La Vogue Theatre

LouRugani on November 19, 2005 at 8:06 pm

The Vogue Theatre opened in September 1923 and was operated by local barkeep Walter Schlager. It hosted second-run films and live acts into the 1930s. A random search turned up an appearance by Patsy Montana. There was a two-manual Wicks organ. Local exhibitor Bill Exton (who also operated the Roosevelt and Hollywood Theaters) leased the Vogue, which was part of Milwaukee’s Standard Theatres chain in the 1940s. The last regular double-feature program there was on the night of Monday, December 15, 1951, with the outside temperature at fifteen below zero.

wigginsray on August 28, 2007 at 8:23 pm

I’d love to see some interior photos – I’ve only heard about La Vogue from older friends.

LouisRugani on October 9, 2009 at 3:52 pm

(April 10, 1941:)
Dies of Injuries from Hit-Run Crash
Milwaukeeâ€"(AP)â€" Kenneth Hagberg, 35, of Kenosha, died at the
county emergency hospital last night of injuries sustained early Tuesday when his automobile plunged off Highway 41 into a ditch near the county line.
Hagberg, who was a projectionist at the Kenosha Vogue theater, told
deputies another car sideswiped his and then fled the scene.

LouisRugani on October 19, 2009 at 12:54 pm

In 1940 the VOGUE’s original marquee was replaced with a streamlined art-moderne marquee (which remained until 1960), the vertical sign was removed, the interior was redecorated and “freshened”, and Nick Coston was appointed manager by lessee Standard Theatres of Milwaukee.

LouRugani on June 16, 2025 at 4:46 pm

The Vogue Theatre still stands, mute testament to an era when movie theatres were more than screening houses for new films before they hit the home market but centers of community life. Even today, passersby along busy 52nd Street might imagine the old Vogue Theatre alive again, with several hundred excited kids in line for a 1940s Saturday afternoon double feature, each clutching his or her ten-cent admission. For twenty-eight years, the Vogue was mainly an unpretentious neighborhood theatre, never attempting to outdo the grander downtown movie palaces but fulfilling its modest role in Kenosha’s entertainment scene, until a sudden change in national trends sealed not only the Vogue’s fate but that of thousands of similar movie houses across America.

The Vogue opened its doors on September 15, 1923. In that year, Kenosha’s operating film theaters included the Rhode Opera House, the new Orpheum, the Butterfly, the Burke (later Cameo) at 618-56th Street, the Majestic on the 5700 block of Sixth Avenue, the Lincoln at 6923-14th Avenue, the Strand (later Norge, demolished in 1982) at 5611-22nd Avenue and the Columbia, 2220-63rd Street. The Kenosha, Gateway and Roosevelt Theatres were four years into the future. Walter Schlager, who ran several taverns with his wife, Rose, was looking for a solid investment, as prohibition had effectively put a damper to his tavern business. He selected some long-vacant properties at 1820-52nd Street and had wellknown Kenosha architect Charles Augustine design a state-of-the-art theatre for the site. The Vogue’s doors opened at 6 P.M. and adult tickets were 25 cents; children paid a dime.

The opening program was modest: the Kenosha premiere of Ralph Ince’s horseracing yarn, “Counterfeit Love,” an Our Gang comedy, “The Cobbler,” an Aesop’s Fable short, a Pathe newsreel, and organ solos by an unnamed woman at the keyboard of the Vogue’s new two-manual Moller pipe organ, which Schlager had obtained through the Salak Bros. Piano Company of Racine.

The decorator, Eugene Potente of 7302-14th Avenue, selected shades of deep cream for the interior, so patrons would be “bathed in a sunshine glow.” The lofty ceiling gave a feeling of more spaciousness than there really was. Unusual cast-plaster ceiling fixtures were shaped like six-pointed stars with a bare bulb at each point and a large bulb in the center, and they had to be relamped from the floor with a clumsy long wooden pole. The stage was rather small, about 16 feet deep and 25 feet across, but it was adequate for the live acts that did play there. Mostly these included jugglers, comics, acrobats and small musical groups.

Walter Schlager ran the Vogue for two years, then leased it to the short-lived United Theaters chain, who also took over the Butterfly and Lincoln. Walter and Rose went back to operating a soft-drink tavern, but with United Theaters' demise, was back operating the Vogue by 1930. In 1934, Francis B. “Butch” Schlax and George Fischer leased the Vogue, beginning a long career in theatre management for Schlax, who ended up operating virtually every theatre in Kenosha, including the Mid-City and Keno outdoor theaters.

