The Last Picture Shows

Once the grandest attractions in their small towns, these nine movie houses were dusty relics of bygone days—until we brought the lights up one last time.

Now showing at Texas’ vintage movie houses: a film of dust. The old-fashioned single-screen theaters that dominated small-town life for more than half a century are boarded up and falling down. They have become the architectural equivalent of silent movies — mute reminders of a vanished age that were eclipsed by grander amusements. Defunct picture palaces and storefront theaters remain highly visible monuments to abandonment; often centered on Main Street or the town square, their prominent marquees and eye-catching decor are at once familiar and forgotten. No other small-town icon remains as affecting or as forlorn.

As early as 1907 “nickel madness” swept the country. Preachers, teachers, and other moralists of the day railed against movie theaters showing inexpensive and dubious entertainments. But hedonism prevailed. Texans — most of whom, like that era’s Americans in general, were staunchly rural — particularly welcomed the advent of the movie house as a source of diversion after a week of hard work. By 1912 even hamlets like McGregor, just west of Waco, boasted their own cinemas. Theaters ranged from the 1,300-seat Texas in San Angelo — huge for the region — to the tiny 200-seat Rivas in Eden. Most early theaters were open on weekends only; full-time operation arrived only after World War II.

Many Texas theaters started life as opera houses, such as the Grand in Electra; when it opened there in 1920, it was the fourth theater in a town of eight thousand and included eight dressing rooms for the traveling troupes purveying operettas, minstrel shows, and trained-animal acts. As the popularity of cinema mushroomed, the Grand’s owners converted the orchestra pit into extra seating and installed a screen on the stage where vaudevillians had once pranced. Many theaters, like Big Spring’s Ritz, featured a pipe organ to provide sound effects for silents, and others, like San Angelo’s Texas, rented luxurious box seats.

As necessary alteration to older theaters — and an integral part of newer ones — was the projectionist’s room, where the massive, heavy film projectors unreeled the night’s double feature. In the thirties and forties, projectionists weren’t merely button pushers but skilled workmen who could not only operate the complex machines but repair them too. Because early film was treated with nitrate, it was highly flammable, and many theaters reassured patrons by implementing extensive fireproofing measures. At the Texan Theater in Junction, the tiny projector room was lined with metal. If a fire burned out of control, the devoted technician on duty would be history, but the paying audience would be safe. By the forties, another newfangled essential was air conditioning, often described puffily as “hygienic ventilation” or “pure washed air.”

Every Texas town of a few hundred or more had its Grand or its Plaza or its Palace. Less commonly, names reflected a town’s heritage or pride: New Braunfels had the Brauntex, Edinburg boasted the Citrus, and Nacogdoches possessed the SFA (for Stephen F. Austin). But across the state, in big cities and small towns alike, the most popular theater name of all was the Texas or Texan:

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