changed the theater’s name to the generic “Drive-In Theater,” while the restaurant was re-christened the “Sinorak” (“Karonis” spelled backward).
Both businesses suffered two major fires. The first occurred in 1963 and destroyed both the restaurant and the theater’s screen; however, they were restored and reopened later that same year.
The restaurant closed in 1980 and remained vacant while the drive-in continued to operate. In September 1984, just six days after closing for the season, the theater was damaged again when the abandoned restaurant building caught fire. (Three local youths were eventually charged with arson). The owners made some initial attempts at refurbishing the property, but ultimately decided not to reopen the theater. Meanwhile, the screen remained standing until 1988, when it was demolished by a ferocious thunderstorm that swept through the area.
The final double-feature to play at the theater in 1984 was “Tightrope” / “Sudden Impact.”
In March 1977, the Ritz briefly caused a stir when it began showing X-rated movies. Business was better than it had been in years, but many of the residents were predictably unhappy, and the theater was even the target of an attempted firebombing within days of the new policy. Finally, a local businessman took matters into his own hands by purchasing the theater (in December of that year) and eliminating the X-rated movies.
The Del-Van was a tiny theater (450 seats) located on Locust Street in downtown Delavan, a country town of about 1,800 in Central Illinois.
The theater struggled with low audience turnout in the 1950s and 1960s, at one point even closing its doors for several years. Determined to boost business, co-owner Charles Thomas took note of the tremendous success being enjoyed by a theater in Momence, Illinois – a small town similar to Delavan — that was showing X-rated movies.
On May 23, 1973, the Del-Van unveiled its first X-rated attraction: “The Erotic Adventures of Zorro.” Business surged to near-capacity business almost immediately.
The public outcry in Delavan was equally swift. Many communities across the country were grappling with the sudden presence of pornographic movies in their midst, and the Del-Van’s switch to adult fare coincided with a Supreme Court ruling in Summer 1973 that allowed communities to establish their own standards of decency.
As a result, several of the Del-Van’s films were subpoenaed, and Thomas found himself facing multiple counts of obscenity. At one point the Delavan Police Chief was ordered by the City Council to attend the theater on a nightly basis (!) to determine whether obscene films were being shown, and assistant state’s attorneys from the county were dispatched to the theater with stopwatches to time the onscreen sex scenes.
When “Deep Throat” played at the Del-Van in November 1973, Thomas (along with his sister and brother, who were employees of the theater) was arrested and charged with obscenity. In response, he changed the theater from a commercial business to a private club, and it became “The Del-Van Adult Motion Picture Film Club.” Members were required to pay $2 in annual dues and a $2.50 fee for each viewing.
The legal battles continued. During one two-month period, Charles Thomas was arrested literally every night … however, he always managed to post bond and the movies continued uninterrupted. Frustrated by the court’s apparent inability to keep dirty movies out of Delavan, one resident even resorted to cutting the theater’s electrical lines.
In 1981, Thomas bought the Morton Cinema in nearby Morton, Illinois, and began showing X-rated movies there as well – meaning that, with the Del-Van still in operation, he now found himself facing fierce opposition on two fronts.
Morton officials were able to close down the Morton Cinema in early 1983, after less than two years, and reinstate “family” movies. Inspired by this success, a Delavan minister joined forces with with the Delavan City Council and organized a fundraising effort to prosecute Thomas – and after ten years of legal wranglings, the Del-Van finally closed its doors in August 1983.
The theater sat empty for several years. After Charles Thomas’ death of AIDS in 1986 (at age 45), his parents inherited the building and donated it to the city as a community center. It fulfilled that function for about two years before being purchased by a neighboring church in 1989 and demolished.
The Irvin opened on August 26, 1915. It had 1,100 seats. It became the first theater in Bloomington-Normal to install air conditioning and the only one to feature a CinemaScope screen.
In 1974, the Kerasotes chain purchased the theater from Plitt, which had owned it for more than 20 years. As business declined, the theater became a $1 house in 1981.
The Irvin’s last day in operation was January 7, 1982 (playing the Burt Reynolds comedy “Paternity”). After closing, it stood vacant until 1987, when it was purchased by a neighboring church. It was torn down in October of that year to make way for a parking lot.
The exterior of this theater appears in the opening credits of SOLE SURVIVOR (1983), a low-budget horror/sci-fi movie that was released on DVD in 2008.
CHICAGO TRIBUNE (January 8, 1989)
“Say goodbye to Loop’s last movie house”
by Rudolph Unger
The lights on movie theater marquees in Chicago’s Loop have been flickering out one by one over the years, and the Loop’s last marquee was to go dark Sunday as the Woods Theater closed its doors.