Many Kenoshans found employment through the years at the Vogue. Some of the better-remembered projectionists include Kenneth Hahn, Fred Sherry, Ray Bacon, Louis Goodare, Richard Schnell and Percy Garton. They were the unsung heroes, invisible souls high up in their cramped booths for which audiences gave nary a thought … except if the film broke or the arc lamp failed. Then the unseen projectionist would be roundly cursed with a hail of insults, whistles and foot-stomping until the picture would resume. Sometimes he would be pressed into part-time security duty, patrolling the balcony for overly-amorous or rowdy patrons. But there was a potentially deadly aspect of the job as well -

Until World War Two, movies were made of nitrate stock, which could burn explosively and emit toxic gases. This nitrate film passed continuously just inches from a 2,000-degree arc flame. Louis Goodare was operating the Vogue’s twin Simplex projectors one night when the film caught fire. Ever the alert operator, Goodare somehow snatched the flaming reel and pitched it from a front window in the nick of time, where it landed, blazing, atop the Vogue’s marquee. Goodare’s trousers were burned, and he later billed the Standard Theaters chain of Milwaukee, which operated the Vogue at the time. (The chain denied the claim.)

Schlax had been promoted to being Standard’s citywide manager. His son Robert recalled accompanying his father every Thursday night during the war years to the Vogue and other local theatres, watching snippets of films while his dad tallied receipts in the various manager’s offices. During this period, the Vogue’s two-rank Moller pipe organ was sold and moved (“probably to some church,” according to Fred Hermes of the Dairyland Theatre Organ Society).

By this time, the Vogue was a comfortable if unspectacular addition to the city’s entertainment scene. Many of its patrons were blue-collar families, often newly-arrived Italian immigrants. On occasion, an Italian-language film would grace the theatre’s screen, which usually drew a crowd, giving the Vogue its good-natured nickname: The Garlic Opera House. To many of these people, the Vogue was a gathering place second only to their churches. Robert Schlax recalled many Vogue employees dropping off tomatoes and other vegetables from their gardens, as well as homemade wine, for the boss.

Most neighborhood theatres encountered three major crises: the coming of sound, the great depression and the Tube. The first saw the end of several Kenosha theatres unwilling or unable to convert to sound - the Columbia, the Strand (later Norge) and the Majestic being the most notable. The Depression forced the remaining theatres to adopt concession stands as an income supplement, as well as off-night promotions like Dish Night, Bank Night, Grocery Night and Amateur Night.

The Vogue offered its Dish Nights usually on slower Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Women patrons got a coupon which, when combined with attendance at the next week’s Dish Night, got them one piece of china. A lobby display showed the entire set, which could be hers if she attended faithfully each week on Dish Night. (Today, complete sets of theatre dishes are collectors' items.)

One neighborhood resident told of the Gravy Boat Fiasco at the Vogue one night at the end of a long dish promotion, the night the Vogue would be dispensing the expensive gravy boats that would complete that particular set. Previously, the ladies had been tucking the flat dinnerware into their large and practical handbags, but the bulbous gravy boats couldn’t be stashed so easily. They sat through the double feature, newsreel, cartoons, previews and short subjects with the gravy boats balanced precariously on their laps or entrusted to some family member. The show was regularly punctuated by the loud crash of china on the painted concrete floor, accompanied by ever-louder jeers and laughter from the less-sympathetic patrons. To add to the fun, there was a lot of crunchy footwork during intermission.

Bank Night was a simple lottery: tickets were collected and one number was drawn for a cash award. The catch was, the barrel contained many tickets from weeks past, so patrons were thus encouraged to attend on every Bank Night. Weeks or months might pass with no jackpot award, so the kitty could easily surpass one thousand dollars - until a new state anti-lottery law passed during the war years outlawed Bank Night. Grocery Night was similar to Bank Night, and Amateur Night provided cash prizes or free prizes to the best singer, tap dancer, accordionist or spoon player, as determined by applause levels. Contestants were thus encouraged to pack the audience with their supporters.

All these gimmicks, and the ever-more important concession stand, proved important to the Vogue and other neighborhood theatres during the lean Depression years. And times were lean for the movies then. Every theatre in downtown Kenosha was closed by 1933 - the Kenosha, Orpheum, Gateway Cameo - but the Vogue somehow endured.

By 1939, a semblance of prosperity had returned, and the movies were now entering the peak of their popularity as patrons jammed theaters for escapism, light musicals and sentimental fare. On Sunday, December 7, 1941, the Vogue abruptly halted “Life Begins for Andy Hardy”; the star-shaped ceiling fixtures came on, and the matinee audience was told that the American naval base at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii had been swept in a surprise attack from Japanese planes. Stunned, many patrons quietly made their way out. The Vogue and nearly every theatre in America became the focal point for the war effort.

