In a World of Wire:
The Somewhat Painful Transition from Silent to Sound

In the 1920s the gulf between large and small movie exhibition widened considerably.  Distribution, in particular, heavily favored the big players over the small ones, a power dynamic exacerbated during the transition to sound. Ben Hall has noted that in the late 1920s, a Western Electric sound system that added Vitaphone and Movietone to a house’s projectors would set the average theatre back about $13,000.  For larger houses, of course, this cost would have been much higher.  But that price point was already too large for many smaller movie houses to consider, so initially they were priced out of the sound market.

Over time competing technologies were developed, but there was risk in going with a new sound system when the talkies were still in their infancy.  Nonetheless, there were several low-cost alternatives that made sound a possibility, at least, for smaller movie theatres.  In 1928 Photophone began marketing a non-synchronous disc unit that allowed an exhibitor to add recorded music to an otherwise silent film; the following year the company added a synchronous unit that could be used to show sound-on-disc and sound-on-film programs.  The cost still wasn’t cheap (full installation of a Photophone unit cost around $3,000), but that was a much more reasonable than a full Vitaphone/Movietone installation.^[1]  Slowly but surely, however, changes throughout the movie industry – continued sound installations, fewer silent films being produced – began forcing everyone’s hand.  “By 1929,” Donald Crafton observed, “[u]nless they were economically strapped, theater owners had no choice but to convert to some brand of sound system because otherwise the affiliated [national theatre] chains would take away their business…As a result, at the time of the stock market crash in October 1929, out-of-the-way theaters and those servicing poor neighborhoods were the only ones still waiting for amplification.”^[2]

That sound had become a valuable commodity was demonstrated in March 1929, when the Bagdad Theatre in Seattle’s Ballard neighborhood was broken into after hours. Unlike previous break-ins, this time the thieves weren’t after money – they came in and took the Movietone equipment right off of the house projectors, then rummaged through the operating room and gathered up all the spare parts they could find.^[3]  It was part of a new trend; in an earlier break-in at the Rialto in Tacoma, the sound equipment also appears to have been the prime target.

Like the Photophone, another modestly-priced sound unit was marketed in the Northwest by the Melophone Talking Picture Company of America, run by longtime exchange men George Endert and William Drummond.  Melophone initially set up offices in the Securities Building in downtown Seattle, but by the fall of 1928 had moved into a small office above an exchange along Film Row.  They weren’t alone; a competitor, Biophone (which also sold the Cinephone sound-on-film system) was located next door, while the Sonora-Bristolphone office was located down the street.  Endert and Drummond, at least, had a retro way of demonstrating their sound-on-disc Melophone unit for business colleagues along Film Row.  Like exhibitors had done 30 years previous, they loaded one of their Melophone units with regular phonograph records and played music, which they amplified out onto the street by sticking a horn out of the office window.^[4]

The good part of these low-cost soundsystems was that they were squarely targeted at exhibitors (particularly small or rural ones) that couldn’t afford the expense of a full Vitaphone/Movietone installation. The bad part was that companies like Melophone and Biophone were entering the sound market as fledgling companies with short track records.  There was a dizzying assortment of equipment, almost all of which used a variation of sound-on-disc technology, at various price points and showcasing any number of features.  Keeping up with the market would have been difficult.  In December of that year, when the Motion Picture Theatre Owners of Washington held their annual convention at the Washington Hotel in Seattle, part of the gathering was designed to showcase these emerging sound technologies.  Representatives of Vitaphone, Movietone, Melophone, Sonora-Bristolphone, Photophone, Kolstaphone, Orchestraphone and Phototone were all on hand to demonstrate their units and pitch directly to exhibitors about the merits of their technology.^[5]

Motion Picture Record laid out the exhibitor’s dilemma, attempting to make an important and costly decision while the industry was in flux.

          When sound first took the industry by storm, and Western Electric was about the only manufacturer, exhibitors were glad to hear of new disc synchronizers and were loud in their expression of belief that no patents existed on this type of reproducing sound. Then along came Movietone and they hoped that there would soon be other sound-on-film systems.
          Now, the woods are full of disc synchronizers and there is every indication that there will be at least several systems for film…
          There is a junior Vitaphone-Movietone at considerably less than the original equipment.  Every territory has one or two “home-made” disc devices, and almost all of the manufacturers of these are promising a [sound-on-film] attachment “a little later.”
          The exhibitor is in a quandary about equipment now. He hears claims and counter claims; knocks and healthy slugs at competitive equipment.  He is timid about buying anything for fear that the following week [he] will see an announcement of a new company offering yet lower prices or some new and better reproducer for the same dough.^[6]

The Melophone sound equipment marketed by Endert and Drummond is a good example of this technology.  Like most of these smaller companies, they were selling standalone sound units that could be brought into the theatre like a piece of furniture; this was not equipment that required the exhibitor to “wire” the house in any way.  In this case, Melophone offered two different types of sound-on-disc units.  Type A was a portable machine with dual turntables, a feature that allowed the operator to cue up one disc while the other was running out.  But the key benefit of this Type A unit, which cost $650, was that it was designed to be portable, and could be easily be transported from one house to another.  Enclosed in a long mahogany case resembling a footlocker, this would have been an excellent selling point for small exhibitors who owned multiple houses across a territory – the sound equipment could move from house to house like the film print.  A Type B Melophone, on the other hand, cost $750 and was a permanent piece of theatre equipment, again with dual turntables but in a case that resembled a radio or phonograph cabinet.  Both units, Melophone claimed, had a pair of “wonder” horns, volume control, an aluminum voice filter, microphone and a “dynamic speaker” amplifier that projected the sound throughout the house.^[7]

