Life During Wartime:
Stories of Patriots and Pandemics

On the international stage, the Spanish American War was the the United States’ unofficial coming out party, and was hyped in newspapers across the country. Early movie audiences responded to the increased attention by making these films popular onscreen attractions, if only for a brief time. But much changed between 1898, when the U.S. got involved in Cuba and the Philippines, and 1917, when it entered World War I, though movie audiences reacted in similar ways. By the mid-teens motion pictures were employing greater narrative and technical expertise, allowing screen stories to maximize their impact on an audience. More importantly, however, was the fact that they had become a ubiquitous part of American life – in 1898 movies were a novelty, seen only occasionally, while two decades later they were one of the country’s most popular forms of mass entertainment.

Though Woodrow Wilson built his entire 1916 re-election campaign around the notion that “he kept us out of war,” the country was hardly isolationist. The government was officially neutral on the European conflict, which began two years earlier, but Americans were vitally interested in the battlefield action – news of the war was spilled across newspapers, magazines, books and newsreels. So while the U.S. wasn’t directly involved, at least yet, many of its citizens were quite engaged, something that gave rise to the concept of preparedness. This was the idea that the United States should steel itself for potential hostilities, whether they occurred now or in the future. A strong and prepared America not only reduced outside threats but positioned it to act swiftly and decisively in a crisis.

Preparedness took different forms in different communities. In Tacoma, for example, as the European war got underway a group of locals began conducting voluntary military exercises on land near American Lake, just south of the city. Part of the Nisqually Plain, the area was marked by rolling fields and forests – a perfect setting for this type of activity. But it didn’t take long before these exercises (and a healthy dose of civic ambition) morphed into something larger. As the overseas conflict progressed, prominent residents began pitching a 70,000-acre military base for the site, an idea that eventually made its way to Secretary of War Newton D. Baker. The proposal was structured to benefit both sides: the city of Tacoma would purchase the land through a $2 million dollar bond program, then donate it to the government for the construction of a military base, which in turn would boost the local economy. Though the United States hadn’t yet entered World War I, Secretary Baker backed the proposal, which also earned the support of President Wilson. The timing couldn’t have been better. Once America entered the fight, Camp Lewis (named for explorer Meriwether Lewis) became part of a military building program that was the largest U.S. construction project since the Panama Canal. In all, more than 30 installations would be erected throughout the United States, Camp Lewis being the second largest of those (more or less) permanent sites, with a total construction cost of about $7 million dollars.^[1] It was erected with speed; the bond measure passed in January 1917, wood frame buildings were going up in June, and by December Camp Lewis was home to the 91^st Division and all 37,000 of its men.^[2] The effort involved constructing a variety of buildings to house, feed and train the soldiers, on grounds that included, among other things, at least two functioning movie theatres, the Victory and the Liberty.

Preparedness didn’t usually alter the landscape – it was more commonly seen in displays of patriotism. On June 10, 1916, for example, Seattle held a Preparedness Parade in anticipation of possible entry into the Great War, with local businesses temporarily shutting their doors so employees could participate. Plans for Seattle’s massive parade were such that the Daily Times declared it one of the most inspiring events in the city’s history. “So widespread is [support] that the affair developed into the greatest nonpartisan demonstration that Western Washington ever has known.”^[3] An estimated crowd of 50,000 viewed Seattle’s parade, with citizens, businesses, civic organizations and social clubs among the marchers. This included the city’s motion picture and vaudeville houses, including employees from the Alhambra, Liberty, Mission, Palace Hip and Pantages, among others. The doorman for the Coliseum led the theatre contingent up Second Avenue during the parade, followed closely by the house’s female ushers, dressed in military-style uniforms. They were tailed by the ushers and assorted personnel from the other theatres, the managers taking up the rear. It was an inspiring sight, and a clear show of patriotism, but because America was still uncommitted at the time, many businesses treated the event as a mash-up of national pride and marketing opportunity. “It is this sort of aliveness that keeps the theatrical interests favorably before the eyes of the public,” Motography’s A.R.M. Sutton noted of Seattle’s event.^[4]

But once the U.S. finally entered the war on April 6, 1917, everything changed. Like a light switch that had been flipped on, suddenly there were overwhelming displays of patriotic zeal in public and in private, and the American flag became a ubiquitous sight almost everywhere. Manager William Smyth of Seattle’s Strand Theatre (a Canadian who had only recently naturalized) was draping a large flag above the entryway to his house, over which loomed a ceremonial bald eagle. He was also projecting a special glass slide between films on behalf of the U.S. Navy, something given to him by the local recruiting office.^[5] This was the case in other picture houses as well; recruitment efforts became the norm at movie theatres across the United States. Liberty Loans, Red Cross drives and any number of community or fundraising events also used motion picture venues to support the cause. Theatres were popular gathering spots for a cross-section of society, so it only made sense to harness that feature in support of the war effort.

The venues themselves sometimes organized their own wartime programs, such as the “Tobacco Day” promotion at Seattle’s Strand Theatre. During November 1917, manager William Smyth donated the net profits from every Monday show to a fund whose sole purpose was to buy cigarettes for doughboys in the trenches.^[6] Yet another event was the peach pit drive held at Spokane’s Clemmer Theatre on September 20, 1918. (When reduced to charcoal, peach stones and other fruit pits could be used in the production of gas masks.) For this promotion, Dr. Howard Clemmer encouraged local kids to bring no fewer than 50 stones to his venue, which would be their admission for the day’s performance. About 2,500 pounds of pits were collected from nearly 3,000 children, then delivered to the local Red Cross – enough raw material for 750 masks. “Seven barrels had been placed at the curb in front of the theatre, but they were filled by early in the afternoon, and dry goods cases and crates were hurriedly obtained to hold the pits,” noted S. Clark Patchin. “The vestibule [in front of the Clemmer] was filled with a large pile of pits before they could be placed.”^[7] The donations weren’t limited to drop-offs, either. Because the Clemmer widely advertised this event, patriotic locals contributed even when they had no intention of attending the show. Throughout the week leading up to the drive, pits were being delivered to the Clemmer by hand, in the mail, and sometimes even by express delivery.

Not every action by Washington movie theatres had the same “let’s-all-rally-around-the-flag” appeal. In the spring of 1918, for example, management at Spokane’s Liberty Theatre chose to dismiss their male ushers – all 17 of them. Their rationale, it was explained, was that these boys (all too young to enlist) would better serve the war effort through farm work, where they could help grow and harvest the food necessary to win the fight. Management made this decision in private, then informed the boys of their fate, letting them go one-by-one, a new casualty falling each time the venue hired and trained a female replacement.^[8]

Most war-related events at movie theatres, however, focused on raising money for specific causes such as the Red Cross or various Liberty Loan drives. Other fundraising efforts took a slightly different tact. In a December 1917 fundraiser for the Seattle Girls War Relief Bazaar, a patriotic song written by Bertha Tremper, “Come Thru,” was performed at local film and stage venues each day for a period of two weeks.^[9] The fundraising element came from the sale of “Come Thru” sheet music, which was available for purchase at each theatre and in area music stores, with an initial run of 5,000 copies. In addition, organizers recruited several young women to sing “Come Thru” at dinner parties, teas or other social gatherings – entertainment that could be arranged for a nominal fee.

