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Discover why, in cinema's early days, Max Factor’s panchromatic movie make-up was considered "horrifying." ​ Early movies used two types of film: orthochromatic and panchromatic . Orthochromatic film sees limited colors; it is blue- (or green-) sensitive and is unable to capture reds. For example, on the screen, blue skies look white, blonde hair appears washed-out, and red lips look black. To combat these issues, industry pioneers used lens filters, location choices, lighting—and makeup. Panchromatic film sees all colors and reproduces them closer to what we experience daily, albeit in shades of black, white, and gray. For differences between the two film types, look at Kodak's advertisements above ( Movie Makers , 1930). When panchromatic film became trendy in the late 1920s, makeup artist Max Factor —whose Chicago office sat at 444 W. Grand Avenue—was there to assist with the transition. ​According to Max Factor: The Man Who Changed the Faces of the World , Factor toiled for months to create a new type of makeup "that reflected the correct degree of light required by [panchromatic] film." Factor succeeded and was even awarded a certificate by the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences to recognize his contribution to “Incandescent Illumination Research.” You can see in the 1929-1930 ads below from International Photographer that Max Factor's movie makeup is front and center. In some instances, his name and the words panchromatic make-up are as about as large as—or larger than!—the titles of the films being advertised. Also, International Photographer informs its readers, presumably cinematographers, that these films use Max Factor’s makeup exclusively. Thus, for these professionals to work on a film NOT using this makeup would arguably be a step down in status. By the 1930s, Max Factor’s panchromatic make-up—although reportedly " horrifying to look at " in daylight since it was designed for black-and-white movies and not everyday wear—became an industry standard.

Decades before Hollywood’s The Wizard of Oz , Chicago’s Grand Opera House staged its own hit version—funded, in part, by a patent medicine called Wizard Oil. Promotional still for The Wizard of Oz (1939), IMDb. It's January 1872, barely 3 months after the Great Chicago Fire . Despite the frigid weather, rebuilding is in full force . Hotels, churches, offices, banks, museums, and theatres begin to rise skyward.   Over at 546 N. Clark St. (now site of the Daley Center ), brothers John  and Lysander Hamlin are doing their part to facilitate the city's rebuilding process. Using family wealth, the Hamlin brothers, ages 65 and 63, have just forked over $130,750  (about $3.4 million today) to purchase property on which they would build Chicago's  Grand Opera House —a theatre that would soon become a cultural landmark. The following story of Chicago’s Grand Opera House reveals how the city’s resilience after the Great Fire and the Hamlin family's entrepreneurial vision shaped a stage history that would give the world its first musical version of The Wizard of Oz —decades before Hollywood and MGM made it famous. The family name, Hamlin, is centered near the roofline of the Grand Opera House, Chicago, IL. c. 1880 . Nine Lives of Chicago's Grand Opera House The Grand Opera House, which sat about 1,500 patrons , boasts a colorful history. The building served  as a billiard hall, beer garden, and vaudeville house before settling into its status as a theatre in 1880. The transformation from billiard hall to beer garden must have been fascinating for regular patrons. They would've watched workers replace the 30+ billiards tables with an elegantly carpeted ladies' gallery and an additional room that mimicked "scenery of mountain and field, rivulets, bridges, cascades, an old mill or two, a 24-foot waterfall, miniature lake, and other rural work on an expensive scale" ( Chicago Tribune , July 18, 1875). A 24-foot waterfall and a miniature lake—indoors! Women enjoying drinks in an indoor beer garden, Wikimedia Commons . George M Cohan's Grand Opera House, Ovrtur . Equally interesting, in 1912, composer-playwright George M. Cohan —he of " Yankee Doodle Dandy " fame—would co-lease the theatre from the Hamlin brothers and rename it after himself. In this photo, it's appropriate, I suppose, that a " grand ol' flag " would hang beneath the theatre's new name: George M. Cohan’s Grand Opera House. Perhaps more confusing, later, the same building was known briefly as the Four Cohans, which you can see via the marquee in this photo . Here's a final piece of Chicago's Grand Opera House history: On June 16, 1902, a stage musical based on a brand new and very popular children's book premiered there. We're Off to See the Wizard (Oil)   In 1902, while John Hamlin's sons Harry and Fred were managing the Grand Opera House, they were presented with a musical comedy for the stage. The production was based on L. Frank Baum 's book The Wonderful Wizard of Oz , published in Chicago only two years prior. According to an unnamed contemporary, the Hamlin family “knew little about musical comedy, but they thought anything with the name ‘Wizard’ in it should do well” ( Chicago Tribune , Apr 1, 1958). And they thought this for good reason. Poster