To help demonstrate the Melophone to exhibitors, Endert and Drummond didn’t rely on trade shows or hire extra salesmen to do the work.  Instead, they used their experience as exchange men to organize a series of roadshow demonstrations in which the Melophone added musical accompaniment (and some brief dialogue) to the Tiffany-Stahl production Beautiful But Dumb, starring Patsy Ruth Miller.  Their idea was to create 12-15 roadshow companies in Washington state (plus more in Oregon), which would fan out and play small-town movie houses, booking these shows for a few days on a percentage basis.  This was a good deal for both parties – Melophone wanted to put its portable Type A units in front of rural exhibitors, their target audience, while the houses were getting the opportunity to present the community with what was, in many cases, their first experience with sound film.  The Melophone (allegedly manufactured in Seattle) offered small-town movie houses the ability to “play talking and sound films…[without] having their houses wired.  There are no installation charge, no service charge, or other expense of like nature to the exhibitor who desires to show Melophone pictures.”  George Endert was keen on the idea of bringing sound to theatres that were otherwise being left behind in the talkie revolution.  “‘Melophone is the result of months of experiments,’” he remarked, “‘and we are now ready to give the smaller towns talking sequences and sound pictures so he, like his big city brother, can come in for some of the big profits to be made with sound films…[Melophone] will prove a boon to the small-town showmen.’”^[8]

The Melophone got its first public test on November 15, 1928, at the Princess Theatre in Edmonds, at a screening that attracted several representatives from Seattle’s Film Row.  These folks, old exchange friends, were quite supportive according to Motion Picture Record; the technology showed well and everyone recognized what a benefit the Melophone would be for small exhibitors.  In short order, similar demonstrations were set up in Elma, Montesano, McCleary and Stanwood, with the firm claiming they had 16 weeks of bookings lined up right out of the gate.  They didn’t confine these shows to rural theatres, either.  A few weeks after the Edmonds demonstration they were showcasing the Melophone in suburban theatres around Seattle, with another set of demonstrations taking place in Portland at the same time.  They were also preparing roadshows for a second film, the Claire Windsor/Roy D’Arcy feature Domestic Meddlers, another Tiffany-Stahl production.^[9]

But in a testament to the chaotic film landscape at the time, where multiple companies were vying to place their sound equipment across Washington state, the Melophone Talking Picture Company didn’t even last 90 days.  Endert and Drummond, despite their deep ties to the local film scene and an aggressive roadshow program, gave up on Melophone in early February and moved to California, where they took over an office for the DeLuxe Master Phone, a rival sound company.^[10]  This was exactly the outcome that many exhibitors, especially rural ones, always feared: they would splurge on a new technology only to discover that the unit didn’t perform as advertised or that the company behind it wouldn’t last.

Yet another concern for exhibitors looking to take the plunge on sound equipment was the concept of “interchangability.”  This was the ability of a unit like the Melophone to work with films and discs for multiple studio releases.  After all, both Melophone roadshows featured pictures made by Tiffany-Stahl; in addition to picking the best and most cost-effective sound technology, exhibitors didn’t want to get locked into showing only the films of certain companies.  This generally wasn’t an issue for most sound-on-disc systems, but from the get-go Warner Bros. and First National established a policy of not renting their films to houses that weren’t using Vitaphone.  Fox briefly had a similar prohibition when it came to their sound-on-film Movietone releases, but eventually allowed their films to be shown on compatible equipment. Warner Bros., however, kept their policy long enough that it eventually hurt market share; it wouldn’t be until March 1929 until they changed their policy.

While many small and rural theatres struggled with implementing sound, the bigger players went all-in on the transition.  John Hamrick had been the first, debuting Vitaphone at his Blue Mouse Theatre in Seattle on March 18, 1927; he beat Ray Grombacher of the Liberty in Spokane by three weeks, where Vitaphone debuted on April 8^th.  Grombacher, the Hamrick of Spokane, got a leg up on the Seattle manager by introducing Movietone to Washington state, which appeared later that year, by which time he had also wired his Granada Theatre with Vitaphone, giving him a pair of sound venues in Spokane.

Hamrick and Grombacher were pioneers when it came to engineering their sound installations; after this initial wave, there was generally a hierarchy of which venues were wired for sound, and with what.  Large, first-run theatres in major cities, many of which had been snapped up by studio chains only recently, were usually the first to adopt sound, followed by the profitable mid-sized venues.  While a handful of individual owners could make their own sound installations, many had to wait on cheaper alternatives before making the move.  Venues with deep-pocketed ownership could make the switch quickly and easily; it was the smaller, independent venues and rural movie houses that struggled.

Major venues like the Blue Mouse in Seattle and Liberty in Spokane led the way in this transition, but soon other houses were joining the fray.  In early 1928, the Egyptian in Seattle’s University District neighborhood became the city’s first suburban house to be wired for sound.  The Egyptian installed both Vitaphone and Movietone, giving Seattle a second outlet for these films, since there was no other venue in the city with the equipment required to show these releases.

