Historical Collection Title Insurance and Trust Company

Orpheum

Recent statistics tell us that fewer people are attending movies now than ever; and correspondingly, Hollywood has been releasing fewer and fewer movies every year. The American film industry is going through a number of chaotic changes for a number of reasons, but one thing is certain: going out to the movies is not as important a part of people’s lives as it once was. Hollywood gradually lost the mass audience during the 60s and, with the exception of a few isolated superhits, hasn’t quite been able to retrieve it. Today, made-for-TV movies and TV-serialized novels provide the full-bodied story development that was once Hollywood’s specialty; and the growing popularity of technological alternatives like video cassettes, cable television (along with seven-foot home screens) has caused more than a few observers to fear that the theatrical motion picture—and with it the motion picture theater—could soon become a beautiful misty memory.

Whether or not this will happen, the movie exhibition business hasn’t been entirely stable for many years, and here in San Diego, several recent announcements have reflected the economic uncertainty of the times. The Mann theater chain closed downtown’s huge California in April and did the same in May with the Fox (both theaters are expected to reopen as “legit” houses). Mann also plans the construction of two multi-theater complexes near the Sports' Arena and in La Jolla. In addition, San Diego County’s neighborhood theaters, once the stronghold of the mass audience, are one by one going out of business or going to porno, the most recent cases of the latter being the Fine Arts in Pacific Beach and the Lakeside in Lakeside. Another page of history, it seems, is in the process of being turned.

Cabrillo

As in most large urban areas, San Diego movie theaters have been born in several distinct phases or spurts, each corresponding to the growth of the city as well as to the ups and downs of the film industry, and each reflecting different design concepts as regards the relationsnip of the public to the filmgoing experience. From the first nickelodeon to the latest shopping center multiplex, San Diego contains all that has been the best and the worst in theaters over the years. So let’s go back to the beginning.

San Diego’s first motion pictures were presented as special attractions by several downtown vaudeville houses. By 1905, ten years after the first movies were shown in this country at Koster and Bial’s Music Hall in New York, enterprising theaters like the Pickwick at 1037 Fourth, the Grand at Fifth and C, theEmpire at Fourth and F, and the Bijou on Fourth across from Horton Plaza were spicing their bills with the latest one- and two-reel photoplays released by Biograph, Kalem, Essanay, or Lubin. All of these theaters, of course, passed from the scene many years ago (though the Bijou’s building still stands), as have the several tiny storefront nickelodeons that opened their doors downtown as movies became increasingly popular during the first decade of this century. Often converted department stores, meeting halls, or ballrooms, they had names like the Palace, the Rialto, the Unique, the Princess, the Pasttime, and, of course, the Nickelodeon which was at other times called the Union and the Electridon. These little screening rooms had all-too-brief existences; the movie business was growing too fast for them to keep up.

The next-generation theaters, built during the teens, were conceived especially for the showing of films, though all were equipped to present vaudeville as well. (Throughout the teens and 20s, movies and vaudeville lived side-by-side in uneasy co-existence—much as movies and TV do today—and every new theater contained stage equipment and often split its bill between films and live acts.) Still operating today, though in states of deterioration, are the Plaza and the Cabrillo side-by-side on Horton Plaza, the Broadway at Broadway and Eighth and the Casino at 643 Fifth. Though their original facades have been obliterated by heavy renovation and huge, bulky marquees, their interiors remain much as they were. Built during the time when films like Birth of a Nation were finally making moviegoing a respectable activity for the middle and upper classes, their interiors are models of sober, uncluttered, neo-classic dignity. The Cabrillo and Broadway, especially, are severely rectangular (the former, high; the latter, wide), their wall and ceiling space carefully compartmentalized by beams and square columns, while the- smaller Plaza seems a little more eccentric, with many odd angles that play tricks with one’s perspective.

Two other long-time downtown houses, opened during this period, are no longer with us: the Queen, a small theater on Fifth between A and B, opened in 1909, was renamed Kinema, and from the early 20s until its destruction in 1969, was known as the Mission; and the Superba, at Third and C, one of the city’s deluxe houses until it was razed in 1937, its outside an interesting mix of Classical Revival elements with its circular box office and entrance surrounded by ionic columns, topped by a windowed dome.

Mission

San Diego’s first theatrical palace was the Spreckels, which opened in 1912. Though it was intended expressly for the legitimate stage, it deserves at least peripheral attention here since it ended up spending 46 of its 65 years showing motion pictures. Fortunately, the auditorium has been beautifully preserved in all its Baroque finery, which includes marble statuary and hand-painted ceiling murals. Its original color scheme was white with gold trim, set off against carpets, curtains, and seats of deep green. It wasn’t until 12 years later that movies were accorded such extravagance in San Diego.