Of course, the ultimate way to support the war effort was to volunteer, and the motion picture trade papers made regular mention of the young men who resigned their posts in theatres or exchanges to join the fight. Enlisting, however, wasn’t the only way to make a difference. J.A. Koerpel managed the Seattle World exchange, but with a war raging across the ocean, that was only his morning job. After spending a few hours arranging the day’s business and handling important matters, Koerpel turned things over to an assistant so he could work the afternoon shift in a local shipyard. He wasn’t the only one doing so; several prominent Seattle businessmen volunteered in the shipyards or other industries out of a sense of patriotic duty.^[10] Unfortunately, J.A. Koerpel learned the hard way about sacrifice. In late 1918 he slipped while working on a vessel, tumbling three decks into the belly of the ship. Battered and bloodied, but alive, he was rushed to the hospital where doctors treated his injuries. With area building trades on wartime footing, Puget Sound hospitals were seeing a marked uptick in work-related accidents. To that end, the facility had a special sign-in book for patients like Koerpel, injured in the support of America’s fighting men, each page baring the legend “Not all the wounds suffered in the service of one’s country are received on the field of battle.”^[11]

Of course, all this marching, fundraising and volunteerism had its limits, and early on, in the spring of 1917, the Seattle City Council took up a pair of measures attempting to deal with it. The first centered around the American flag. Public displays, as with the entryway of the Strand, were fine. But others crossed the line and the city’s moving picture theatres, it seems, were routine offenders. The Council’s objection stemmed from the fact that the flag was routinely being hauled out at some point during the program (during a prologue or a musical interlude, for example), when its only purpose was to whip the audience into a frenzy. This was a cheap and degrading stunt, the Council felt, and an obvious attempt to exploit the war for commercial purposes. The second measure before the City Council was in a similar vein, and had to do with how often “The Star-Spangled Banner” was being incorporated into musical arrangements. This was also a gimmick in the Council’s eyes, and it had to stop. This second measure specifically prohibited the playing of the national anthem unless it was done just once, in reverence, as a standalone piece of music. It also stipulated that, when played, the entire theatre (musicians, personnel and the audience) were required to stand for the duration of the song.^[12]

It’s not clear whether these proposals were enacted. Either way, the local movie house quickly became a place where one’s patriotism was, from time-to-time, put on public display.

By Eric L. Flom – June 2025

Notes:
[1] Duane Colt Denfield, Ph.D., “Fort Lewis, Part I, 1917-1927,” HistoryLink website (http://www.historylink.org/index.cfm?DisplayPage=output.cfm&file_id=8455), accessed 19 January 2016.
[2] “Joint Base Lewis-McChord (JBLM) History,” Joint Base Lewis-McChord website (http://www.jointbaselewismcchord.com/joint-base-lewis-mcchord-info/life-at-jblm/history-fort-lewis-joint-base-lewis-mcchord), accessed 19 January 2016.
[3] “Seattle’s Preparedness Parade,” Seattle Daily Times, 10 June 1916, Page 6.
[4] A.R.M. Sutton, “Seattle Exhibitors Parade,” Motography, 15 July 1916, Page 126.
[5] “W.H. Smyth, manager of the Strand Theater…,” Motography, 17 March 1917, Page 562.
[6] S.J. Anderson, “Strand’s Net Profits to Soldiers,” Moving Picture World, 1 December 1917, Page 1376.
[7] S. Clark Patchin, “Clemmer Collects Pits for Army Masks,” Moving Picture World, 19 October 1918, Page 409. In a 1982 profile of James Clemmer, writer Elizabeth Rhodes described a similar event held at the Clemmer in Seattle with details quite similar to the Spokane drive. Rhodes didn’t provide her source for that information, and I haven’t been able to verify the stunt was also done at the Seattle Clemmer. While the brothers did occasionally share marketing ideas, it’s also possible that Rhodes looked at something describing what “Manager Clemmer” had organized at “the Clemmer Theatre,” without realizing that the information was describing an event in Spokane, and not Seattle. (See Elizabeth Rhodes, “The First Picture Palace,” Seattle Times, 11 April 1982, Page F1.)
[8] See S. Clark Patchin, “Liberty Theater Releases Boy Ushers,” Moving Picture World, 22 June 1918, Page 1753; and S. Clark Patchin, “Spokane Trade Jottings,” Moving Picture World, 29 June 1918, Page 1887.
[9] “Seattle Theatres Will Popularize Bazaar Song,” Seattle Daily Times, 5 December 1917, Page 11.
[10] “Exchange Managers Work in Shipyards,” Moving Picture World, 9 November 1918; cited in Richard Koszarski, “Flu Season: Moving Picture World Reports on Pandemic Influenza, 1918-19,” Film History, Volume 17, Issue 4 (2005), Page 473.
[11] S.J. Anderson, “Koerpel Injured Working in Shipyard,” Moving Picture World, 16 November 1918, Page 756.
[12] “At the insistence of patriotic organizations in Seattle…” Motography, 24 March 1917, Page 614.

It wasn’t just charitable organizations that used moving picture theatres as a platform for their cause. The United States government did this as well, organizing a speaker’s program called the Four-Minute Men that came into America’s entertainment venues with targeted messaging about the war effort. When this speaker’s bureau was first announced in June 1917, it was an outgrowth of similar efforts used to aid the sale of Liberty Loan bonds. The goal was to recruit some 15,000 volunteers to go into America’s stage and movie theatres and deliver concise, four-minute addresses that informed the public about aspects of the conflict. As a notice in the Seattle Daily Times explained, “[i]n each community, a public-spirited citizen is appointed chairman of the four-minute men. He obtains volunteer speakers who are willing to devote a bit of their time several nights each week toward acquainting the people with the progress of the war.”^[1]

Organized under George Creel’s Committee on Public Information, each week the Committee would approve text on a selected topic, then deliver it to Four-Minute Men organizations around the country, who would coordinate delivery to those speeches to local stage and film audiences. At full strength, the country’s Four-Minute Men organizations reached millions of people every night with these addresses, which could be presented quickly and with minimal interruption to the show. All that was required of the theatre manager was to open a slot on the program.