The Egyptian installation was the tip of the iceberg – 1928 would see a cascade of sound equipment coming to all parts of Washington state.  Seattle’s Fifth Avenue Theatre, for example, added Movietone mid-year, making it the third local venue showing sound newsreels, along with the Blue Mouse and Egyptian Theatres.  Movietone also made its way into the Granada Theatre in Everett and the Liberty in Walla Walla, which were showing sound newsreels even before the Coliseum or the Pantages in downtown Seattle debuted their own Movietone units toward the end of the year (the Pantages also installed Vitaphone).  The Columbia Theatre also beat the Coliseum and Pantages, inaugurating their new sound equipment by showing Glorious Betsy, the film that opened John Hamrick’s Music Box Theatre several months before.  Jensen and von Herberg’s Bagdad Theatre in Ballard, John Danz’s Colonial in downtown Seattle and the Tacoma Pantages Theatres all went big, installing Vitaphone and Movietone technology.  The Neptune Theatre in Seattle’s University District played host to an early demonstration of the Photophone, but eventually installed Biophone portable technology, which debuted in March 1929.  But Biophone didn’t last; by June, the house was formally wired by Western Electric and showing Warner Bros. releases like its neighbor the Egyptian.  Meanwhile, the Stadium Theatre in the Montlake neighborhood (formerly John Hamrick’s Lakeside Theatre) opened with an exclusive sound film policy, though it’s not clear what system they were using.  The Fox Theatre in Seattle also opened with sound equipment on April 19, 1929.

The state’s major cities weren’t the only places of activity. Sound installation was going on throughout Washington state – column after column in Motion Picture News reported on local exhibitors making the change.  The Rose Theatre in Port Townsend installed Orchestraphone technology in the fall of 1928, as did E.W. Groesbeck at his theatre in Buckley.  The Avalon Theatre in Bellingham was outfitted with Vitaphone, while the Star Amusement Company in Everett was the first in Washington to install a Photophone, which they placed in their Orpheum Theatre.  DeLuxe Master Phone was getting a tryout in at least two smaller western Washington theatres, the Grand in Burlington and the Vashon Theatre on Vashon Island. Later, in 1929, Waldo Ives installed sound at his Empire Theatre in Anacortes and the Lincoln Theatre in Mount Vernon, though he probably didn’t have much choice – A.A. Hailey was close to opening the new Paramount in Anacortes, which featured a DeLuxe Master Phone unit.  Ives purchased two Photophones for both his theatre locations, which ran about $10,000 apiece.  DeLuxe Master Phone installations occurred at the Grand Theatre in Seattle, as well as both the Liberty and Ellensburg Theatres in Ellensburg.  The new Orpheum Theatre in Seattle installed Photophone, which debuted on April 1^st. A non-synchronous Photophone was installed at the Tokay Theatre in South Bend, while the Red Apple in Omak began showing Paramount films on their new De Luxe Master Phone unit on March 5^th.

How pervasive was the change to sound?  Late in the summer of 1929, the booking agents on Seattle’s Film Row gathered for a summer picnic.  Accompanied by families and friends, the group traveled from Seattle to McNeil Island, near Tacoma, where they picnicked on (of all places) the grounds of the federal penitentiary.  One of the day’s highlights was a demonstration of the new sound equipment that had been installed at the prison.^[11]  There were any number of motion picture venues around Washington state where sound motion pictures were not yet available, and probably would not debut for some time.  And yet inmates at the McNeil facility were already enjoying the latest in movie technology.

By the end of the 1920s, so many venues around Washington had jumped onto the sound bandwagon that the old-style, silent movie house had become somewhat of an anathema, at least in the state’s larger cities.  Conversions were picking up at a rapid pace – at the Renton Theatre, for example, and the Metropolitan Theatre, a legitimate stage venue, in downtown Seattle.  The Majestic Theatre in Spokane and Congress Theatre in Palouse.  In Seattle, the Arabian Theatre, in the northern part of the city, the Venetian on Capitol Hill and the Granada in West Seattle.  The Uptown on Queen Anne and the Paramount Theatre in Wallingford both installed Peerless sound equipment. The Cordova Theatre in Pullman installed RCA Phonophone equipment, as did the Graham Theatre in Shelton.  Meanwhile, the Florence Theatre in Seattle installed Vitaphone and Movietone equipment.  And when Dominick Constanti opened his new Riviera Theatre in Tacoma in July 1929, and didn’t dare do so without sound.

In the mere span of two years, sound had become an integral part of the local exhibition scene, and a necessity to those competing in the business. “After all is said and done,” quipped Motion Picture Record in early 1929, “the only ‘Sound’ worth while [sic] is that of the dollars clanking over the old marble at the box office…”^[12]

By Eric L. Flom – November 2025

Notes:

