The 1920 Apollo and Times Square Theatres--223 W 42nd Street

By the time that World War I erupted in Europe, the theater district had essentially left 23^rd Street and relocated around Longacre Square; recently renamed Times Square.  On June 22, 1919 The New York Times reported on the coming of two more theaters.

“The two new houses now in course of construction are to be known as the Times Square and the Forty-second Street.  They are to be located on the north side of West Forty-second Street, adjoining the Lyric Theatre and directly across the street from the New Amsterdam Theatre.”

Brothers Edgar and Archibald Selwyn had founded the theatrical production company The Selwyns.  Their two new theaters would be unusual in that they would appear to be a single structure.  The Selwyns had commissioned architects De Rose & Persira to design their theaters, with George L. Keister acting as consulting architect.  The completed structure would resemble a colonnaded 18th century English "terrace" with a rusticated granite base supporting a grand classically-inspired loggia.

Winged beasts incorporated in the carved capitals blend with the classical motif of the frieze.  One section of the bronze grill, left, survives.

The Times remarked “The new structures represent the last word in theatres.  Each contains numerous innovations.  Perhaps the most important improvement to be noted in connection with the new building will be what in effect amounts to air cushions built on the street sides.  The result will be to render the auditoriums practically soundproof.”

The theaters would share a large marquee, adding to the illusion of a single structure.  The Times Square, entered at the right, had a seating capacity of 1,200 while the Forty-Second Street Theatre (quickly renamed The Apollo) could seat 1,100.

The construction of the theaters was a major undertaking.  “The negotiations leading to the purchase of the property and the erection of the theatres, which involves an investment of close to two million dollars…is one of the largest theatrical enterprises undertaken in the city in several years,” said The Times.

A month before The Times article, the Real Estate Record & Builders’ Guide had reported that construction had been resumed after being “halted by the war.”  “It is hoped to have them completed and ready for occupancy by the opening of the autumn theatrical season.”

The Apollo opened on November 17, 1920 with “the youthful” Oscar Hammerstein’s musical comedy, Jimmie.  The New York Times noted “The Apollo will be devoted exclusively to musical shows.” 

“There is a story about a homeless waif defrauded of her inheritance,” said the newspaper of Jimmie. “To say nothing of the girls.” 

Despite the assertion that only musical shows would play here, the following year Lionel Barrymore opened in MacBeth.  Like Jimmie, it was not well received.  In 1922 the Selwyn’s staged the first of a few plays with mostly black actors.  Sidney Bechet and Alberta Hunter appeared in How Come. 

In the meantime the Selwyns had scored a coup when they enticed Florence Reed to leave her producer and open The Times Square on October 5, 1920 in The Mirage.  "Edgar Selwyn has evolved a play which he believes to be suited to Miss Reed, and since he is one of the producers in the case it would not be surprising to find this the piece in which Miss Reed opens the Times Square,” announced The Times on Jun 13, 1920.

Channing Pollack’s The Fool opened at the Times Square Theater on October 23, 1922.  One young actress, Sara Sothern was deemed by Theatre magazine to be “outstandingly fine” while judging the rest of the cast to be “creditable but not startling.”  The 27-year old starlet would eventually be forgotten for anything other than being mother to Elizabeth Taylor.

Andre Charlot’s Revue of 1924 opened on January 9 “With three of the most popular London revue comedians as its starts,” said The New York Times.  Called “Frequently brilliant in idea and thoroughly English,” it starred Beatrice Lillie and Gertrude Lawrence.

Gertrude Lawrence as she appeared in Charlot's Revue of 1924 photo by White Studio from the Collection of the Museum of the City of New York http://collections.mcny.org/C.aspx?VP3=SearchResult&VBID=24UP1GIUPTAD&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=894

The Selwyns took a chance when they opened The God of Vengeance next door at the Apollo on February 19, 1923.  As John H. Houchin points out in his Censorship of the American Theatre in the Twentieth Century, “The God of Vengeance contained more than enough provocation for censors.  Aside from the theme of homoerotic love, it dealt with prostitution, took place in a brothel, and clearly implied…that the respectable ‘upstairs’ was supported by the sordid ‘downstairs.’”

Critics called the play sickening and it quickly garnered the attention of authorities.  On March 7, 1923 The Times reported “Two managers and twelve members of the cast of the tragedy, ‘God of Vengeance,’ now being presented at the Apollo Theatre in West Forty-second Street, were indicted yesterday for violating the penal code in giving an alleged indecent, immoral and impure theatrical performance.”

It took jurors only 90 minutes to convict the players.  Before releasing the defendants on $300 bail, Judge McIntyre said he was pleased with the verdict which would have a “wholesome effect on the theatrical profession.”  He added it “the time had come when the drama must be purified.”