The 1920s were the peak of grandiose eclecticism in American theater design. The public’s appetite for fantasy was seemingly insatiable, and San Diego at one time supported four sterling examples of the movie palace (five, counting the Spreckels), a relatively brief architectural phenomenon of the days when moviegoing was an exalted, almost religious ritual. In those days, going “out to the movies” meant being swallowed up by an exotic environment for a full evening, which usually included, along with a feature, comedy short, and newsreel, some sort of musical stage presentation and a concert on the theater’s organ. Though this city has nothing to quite match the hallucinogenic delights of theaters in the East or even in Los Angeles, we have our share of riches.

The Balboa, San Diego’s first movie palace (1924), is still an imposing structure at the corner of Fourth and E. Its six-story exterior is resplendent in Spanish Colonial (a popular style for years following the 1916 Balboa Park exposition), crowned by a tiled dome that echoed the railroad station several blocks to the west). Preserved close to its original condition, its tile sailing ship mosaic is still visible on the floor of the entrance foyer, though its original double box offices, on either side of the entrance, have given way to just one in the center. The auditorium, filling five stories, is in the style called Churrigueresque, a Spanish Baroque mode in which every available surface is broken up totally by carving and ornamentation. As designed by San Diego architect William Wheeler, the ceiling is patterned by intricately wrought beams and grillework (originally with hand-painted designs), and the stage area is dominated by two 16-foot, still-operating waterfalls set in huge, ornate niches on either side of the proscenium arch. The Balboa has been saved from the wrecker’s ball twice—first in 1959, again in 1972 when it was officially recognized as part of our cultural heritage.

The Orpheum at Fifth and B also opened in 1924. Built as a vaudeville house and first called the Pantages, it was bought by the Keith circuit in 1929 and given over to the movies— remaining a famous downtown palace until its destruction in 1964 to clear space for the First National Bank. The few remaining photos of its interior reveal that, like the Balboa, it was immersed in giddy, swirling Spanish Baroque.

The California at Fourth and C was opened in 1927 and soon replaced the Balboa as the city’s classiest movie house. The vast, cavernous auditorium is made to look all the more so by its curious lack of ostentation. It has the restrained, clean, classical lines of the pre-1920 theaters, with a gracefully curved balcony railing and stately columns down the side aisles.

The Fox at Seventh and B was the last of the city’s palaces, but it better resembles a cathedral. It opened to much fanfare and excitement one week after the stock market crash in 1929 with a huge premiere attended by, among others, Buster Keaton, Marie Dressier, and Victor McLaglen. Every penny of its two and one-half million dollar price tag is visible inside this giant, which, at nearly 3,000 seats and with a six-story auditorium, was by far the largest theater in town, and third largest in the state. Today, though its facade has been covered by incongruous modern brick and aluminum, its interior is preserved in its original lavish French Renaissance, adapted from various 17th Century churches and monasteries by W. Templeton Johnson and William P. Day of San Francisco. The lobby is a wonderland of mirrors, fountains, niches, and statuettes, along with a large fireplace and the original plush Hollywood Renaissance furniture. The richly decorated auditorium has a domed ceiling dominated by an enormous—and famous—chandelier (which supported an entire dancing troupe during the theater’s opening festivities).

Also during the late 20s, as the city’s population began spreading into the areas of Hillcrest and Normal Heights and east along University Avenue, the first major theaters began appearing outside the downtown area. The first of these was the North Park (1925), at 2895 University, purchased only last year by Calvary Chapel for services and occasional film showings. The interior has retained its original sparse, carefully placed Renaissance decor, which includes several elegant chandeliers and spiraling wall fixtures. The Carteri (1925) at 3315 Adams in Normal Heights was known for years as the Adams and finally closed in the 50s. Today it still stands, the property of the U.S. Navy for mysterious, nontheatrical purposes.

One of the more delightful excesses of San Diego’s eclectic 20s was the Egyptian, at Park Boulevard and University, undoubtedly inspired by the Grauman theater of the same name in Hollywood. Closed in the early 50s and reopened as the Capri, it is today not only reduced to showing "adult" features, but has been almost completely remodeled inside and out. As one drives by, though, its Hollywood Egyptian cornice can still be seen peeking out above the new entrance.