[1] See Ben M. Hall, “The Best Remaining Seats,” in Ina Rae Hark (editor), Exhibition: The Film Reader (London: Routlege – 2002), Page 140; and “Seattle,” Motion Picture Record, 16 February 1929 (Vol. 6, No. 7), Page 3.
[2] Donald Crafton, The Talkies: American Cinema’s Transition to Sound, 1926-1931 (New York: Charlie Scribner’s Sons – 1997), Page 15.
[3] “Seattle,” Motion Picture Record, 30 March 1929 (Vol. 6, No. 13), Page 3.
[4] “Seattle,” Motion Picture Record, 8 December 1928 (Vol. 5, No. 49), Page 8.
[5] See “Pacific Northwest Exhibitors Convention Delegates Will Get First-Hand Information on Synchronous and Non-Synchronous Equipment,” Motion Picture Record, 8 December 1928 (Vol. 5, No. 49), Page 3.  Kolstaphone was a Northwest entry into the sound equipment business.  That technology – like most, a sound-on-disc system – was developed by Art Kolstad, manager of the Rialto Theatre in Hood River, Oregon.  He appears to have debuted the unit in his own theatre, the shows going over so well that he made efforts to get sales representatives into the Pacific Northwest states, including Alaska.  Kolstaphone was also given a series of roadshow demonstrations, the first of these being at the Proctor Street Blue Mouse Theatre in Tacoma in early December 1928.  In short order the Kolstaphone was also given demonstrations at the Granada Theatres in Auburn and Camas, the Mt. Baker in Seattle and the Ellensburg Theatre. (See “Interchangeabilty Again,” Motion Picture Record, 1 December 1928 (Vol. 5, No. 48), Page 2; Kolstaphone advertisement and “Kolstaphone Brings Many to Hood River,” Motion Picture Record, 8 December 1928 (Vol. 5, No. 49), Page 11; “Seattle,” Motion Picture Record, 15 December 1928 (Vol. 5, No. 50), Page 7; and Kolstaphone advertisement, Motion Picture Record, 15 December 1928 (Vol. 5, No. 50), Pages 8-9.)
[6] “Editorial Paragraphs,” Motion Picture Record, 9 February 1929 (Vol. 6, No. 6), Page 2.
[7] See “Endert and Drummond Organize Melophone to Supply Talkies and Sound Pictures in NW,” Motion Picture Record, 17 November 1928 (Vol. 5, No. 46), Page 8; and Melophone advertisement, Motion Picture Record, 8 December 1928 (Vol. 5, No. 49), Page 4.
[8] George Endert, as quoted in “Endert and Drummond Organize Melophone to Supply Talkies and Sound Pictures in NW,” Motion Picture Record, 17 November 1928 (Vol. 5, No. 46), Page 8.
[9] See “Editorial Paragraphs,” Motion Picture Record, 17 November 1928 (Vol. 5, No. 46), Page 2; “ “Seattle,” Motion Picture Record, 17 November 1928 (Vol. 5, No. 46), Page 3; “Endert and Drummond Organize Melophone to Supply Talkies and Sound Pictures in NW,” Motion Picture Record, 17 November 1928 (Vol. 5, No. 46), Page 8; and Melophone advertisement, Motion Picture Record, 24 November 1928 (Vol. 5, No. 47), Page 8.
[10] “Seattle,” Motion Picture Record, 2 February 1929 (Vol. 6, No. 6), Page 8.
[11] “Seattle and Other Washington Notes,” Motion Picture News, 21 September 1929, Page 1084.
[12] “Cracks in the Record,” Motion Picture Record, 20 April 1929 (Vol. 6, No. 16), Page 3.

Despite the cost of converting a theatre and the higher rental fees that came with showing sound pictures, the technology had some advantages for small and rural exhibitors. For starters, their venues couldn’t present the type of complex stage and musical programs seen at urban showplaces like the Fifth Avenue or Seattle Theatres. But a sound program with some Vitaphone shorts, a Movietone newsreel and a synchronized feature would be essentially the same wherever it was shown, whether that be Chicago or Chehalis. In addition, smaller theatres often had fewer acoustic and amplification issues when it came to showing sound pictures. Some of Washington’s larger houses – the first to wire for sound – discovered that patrons in certain parts of the auditorium couldn’t always hear the film, requiring the venue to make additional (and sometimes expensive) modifications.^[1] “The public not only discriminates now between sound or silent pictures,” Motion Picture Record editorialized in 1929, “but also between good sound and poor sound…The best picture made is spoiled if only half the house hears [it] plainly.”^[2]

Sound installations picked up steam in Washington throughout 1928. Many urban theatres had, by then, become part of corporate chains, so the decision to add a sound system was made for them. In Everett, for example, the Star Amusement Company, which ran most of the picture theatres in town, sold out to Fox towards the end of the silent era. Part of Fox’s strategy for the Everett market was to reconfigure the entertainment scene, closing or refurbishing some older houses while adding newer venues like the Fox Balboa on Wetmore Avenue. But key to those changes was to put a sound system into every downtown house, such that Everett audiences more access to the “talkies” (or at least Fox’s slate of talkies) than comparable Northwest cities.  

Independent houses in smaller towns, however, had to go things alone. While there were a handful of rural exhibitors better situated to navigate the change, many (if not most) were not. Washington still had hundreds of small mom-and-pop venues trying to figure out whether, and how, they were going to incorporate sound, which was quickly becoming the new industry standard.

The rate at which theatres were being converted helped fuel the fire. According to Motion Picture Record, the Pacific Northwest region (including Washington, Oregon, Idaho, Montana and Alaska) led the country in planned sound installations for the 1928-29 season, with more venues jumping on the bandwagon every month. This posed a challenge for small exhibitors with limited means, since it gave competitors a leg up when it came to attracting audiences. In any location, wired houses became magnets for filmgoers, while theatres showing silent pictures often saw a drop at the box office, since they were showing product that now appeared hopelessly out-of-date. This was almost certainly the case with the Liberty Theatre in Tonasket. There, the venue limped into 1930 showing silents before management threw in the towel, selling out to exhibitor A.H. McDermott. When McDermott took over in April, his first order of business was to install a full Western Electric moviephone unit. “The ‘talkies’ are coming to town,” the local paper noted of McDermott’s upgrade, “and soon Tonasket lovers of comedy, drama and romance will find it unnecessary to drive to neighboring towns to find their favorite amusement.”^[3]

With each new issue, industry trade papers reinforced the idea that sound was the future. “When all the tumult and the shouting dies [down],” exclaimed Motion Picture Record in early 1929, “…we are going to realize one thing, [that] Sound Pictures have re-sold motion picture entertainment to an apathetic public.”^[4] And yet, at the same time, even the Record had to admit that the financial benefits of converting were typically greater in urban locations than rural ones. “The little fellow doesn’t get the same break with talkies that the big house does,” they observed. “[Sound] doesn’t mean four, five, or ten times his normal silent picture [box-office].”^[5]

For competitive reasons rural exhibitors wanted (and perhaps needed) sound, but it could be an expensive proposition for these small business owners, with no guarantee it would pay off. Still, most wanted to try. But what help could these exhibitors get when it came to upgrading their theatres?