The Apollo Theatre got back to presenting lighter fare and in 1924 opened George White’s Scandals.  White had danced in Florenz Ziegfeld’s Follies before producing his own revues in 1919.  The Scandals would feature scores of box office draws like Ann Pennington, comedians Willie and Eugene Howard and Harry Richman, dancer Ray Bolger, and Ed Wynn. 

Mae Clark appeared with Ed Wynn in "Manhattan Mary," a sketch in Scandals photo by Edward Thayer Monroe from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York http://collections.mcny.org/C.aspx?VP3=SearchResult&VBID=24UP1GIUPTAD&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=894

On August 4, 1924 a woman in the audience of Scandals left her seat to get a drink of water.  Unfortunately, she was unaware of the difference between a paper cup dispenser and a fire alarm box.  The Times reported the following day that “In a few minutes West Forty-third Street, in the rear of the theatre, was jammed with fire apparatus and curious crowds.”

Theater attendant Katie Lorenson explained “The woman broke open the door of the fire-alarm box and turned the hook.  I met her as she and two other women were returning to their seats upstairs.  She said: ‘I was thirsty and I thought that red thing in there was the cover of an apparatus which would release a drinking cup.  When I turned it, one of my friends here told me that I had sent in a fire alarm.  Don’t tell anybody until I get back in my seat.’”

Astonishingly, Deputy Fire Chief Ross “viewed the 1,500 spectators at the show through a hole in the scenery and satisfied himself that they had not paid the slightest attention to the clanging of the gongs of the fire apparatus as it drove up to the stage entrance.”

The Times Square Theatre was home to several hits, including The Front Page which opened in 1928, directed by George S. Kaufman and ran for 281 performances.  Another hit was George Gershwin’s Strike Up The Band which opened in January 1930 and ran for 191 performances, followed by Noel Coward’s Private Lives.  It opened on January 27, 1931 and lasted for 256 performances.  Katherine Cornell appeared here in A Bill of Divorcement.

Noel Coward and Gertrude Lawrence in Private Lives at The Times Square Theatre -- photo from the collection of the New York Public Library

The Depression years hit Broadway hard and theater owners scrambled to draw customers.  In 1934 the owner of The Apollo, Max R. Wilner and his Okaybud Corporation, filed for a license to operate the theater as a burlesque house.  Commissioner Paul Moss refused the request.  Moss testified “that the type of show given by Wilner at the Irving Place Theatre, which he expected would be offered at the Apollo, is ‘raw.’”

Wilner appealed and Supreme Court Justice Koch reversed Moss’s decision.  It was the end of legitimate theater at the Apollo.  But in 1937 Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia put an end to all burlesque licenses and the last burlesque show at the Apollo was in November that year.  The following year the Apollo Theatre screened motion pictures only.

The conversion of the Apollo to a movie theater followed the lead of the Times Square Theatre three years earlier.  On April 13, 1934 The Times had reported “A five-year lease has just been signed whereby Harry and William Brandt will show continuous movies here; in the house that in recent years held Noel Coward’s ‘Private Lives’ and “Clear All Wires.’  This season, however, it has remained dark.”

In the 1930s both theaters had become movie houses -- photo from the collection of the New York Public Library

The conversion was not without its troubles.   In 1935 disgruntled members of the Allied Motion Picture Operators Union picketed movie houses and on August 15 they chose the Times Square.  Before the night was over 17 pickets were arrested--15 charged with disorderly conduct, one with assault and another with interfering with an arresting officer.

In October 1936 the theater was a target again when, with nearly all the 1,100 seats filled, there was a loud explosion near the orchestra.  “Members of the audience said afterward that it sounded like a pistol shot, and many thought there had been a shooting.  Word passed around that some one had attempted suicide, and most of the spectators, curious to learn what had happened, kept their seats,” said The Times on October 11.

And then the smell came.  The explosion was a home-made tear gas bomb that sent the patrons rushing into the street.  “Tears were streaming from the eyes of men and women, and others, who had left hats, coats and other belongings inside, were undecided whether to brave the fumes to retrieve their belongings or remain in the fresh air.”

In reporting the incident, The Times called the Times Square Theatre “a second-run motion picture house.”

Delicate carving recalling the 18th century Adams style go unnoticed by 42nd Street pedestrians.

The Apollo Theatre avoided similar labor troubles by screening mostly foreign films.  Movies like the Russian drama Lenin in October played in July 1938; and the French film Thunder Over Paris starring Erich Von Stroheim premiered June 27, 1940.  Russian films were a favorite here.  The foreign productions with their English subtitles brought in an unexpected audience.  Variety noted on May 7, 1947 that The Apollo had become a favorite for the deaf.  The subtitles made movie-going enjoyable those who relied on them to follow the plot.