State

Further east, built on what was then the edge of the town, the Fairmount, at University and Fairmount, flourished for 20 years, was remodeled and renamed Crest, and demolished in the mid-50s. For the growing communities of North County, the La Paloma in Encinitas was opened in 1926. A prestigious "theater in its day (legend has it that Mary Pickford occasionally traveled there on horseback from her house in Rancho Santa Fe), its Spanish facade, tiled box office and entranceway scarcely prepare one for a highly decorative interior that has been described as Hollywood-Aztec-Babylonian. The La Paloma was closed for ten years and reopened in 1972, for rock concerts as well as movies, keeping the original decor but adding the innovation of couch-like reclining areas along each wall. Closed again recently and again reopened, the theater has returned to showcasing films and concerts.

The near-simultaneous arrival of sound and the Depression radically altered American theater design and theatergoing. The economic crisis demanded a more realistic direction for 20th Century life; the sound revolution brought about more realistic, down-to-earth motion pictures. The idealization of technology, which was the dominant motif of the 30s, gave birth to theaters that were compact, streamlined, uncluttered by ornament (but still decorative), and free of European tradition. New movie houses also broke the Final link with live theater by abandoning the pretense of a stage and proscenium arch, though the convention of the parting (or rising) curtain was retained by some of the classier houses. Exterior architecture began to take on a shape of its own: while downtown theaters had been hidden inside office buildings and dull mercantile blocks, the new structures were self-contained, with distinctive design that said “movie theater,” some of it remarkably eccentric.

The three San Diego theaters opened during the first few years of the 30s retained some last vestiges of 20s pretension. The Vista at 42nd and University had an imposing pseudo-Spanish facade and flourished into the late 40s when it existed briefly as the Roundup, the city’s First and only all-Western theater. The building still stands today, its facade intact, as a furniture store. The Hillcrest at Fifth and University was actually built in 1913 but had to close after a few years because of competition from downtown theaters. Refurbished by the Fox chain in the 30s and given a Mission-style front, complete with bell, it prospered into the 60s, and today, as the Guild, provides exclusively “adult” entertainment. Little record survives of the third house, the Ramona, built just up the street from the North Park at 30th and University and demolished in the mid-50s.

Those early sound years also saw the birth of a number of new theaters in San Diego’s outlying areas: the Seville in Chula Vista, the National and the Bay in National City, the Coronado, the La Mesa, and the El Cajon. Only the Bay and the El Cajon remain in operation today, the latter as an X-rated house.

The years immediately preceding America’s entry into World War II introduced more new neighborhood theaters like the Roxy (1939) in Pacific Beach, the Strand (now completely remodeled) in Ocean Beach, and three in the Logan Heights area: the Coronet (1939) at 1792 Logan, the Metro (a Spanish-language house, later renamed the Corral) at 2175 Logan, and the Victory (1941) at 25th and Imperial. The Victory and Coronet have vanished, the latter razed to make an entrance/exit for I-5, but the Metro’s building is still up, though in considerably deteriorated condition.

Two deluxe houses constructed just before the war were the State (1940) at 47th and El Cajon and the Tower (1941) at Broadway and India, the first downtown theater in 12 years. The latter, though it has made the inevitable shift to adult fare, is still an attractive structure with its tall, square-cornered sign and colorful, Oriental-flavored marquee.

Theater construction was suspended in San Diego, as it was all over the country, while the war raged on, but came back in grand style in 1945 with the huge and stylish Loma, at Midway and Rosecrans, placed strategically to take advantage of new Navy housing in that area. This theater, along with the aforementioned Roxy and State, completes a fascinating trio of late Art Deco elegance, the best the city has to offer of a style that might be called Streamlined Classicism. Their exteriors, solid and blocky, are offset here and there by ridges and curves, and the Loma and State are painted pure white to glow in the sun. Inside, their chief delight lies in the exquisite abstract murals painted on the walls and/or ceilings of their auditoriums. All three undoubtedly executed by the same artist or group of artists (all three theaters were built by Fox), the paintings are muted in color but boggle the eye with their twisting, swirling floral/botanical designs. The Roxy, in addition, features a restrained surf motif in the undulating walls of its auditorium. The State, with a distinctive green spire and portholed doors, gives us a large Deco bas-relief in its lobby, and in the auditorium a tiered ceiling, radiating out from the center of the screen and ending in thick plaster spirals along the sides. The Loma has two rather endearing Greco-Roman medallions set over its entrance, and its interior is composed almost entirely in circles and curves, with a dramatic ceiling configuration of wheels within wheels.

