Two more old theaters (and one new one)

It's two hours past midnight and I can't stop thinking about theaters. Is..is there something wrong with me? Probably. Anyway, I know I just posted about theaters, but I don't think I can sleep until I unload a little bit.

We took a small-highway exploration drive back from Fort Smith last weekend, both to avoid the monotony of the interstate, and to scour some small towns for ghost signs. But I also found things like this!



The Savage theater (what an awesome name) in Booneville is one of the more recent of the theaters we've talked about, having opened in 1947 with a movie called Suddenly in Spring. The facade could use a paint job, and the plastic letters in the marquee look like they haven't been changed since 1947, but the Savage otherwise is a pretty nice piece. It evidently still shows movies on weekends, too.



The Strand lies in the faraway world of Rockland, Maine. You can always tell the older small theaters by their entirely-brick structure, sometimes with retail spaces sandwiching the main entrance. The Strand was built in 1923. Here's a postcard from the official site from its good ol' days:



Not much has changed! The theater remained in full operation right up until 2000, even having its balcony renovated to make way for a second screen. Then, some nearby multiplex bought it. Did they use their power to restore the building, bringing about a new genesis for the 87-year-old venue? No. They just closed it. Did I say something about being positive about the 21st century? I'm taking it back now.

But fortunately this story has a happy ending. The theater was bought in 2004 by a local admirer, who managed to get it restored and reopened by 2005. The reopening was celebrated by a block party and a showing of Buster Keaton's The General. Admission was priced at 25 cents, harking back to a more awesome time. Maine: the way life should be. It's true.

Next, here's a New Theatre for you.



You don't see it? Take a closer look.



Whoa! That is a ghost of a ghost sign. So yes; I lied. The New Theatre, located in downtown Fort Smith, Arkansas, is actually the oldest theater in this post, having opened in 1911 as a Vaudeville stage. The first inkling I got of this lost treasure was from this remarkable facade:



The (marble, I believe) title above the awning reads "Sparks, 1922." On the right and left of the awning are two retail spaces, now used for a small cafe and a used book store, respectively. Under the awning is this art deco door:



The lady in the bookstore kindly informed me that this door was once an entrance to the New Theatre, which she referred to as the "Old Malco Theater." The New was bought by the Malco company in the 40s and was then switched to an entirely movie-centric venue. Around the corner is what I believe to be the original entrance.



The 1911 date coincides with the same year the New was built, and shares an architect with the bookstore's facade ("Sparks," who I know nothing about). Some of the concrete blocks making up the sides of the facade are chipped and missing like teeth. Whatever decorative entrance used to be under the grand arch is now covered with plywood and modern steel doors, and Christmas lights adorn the covering. Two great rusted chains, which might have once supported a marquee, now dangle pointlessly. And take a look at the gargoyle-esque head in the middle of the arch:



Click to enlarge; somewhere down the line he seems to have partially swallowed a wasp nest.

When we peered through the windows at street level, we could see tremendous, vaulted ceilings and decaying areas which obviously once held chandeliers. Mold and rot had built up everywhere. On my new favorite site I was able to find a picture of the interior of the New Theatre:



It's a small image, but still. Good Lord. I am informed that a then-relatively-unknown Al Jolson performed here once upon a time.

As the pictures might tell you, the tale of the New Theatre does not have a happy ending like that of the Strand. It's a gigantic and painstakingly beautiful product of a time when our entertainment spaces were just as amazing as the entertainment itself. And it's been left here, deserted, to decompose since 1980. Is it funny, that we travel to places like Paris and London for their meticulously preserved streets and buildings, when we used to have the same things? We've just let asphalt and Alzheimer's pave them over. But I guess it's time to lay the New Theatre, disdain for progress, and myself to rest. Perhaps someday I'll come to forgive my culture for being too eager for its own good. But that day is not today.

-Jonesy

The Maine Eastern Railroad

Young Luke was a homeschooled lad. Motivating children to educate themselves takes a little bit of incentive, and my mother was pretty good at that. One of her solutions to this problem was the "mailbox item," in which she would place a small reward-item in a wicker basket attached to her bedroom door. When I finished my work for the day, the mailbox item would be mine. The prizes ranged from candy to small toys. But one day, I reached into the basket and found a ticket with a brochure. Upon the brochure was a photograph of a dynamic green-and-yellow diesel locomotive.

I knew this train because we had seen it crossing the tracks at Wiscasset, a little village we had to drive through to get to Brunswick or Portland. It was a leisure train, just operating for the sake of the ride. But I didn't know that, all that mattered is I got to ride it.

Something like 15 years later, while Jenna and I were on our honeymoon in Maine, I remembered that train. I decided to see if it still existed.



It did.

A little bit of internet research yielded the name of the railroad, the Maine Eastern Railroad, and a travel schedule. The trains ran from Brunswick to Rockland, a distance of about 50 miles.



The railroad's stop in Brunswick was little more than a gravel parking lot with a tiny wooden kiosk serving as a station: Brunswick's original station is long gone (much to my surprise; most historical buildings in Maine are revered). The railroad usually offers a dining car and a first-class car, but as this was the train's first weekend of service for the season they hadn't gotten those yet. We were treated to the standard passenger car.



For all I've said about the superiority of train travel, I...was pretty much exactly right. The car was so much more comfortable than really any kind of transportation I've ever experienced, except for maybe charter buses. A lot better than first-class air travel, even. The cars were air-conditioned, roomy and offered a look at the beautiful countryside and towns of Maine. As we got going, many of the residents of Brunswick stopped to stare and wave at us. I heard someone from the rowdy group of 40-somethings at the other end of the car say, "Let's be like the tourists and wave back!" So I did.