The 42^nd Street area around Times Square became crime-ridden and sleazy in the second half of the 20^th century.  The Times Square Theatre, once filled with patrons in evening clothes, was repeatedly robbed at gun point throughout the 1950s.  The Apollo was briefly used as a night club in the 1970s; but that effort, too, failed.

The area around the theaters had grown seedy in 1984 -- photo by Andreas Fieininger from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York http://collections.mcny.org/C.aspx?VP3=SearchResult&VBID=24UP1GIUPTAD&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=894

The elegant classical-fronted theaters sat empty and neglected; and was finally condemned.  In 1990 the City and State reclaimed the property and in 1992 was given “protection” by the New 42^nd Street organization.  The interiors of the Apollo were gutted to become part of the often renamed Ford Center for the Performing Arts; the Hilton; the Foxwoods Theatre; and finally in 2014 the Lyric Theatre.

non-credited photographs taken by the author
many thanks so Sean Khorsandi for suggesting this post

The Lost 1888 Home Bank -- No. 303 W. 42nd Street

In 1927 the building is prepared for demolition.  At the curb the bank's dust-covered street clock survives for now. --photo by Wurts Bros., from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York http://collections.mcny.org/C.aspx?VP3=SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UAYWDMPMPM&SMLS=1&RW=1366&RH=605

In 1887 the neighborhood around Eighth Avenue and 42^ndStreet was far different from the high-toned Fifth Avenue three blocks to the east.  Part of the notorious Hell’s Kitchen district, industrial firms like tanneries still operated closer to the river and poverty and squalor filled the tenement-lined streets.  But already, commerce and development were pushing as far eastward as Eighth Avenue.

James and Mary O’Reilly lived in a three-story wooden house at No. 303 42^nd Street.  St. Patrick’s Day 1887 for the O’Reilly’s would be a happy one.

Steps away from the O’Reilly’s frame home, at the southeast corner of Eighth Avenue and 42^nd Street, the Home Bank had been doing business since 1883.  Now bank officers looked to expand and improve with a new building.  In February 1887 the Home Bank purchased the O’Reilly property for $10,000—approximately $237,000 in today’s dollars.

Later that year, in August, the bank announced its plans to build a one-story bank building, rising to two-stories in the rear.  For its $26,000 building the bank had chosen the architectural firm of Thom & Wilson.  Although the architects would go on to design a few prominent structures—the Centre Street Criminal Courts Building, the impressive Nevada Apartments, and the Harlem Court House among them—they would be most well-known for their innumerable rows of speculative cookie-cutter rowhouses they cranked out for developers.

There would be nothing cookie-cutter about the new Home Bank building, however.  Completed in 1888, the granite clad structure pretended hard to be three stories rather than one.  The Real Estate Record and Builders’ Guide took note of the gamble the bank made in the marginal neighborhood.  “Just beyond 8^th avenue there is an experiment which seems to be safe enough, whatever may be the fate of the quarter, in the shape of  'The Home Bank,’ though the title indicates the belief of the bankers that its neighbors will continue to be dwelling houses.”

Thom & Wilson took the liberty of melding styles, invoking some displeasure on the part of the Real Estate Record and Builders’ Guide.

“It is a modest attempt in one way, being a building of one story, though the transoms of the openings may represent either a floor or a gallery, and it occupies one lot,” reported The Guide.  “There is nothing bashful or retiring in its architecture, which is, on the contrary of a pretentious and stentorious kind.  The material is granite, with a steep slated mansard ridge with copper.  The entrance is a projecting porch, a round arch carried upon columns with Roman Ionic capitals, and the shafts rusticated like those of the Post-office, though here also they are monoliths.  The dropped keystone of the arch which these columns support is decorated with a Renaissance grotesque, and the spandrels are filled with ineffectual ornament, and the feature completed by a round pediment filled with a fan-like shell.”

The Real Estate Record and Builders’ Guide was never shy about lavishing praise or exacting ruthless criticism.  After describing the facade in detail, the critic returned to panning the design.  “The party walls are shown on each side of the roof coped with granite, and resting at the cornice line upon corbels in the form of Renaissance beasts.  This is the most effective feature in the building, though the detail is not good.  For the rest the bank is distinctly of what everybody recognizes as the soda-fountain style.  It is heavy and clumsy without looking really massive, mainly because its solidity is greatest at the top, and is not a specimen of architecture so much as of ‘fancy stone cutting.’”

Despite the Record and Guide’s assessment, the new Home Bank building represented a step up for the still tenuous block.  Two years later real estate developer S. J. Jayne would point to the building as proof of positive development.  “The House Bank on 42d street, west of 8^thavenue, shows that the overflow from the 8^th avenue corners has betaken itself to the street.”

