The Forrest Theatre tour took place on the final day of the League of Historic American Theatres National conference in Philadelphia. The LHAT program noted, “The Forrest is a quintessential ‘road house’, used primarily by touring theatre and dance companies. It was built in 1927 to compete with rival A.L. Erlanger’s planned new playhouse at Market and 21st Streets. The Shuberts intended the new playhouse–named after Edwin Forrest, the great Philadelphia born tragic actor of the nineteenth century–to surpass Erlanger’s new theatre in terms of size and splendor.”
Costing over $2,000,000, the structure was designed by architect Herbert J. Krapp. The space boasted wider seats in the orchestra and modern ventilation and electrical systems. Interestingly, the dressing rooms are housed in a separate building, connected to the stage by an underground tunnel. Theater representatives explained that the reason for this layout is still unclear.
In the 1990s, renovations included redecorating the grand lobby and accessibility improvements. By 2017, the auditorium and mezzanine lounge underwent extensive redecoration, as well as improvements to air conditioning and heating systems. During our visit, there was still work being completed and much was draped in plastic.
During our tour, we learned that the painted fire curtain had also been recently removed. Our tour guides explained that the painting was stunning, but then proceeded to cite the reasons for its removal. I understand that in many cases, encapsulation of an asbestos curtain may be cost prohibitive. When contemplating restoring an auditorium to its original splendor, millions of dollars will be spent. Yet often the original drop curtain, a painted element that often completed the auditorium’s décor, is left out of the conversation. I am fascinated with this omission.
As I contemplated the funds spent on the Forrest Theater’s auditorium and mezzanine lounged, I wondered why stopping at the proscenium opening was optional. After all, this is the focal point of the theater that every person faces while waiting for a show.
When I walk into a historic theater, or any theater for that matter, I look around the auditorium to briefly examine the space. This often occurs while trying to locate my seat. Even if I am fascinated with the architectural ornamentation, seldom do I stop, as there is often a stream of people behind me also navigating their way to a seat.
Once seated, I take in the space, to my right, left and above. Turning around to see the complete auditorium will often wait until my exit. Even the most ornate auditorium will not cause me to sit starring at the ceiling for extended periods of time while attending a performance. Like many, if not looking at my program or chatting with a companion, I will face the proscenium and patiently wait for the show. I like to think that I am not an anomaly and that my experience is similar to many who have attended the theater over the decades. As audience members, we face forward while waiting for a performance to begin. All told, a substantial amount of time is spent facing the proscenium opening. I can only hope that a painted front curtain, fire curtain, or decorative grand drape is filling that void. This is an integral part of the theatre experience. One may even note that whatever is hanging in the proscenium opening may be the pinnacle of the pre-show experience.
The 1894 newspaper article, “Well-known Drop Curtain in Philadelphia Theatres,” reported, “It is claimed by managers that a handsome drop curtain has much to do with the drawing qualities of the house. A charming landscape depicting the greenest of lawns, sparking fountains, rare shrubbery and bright flowers, the dimpled surface of a placid lake, with magnificent hills or rugged mountains in the distance to kiss the brightest fleecy clouds, forms an ensemble well calculated to put the audience in good humor to witness a play. And when let down between the acts it has a tendency to calm the soul after turbulent passages and rouses it to cheerfulness after tearful ones.” (“The Philadelphia Inquirer” on Dec. 18, 1894).
To be continued…