The demise of the theater where “Gone with the Wind” premiered on a reserved-seat basis in 1940, beginning an engagement that lasted an entire year, will make Monday the first day in more than three-quarters of a century that the city’s Loop will be without a movie theater.
The Woods, on the northwest corner of Randolph and Dearborn Streets, will close to make way for a 30-story office building, becoming the latest victim of the Loop’s decline as an entertainment center and its growth as a commercial center.
The 1,100-seat Woods is the last movie house to join the scrap heap of the once glittering film palaces that radiated like brillant necklaces near the intersection of State and Randolph Streets.
“There was always a festival air surrounding the intersection of State and Randolph, the center of the Loop’s night life,” said Edward Barry, a veteran newspaper cultural critic.
“I still recall the first of the great silent Harold Lloyd comedy films, `Safety First,‘ at the Chicago in 1923, in which he hung from the Wrigley Building clock.”
The late Danny Kaye, the funny man whose uproarious first movie, “Up in Arms,” graced the Woods marquee for a year in 1944, would weep if he could see the Loop today, devoid of even a single silver screen.
Bob Hope, that other funny man who once stood penniless outside Loop theaters in the 1920s before his star ascended, would certainly look in amazement at the shuttered show houses and sites of razed cinema palaces whose marquees once were emblazoned with the names of the brightest stars in Hollywood’s firmament:
Actors such as Bing Crosby, Al Jolson, Charlie Chaplin, Jack Benny, Fred Astaire, John Wayne, Jimmy Stewart and Spencer Tracy.
Actresses such as Greta Garbo, Bette Davis, Katharine Hepburn, Joan Fontaine, Judy Garland, Ingrid Bergman and Barbara Stanwyck.
The Chicago Theatre, long the flagship of the sumptuous Loop show places, was saved from destruction through a massive civic effort to refurbish it as a center of live entertainment.
But shadows overhang its future since its operator, Chicago Theatre Productions, went into bankruptcy last summer, and the theater has been reopened only for an occasional event since.
Gone forever are such popular show houses as the State-Lake Theater, across the street from the Chicago.
The Loop, just south of the Chicago, which for a time featured newsreels, is long gone.
The Roosevelt, a block south on State, and the opulent Oriental, on Randolph just west of State, gave way to stores.
The United Artists, down the street from the Oriental and kitty corner from the Woods, closed last year.
The Garrick, onetime neighbor of the Woods, was replaced with a parking garage.
The Apollo, just west of the Garrick, made way for the Greyhound bus terminal, which itself is now to be razed so that twin office towers can be built on Randolph Street.
The McVickers Theater, on Madison Street just west of State, was taken over by film producer Mike Todd to feature his Todd-A-O process films, beginning with the screen version of the musical “Oklahoma.”
North of the Woods on Dearborn Street, the two Dearborn Cinemas had a short-lived existence after opening in the old Michael Todd and Cinestage Theaters.
The properties, owned by Todd’s estate, are to be sold to the developer of the Greyhound property and restored to their original names, Harris and Selywn, and their original use as playhouses.
Also long gone from the scene is the Palace Theater, in the Bismarck Hotel complex, once known as the home of the wide-screen Cinerama films.
At one time, the Palace, like the Chicago, the State-Lake and the Oriental, featured not only first-run films from Hollywood but they also hosted live stage entertainment.
“From childhood on, going to movies was a big thrill,” recalled Herman Kogan, Chicago historian and newspaperman. “On Saturdays, that meant going to one of the big Loop show palaces, where you could see stage shows as well as first-run films.”
There were other, smaller theaters scattered about the Loop where B films or reruns of first-run movies could be seen, usually for a cut-rate price.
These included the Monroe, the Clark and the LaSalle, which stood on the site of the present-day St. Peter Catholic Church at 110 W. Madison St.
The Today theater, located on Madison Street just west of Dearborn and which specialized in newsreels, also disappeared.
The movies came to Chicago’s Loop-traditionally defined as the city blocks lying within the “loop” of the downtown elevated tracks-early in this century.
“The movie parlor that grew into today’s cinema palace really began with the opening of Jones, Linick and Schaefer’s house on State Street on Oct. 5, 1905,” according to a historical piece by the late William Leonard, longtime Tribune night life critic. The pioneer facility was a 300-seat amphitheatre on the east side of the street, between Monroe and Adams Streets toward the south end of what is now the Palmer House building.
Today’s theater owners believe that placing movie houses closer to where people live and shop is the future of the film industry. Movie houses have sprouted in off-downtown areas of the city and in suburban shopping centers. The theater chains also prefer to have several smaller theaters in one complex, showing several films simultaneously and offering greater variety to moviegoers.
