LOS ANGELES — Steve Needleman has some advice for Philadelphians on the issue of historic preservation, and that might sound odd, given that he works in a city where a starlet who turns 30 can be ancient history.
But since this guy just spent $3 million to restore one of America's great movie palaces, to the point where any second you expect George Burns or Charlie Chaplin to pass through the brass doors and ogle the topless bronze women on the light fixtures, you figure that he's qualified.
And what he says is, Save the Sameric Theater.
"Hey," he says, relaxing in the front row of his L.A. palace, his eyes flicking merrily from the 12-foot balcony chandeliers to the fleur-de-lis wall panels to the gleaming copper ceiling, "if you've only got one old palace left in the city, you save it.
"As a citizen, I believe that. These can't be replaced, no matter what the economic value. We need to save at least some of them for our kids."
With Philadelphia's sole remaining palace - also known by its original name, the Boyd - still shuttered and threatened by demolition, there is a great temptation to look with envy at Needleman's Orpheum Theatre, the crown jewel of L.A.'s original downtown, and at the whole Broadway district.
Here's the thing about downtown L.A.: Twelve historic theaters are still standing, in various states of disrepair - reputedly, the largest concentration of old palaces in the world. South Broadway is lined with battered beaux-arts and art deco facades that hearken back to the early '20s, when vaudevillian Jack Benny would cross the street between shows and woo Mary Livingstone at May's department store.
The past is palpable here. Inside the balcony barbershop at the Million Dollar Theatre, the cash register is stuck on 30 cents. Above the loge level at the Los Angeles Theatre, a musty odor permeates the "crying room," where patrons could take refuge with their naughty children.
Today's marquees advertise church services and swap meets, but civic boosters are undeterred. Defying L.A.'s amnesiac tendencies, they want to make South Broadway a hot street again, as in the days when the masses paid a dime apiece to see a silent flick (such as When a Man's a Man) with music from a Wurlitzer organ.
Needleman, a developer with deep pockets, is the first to fully plant the flag.