Throughout the summer of 1917, cities around Washington state jumped wholeheartedly into the effort, adding their own Four-Minute Men groups to tour local entertainment houses. Spokane was one of the first to organize, with businessmen mobilizing in July to set up their chapter. This was a far cry from 1914, when the city tried to ban war pictures on the theory that they inflamed public sentiment. “Patriotism is running high in Spokane at the present time,” S. Clark Patchin wrote in Moving Picture World. “…[A]side from donating heavily to the Red Cross and for Liberty Bonds the people rush to see any war feature pictures.”^[2] Other localities formed their own Four-Minute Men groups in the succeeding weeks; Seattle and King County had theirs by August, Everett was creating their own and other communities around the state were doing the same. By the end of October, the Four-Minute Men were active in no fewer than 92 cities across Washington state.^[3] Theatres were the primary venues for these talks, but speakers appeared in a variety of settings, particularly in rural areas where any type of public gathering was an opportunity for the Four-Minute Men to make their case.

Seattle’s Four-Minute Men were formed under the auspices of the King County Council for Patriotic Service, overseen by Frank Gates but under the day-to-day management of Carl Croson. James Clemmer represented local theatre interests by serving on the group’s advisory board. The initial set of volunteer speakers fanned out on August 27, 1917, delivering talks at a handful of local venues, including the Clemmer, Class A, Liberty, Grand Opera House, Dream and Fremont Theatres. This introductory speech focused on why the U.S. was fighting in Europe.^[4]

Gates was pleased with the initial results. “‘The addresses were well-received,’” he told the Daily Times. “‘The speakers were heard with understanding and enthusiasm. The general topic of the first series of addresses is What Our Enemy Really Is, and it is the purpose of the government, though various defense councils, to describe the German system of government, showing its opposition to democracy, and to point out to the people what many do not seem to realize yet – that this is a world fight with the fate of democracy hanging in the balance.’” The speakers were also aiming to, according to Gates, “‘expose the different methods used by German propogandists both in this country and abroad, and to develop an American sentiment in support of American purposes.’”^[5]

Frank Gates’ comments belie the obvious: with the Four-Minute Men, the United States was using home-grown propaganda to counteract the perceived threat of German propaganda. Nonetheless, the group became so successful during World War I, and such an everyday feature on the home front, that offshoot programs were developed. One brought schoolchildren into the fold; under the “Junior” Four-Minute Men, the Committee on Public Information mailed monthly bulletins to schools across the United States, with teachers encouraged to employ them in the classroom. Ideally, students would be assigned to draft and present their own four-minute speech on the chosen topic, or perhaps write a short essay. Then, at each school, the best of these efforts would be selected for a student assembly, open to parents and the public, where the winners presented their work. The Committee on Public Information even created special certificates for the winners, with the promise that the student’s name would be officially “enrolled at the capitol.”^[6]

Not every school participated in the Junior Four-Minute Men program, but Broadway High School in Seattle was one, as was the Greenwood School. At Greenwood, 14-year-old Lillian de Champlain (a Canadian by birth) was declared the winner of their competition with a speech to raise funds for the Red Cross. Young Lillian, however, wasn’t satisfied with receiving a mere certificate. Shortly after being crowned, de Champlain presented herself at the downtown headquarters of the Four-Minute Men, where Carl Croson was so impressed that he immediately put her to work. That made Lillian de Champlain one of a handful of women to have represented the Four-Minute Men in Washington; in May 1918, she appeared at three downtown Seattle theatres to give her speech on behalf of the Red Cross.^[7] Other women volunteering for the Four-Minute Men included Mrs. Emma Smith De Voe, who spearheaded Tacoma’s program, begun in September 1917. Similarly, Mrs. W.E. Ferrebee served as chair of the local Four-Minute Man organization in Hoquiam, while in Granite Falls Miss K.E. Blum made at least one speech on behalf of the group, which may have been part of a larger tour of rural movie houses in Snohomish County.^[8]

As the Four-Minute Man program gained momentum, finding volunteer speakers wasn’t a problem. Within two months of its launch, in October 1917, the Seattle group was booked to give nightly talks at 31 area theatres, a fivefold increase over their debut in August. An estimated 360,000 people heard these speeches, many of which were coordinated around an ongoing Liberty Loan drive. And once that concluded, the men were pressed into service for a food conservation campaign designed to “Hooverize” the city of Seattle.^[9] (At the time Herbert Hoover headed the U.S. Food Administration; the term was a marketing gimmick for a program encouraging Americans to conserve food.) Hoover wasn’t the only government official using the Four-Minute Men for their cause. Another campaign looked to secure donations of binoculars and spyglasses from the public – a request that came from the Assistant Secretary of the Navy, Franklin D. Roosevelt.

After little more than three months, the Seattle Post-Intelligencer thought the Four-Minute Men program successful on multiple fronts. In an editorial that ran in December 1917, they recognized “the service that has been conferred on the nation by the theaters of the country, and especially the motion picture theaters, in bringing the war needs of the nation to the people.” The paper also praised the speakers themselves, who “[b]y their energetic service practically every community in the country has heard the case against German kultur presented intelligently and adequately.” In a time of need, the Four-Minute Men were mobilizing Americans to get behind the war. “There is a broader conception of the war issue and a keener consciousness of American duty,” the editors wrote. “[S]leeping patriotism has been awakened, and the result has been reflected in the general support of our cause, in liberty bond purchases, in aid to the soldiers, in Red Cross support and the many enterprises looking to war support.”^[10]

In general, the speeches and promotional efforts of the Four-Minute Men were warmly embraced by audiences in the spirit of national unity. The talks were short, direct and vigorously applauded, but that’s not to say they were always welcomed. On Christmas Eve, 1917, H.A. Ford was at the Strand Theatre in Seattle giving remarks about the Red Cross when a man (allegedly a radical labor activist) began heckling the presentation. Ford was caught off guard – this had never happened to him before, and he wasn’t sure how to react. But then, Ford didn’t have to know, because the audience stepped in and resolved the matter for him. “Several men immediately around the man took him up, carried him to the door and pitched him across the street,” reported S.J. Anderson in Moving Picture World. “When they returned [to the auditorium] they were cheered by the rest of the audience, and Mr. Ford continued his speech.”^[11] These types of incidents weren’t uncommon in wartime America. Just days after Ford’s talk at the Strand, patrons leaving the Seattle’s Orpheum Theatre were harangued outside the venue by Tom Phillis, who made “bitter attacks upon the integrity of the Red Cross.” Again, the crowd took matters into their own hands, with several men wrestling Phillis to the ground and holding him until police arrived. That same day, two women at Third and Union were looking over a graphic movie poster featuring a depiction of German barbarism. They were chatting about it when a young man approached the pair from behind and remarked, loudly, that American women deserved far worse than that. The pair were so horrified that they rushed to a nearby police officer, who promptly arrested the 33-year-old man, who (predicably) was said to be of German descent.^[12]

Hecklers weren’t the only difficulty besetting the Four-Minute Men program. When the Washington Theater Manager’s Association gathered for their annual meeting in early 1918, speaker J.L. Pierce elaborated on another problem: how to stop imposters from commandeering theatres.