The Cineplex Odeon theater chain, which owns the Woods, last month opened the new 5-screen, 1,250-seat Burnham Plaza Cinemas at 826 S. Wabash Ave., in the south-of-the-Loop residential areas of Printer’s Row and Dearborn Park.
Also typical today is the 8-screen, 1,900-seat Webster Place at Clybourn and Webster Avenues, opened last July by the M & R theater chain in a once-industrial corridor now lined with shops and restaurants that draw from rehabbed North Side residential neighborhoods.
In December, Cineplex Odeon opened a 6-screen, 1,855-seat complex in the River Oaks shopping center in Calumet City, which complements an existing 8-screen complex.
The historic Woods, like several other Loop theaters in recent years, had faded into a showhouse largely for films highlighting themes of sex, violence and racial exploitation.
The last films scheduled to be shown at the Woods are “I’m Gonna Git You Sucka” and “Hellbound: Hellraiser II.”
CHICAGO TRIBUNE (November 17, 1986)
“The Luna: Sticky Floors, Sticky Seats and 3 Years of Ben Hur”
by Joseph Marconi
You might say that the package that arrived with the Wednesday morning mail hit me like a brick.
Actually it didn’t hit me at all. It was a real brick, however, like the ones houses are made of. It was gift-wrapped.
Having spent several weeks immersed in research for a book on the Mafia, I looked for the symbolism. Alas, there was none. But there was a note from my childhood friend Richard informing me that enclosed was the last of it: The Luna Theater was now officially dust.
“Oh, no!” I shouted.
As is the custom in Chicago these days, my shouts went unnoticed. I quickly phoned Richard for the details of the demise of the movie palace of my youth on Belmont Avenue, a few buildings east of Cicero.
“That’s it,” he said matter-of-factly. “The whole block’s flat. Nothing’s left of the old Luna except the brick. I sent it to you because I know you’re sentimental about those kind of things.”
Sentimental indeed, I thought, reflecting on a time well past when I, then much younger than my children are now, would join the line at the Luna for… .
But wait!
As I think about it, there never was a line at the Luna. Not even for the big blockbuster movies that played there about a year after everyone in town had seen them.
And I guess it wasn’t really a palace either, being kind of seedy, as I recall. It was a very small theater by almost any standard. It didn’t even have a real lobby, just a curtain behind the last row of seats.
Anyway, I remembered the Luna. I think “Ben Hur” played there for about three years. Tickets were cheaper than at nearby rivals, the Portage and Will Rogers theaters, but that didn’t help.
The Luna, like the barely lamented DiGeorgio’s Pizzeria next door to it, is gone. Today’s audiences want cushy seats in multi-screen movie houses with parking lots and Dolby sound. I guess they want franchised generic pizza places, too.
Who shall eulogize or mourn the Luna, that place where little children were taken to see their first cartoons on a big screen and where we neighborhood kids would walk with our dates when we were too young to drive? Who will recall the confusion we experienced when the intermission elves sang “Let’s go out to the lobby … ” and we had nowhere to go? The memories of the sticky floors, the sticky seats, gone now … forever.
I hadn’t been to the Luna in about 20 years. So what? I haven’t watched “American Bandstand” for 20 years, but I liked knowing it was still there.
If you remember the Luna, please join me in a moment of silence. If you don’t remember the Luna, but if you ever went to a neighborhood movie house in your youth, feel free to join in. And be glad, at least, that we still have Dick Clark.
CHICAGO TRIBUNE (December 10, 1997)
“Final Curtains Coming Down on Met Theater — Community Split on Whether Razing of Landmark is Loss”
by Jerry Thomas
Toni Constonie circled the streets around the old Metropolitan Theater all morning Tuesday. From her blue van, she kept an eye out for the wrecking ball crew.
But neither her vigilant watch, nor the protests she helped organize, nor the last-minute calls she made around the city could save this once-popular show house at 4640-48 S. King Drive in the city’s Grand Boulevard neighborhood.
The city decided on Tuesday to finally tear down the building, which had lingered in demolition court for almost 10 years. A construction crew arrived shortly after noon with a crane for the four-week project of razing the 81-year-old, red brick and terra cotta building, which closed in 1979.
The order to raze the building has caused mixed reaction in a neighborhood trying to recapture its legacy as the center of entertainment and commerce in the African-American community.
“We are much concerned and very angry that they will move ahead with the demolition without the support of the citizens from the 3rd Ward,” said Harold Lucas, president of the Black Metropolis Convention and Tourism Council, a community organization.
But some neighborhood residents only questioned why demolition took so long.
“When I was going there, rats were running across the stage; I saw more rats than actors,” said a middle-aged man who declined to give his name.