advertising Hamlin's Wizard Oil. The Hamlins, we learned above, used their family wealth to purchase the Grand Opera House. All that money, if you can believe it, came from a patent medicine cure-all called Hamlin's Wizard Oil . Made of 50–70% alcohol and advertised heavily across the Midwest, Hamlin's Wizard Oil claimed to cure a variety of common ailments, including: rheumatism neuralgia headache toothache diphtheria sore throat sprains bruises menstrual cramps diarrhea Fun fact : you can still find Hamlin's Wizard Oil bottles, song books, advertising posters, and trading cards for sale on eBay . It’s no wonder the Hamlins believed a musical with “Wizard” in the title would be a hit—the name had already made them wealthy. The family's instincts were right: the play was a success. A Musical Oz in Chicago: Sufficiently Spicy The Wizard of Oz  musical extravaganza  was scheduled to open at Chicago's Grand Opera House on June 12, 1902. But the show was not ready. It was postponed two days. Then, it was postponed another two days. Surprisingly, rather than deterring audiences, the back-to-back delays stirred interest. When The Wizard of Oz  musical finally opened on June 16, 1902, the house was packed. Reports describe a "huge well-dressed crowd" with people "standing in the aisle at rear and behind the last row of seats." Interior, Grand Opera House, " The Complete Architecture of Adler & Sullivan ." Even L. Frank Baum attended the show and, afterward, addressed the audience : "Kind friends, thank you for your enthusiasm. It is heart-warming. You have been generous enough to call for the author, but I do not need to remind you that he is only one of many whose efforts you are enjoying tonight. [...] All of us are happy you have enjoyed the show, and we hope you and your friends will be back for a second helping ." Indeed, people did return for "a second helping," as Baum put it. The show consistently sold out and even broke attendance records for the Hamlin-run theatre. By the time production closed in Chicago on September 20, 1902, 185,000 people had seen the show. Its box office receipts totaled $160,000 (about $5 million today). Helping matters, I imagine, ticket prices were affordable: they ranged from $0.25 to $1.50, or only $8 to $50 today. In addition to the sold-out Chicago crowds and impressive box office returns, the production's stage effects, set design, costumes, and marketing were touted in reviews and in conversation around the city. First, based on contemporary descriptions, the musical's Poppy scene must've been dazzling. A large gauze curtain, well-positioned lights, and magic lantern slides  produced the illusion of rain, snow, and sunbeams as the main characters "fell asleep" onstage. A similar effect was used for the cyclone at the start of Act 1. Second, audiences and critics consistently applauded the performances and costumes of Fred Stone and David Montgomery , who played Scarecrow and Tin Woodman respectively. Scarecrow wore a blue shirt and blue pants, both stuffed with real straw. Each night, his face was painted with pink and black greasepaint to remove Stone's actual eyebrows and create Scarecrow's face stitches. David Montgomery as the Tin Man. Poster for Fred R. Hamlin's musical extravaganza, The Wizard of Oz . Wikimedia Commons. Montgomery's Tin Woodman wore an actual tin hat and a "biblike collar" around his head. Every night, his face was painted with white greasepaint, with streaks of black around his eyes, nose, and mouth, and a tinge of red across his lips. Onstage, Stone's "fluid movements and rubbery legs" delighted audiences while Montgomery's "broad grin and creaky movements" rendered his character "funny and endearing." Part of their appeal no doubt, Stone and Montgomery had significant onstage chemistry: they had worked together as a vaudeville team before co-starring in Chicago's The Wizard of Oz  musical. Finally, in addition to the production's stage effects, set design, and costumes, the play's accompanying literature and vibrant posters clearly enticed Chicago theatre audiences and critics. Newspapers published teasers and short articles about the show. An 8-page promotional booklet including cast member photos and bios was also available. Moreover, this musical version of The Wizard of Oz was advertised as appealing to both children and parents—"sufficiently spicy and alluring to engross a sophisticated Chicago audience." Oz after Chicago... After its stint in Chicago, The Wizard of Oz  musical extravaganza toured through the upper Midwest. Eventually, it moved to Broadway , where it ran for 300 performances at the Majestic Theatre . A touring company would soon follow. In the transition from Chicago to New York, most of the original cast remained, including David Montgomery and Fred Stone, who had, of course, been key to the show's success as the Tin Woodman and Scarecrow. To be fair, I've only skimmed the surface of this Chicago production of The Wizard of Oz . For those seeking more information about the musical production, you might read Part 1 of Mark Evan Swartz's book Oz before the Rainbow: L. Frank Baum's The Wonderful Wizard of Oz on Stage and Screen to 1939 . Fortunately, a great deal of primary and secondary sources about the play are available, many of which are referenced within.