The train first stops in Bath, a former hometown of mine. Bath's station still stands (seen above) and was recently refurbished for the purpose of the Eastern Railroad. I asked one of the conductors about the history of the railroad, and he told me it had only been open a few years. But the trains, he said, have been operating on and off for a long time. So I must have ridden it at one of those intermittent times. We picked up a couple passengers in Bath, and then crossed the ghostly Carlton Bridge and made towards Wiscasset.

Wiscasset's station was a diminutive building resembling a standard Italianate depot, but looked like a hasty reconstruction to me. Nobody boarded the train at Wiscasset. A few of the 40-somethings yelled their affection for Red's Eats, a famous hot dog and lobster roll stand in the town.

The rest of the train ride was a beautiful 2-hour meander through the countryside of Maine. The track was lined with decaying telephone poles, some with wires drooping towards the ground. Occasionally we passed through a town, at least one having an abandoned train station. I spotted a few derelict Amtrak cars on a side track as we got close to Rockland.



Rockland's station is not only present, but completely renovated. One side of it is home to a Maine Eastern Railroad office and gift shop, and the other side is a new restaurant/bar.



We decided to eat lunch here, and I ate probably the most immense Reuben I've ever seen. The group of 40-somethings all plopped themselves down at the bar, and we left them there in favor of exploring Rockland for a couple hours before catching our return train.



Rockland is a formerly industrial town which has managed to clean up its image a little in recent years. It's home to the Wyeth-saturated Farnsworth museum, which was recommended to us by almost everyone in Maine. It has its supply of interesting shops and waterfront activities. We enjoyed them for a few hours and then got ready to board our train again.

Upon getting in our seats, we noticed some of the members of that group of 40-somethings were stumbling back onto the train.

It turned out the only reason they were in Rockland was to bar-hop in celebration of one of their friend's birthday. The purpose of using the train was to avoid having to select designated drivers. Our eyes widened as they all started pulling out giant cases of beer and hip flasks. This made it a little difficult for us to enjoy the scenery on the way back...

One of the group, probably the most drunk of them all, was a very loud woman who seemed to think Jenna and I were European (because I had made the somewhat foolish choice of wearing a suit for the trip, and because we didn't talk that much). She was positively riotous once she found out I was actually from Maine, and thereafter would, from time to time, pop into our booth, tug on my gold tie, and tell me, "You know--you know what? You're GOLDEN." This happened frequently until her friends started trying to hold her down. She could still be heard up and down the train informing various folks, "Hey! It turns out they're not European!"

Another guy in her booth tried to offer us booze a few times, but as it was like two or three in the afternoon, and since we're too snobby for Bud, we politely turned down his offers. His reaction was to ask us if we were born-again Christians, which we are. Once he knew that, he would go off onto little anti-Christian rants sort of to himself but sort of to the people in his booth at the same time. We could hear him, of course. Pleasant.

After ten or twenty drunken rounds of "Happy Birthday" and one passenger's complaint against the increasingly unruly 40-somethings (followed by another grumbling rant by our anti-Christian friend), we managed to make it back to Brunswick.

So did the behavior of our drunken car-mates make our train trip across Maine less awesome? No. No, it didn't. It just gave us a good story to tell. And it made me more ready for the return of train travel.



-Jonesy

Ghost Signs: Part 3

Location: Grayville, IL

Ghost Signs are prevalent not only in Arkansas, but all over the country. Whenever I'm driving anywhere, I'm always looking for signs. This sign in Illinois is still a mystery to me. I can make out the words "Mercury," "Book" and maybe "Job," but the rest is confusing. This sign's days are numbered.

But what I'd really like to talk about are the ghost signs I saw in Maine.


Location: Old Port, Portland

In Maine, the ghost signs aren't ghosts! Well, that's not entirely accurate. There isn't a paper company in that building, nor do I expect has there been in many years. But the sign has clearly been maintained and loved, just like almost everything with artistic value in Maine. Portland had the vast majority of the ghost signs I saw in Maine, but some other cities delivered as well.


Location: Camden

This is just the faint ghost of a ghost sign. Camden is a beautiful coast town close to Mount Battie, from the top of which Edna St. Vincent Millay derived the inspiration for the opening lines of her famous poem "Renascence."


Location: Rockland

When we got off of the Maine Eastern Railroad (more on that later) into Rockland, we did a good bit of exploring its excellent downtown. The above ghost sign seems to either be undergoing repainting, or the whole building is and the sign will soon be obscured. Millay was born in Rockland.


Location: Bath

My changing interests are reflected in this specimen, since when I actually lived in Bath I never noticed it. Now it's one of my favorites.


Location: Portland

Can you see this one? Trained eyes might notice the colossal "S" peeking out at the very top of this building that was probably once a factory. Note that all the windows are blocked in with cement now. When we walked around the perimeter, I noticed an artist has his studio in a small part of this building. Oh, Maine.

For the rest of this entry, I give you an exhaustive gallery of ghost signs found in Portland's old port. There are too many to give individual attention to each, so enjoy the pretty pictures. As always, click to enlarge!




Location: Also Portland

As a coda, I'd mention that while most modern wall-signage is reduced to the above sort of thing, a group in New York is doing something entirely different. A commentor on my previous post pointed me towards his blog, Ghost Signs, in which he and he fellows track down the signs in the United Kingdom. He also linked me to a video of the group I mentioned painting their own (classy) ads on buildings in NYC, streamed below.



So now when you're walking down your favorite downtown avenue and you see a fading ad for Nehi soda or Optima Flour, you can think of your old pal Luke.

-Jonesy