Small exhibitors in Washington had a leg up on many folks, one would think, since the area had its own regional trade paper, Motion Picture Record, which kept tabs on the Northwest market. The paper not only connected exhibitors in disparate parts of the state but could specifically report on sound-related equipment, exhibition practices, and related issues that small theatre owners could draw upon when making their own business decisions. But the Record was also small publication, with a circulation of less than 1,000, and was wresting with its own set of challenges in the late 1920s. With the entire local movie business a bit topsy-turvy, that was sometimes reflected in the information and advice that appeared on the pages of the Record.  

Consider the problem many exhibitors encountered when booking shows for the 1928-29 season. Sound wasn’t much of an issue the year before, since Vitaphone and Movietone were relatively new and available to only a handful of urban exhibitors. But by the summer of 1928 newer (and less costly) sound units were becoming available, so exhibitors had some thinking to do when it came to planning the new season. Houses that had already converted had one set of programming options, but venues that hadn’t had slightly different choices, and exhibitors making the switch mid-season had to program one format to start the year, then another for the remainder. And all the while, they weren’t getting much help from the studios.

The new 1928-29 offerings, unveiled over the summer, saw a considerable shift in the type of pictures coming to market. In their July 7^th issue, for example, Motion Picture Record ran an article announcing that half of Paramount’s new features would utilize sound in some form, taking them off the table for houses that hadn’t yet converted. This was in addition to the fact that their Paramount News service and Christie comedies would be exclusively sound productions, with no options for silent exhibitors.^[6] Then, later that month, Tiffany-Stahl announced that all of their upcoming features (including several that had been planned as silent productions) would be sound synchronized.^[7] In announcement after announcement, the trend was clear: production dollars were flowing into sound motion pictures, with many silents being adapted, after the fact, to incorporate sound in some way. For exhibitors that hadn’t yet converted, there was a dwindling number of silent films to choose from, and many of those were smaller productions with minor stars. “By the 1929-30 season,” Motion Picture Record predicted, “we surmise that all worthwhile film offerings will be sound synchronized, and many of them out-and-out talkies.”^[8]

The problem during the 1928-29 buying season was timing. These production announcements were coming out during the same period when most exhibitors were negotiating new exchange contracts, and they put many exhibitors, particularly the small ones, in the bind. “‘Certainly, we’re not breaking our necks to buy [film] this year, for we don’t know what there will be to buy,’” remarked one rural Washington exhibitor. “‘Every few days, different announcements are coming out about one or another producer’s sound and synchronized productions…’”^[9] He wasn’t the only one grappling with the problem – it was something expressed to Motion Picture Record by many out-of-town exhibitors during the 1928-29 buying season. The business was changing so quickly that it left them, unlike most years, reluctant to sign long-term exchange contracts. Yes, they needed product, but the product kept changing.

As such bookings fell sharply at Seattle’s exchanges over the summer, prompting Motion Picture Record to make a rather interesting recommendation in August: Washington’s small and rural exhibitors should simply forget about sound for the time being. “If we had a theatre in a small town in the Pacific Northwest we’d abandon the idea[,] if we ever had it, of having sound equipment in our theatre this season,” they editorialized. “…[W]e’d go right ahead and buy our film, the dumb kind, for the entire 1928-1929 season.”^[10] Don’t stay on the sidelines, the Record urged – book a full silent program and ensure your venue had an extended slate of shows. “Buy your film; get set for the year. Forget sound for today, tomorrow and next week. Let the ‘sound waves’ go right around you…”

Perhaps that advice eased some minds and encouraged a few small exhibitors to sign contracts. But it was completely undone a month later, in September, when Motion Picture Record abruptly changed course, just as the buying season was winding down. After recommending that small exhibitors wait out 1928-29 season, now they warned that sound transitions needed to be made right away, because exhibitors who couldn’t faced a bleak future. “[Silent pictures] will be made cheaper and cheaper, with few exceptions,” the paper editorialized. “The dumb features will travel the road of the two-reel comedies – down and down. They can hardly go any other way, for the big money today is in the talkie; and no producer can stock up a very healthy gross catering to the small bookings.”^[11] Their message was blunt. “You may stay away from sound equipment this year…BUT IT LOOKS LIKE YOU’VE GOT TO SPEND THIS MONEY if you’re going to continue running your show shop with quality attractions.”

This flip-flop did no favors for the small exhibitors who relied on Motion Picture Record for advice. So why the change? Probably because business at the Seattle exchanges had been so poor that they needed a boost – and the Record itself relied on advertising dollars from those very businesses. In this case the needs of small exhibitors were likely set aside to help out the companies that allowed Motion Picture Record to continue publishing.

Something similar occurred with the paper’s October 27^th edition. This was an expanded issue timed to coincide with the Record’s fourth anniversary and was focused on the present and future of sound technology. There was publicity material from the various studios/exchanges, but the key feature was a description of the major sound technologies available to Northwest exhibitors at the time. Sourced from the vendors themselves, the Record took this material and boiled it down to some basic information: the type of device (sound-on-disc or sound-on-film), a brief description of each unit and its features, servicing options, and the manpower required to run each unit. (For example, could it be operated by the projectionist or did it require the employment of a separate man.) A total of 25 devices were highlighted – 10 full sound technologies and another 15 synchronization units that ranged in size from formal installations to cheaper, portable devices.

