Old buildings have always fascinated me. I find myself drawn to their history, to reflections on what was going on in the world, in the nation, in that city when the building opened...as if the building at its birth was a snapshot of a time and place.
The Orpheum in downtown Wichita opened in 1922, thrived during the age of vaudeville, and showed films from the Golden Age of Hollywood when they were fresh from the studios. Its latter years were a struggle, and it deteriorated dramatically before closing in the mid-
70s.
It seemed doomed to demolition, like so many other historic theaters in Wichita, before a group of investors purchased it. Restoration has been slow and piecemeal, and there are times I wonder whether it'll be completed before the sun burns out.
But stepping into the theater for one of its periodic events reminds me of what's possible some day. The sense of history is unavoidable. Serving as an usher at Gridiron the other night, I looked up at the niches and wooden lattice work along the side walls, the massive arch that dominates the auditorium.
The theater is designed to resemble a garden in Andalusia. Having never been to Spain, I can't speak to how effectively it captures that atmosphere. But I nonetheless value the Orpheum's attempt to create a sense of place, so that what's on stage or screen isn't the only experience of the evening.
After the bane of cookie-cutter mall theaters that replaced so many movie houses, the Orpheum evokes times when a night at the cinema was an event. The Warren Theatres around the city have had success mirroring that concept, marrying it to modern technologies.
Yet I find myself thinking of the Orpheum every time I step into a Warren theater.
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