As an organization the Four-Minute Men were barely six months old, but this issue cropped up almost immediately. In a big city like Seattle, which served as the headquarters for all of King County, the speaker schedule was regular, planned and publicized well in advance. But that wasn’t the case for outlying communities, where visits by the Four-Minute Men could be sporadic. In those places, managers were accustomed to random, unannounced visits where the speaker had to be slipped onto the picture bill with little notice. The problem was that people began arriving at some of these venues, identifying themselves as Four-Minute Men, then used their speaking slot to launch into an argument for pacifism, labor rights or whatever their pet cause may have been. Patriotic movie audiences rebelled when this occurred, and several imposters were chased (or in the case of our friend at the Strand, violently tossed) from theatres. But no one was more upset about these incidents than the civic-minded manager, who not only got hoodwinked by an imposter but then got an earful from angry patrons for allowing it to happen. Pierce’s talk instructed managers how to avoid being taken by charlatans. A true Four-Minute Man would bring a special glass slide to the venue that could be presented to the manager, then projected onscreen as the talk began. This clearly identified the speaker, by name, as a representative of the organization. Anyone who couldn’t present this slide upon arrival shouldn’t be given access to the stage.

Pierce also addressed a secondary concern in his remarks – namely, the fact that a volunteer’s patriotic zeal wasn’t always commensurate with their speaking ability. He assured the gathering that the weaker orators would be ushered out of the program and replaced with more capable ones. But even seasoned speakers could be a problem. Shipyard workers in Seattle were being addressed onsite, between shifts, but complained that the white-collar speakers talked too fast and used big words. In this case, the compromise was to have the printed speeches delivered by the shift foreman, who did a better job of delivering the message in a way the intended audience could understand.^[13]

These issues in the Pacific Northwest were on top of other problems bubbling up within the organization. The month following Pierce’s talk, in February 1918, government organizers ordered Four-Minute Men speakers to refrain from singing “hymns of hate” as part of their presentations. More than a few, it seems, were augmenting their prepared remarks with jokes or derogatory songs designed to inflame passions against the German people. “Hatred has been stirred up in civilian populations in order to encourage enlistment,” a notice read, “but, thanks to the draft, this debasing feature of the war is not necessary in order to obtain and maintain our army.”^[14] Local events also prompted speakers to veer from script. After some provisions at a Seattle Red Cross warehouse were mysteriously destroyed, local Four-Minute Men deviated from their scheduled talk to warn theatergoers that enemy agents were not only present, but actively working to undermine the war effort. “There may be one in the seat next to you,” one exclaimed. Later, in 1918, the President of Stanford University, Dr. David Starr Jordan, gave a speech in Tacoma where he suggested, in the spirit of eventual reconciliation, that perhaps Germany should not be forced to pay excessive war reparations. The mere idea of leniency enraged many in the audience, and prompted local Four-Minute Men to use their speaking slots the following week to argue that Jordan was a traitor and pro-German propagandist. “If men like you or I were to get onto a soap box at a street corner and for one minute advocate the doctrine Mr. Jordan is preaching,” said one speaker, “we would be in the ‘cooler’ within five minutes. Yet he goes about, with no restraint, peddling his German propaganda. It is your duty and my duty to protest as vigorously as we know how.”^[15] Another issue emerging that fall were speakers who took it upon themselves to criticize immigrants, whom many felt were not doing enough to support the war.^[16]

There were flaws in the system, to be sure, but the Four-Minute Men provided an effective way for the U.S. government to deliver targeted messages to the American public. This took a tremendous amount of effort and coordination, and it wouldn’t have been successful without the cooperation of the nation’s entertainment venues. To that end, in March 1918, President Woodrow Wilson requested an entire week of Four-Minute Men speeches be given over to thanking the nation’s theatre managers. “‘The theatres of the country are rendering so substantial a service, in aiding the Four-Minute Men as spokesmen of the national cause that I would not willingly fail to acknowledge the debt the country owes to these theatre managers,’” Wilson wrote in a letter to William Blair, director of the national program. “‘Their response to requests has been hearty and their cooperation most helpful.’”^[17] The text of President Wilson’s letter constituted the Four-Minute Men’s address for that week, and when it was read aloud at the Grand Theatre in Pullman, Thomas Neill, local chair of the group, lead a standing ovation on behalf of Mrs. Stephenson, the Grand’s manager.^[18] The President’s words weren’t the only plaudits heaped upon area theatre managers – in Seattle, they were honored at a special dinner held at the Arctic Club. The event was designed as a celebration but took a somewhat ugly turn when Washington’s Assistant Attorney General, Clarence Reames, used his speaking slot to rail against alien residents who declared their intention to become American citizens, but delayed naturalizing because it made them eligible for conscription. These people, Reames contended, should be deported immediately.^[19]

The nation’s Four-Minute Men organizations naturally began winding down their activities once the Armistice was declared on November 11, 1918. They were officially disbanded by Christmas, the last few weeks of speeches given over to reflections on what the U.S. had accomplished and offering thoughts for moving forward. These final talks were designed to bring closure to the War to End All Wars, affirming America’s new position in the world and emphasizing the sacrifice of its fighting men. In the Northwest, however, the Four-Minute Men didn’t disappear right away. In Seattle the group continued operating on a reduced basis, organizers recognizing its effectiveness in mobilizing public support for certain causes. For example, nine months after the Armistice the Four-Minute Men were back in theatres advocating for “Back to School Week,” an effort to persuade veterans to return to school to further their education. Many former doughboys were either stuck in menial day jobs or had difficulty finding work in the new peacetime economy, so the program encouraged the kind of additional training that might help move these young men move up. It was one of several community drives to utilize the Four-Minute Men; others included promotional efforts on behalf of the Salvation Army, a housing project sponsored by the local Elks Club and a Red Cross Christmas drive, all of which occurred in late 1919. Not all these efforts were charitable, however. In Spokane officials put their group to work combating a rise in radical activities. “Four-minute men are to renew their patriotic campaign in theatres this week,” it was observed in November 1919. “They will attack Bolshevism.”^[20]

Gradually, however, appearances by the Four-Minute Men began to dwindle. The group eventually disappeared from the scene, but the general concept was revived from time to time, as with a 1921 campaign to promote automobile safety in King County. By then, however, the time of the Four-Minute Men had, for the most part, expired.