The postwar years, with people attending the movies in numbers unequalled before or since, saw the height of the neighborhood theater concept as small, compact houses popped up in almost all areas of the rapidly expanding city and its environs: the Cove and Granada in La Jolla, the Ken at 40th and Adams (the city’s only art house until the birth of the Unicorn), the Rio at 37th and University (now the Academy), the Linda at 6913 Linda Vista Road, the Helix in La Mesa, the Palm in Imperial Beach, the Village in Coronado, the Solana in Solana Beach, the Vogue in Chula Vista, and the Lakeside. All are still in operation today except for the Granada (at Girard and Wall), which only lasted into the 50s, the Helix and Linda, razed just last year, and the Solana, which closed in 1975, reopened briefly last year as an Organ Power Pizza, and closed again for further renovation.

San Diego’s first drive-ins also appeared just after the war. Though they had existed in some cities since the early 30s (called park-ins or car-view theaters), they didn’t really catch on until later, and the city received its first in 1946 with the Midway on Midway Drive, the Campus at 62nd and El Cajon Boulevard, the Rancho at Federal and Euclid, the Harbor in Chula Vista, and the unusual Cinema-Dine in Lemon Grove (“Dine and enjoy a show in the privacy of your own car”). This first generation of drive-ins can be recognized immediately by their bulky, decorative screen housings, some of which were also employed as storage buildings. The Midway, in fact, with its fortress-like wall, resembles a huge battleship cruising out of Mission Bay, and the Campus has an enormous, neon-lit mural and gives the impression of solidity and permanence with its screen recessed into a thick frame.

The television crisis of the 50s put an effective brake to theater construction across the country, and not a single new indoor house was built in San Diego during the entire decade (nine were closed). Drive-ins, though, continued to flourish with the growing car culture, and seven new ones were erected by 1961: the Alvarado (1954), Frontier (1957), Pacific (1959), South Bay (1960), Aero, Ace, Big Sky and Tu-Vu. This group has generally leaner, more functional design, the screens supported merely by struts, though the South Bay has lavished attention on its ticket booth and two-story concession/projection building with a nautical motif that includes railings on everything and false life preservers.

The film industry began to wake from its doldrums in the early 60s. This was the period of the multimillion dollar roadshow epic (beginning with Ben-Hur in 1959, peaking with Cleopatra five years later), and theater design returned briefly to the palace mentality. The rage was for glassy modernist boxes with hard-edged exteriors and spacious, cushioned interiors. Most of San Diego’s new palaces appeared along Mission Valley, the rapidly developing "second downtown,’’ and today, these theaters are still reserved for major first-run releases (while downtown houses have been relegated chiefly to fare for the action, sex, and horror crowds). The Cinerama (1962), the Cinema 21 (1963), the Center (later broken up into the Center 3), Clairemont and Grossmont (1965), and the Valley Circle (1966) all strive for a nondescript sort of grandeur (the style has been called Monumental Temporary), exactly the opposite of the sumptuous fantasies of the 20s. Only the Valley Circle, with its spread wings like a spaceship poised for takeoff, displays the slightest peculiarity. Their oversized interiors are likewise monochromatically carpeted and upholstered, every inch of wall space curtained.

Later in the 60s, as the industry went through its biggest identity crisis (until now), we see the return of smaller, more intimate theaters. Many large houses across the country, in fact, were divided into two, three, or four separate auditoriums. Storefront theaters made their comeback, only now as fly-by-night porno operations—with the glorious exception of La Jolla’s Unicorn (1964), the city’s only remaining art house and a haven of warm woodwork and relaxed ambiance.

A 60s trend that has prospered into the 70s is the shopping center multiplex, showing up in San Diego with houses like the Fashion Valley 4, Century Twin, College, as well as the UA Cinemas in El Cajon, Cinema Plaza in Carlsbad, and just last year, Del Mar’s Flower Hill Cinemas. These houses represent some sort of ultimate in bland functionalism and go farther than their giant predecessors in the direction of kitsch elegance. Accorded little individuality either outside or in (save for an occasional touch like imitation Victorian gaslamps), they are designed to harmonize with their mercantile surroundings, where the moviegoing experience becomes nothing but another shopping excursion, no different from purchasing a necktie or a set of steel-belted radials.

What’s next? Mann’s projected multiplexes, slated to open in early ’78, the first beside the Sports Arena and the other in a new shopping center at La Jolla Village Drive and Genesee, promise no great surprises. Are movie theaters doomed? Despite today’s confusion, that seems unlikely. Theatergoing is a unique experience that cannot quite be duplicated in the confines of one’s home. And as long as that experience remains special, the flavor and design of theaters will continue to reflect and influence popular culture—almost to as great an extent as the films themselves.