By October 1928 most of Washington state’s larger theatres were either wired or scheduled to be wired, so this issue of Motion Picture Record was aimed squarely at small and rural exhibitors. Many of these folks were attempting to make an important (and expensive) business decision, so there was little room for error. The Record’s descriptions of the 25 sound units were, therefore, a handy resource for independent theatre owners, since it offered an apples-to-apples comparison of these technologies.

So, as a reference guide, the Record’s sound issue was a huge benefit for small and rural exhibitors. But the paper made no effort to discuss these units at length, nor did they offer any guidelines as to what an exhibitor might want to consider. If one had a higher price point or required more maintenance, the exhibitor was going to have to figure that out himself. If there were features that made one portable device more useful than another, or tips on which technologies might be more beneficial to smaller exhibitors, the paper didn’t say. Motion Picture Record treated every sound unit equally – from Vitaphone on down – offering little that might actually assist their readership in assessing or choosing between devices.

This hands-off approach by the Record also seems to have been driven by who paid the bills. The pages of their October 27^th special issue were littered with advertisements from the very sound installation companies being showcased, so Motion Picture Record took no stand on the virtues of one technology over another. So despite being a helpful tool, it didn’t fully meet the needs of small and rural exhibitors, who likely needed additional help and assurance before making such a key business decision.

Still, though, many small exhibitors in Washington were not in a position to convert to sound under any circumstances, usually due to a lack of funds. By July 1929, according to Donald Crafton, only about 25% of all U.S. movie theatres were wired for sound, and the majority of those were in urban downtown and residential neighborhoods. Meanwhile, in rural areas a Darwinian situation was developing where theatres with the means to install sound technology began eating away at the business of less fortunate competitors, as was certainly the case in Tonasket. “The [independent] silent exhibitor was forced to choose between being driven out by competitors, selling the theatre to a chain, or converting to sound (probably on borrowed money),” said Crafton. “Many of the smallest theaters simply shut their doors.” Almost a third of America’s rural movie venues disappeared in the 1930s – a combination of economic hardship, the cost of wiring for sound and continued industry consolidation. Washington state was no different.

Audiences may have finally embraced sound film, but behind the scenes it brought tremendous uncertainty to the local movie industry. And it didn’t take long before some of that spilled into the public view.

By Eric L. Flom – November 2025

Notes:

[1] See “Acoustics,” Motion Picture Record, 27 April 1929, Page 2.
[2] “Good Sound,” Motion Picture Record, 26 October 1929, Page 2.
[3] “Remodeled Theatre to Present Talkies,” clipping from the Tonasket Times and The Okanogan Record, 4 April 1930.
[4] “Let’s Be Thankful,” Motion Picture Record, 4 May 1929, Page 2.
[5 “Editorial Paragraphs,” Motion Picture Record, 2 February 1929, Page 2.
[6] See “They’re All Going in for Sound,” Motion Picture Record, 7 July 1928, Page 3; and “Paramount Announces Sound Picture Program; 25 or 30 of 71 Features to Have New Effects,” Motion Picture Record, 7 July 1928, Page 5.
[7] See “Tiffany-Stahl to Synchronize All of Their Feature Productions,” Motion Picture Record, 21 July 1928, Page 4.
[8] “They’re All Going in for Sound,” Motion Picture Record, 7 July 1928, Page 3.
[9] “Editorial Paragraphs,” Motion Picture Record, 21 July 1928, Page 3.
[10] “Editorial Paragraphs,” Motion Picture Record, 4 August 1928, Page 3.
[11] “Editorial Paragraphs,” Motion Picture Record, 1 September 1928, Page 3.

The arrival of sound, and its embrace by the moviegoing public, upended the movie industry in ways that weren’t just seen (and heard) onscreen.  Sound was a disruptive technology that created winners and losers; audiences had the luxury of sitting in a theatre and marveling at this new era in picture entertainment, but some viewed it as a direct threat to their livelihoods.  The most obvious of these were the house musicians.  On the one hand the rise of radio entertainment, which preceded sound pictures, created new opportunities for musicians, allowing them to jump from movie into broadcast entertainment, though there weren’t enough radio jobs for everyone, particularly for musicians in rural areas.  Stagehands, too, were no longer needed in many houses, as sound shorts were taking the place of the live acts that used to proceed many of the shows.  Even male ushers were under the gun; once the Depression hit, houses that chose to keep their ushers frequently shifted to employing female ones, if only because they could be paid less.

The house musicians, however, were in the biggest predicament – it was very clear sound film put their livelihoods at stake.  When Vitaphone was first installed at the Blue Mouse in downtown Seattle, for example, the move prompted a multi-house shift amongst John Hamrick’s local theatres that put his musicians in diminished roles.  With Vitaphone releases on the program for the foreseeable future, the Blue Mouse Music Masters, who normally accompanied the venue’s films in their downtown location, were shifted to the Egyptian Theatre in the University District, which in turn bumped the Egyptian Serenaders off that bill and over to split-week engagements at Hamrick’s Lakeside Theatre in Madison Park and the Uptown in Queen Anne.^[1]  This put all the musicians and singers in a bad spot – if Vitaphone was the new normal at the downtown Blue Mouse, then everyone had effectively been demoted, and their bargaining power diminished, assuming John Hamrick chose to keep them at all.  In 1973 Eddie Zollman, who helmed the organ at the Victory, Winter Garden, Embassy and Paramount Theatres in Seattle in the 1920s, recalled the lean times he faced with the coming of sound, after theatre work dried up for himself and his fellow musicians.  Zollman was able eke by with the occasional stint at one of Seattle’s various radio stations, as well as picking up piano work at some of the city’s bigger dance halls, which carried him through World War II.  But things were weren’t all that great for working musicians like Zollman until the 1950s, when he was finally able to land steady work playing on the early television shows produced at KING-TV.^[2]