For those who joined picket lines, made appearances in court and telephoned elected officials and preservationists in an attempt to save the building, the Met is one of the last landmarks along the old 47th Street entertainment and business corridor, where blacks could also shop for food and clothing. Operation PUSH once used the theater as a meeting place.
“I am disappointed, but it’s not the first building I lost,” said Constonie, mentioning the Jordan Center, at 35th and State Streets, and the Regal Theater, 47th and King. “(The Regal) was one of the most famous buildings, only second to the Apollo in Harlem. We had it torn down for a parking lot.”
Opponents of the demolition also see the city’s action as evidence that elected officials do not value landmarks in the black community as much as they do in other neighborhoods. Two years ago, the community stopped the demolition of the Supreme Life Building at 35th and King, and now that property will be converted into a visitors information center, Lucas said.
About 1,500 residents, he said, had signed a petition objecting to the Met being razed; Lucas said several entrepreneurs have expressed interest in the building.
Much of the neighborhood criticism is aimed at Ald. Dorothy Tillman (3rd), whose office sits directly across the street from the Met. Several people questioned why she has failed to find an adaptable use for the property, and they hold her accountable for allowing somebody to steal the terra cotta symbols from the building.
Tillman said the criticism against her is politically motivated by those seeking her ward seat.
She stressed that she prevented the building from being torn down for the past eight years because she got a stay of protection.
Now, however, she supports the demolition because the building has been deemed structurally unsound and she believes construction of the long-awaited Lou Rawls Cultural and Resource Center will begin next year. “We will look like Chinatown and Greektown,” she said.
City officials, however, reject the claim they were not protecting the best interest of the community.
“I think everyone realizes the city is totally in favor of rehabbing when the resources are there. I personally feel like nobody can argue that point,” said Kathleen Walsh, public information officer for the Department of Buildings. Walsh said she didn’t have information available on the current owners of the Met.
“Sometimes,” she said, “I think the city gets unfairly blamed when it is the owners of these properties who have walked away, and then the burden does become that of the community. It represents the challenges we face. What happens tomorrow if a child gets raped in that building? Then, it is the city that did not move fast enough.”
CHICAGO SUN-TIMES (December 7, 1997)
“The past peels away — Return trip to Roseland"
by Curtis Lawrence
I guess it’s an exercise repeated generation after generation. We trek back to our childhood neighborhoods looking for pieces of the past.
My dad, who grew up in Englewood, still does it. Even though in his late 70s, he’s often in awe that many of the houses where he and his three sisters grew up are now gone.
Recently, my trek was to Roseland. I’ve been back within the last several years and have seen the demise of former haunts – the Roseland Theater on 113th Place and Michigan and Gately’s Peoples department store on 112th.
The Roseland, where my brother and I would go to see movies like “Cotton Comes to Harlem” back in the 1970s, is now boarded up.
Looking through one of the open windows recently, I could see the paint peeling off the walls.
The signs are still up for Gately’s, but it’s been long closed and chopped up into smaller stores like Giant Beauty Supply.
So I found myself wearing the same puzzled look my dad often wears when he goes back to Englewood. To try to figure things out, I looked up a former teacher who still lives in Roseland, and a longtime housing activist.
“It was abandoned by a lot of people who should not have abandoned it,” said J. Quinn Brisben, my old history teacher at Harlan High School who has lived near 100th and Cottage Grove for more than 30 years.
“A lot of people thought it was the end of the world,” said Brisben, who is white.
“I tried to tell them it wasn’t.”
I wouldn’t have expected Brisben to go anywhere. He’s a longtime civil rights activist and was a former member of the Congress of Racial Equality. I even had the privilege of voting for him when he ran for U.S. president on the Socialist Party ticket in 1992.
But many of his white neighbors did pull out, with businesses and jobs hot on their trail.
While the main business strip on Michigan Avenue was hit hardest, Brisben said large parts of Roseland haven’t changed much.
It’s still a working-class neighborhood, with faces changed from white to black. And the housing stock is starting to make a comeback.
“A number of people have gotten their places fixed up and you don’t see the boarded-up windows like you used to.”
Willie Lomax, longtime director of the Chicago Roseland Coalition for Community Control, sees it too.
“In the last five years, Roseland has begun to turn around,” Lomax said. Banks, some encouraged by lawsuits, have done better jobs of investing in the community.
A mini-mall at 115th and Michigan is on the horizon and Lomax said he’s more optimistic than he’s been in a long time.
Lomax, who was a janitor at the old Walgreens on 111th and Michigan in the 1950s, knows the story of Roseland better than just about anybody.
But there are days when even he’s stunned by the transformation.
“Sometimes you look at the vacant lots and the abandoned buildings and you say to yourself, `What happened?‘”