By Eric L. Flom – June 2025

Notes:
[1] “Organize Speakers to Explain War Issues,” Seattle Daily Times, 30 June 1917, Page 3. See also “Four-Minute Men to Talk on War,” Seattle Daily Times, 9 July 1917, Page 8.
[2] See S. Clark Patchin, “‘Four-Minute Men’ Organize Here” and “War Pictures in Demand in Spokane,” Moving Picture World, 11 August 1917, Page 984.
[3] See “Club is Formed to Discuss War Subjects,” Seattle Post-Intelligencer, 9 August 1917, Page 2; “Will Present Issues of War to the Public,” Seattle Post-Intelligencer, 11 August 1917, Page 16; and “‘Four minute men’…,” The Tacoma Times, 6 November 1917, Page 2.
[4] “Will Present Issues of War to the Public,” Seattle Post-Intelligencer, 11 August 1917, Page 16; “‘Four-Minute Men’ Board is Appointed,” Seattle Post-Intelligencer, 14 August 1917, Page 14; and “To Rouse People to Needs of War,” Seattle Daily Times, 27 August 1917, Page 4.
[5] “Four-Minute Men Speak in Theatres,” Seattle Daily Times, 28 August 1917, Page 4.
[6] See “Junior Minute Men to be Formed in Schools,” Seattle Daily Times, 22 March 1918, Page 13; and “School Kiddies May be Four-Minute Men,” Seattle Post-Intelligencer, 24 March 1918, Page 18.
[7] “Little Greenwood school girl…,” Seattle Daily Times, 26 May 1918, Page 18; see also “Junior Four Minute Men Give Program,” Seattle Post-Intelligencer, 8 May 1918, Page 14. Lillian de Champlain may have been Seattle’s only female Four-Minute Man, but she wasn’t the youngest to appear on their behalf. That honor went to 4½-year-old Knox Price, a California boy who addressed the crowd at the Moore Theatre on August 3, 1918, as part of a special war-themed benefit show. (See Moore Theatre advertisement, Seattle Daily Times, 2 August 1918, Page 10.)
[8] See “Talks at Movies,” The Tacoma Times, 25 September 1917, Page 3; and “Four Minute Men,” Granite Falls History website (http://www.gfhistory.org/Four_Minute_Men.pdf), accessed 7 August 2021.
[9] See “Four-Minute Men and Liberty Loan Drive,” Seattle Daily Times, 21 October 1917, Page 13; “Seattle Householder Says Eat 35 Kinds of Fish and Help Win War,” Seattle Daily Times, 31 October 1917, Page 8; and “Four-Minute Men of Seattle Hold Session,” Seattle Daily Times, 6 November 1917, Page 9.
[10] “Four-Minute War Talks,” Seattle Post-Intelligencer, 15 December 1917, Page 6.
[11] S.J. Anderson, “Good Films Draw Holiday Crowds in Seattle,” Moving Picture World, 19 January 1918, Page 409.
[12] “Police Round Up Draft Suspects,” Seattle Post-Intelligencer, 29 December 1917, Page 2.
[13] See “Washington Theater Managers Meet,” Moving Picture World, 9 February 1918, Page 799; and “Workers to Speak,” Seattle Star, 3 April 1918, Page 9.
[14] See “Four-Minute Men Not to Sing Hymns of Hate,” Seattle Daily Times, 4 February 1918, Page 7; and “Four-Minute Men Warned Against Hymns of Hate,” Seattle Post-Intelligencer, 4 February 1918, Page 1.
[15] See “Nail Hun Lies,” Seattle Daily Times, 15 September 1918, Page 60; “Spies in Seattle,” Seattle Star, 24 September 1918, Page 6; and “Jordan Speech Raises Ire of Minute Men,” Seattle Star, 5 October 1918, Page 1.
[16] It’s not clear whether the Four-Minute Men directly addressed the issue of “foreigners” in front of movie audiences, but member William H. Olin of Seattle made that his topic in an address given to the Seattle Transportation Club in November 1918. (See “Four-Minute Men Flail Foreigners,” Seattle Post-Intelligencer, 26 November 1918, Page 2.)
[17] President Woodrow Wilson, from a letter to William M. Blair quoted in “Lauds Theatres for Aiding War Speakers,” Seattle Daily Times, 31 March 1918, Page 20; see also “Use of Theaters is Appreciated,” Seattle Post-Intelligencer, 31 March 1918, Page 10. Some managers did more than just open up time on their bills. At the Pantages Theatre in Seattle, the venue installed a special red, white and blue curtain that they brought down as a backdrop each time a Four-Minute Man rose to speak. (See “Pantages,” Seattle Star, 23 April 1918, Page 5.)
[18] “President Wilson Thanks Grand Theatre,” Pullman Herald, 5 April 1918, Page 6.
[19] See “Speakers to Dine,” Seattle Daily Times, 24 September 1918, Page 8; “Minute Men to Honor Local Play Managers,” Seattle Post-Intelligencer, 24 September 1918, Page 4; “Four-Minute Men Thank Theatre Folk,” Seattle Daily Times, 25 September 1918, Page 8; and “Theater Heads Banquet Guests,” Seattle Post-Intelligencer, 25 September 1918, Page 8.
[20] “Spokane Plans I.W.W. Penalty,” Seattle Star, 19 November 1919, Page 10.

I had a little bird; its name was Enza. I opened up the window, and in flew Enza.^[1]
Children’s Rhyme, 1918

Coinciding with the war in Europe, the second major event of this period was the flu pandemic that swept the U.S. in late 1918. There are several theories on how and where the virus originated; an initial strain was going through the trenches of war-torn Europe earlier that year, something that wasn’t widely reported due to wartime press restrictions. A second, more lethal version appeared later that summer. In France and Germany this new virus decimated troops and civilians, but it wasn’t until the outbreak reached Spain (a neutral country with an open press) that the public began to learn details. By the time that occurred, however, it was too late to stop the spread. U.S. soldiers returning from the front had been flowing into New York, Boston and Philadelphia, many bringing the so-called “Spanish Flu” with them, helping spread the disease from the East Coast to, eventually, the West Coast. “There were two enormously important things going on at once and they were at right angles to each other,” Dr. Alfred Crosby observed. “One, of course, was the influenza epidemic, which dictated that you should…shut everything down, and the war which demanded that everything should speed up…It’s as if we could, as a society, only contain one big idea at a time and the big idea was the war.”^[2]

Influenza spread rapidly across the U.S. in the fall of 1918, but no one was prepared to deal with a public health crisis of that magnitude. Worse, medical science wasn’t very advanced, so there were open questions about how the disease was spread, how it should be treated and how best to protect the public. The situation was particularly bad in rural communities, many of which didn’t have the health facilities necessary to combat a full-on pandemic. Then, on top of all of this, there were the skeptics. “The first reaction of [many] authorities,” Dr. Crosby continued, “…was flat-out denial. They didn’t know what was happening, they didn’t know what to do, and therefore they did the human thing, which was to say it’s not happening.”^[3]

That was the wrong approach to take. As the 2020 COVID outbreak demonstrated, even cities with excellent medical facilities could find themselves in trouble, and quickly. The Spanish Flu spread so rapidly, to so many people, that hospitals were overwhelmed and temporary facilities erected. Communities large and small grappled with an unseen enemy they didn’t understand, and which struck both widely and indiscriminately. And medical logic was getting tossed on its ear. Doctors expecting the young or the old to be most vulnerable were discovering that sometimes the opposite was true. It was a frightening ordeal in which no one knew when it would start, when it would end or who would be struck down.