Hollywood stars took new roles - filmed appeals to the audiences for the sale of war bonds as ushers patrolled the aisles to sell bonds to those with raised hands. In this way, America’s theatres helped to win the war.

Throughout the 1940s, box office receipts soared. But the heavy crush led to premature wear on carpets and seats; walls and draperies grew soiled and dingy, accelerated by soot from coal furnaces used to heat theatres. It hardly slowed business; movies were “in.” Ninety million Americans attended each week (though Hollywood chose to ignore the hidden warnings in a survey in which moviegoers were asked which medium they would prefer, movies or radio. Eighty-five percent said radio.)

The Vogue never had air-conditioning, but employee Dominick Gallo said he would order truckloads of ice to be dumped into the coal chutes, and turning on the high rotary blower would cool the theater nicely. And cheaply. Gallo recalled the Saturday matinees, where for nine cents any kid could see a one-hour western starring the likes of Hopalong Cassidy, Lash LaRue, Sunset Carson or Johnny Mack Brown (who seemed to be the local hero) plus several cartoons and one chapter of a serial thriller such as “The Clutching Hand”, “The Invisible Monster” or “Mystery Squadron”. Of course, vending revenues would zoom higher than Flash Gordon’s rocket ship during these weekend shows; no one got off spending just nine cents.

Another Vogue promotion: perforated cards of tickets sold through schools. For a dollar, any kid could see perhaps a dozen quality films such as “The Green Years,” “Destination Moon,” “Father Was a Fullback” and more on consecutive weekend matinees. The Vogue would be packed, and schools got a cut of the take. An old photo shows the Vogue with folding chairs set up in the aisles to handle the overflow. It wasn’t unusual to see late-coming kids sit on the floor to catch the show. All that was all coming to an end, however.

In 1950, television swept the nation. The novelty of free entertainment in one’s own living room was enormous. The entire movie industry at first ignored the new threat, but by 1951, the theaters began to close. The first to go dark were the smaller, shabbier movie houses in older areas.

Until 1950, business had been so good that maintenance hadn’t been top priority in many theatres. Suddenly, the audiences began to thin out and thus began a vicious circle - these theatres, physically worn out from the good years, were competing with free TV. Standard Theaters, perhaps predicting the future, gave up its lease on the Vogue, but Bill Exton, the longtime operator of the Roosevelt, picked up the Vogue (and Hollywood, which had already closed) and forged ahead with his new mini-chain of local theatres.

Bill Exton tried hard, but he didn’t have the resources to redecorate and repair the Vogue, which was visibly worn from millions of admissions over the years, and despite his best efforts, revenues now began to decline alarmingly.

One cost-cutting move Exton made was perhaps ill-advised and too obvious: rather than change the marquee letters every three days, he simply put up his longtime motto, “Always a Good Show.” But that was a clear signal the Vogue was in trouble.

By autumn, 1951, losses were mounting. Bill Exton tried cutting back the Vogue’s operation to a weekend-only policy.

I recall my last visit to the Vogue, at a weekend matinee in the autumn of 1951; “Captain Horatio Hornblower” with Gregory Peck was playing. The large preteen audience was getting noisy during the “talky” parts. Mr. Exton stopped the film, turned on the house lights and quietly addressed the audience, which sat in surprised silence. He said that some people had paid good money to enjoy the film, and although he knew we didn’t mean to, we were spoiling their fun. He expected us to respect that, and if we could show that we understood, he would reward us later by having the projectionist run an extra cartoon. And that’s exactly what happened. True to his word, Mr. Exton delivered on his promise of “always a good show.”

But the Vogue was dying, and its end was no doubt hastened by the vicious cold wave that settled over the Midwest in December, 1951.

Over the years, the Vogue had offered foreign films on occasion, usually Italian, Polish or German, and on a Sunday that December, the Vogue screened the opera film “La Traviata” by Verdi, for a final touch of class.

There’s no record of how many people left their warm living rooms and new 16-inch TV screens to attend the final double feature of “Warpath” and “Bandit Queen” on Sunday, December 15, 1951, but we do know the mercury was at 20 degrees below zero.

The Vogue never reopened. Its passing left scarcely a ripple.

By the following April, the Hollywood was gone forever, too. Bill Exton concentrated on his Roosevelt Theater until his retirement nearly two decades later.

At the darkened Vogue, the marquee still promised “Always A Good Show”, until years of wind and snow knocked enough letters off to render the phrase unintelligible. Local businessman David Korf took the building over and put up a For Sale sign. There were no takers.

The movies did make a brief comeback to the Vogue in 1970. A group of inspired youths restored the old box office (now demolished), set up folding chairs and a 16mm projector and ran classic films on weekends under the banner of the New Vogue Theatre, a tribute to the well-remembered neighborhood movie house of decades past.