Despite upheaval amongst the musician ranks, it wasn’t a plight for which Motion Picture Record had much sympathy.  In a 1928 editorial called “The Musicians Have Wrecked Their Own Craft,” they railed against some of the trade’s practices.  “The musicians are up in arms over the advent of Vitaphone, Movietone, Firnatone and the other sound-synchronizers,” they began.  “…We hear that the Musician’s Federation has provided a ‘war chest’ of thousands of dollars to combat these mechanical devices which would practically eliminate the musical act…”  But the Record didn’t think the musicians would get much traction in the Northwest due to a lack of professionalism that had harmed their standing with the public.  “Customers at the Seattle Theatre, after enjoying the beauty of the house, the comfort of the seats, the entertainment of the picture, have to listened to the various scrapings, screeches and twanging of the tuning-up process of the musicians in the pit before they are given the overture and then the splendor of the Publix [stage] revue.” The problem wasn’t just at the Seattle; over at the new Orpheum Theatre on Fifth Avenue some of the musicians liked to say hello to friends in the audience by tapping a few keys on the house organ, and they did so without regard to whatever else (a stage act, the feature film) was going on at the time.  “If the musicians would convince us that their services are necessary in our theatres, let them show that they belong to the ‘big time’ by putting up their part on a par with the remainder of the program.”^[3]

If the introduction of sound killed anything in the average movie theatre, however, it was the pipe organ.  Wurlitzer and other units that had become a ubiquitous feature of early moviegoing, in both small houses and large, but were now antiquated in theatres with sound.  Even before the end of the silent era, in the large theatres of Seattle and Spokane, the pipe organ was no longer the musical star of the show, having been demoted in favor of an expanded house orchestra, with only the occasional solo or spotlight moment.  With certain exceptions, in urban areas they were no longer the workhorse instrument they had been five or 10 years previous.  That wasn’t necessarily the case in neighborhood or rural movie houses; many of these still used their pipe organ, so it’s not as if they disappeared entirely in the 1920s.  But the introduction of sound made these instruments virtually obsolete – just the sound of a pipe organ in a theatre setting became a dated throwback.  The Puget Sound Theatre Organ Society, an organization dedicated to promoting organ music and preserving the surviving organs in the Northwest, has traced the histories of numerous instruments across Washington, Oregon, Idaho, Montana, Alaska and British Columbia.^[4]  Most no longer exist, having long been dismantled and discarded in the post-silent film era.  Some, however, managed to survive – the Paramount (Seattle) Theatre still has theirs, while others eventually moved out of their theatrical homes and into churches, and sometimes even private residences.  Others were recycled for other purposes over the years, to be used in roller skating rinks or theme restaurants.  By and large, however, the arrival of sound film meant that the mighty Wurlitzer was mighty no more, and even for the venues that kept theirs, they were a relic of the past and used only on rare occasions.

While musicians and instruments like the pipe organ were directly impacted by the coming of sound, other employees also saw their work challenged, though perhaps not as directly.  Projectionists were also affected by sound technology, as they were now being asked to learn an entirely new set of skills – ones that, from their perspective, required additional work and a separate set of technical know-how.  Their importance to theatre operations had increased, went the thought, so union operators attempted to leverage the situation to get higher wages and better working conditions.  The counter-argument (and a view held by most theatre managers) was that most operators were no longer as skilled as they had once been – increased automation in the projection booth had actually made their jobs easier over time.  It had the makings of a standoff; the operators saw it one way, managers the other.

It didn’t take long into the sound conversion before the unions began making new demands of owners. Initially this was in the form of pay and hours adjustments, given that more was being required of the projectionist showing a sound film as opposed to a silent one.  Eventually, however, this morphed into demands that sound houses should employ extra men so that the projection and sound equipment were operated separately. This, of course, led to more than a few standoffs.

A good example of this came from the Rex and Granada Theatres in Lewiston, Idaho, operated jointly by Eddie Rivers and George Jungert.  In mid-1929, during a visit to Seattle’s Film Row, the pair told Motion Picture Record that they had been forced to take both houses from union to nonunion after installing sound equipment.  This was because the local operator’s union began making stringent demands almost immediately after sound equipment was put into the Granada.  There, the union informed the managers that the combination of projection work and new sound equipment would require them they employ a second union man in the booth for every show.  What’s more, it was going to cost them more for each man – $15 more per week for the head projectionist, plus an extra $5 per week above the normal pay scale for the second man, who would operate their DeLuxe Master Phone sound equipment.  Rivers and Jungert flatly rejected these demands, choosing to take their houses nonunion and have just one man operate both the projector and the sound equipment.  But they went even further than that, also dumping their union musicians and installing a Photoplayer automatic piano at both the Granada and Rex.  All told, the pair boasted that these moves, drastic as they were, were saving them $51 a week in expenses, and “[t]his kind of money is not to be sneezed at in a small town…”^[5]

There were a lot of hard feelings in Lewiston as a result of these decisions, but no indication that they spiraled out of control.  That wouldn’t be the case in Seattle, however, where a few of these incidents devolved into Danz-style union showdowns.  On March 1, 1929, the Mount Baker Theatre at 25^th and Jackson (formerly known as the Good Luck) was broken into after hours, with chemical bombs set off in the auditorium and the house’s organ, projectors and sound equipment smashed, then covered in acid.  More importantly, the house’s two Movietone sound units were destroyed as part of the break-in, part of an estimated $10,000 in damages.  No one knew who the perpetrators were, but everyone knew why the Mount Baker was hit.  Shortly before the incident, manager S.R. Williams and his business partner installed the Movietone units, the house’s first sound system, then dismissed their union projectionist, intending to operate the projectors themselves.