Being on the West Coast, Washington state officials watched all of this unfurl in the East, knowing it was just a matter of time before they’d be confronting the virus themselves. There may have been early, isolated cases, but the Spanish Flu seems to have arrived in western Washington with a batch of naval recruits – with America on wartime footing, military personnel were the ultimate super spreaders. In September 1918, after a ship departed Philadelphia for Bremerton, arriving on the 17^th, it docked with sailors who had already taken ill during the trip. With training exercises and the shifting of men and machinery, once it turned up in Bremerton it wasn’t long before officials began seeing it in other local installations, including Camp Lewis and a small outpost near the University of Washington.

As in the East, many local governments – even those with adequate medical facilities and supplies – chose to control the spread of influenza by shutting things down. In Washington one of the earliest to do so was Seattle, which abruptly went on lockdown on October 5, 1918. There was an immediate public outcry. The city’s school superintendent criticized Mayor Ole Hanson’s decision as one that incited fear, and City Hall was besieged with complaints from every direction. Motion picture exhibitors were among those vigorously opposing the measure, arguing that they could have been used to help educate the public on preventing influenza’s spread through onstage speeches, much like those being given by the Four-Minute Men. Religious leaders, too, railed against the shutdown and felt they had a role to play in the unfolding crisis, something that prompted Mayor Hanson to allegedly quip that “[any] religion that won’t keep for two weeks is not worth having…”^[4] Businesses and gathering places were directly impacted, as were social institutions. Weddings were temporarily forbidden, and funerals were limited to 15 minutes, start to finish. There was enough apprehension about the pandemic that most people complied with these directives, at least in the beginning, but public officials still took a lot of heat.

Exacerbating the problem was that these measures, harsh as they seemed, didn’t necessarily slow the spread. As the number of cases increased and extended shutdowns appeared likely, public tolerance for these restrictions began to wane, with some even flouting the rules by congregating on downtown streets. The Post-Intelligencer remained in the corner of city officials, but summed up everyone’s feelings in their October 24^th editorial column, three weeks into Seattle’s shutdown. “It would be mighty nice to sit once more in a cozy, well-ventilated theater and have a small group of talented people or an interesting run of pictures help us forget some things.”^[5]

Worsening conditions forced Mayor Hanson and Health Commissioner J.S. McBride to take even more drastic measures. Mandatory flu masks were required in public beginning October 29^th; the following day, masks were required in public places throughout Washington state. Certain essential businesses, like grocery stores, were allowed to remain open, but the city mandated that they could only operate between certain hours. This appeared random on the surface, but there was a method to the madness – store hours were limited so ordinary citizens would be off public transit during the shift changes at Seattle’s shipyards, when the trolleys typically filled.^[6] Seattle, like communities all across America, was performing a delicate balancing act that allowed it to function, on a reduced basis, while also taking measures to support the war effort and protect public health.

Obviously, these open-ended closures were terrible for business, but local motion picture exhibitors used the time to spruce up their venues. In Seattle John Hamrick repainted his Rex Theatre inside and out, while John Danz had work done on the exterior of his Colonial Theatre on Fourth Avenue. Danz’s brother Joseph (owner of four small houses in the Pioneer Square area) made changes to each of those venues, as his nearby competitors were also doing. Repainting was the order of the day at the Orpheum Theatre in Everett, while Arthur Oril put new storm doors on the Liberty Theatre in Lynden; Oril also installed a new heating stove for the winter months.^[7] Meanwhile E.W. Sandell, manager of the Dream Theatre in Snoqualmie, used his time to prep for the grand opening of his newest venue, the Pictureland in North Bend. With no patrons to serve at the Dream, Sandell put all his efforts into readying the 270-seat Pictureland, which would eventually debut showing features from Artcraft-Paramount and Fox.^[8]

As time dragged on, however, the problem facing every Washington community was the nature of the virus itself. In some areas the Spanish Flu passed within weeks, but in others it lingered. Then, when cities eventually decided to reopen, there were process issues – should everything reopen at once or should certain types of businesses remain closed for a time? A city might lift their quarantine only reimpose it after an uptick in influenza cases. One town might be closed while its nearest neighbor was wide open.

For movie theatres in the United States, the business questions went deeper than whether these venues were shut down. When the pandemic began film exchanges had a backlog of film titles but, over time, a dwindling number of houses in which to play them. This decrease in film rentals created uncertainty, and prompted many local exchanges to furlough staff. The situation was also impacting roadshow companies in Washington state. The state rights touring production of D.W. Griffith’s Hearts of the World, for example, was recalled in early October for safety and profitability reasons.^[9] Theatre supply firms, as well, saw orders delayed or cancelled altogether. And none of these businesses, of course, were immune from the virus themselves.

All told, Photoplay estimated that almost 80% of America’s moving picture theatres were forced to close during the pandemic, some of them remaining dark for eight weeks or more. That translated into lost revenue of nearly $40 million dollars and put some 150,000 Americans (many of them in low-paying usher and cashier positions) out of work indefinitely. Film production in California dropped by nearly 60%, and there was virtually no work being done in the East Coast studios. Tax coffers took a hit as well; in San Francisco alone, city officials were losing an estimated $40,000 per week in revenue because their stage and motion picture theatres were closed.^[10]

Moving Picture World and other trade papers chronicled the spread of the Spanish Flu and tracked its impact on the industry, getting weekly reports from correspondents in the field. From a picture standpoint, Northwest businesses were feeling the pandemic’s effects by early October, less than two weeks after the first cases were reported. By the middle of that month at least 50 cities in Washington had closed their theatres and other public spaces.^[11] These included Seattle (October 5^th), Yakima (October 9^th), Pullman (October 11^th) and Colville (October 19^th); Portland was a Northwest holdout, staying open into November. But the situation was chaotic. In Leavenworth, theatres, schools and the like were closed on Monday, October 7^th, then reopened on Tuesday before being shuttered again on Wednesday. Tacoma, on the other hand, allowed the city’s businesses (including its movie theatres) to remain open for a time, even though nearby Camp Lewis went on total lockdown.