Since 1882 the head cashier had been Howard L. Bain who earned a satisfying salary of $3,500 a year in 1893—around $87,500 today.  That year The New York Times described him as “about thirty-five years old.  He has a wife and two little children, and for some time his invalid mother and two of his sisters have been with him, it is said.”

Bain lived in a four-story frame house with a large front yard on the north side of 83^rd Street between Ninth and Tenth Avenues.  Perhaps in an effort to better support the seven family members in that home, he took to playing the stock market.  But, as reported in newspapers later, “he bought stocks low, they went lower.”

In a panic to buy more stocks to make up the losses, he stole $16,185 in bonds from the bank in 1893.  By mere accident the President discovered the loss and Bain confessed.  He resigned, but the bank refused to notify the police.  Bank Director George Starr told reporters when the story leaked out, “I am sorry for Bain.  Why I would trust that man with my pocketbook.  He wouldn’t take a dollar out of your pocket.”

Mrs. Bain soon wondered why her husband was not going to work.  “Last Saturday,” reported The New York Times on September 15, 1893, Mrs. Bain went to the Home Bank and asked what was the trouble with her husband.  He had been home two weeks or more, she said, keeping close indoors and apparently brooding over some trouble, but had refused to divulge anything to her or his relatives.”

She was told of the theft and went home “astounded.”  She said he was “a frugal man and rarely spent more than $30 for a suit of clothes.”

Not only did the bank officers sympathize with Bain and his circumstances, they had hoped to keep the loss, which was covered by insurance, from the public.  But when the story leaked out, Bain was arrested and sent to The Tombs awaiting trial.  The Home Bank immediately went into motion to have him released.

Judge Fitzgerald was handed a stack of resolutions asking that sentence be suspended.  In his letter, bank President Stephenson noted that in the 23 years Bain had worked in banks he had never stolen money “which he could have taken if he intended to be dishonest.”  Stephenson called him “an unfortunate young man” and pointed out the “wife and two children, a mother and two sisters dependent upon him for support.”  He promised that he would secure a first-class bookkeeper job for Bain if he were released.

Stephenson then turned to the press to obtain public support.  He told reporters “I know that he has no vices.  He does not drink or smoke.  He has lived in a quiet, modest manner with his family, and has been a dutiful husband, son, and brother.  He has not got a dollar in the world, all he had and took having been swallowed up in his unfortunate speculation.”

Regardless of the stack of testimonies in his favor, however, Bain’s reputation in Victorian New York was dashed.

While the dramatic situation played out on 42^ndStreet, the Corn Exchange Bank was building its new headquarters downtown.  Founded in 1853, the retail bank was now prosperous enough to hire Robert Henderson Robertson to design an 11-story skyscraper at Nos. 11 to 15 William Street.  The new structure would be completed the following year, in 1894.

In 1899 the Corn Exchange Bank began gobbling up smaller banks in an astounding acquisition move.  That year it absorbed the Astor Place Bank, the Hudson River Bank of the City of New York and the Queens County Bank.  A year later it would have the Home Bank in its sights.

On February 16, 1900 the fate of the Home Bank was clearly evident.  The Boston Evening Transcript reported “The absorption of the Home Bank, at 303 West Forty-second street, by the Corn Exchange Bank, has been practically completed.”  Six days later The New York Times added “The Directors of the Corn Exchange Bank met yesterday and ratified the proposition to merge with the Home Bank of Forty-second Street and Eighth Avenue.”

Eight years later, on June 3, 1908, an eerie case of déjà vuoccurred at No. 303 West 42^nd Street.  Like Howard L. Bain 15 years earlier, Charles T. Muir was one of the bank’s most trusted employees.  But in 1903 he began embezzling funds.  As a receiving teller, he was able to cover the shortages by substituting new deposits.  Problems came on July 31, 1908 when, due to his exemplary service, Muir was promoted to paying teller.  With the new position, he was no longer able to manipulate the funds.

On June 3 bank officers approached Muir about a discrepancy of $9,068 in his accounts.  He asked to be excused “until he could obtain a deposit ticket to explain the matter,” reported the Spokane, Washington’s The Spokesman-Review that afternoon.

The newspaper recounted that Muir “went to the basement and, after writing a brief confession that his accounts were short, shot himself in the head.  He died within an hour at the hospital.”

In 1927 the officers of the Corn Exchange Bank agreed to demolish its 39-year old 42^nd Street branch building.  A year later the bank’s new 12-story sliver building was completed.  Before long the  quirky little one-story bank building that so annoyed a Victorian architectural critic would be totally forgotten.

The architects of the 1927 replacement sliver building no doubt expected it to eventually be surrounded by equally-tall structures. photograph by the author