In short order Williams received an angry phone call from IATSE Local No. 154, demanding that he hire two union operators at a rate of $70 per week, each working a pair of four-hour shifts every night.  According to some reports, Williams asked for time to consider the union’s offer, but the Mount Baker was vandalized before he could respond.  Other reports had him refusing the offer straight away, after which the break-in occurred.

Like John Danz’s war against the musician’s union, incidents of vandalism had become commonplace, but operator unions claimed, as expected, that none of their members were involved.  In this case, IATSE secretary Walter Nielson went as far as to claim that the union had no knowledge of any operator difficulties at the Mount Baker Theatre.  “‘I didn’t even know it was on the unfair list,’” Nielson told the Post-Intelligencer.  “‘As for negotiations for union operators, they would be carried out through James McNabb, our business representative. I don’t know anything about it myself. I do know this much – our union doesn’t stand for any vandalism stuff.’” Fingerprints were taken from some of the smashed equipment, and Williams provided authorities with a list of employees dismissed from the theatre in the prior two years, but the crime was never solved.^[6]

In an editorial from August 1929, Motion Picture Record railed against these strongarm tactics, which had spread to numerous other theatres around Washington.  “[I]t would be to the union’s own advantage to adopt as far-sighted policy as the exchanges by relieving the exhibitor of the heavy and in many instances unnecessary expense of two operators and musicians,” they argued.  Some of the union demands were so outrageous, they felt, that they were dangerously close to putting the operator’s pay scale on par with the manager’s, something the paper found untenable.  “Surely the operators and musicians associations or unions and their business managers can see the utter folly of their demands,” they continued, “which might, if continued, close many theatres, ‘killing the goose that lays the golden eggs of wages and employment.’”^[7]

The matter came to a head in September 1929, when the Everett operator’s union went on strike for higher wages and additional staffing in union theatres.  That walkout, however, ended up being such a disaster that it set the labor movement back at a critical juncture.  Instead of demonstrating union strength, as hoped, the operators instead bumbled their way into showcasing the opposite.

In early September the Everett operator’s union informed Fox Everett Theatres (part of the Fox chain which now dominated the Everett movie scene) that they wanted higher wages due, in part, to the additional responsibilities of running sound equipment. Fox counteroffered with a different figure, which the union rejected, warning that they intended to strike if their original demands weren’t met by the 13^th. But that announcement badly overplayed the union hand, allowing the Motion Picture Theatre Owners of Washington to prepare a response.  While Fox Everett Theatres engaged in a largely fruitless dialogue, the MPTO quietly brought nonunion operators from around the state into Everett in advance of the strike.  When the union confidently walked off the job on September 14^th, nothing shut down – union pickets went up in front of Everett’s movie venues while nonunion scabs walked in through back door.  This had been so well organized by the MPTO that none of the city’s movie houses missed a single show, so the impact on the movie-going public was negligible.  It was such a miscalculation by union officials that Motion Picture Record claimed that the operators were already asking to come back by nightfall on Day 1, something that Fox Everett Theatres refused to do until several other matters had been resolved.  It took three days to work things out, and none of it went in the operator’s favor – in fact, they came back to work under the very same terms as when they left, so nothing was accomplished for the effort.  “The very successful way in which this strike was met and disposed of will be a governing factor and a decided influence in all such future instances,” Motion Picture Record gloated.   “…[T]he threat of a union operators or musicians strike will lose much of its power to create real apprehension in the minds of [exhibitors].”^[8]

By Eric L. Flom – November 2025

Notes:

[1] “Seattle,” Motion Picture News, 22 April 1927, Page 1454.
[2] Steve Chensvold, “He Organ-izes to Give ‘Silents’ Life,” Seattle Post Intelligencer, 30 August 1973, Page A14.
[3] “The Musicians Have Wrecked Their Own Craft,” Motion Picture Record, 30 June 1928 (Vol. 5, No. 26), Page 3.
[4] See the Puget Sound Theatre Organ Society website (www.pstos.org).
[5] “Seattle,” Motion Picture Record, 8 June 1929 (Vol. 6, No. 23), Pages 3-4.
[6] See “Theatre Damaged at Mount Baker,” Seattle Daily Times, 2 March 1929, Page 2; “Showhouse Devastated by Chemicals,” Seattle Post-Intelligencer, 2 March 1929, Page 1; “Coincidence,” Motion Picture Record, 9 March 1929 (Vol.6, No. 10), Pages 2-3; and “Seattle,” Motion Picture Record, 9 March 1929 (Vol.6, No. 10), Page 4.
[7] “Unfair?,” Motion Picture Record, 31 August 1929 (Vol. 6, No. 35), Page 3.
[8] “Off Again On Again,” Motion Picture Record, 21 September 1929 (Vol. 6, No. 38), Page 3; see also “Seattle,” Motion Picture Record, 21 September 1929 (Vol. 6, No. 38), Page 4.