No byline was given for the Northwest reports in Moving Picture World, but it’s assumed the local correspondent S.J. Anderson was gathering pandemic information from area film exchanges. Not only did they have salesmen in the field (at least until they were called back), but they were in regular contact with exhibitors from around the state, getting reports on conditions elsewhere. Through them, Anderson documented which areas of Washington were open or closed, but his most affecting reports were around the human cost of the pandemic. Take 25-year-old Ben Abbott, manager of the Dream Theatre in Sedro-Woolley.^[12] When Abbott’s mother fell ill in late September, he took her down to Seattle for treatment. She died shortly after arrival, and while Abbott was arranging to bring the body back home, he himself was stricken. Ben Abbott was young and healthy by all accounts, but died within three days of being diagnosed, leaving behind his brother and father, who continued operating the Dream. Other members of the Washington film community were also impacted. Seattle exhibitor John Danz and members of his extended family were stricken, but all recovered. That was also the case with manager J.L. Arnold of the Star Theatre in Bellingham, although the house projectionist passed away.^[13] There were at least three deaths amongst the employees of Yakima’s Mercy Amusement Company. These included Fergus Shaw, projectionist at a Mercy-run venue in Pullman; musician Frank Read, a four-year veteran of the organization; and Walter E. Jordan, who worked at the same theatre as Read. Jordan’s story was the saddest of all. Just two days after his death, Jordan’s wife also passed from influenza, orphaning the couple’s four-year-old son.^[14]

And so it went, week after week, with trade papers like Moving Picture World and Motion Picture News documenting news of industry figures who were either stricken or had passed.

As researcher Eric Hoyt noted, trade paper coverage of the Spanish Flu pandemic put these journals in an unusual position. “The trade papers reported on the public health crisis while generally maintaining an upbeat attitude, projecting confidence that things would soon get better. The dissonance between the trade papers’ function as industry boosters and conveyors of the news was especially evident in the juxtaposition of ‘situation improving’ reports and the obituaries of members of the industry community…In some cases, these notices appeared within pages of each other.”^[15]

Though conditions in some parts of the state improved in short order, in Seattle there was an uptick in influenza cases during the last week of October.^[16] By then many cities had been closed in upwards of three weeks, and the state’s movie exhibitors, among others, were agitating for change. On October 23^rd, the Washington Theatre Managers’ Association and the Northwest Film Board of Trade held a joint meeting on the issue, forming a special committee to work directly with municipal governments on ways to reopen the state’s picture houses as quicky as possible.

Finally, however, after five weeks of closure, Seattle moviegoers were once again able to patronize shows.^[17] The quarantine itself probably would have lasted longer, but when the Armistice was announced on November 11^th there was little officials could do to stop thousands of citizens from gathering to celebrate. So Seattle’s quarantine was lifted, but only because the Armistice changed everything; with no war and a pandemic that appeared on the wane, people wanted their lives back. As the Post-Intelligencer observed, “the public threw its masks in the stove, piled the breakfast dishes in the sink and hit the town on the first available street car.”^[18] Overnight, shops and restaurants were packed, and people didn’t mind standing in line for any of them – they were just happy to be out, once again, and without a cheesecloth mask. “The city actually seems threatened with a movie epidemic more far-reaching than the ‘flu’ scourge,” the paper continued, “and unless it is checked early, movie magnates or some patriotic council may be forced to put the public on a movie ration in order to cut down the crowds.”

At theatres across Seattle it appeared that time had stopped, with many houses opening with the same films that they were showing when they closed in early October. On the exhibition side, in fact, the backlog of unplayed films was so large that Spokane theatre managers joked that they could continue showing new pictures for at least six months, even if Hollywood remained closed.^[19] Swagger aside, however, there were still plenty of folks who remained cautious about public events for the time being, even after the quarantines were lifted.^[20]

No one seemed timid in Seattle. Exhibitors reported near-record attendance on the day after the ban was lifted, even though patrons were still required to wear masks to diminish the threat of contagion. Crowds were especially thick at the city’s downtown theatres, where people were keen to enjoy themselves again – in particular at the Liberty, where Charlie Chaplin’s newest comedy, Shoulder Arms, was set to open just five days after local picture houses opened back up. That same day, November 17^th, Spokane officials finally reopened their own moving picture theatres.^[21]

Many small-town exhibitors, however, were not as fortunate.^[22] In rural areas, the only tool many local governments had to combat influenza was an abundance of caution, something that kept many of those houses darker for longer. Some towns might reopen briefly, only to close again when officials reversed course. In Snohomish, schools and local businesses were initially closed for about six weeks, from early October through mid-November, despite relatively few influenza cases. But the decision to lift the Snohomish quarantine roughly coincided with a similar action in nearby Everett, which was larger and harder hit by the disease. Within a week Snohomish saw an increase in new cases, prompting local officials to contemplate a second lockdown. Everett eventually did that, in late November; similarly, theatres in Walla Walla reopened for only a week before they were forced to close again.^[23] Olympia also went back under quarantine, something that prompted a firestorm of criticism and highlighted the flaws in how some shutdowns were handled. Olympia, at the time, hadn’t experienced a huge increase in influenza cases, so many questioned the need for a second lockdown. What’s more, everyone knew that state legislators had a special train car at their disposal each evening. What good were a new set of restrictions if elected leaders could circumvent them by running up to Tacoma, mingling without restriction, and then, potentially, bringing influenza back down to the state capital?

S.J. Anderson, writing in Moving Picture World, reported that only about 30% of small-town movie theatres in Washington were operating by mid-November, and by January 1919 that percentage was only up to about 50% across rural Washington and Oregon.^[24] These forced closures were particularly hard on the state’s small business owners. When the pandemic struck Okanogan County had already endured two seasons of underwhelming crop yields, so the local quarantine put additional pressure on everyone, including exhibitor Clarence Scates and his newly opened Paramount Theatre. Scates held tight for as long as he could, hoping influenza would pass quickly, but eventually packed it in, locked up the Paramount and left town.^[25] Later, in the spring of 1919, an exchange man with Famous Players returned from a trip through eastern Washington, Idaho and Montana, reporting that business was terrible throughout the entire region due to continued local outbreaks.^[26]

When cities did reopen, however, their approaches differed. Seattle, as of November 12^th, simply returned to business as usual – masks were required in some places, but that was about it. Spokane, on the other hand, tried an interesting compromise designed to meet the needs of both health officials and theatre owners.^[27] While certain types of entertainment (such as dance halls) remained closed, movie theatres there were allowed to operate under a limited quarantine measure. In essence, these venues were open at half capacity, with masked patrons seated in every other row – an attempt at social distancing negated by the fact that the setup continued to put random people in close proximity. The measure also prohibited screenings between 5 p.m. and 6:30 p.m., typically a busy period, so each house could be cleaned, ventilated and reheated.

Spokane was by no means the only American city looking for the middle ground between safety and commerce. But such efforts were fraught with difficulties, and not just because some of those ideas were ill-conceived. Once the house lights dimmed in Spokane, moviegoers frequently took off their masks and crawled into the empty rows – openly defying the rules but, ironically, putting the kind of distance between themselves that was probably beneficial. Spokane theatres operated this way for several weeks, until January 1, 1919, when picture houses were finally allowed to operate at full capacity.^[28]

By and large the Spanish Flu was on the wane by mid- to late January. Periodic flare-ups weren’t uncommon throughout the state, such as the one that briefly closed 21 Seattle movie houses in February 1919, but they were also less prevalent.^[29] But there were constant reminders that influenza could, in fact, return. In the spring of 1919 movie theatres in Tacoma were required, by order of the mayor, to show a series of glass slides, produced and distributed by the city, reminding moviegoers of how they could prevent another influenza outbreak.^[30]

Even though the Spanish Flu pandemic was on its way out by early 1919, it left behind a catastrophic wake. Only about 10% of flu cases proved fatal, but even those numbers were staggering. More than 6,500 people died in Washington state, including 1,500 in Seattle alone. An estimated 700,000 people died across the United States, with figures going as high as 50 million deaths worldwide (roughly 3-5% of the world’s population). These were huge numbers, but Seattle, at least, fared much better than major U.S. cities like San Francisco, Philadelphia or Boston. Quick and decisive action by Mayor Ole Hanson and Health Commissioner J.S. McBride helped keep Seattle’s numbers down, despite their critics.^[31]

But even beyond the Spanish Flu pandemic of 1918, viral outbreaks occasionally closed movie houses around Washington state. A mini flu epidemic hit Seattle in early 1922, for example, though it was nowhere near the scale or severity of 1918.^[32] An outbreak of scarlet fever in early 1924 forced the Commerce Theatre in Montesano to temporarily close its doors, which was also the case for the Ruby Theatre when scarlet fever also cropped up in Chelan. That year also saw an increase in infant paralysis cases in Tacoma, which closed schools and moving picture shows for a three-week period. Still, however, city officials made efforts to balance public health with business concerns. Tacoma’s theatres were shut down by decree, but the Board of Health carved out a special loophole for large downtown houses like the Colonial, Blue Mouse and Rialto, which could continue operating provided they refused entry to children.^[33]

By Eric L. Flom – June 2025

Notes:
[1] Children’s rhyme cited in Influenza – 1918, American Experience website (https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/americanexperience/films/influenza/#transcript), accessed 25 May 2020.
[2] Dr. Alfred Crosby, as quoted in Influenza – 1918, American Experience website (https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/americanexperience/films/influenza/#transcript), accessed 25 May 2020.
[3] Ibid.
[4] Seattle Mayor Ole Hanson, as quoted in Leonard Garfield, “Pandemic! Seattle and the Spanish Flu of 1918,” Page 4; Museum of History and Industry (MOHAI) website (https://mohai.org/event/pandemic-seattle-and-the-spanish-flu-of-1918-webinar/), accessed 2 April 2020.
[5] “It would be mighty nice…,” Seattle Post-Intelligencer, 24 October 1918, Page 6.
[6] Garfield, Page 7.
[7] See “The Orpheum,” The Labor Journal (Everett, WA), 18 October 1918, Page 4; “Makes Improvements While Theater is Closed Down,” The Lynden Tribune, 7 November 1918, Page 5; and S.J. Anderson, “Seattle News Letter,” Moving Picture World, 23 November 1918, Page 854.
[8] S.J. Anderson,” Seattle News Letter,” Moving Picture World, 7 December 1918, Page 1111.
[9] S.J. Anderson, “Establishes Emergency Film Stations,” Moving Picture World, 2 November 1918, Page 614.
[10] Stats cited in Richard Koszarski, “Flu Season: Moving Picture World Reports on Pandemic Influenza, 1918-19,” Film History, Volume 17, Issue 4 (2005), Page 468 and 475. Koszarski’s article reprints several verbatim reports from the pages of Moving Picture World and other publications; in this case, I’ll cite the page in his work rather than the individual articles themselves.
[11] “All Houses Closed in Northwestern Country,” Moving Picture World, 2 November 1918, Pages 573-574.
[12] S.J. Anderson, “Establishes Emergency Film Stations,” Moving Picture World, 2 November 1918, Page 614.
[13] S.J. Anderson, “Seattle News Letter,” Moving Picture World, 7 December 1918, Page 1111.
[14] Influenza Hits Yakima Employees,” Motion Picture News, 23 November 1918, Page 3047.
[15] Eric Hoyt, Ink-Stained Hollywood: The Triumph of American Cinema’s Trade Press (Berkely: University of California Press – 2022), Page 64.
[16] “Seattle May Be Closed Two More Weeks,” Moving Picture World, 23 November 1918, Page 722.
[17] “Embargo Lifted in Seattle,” Moving Picture World, 7 December 1918, Page 1055.
[18] “Seattle, Now Unmuzzled, Puts in the Day Resting Tired Feet at Movies,” Seattle Post-Intelligencer, 13 November 1918, Page 10.
[19] “Spokane ‘Doesn’t Give a Hang’ What Producers Do,” Motion Picture News, 26 October 1918, Page 2647.
[20] Koszarski, Page 477-482.
[21] “Section Reports (Spokane, Wash.),” Motion Picture News, 16 November 1918, Page 2926.
[22] S.J. Anderson, “Record Business in Seattle Houses,” Moving Picture World, 14 December 1918, Page 1224.
[23] “Northwest Still in Influenza Grip,” Moving Picture World, 21 December 1918, Page 1354.
[24] S.J. Anderson, “Influenza Still Troubles Northwest,” Moving Picture World, 25 January 1919, Page 511.
[25] S.J. Anderson, “Small Town Exhibitors are Hard Hit,” Moving Picture World, 1 February 1919, Page 655.
[26] “Seattle News Letter,” Moving Picture World, 15 March 1919, Page 1508.
[27] “Spokane Theatres Under Modified Influenza Ban,” Moving Picture World, 28 December 1918, Pages 1490-1491.
[28] “Reports Show Influenza Wanes,” Moving Picture World, 18 January 1919, Page 337.
[29] “Seattle,” Motion Picture News, 6 March 1920, Page 2239.
[30] “Tacoma Notes,” Moving Picture World, 1 March 1919, Page 1223.
[31] Garfield, Pages 1 and 10.
[32] “Washington State,” Moving Picture World, 18 February 1922, Page 745.
[33] See “Northwestern Theatre Field Shows Evidence of Booming,” Moving Picture World, 16 February 1924, Page 571; “Epidemic Closes Houses in Tacoma,” Motion Picture News, 1 November 1924, Page 2190; “Seattle,” Motion Picture News, 15 November 1924, Page 2522; and “Seattle,” Motion Picture News, 27 December 1924, Page 3392.