Silent film titles suggest Hollywood took note of the bungalow explosion in America An Auto-Bungalow Fracas (1913)⁣⁣ The bungalow — a low house, with a wide front porch, having either no upper floor or upper rooms set in the roof — exploded in America around the turn of the 20th century. And Hollywood took note. Look at the titles of these silent films—two of which were made by Chicago’s American Picture Company:⁣⁣ The Bungalow Craze (1911)⁣⁣ Bounding Bertie’s Bungalow (1913)⁣⁣ An Auto-Bungalow Fracas (1913)⁣⁣ Ambrose’s Bungled Bungalow (1920)⁣⁣ Bungalow Troubles (1920)⁣⁣ Bungalow Love (1920)⁣⁣ Bungalow Boobs (1924)⁣⁣ For Sale, a Bungalow (1927)⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ Like 75-80% of films made during the silent era, most of these works have been lost to history. But as you can learn below, the bungalow is still very much alive in Chicago and its surrounding suburbs! More on Chicago bungalows

Take a quick look at cats across movie history—from early film reels to Chicago’s own feline film stars. Cats auditioning for the title role in The Black Cat . LIFE magazine, Dec. 1961. Cats, like their canine counterparts , have always graced the silver screen. Perhaps the earliest example—that still exists—is the 20-second film Boxing Cats  from 1894. (A similar silent short, Trick Dog Teddy and other Dog and Trick Cats , was filmed at roughly the same time in the same place . But as far as I can tell, it is lost.) Boxing Cats depicts a boxing match between two cats who are wearing boxing gloves. In the background, "Professor" Henry Welton  referees the tussle as part of his (clearly not humane) road show called Cat Circus. Fun fact : Boxing Cats  is often considered the first " cat video , " despite the misnomer (it's not a video). Ad for Welton's Cat Circus, featuring 40 cats—with human brains! Boston Globe , 1891. Cats in Hollywood (and Online) EW.com ranks fantastic film felines. Screenshot. Thousands of feline actors have appeared onscreen since Boxing Cats  debuted in 1894.   Sometimes, cats are main characters  that move the narrative forward, as in Homeward Bound  or Puss in Boots . Other times, they are incidental to the plot , like a stray cat on a street or one in a window sill.   Cats appear in live-action , animated , and documentary  film. They also show up in virtually all of Hollywood's traditional genres :   comedy (the Austin Powers  series) science-fiction ( Alien ) crime ( The Godfather ) horror ( Pet Sematary ) western ( The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly ) rom-com ( Breakfast at Tiffany's ) action ( Keanu )   What's more, these days, online outlets frequently rank movie cats , choosing the most iconic , most adorable , coolest , and ones with the best cameos .   Finally, blogs like Cinema Cats  and Cats on Film  (now defunct but also a book ) take on the tasks of watching, analyzing, screenshotting, and categorizing decades of onscreen cat performances. In short, if you want information about cats in movies, there's no shortage. Chicago and the Clark Gable of Cats What about the presence of cats in Chicago-based (or -related) movies ? Sure, those exist too. Here are a few: Harry and Tonto  (1974) She's Having a Baby (1988) Next of Kin (1989) National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation  (1989) Uncle Buck  (1989) Excessive Force  (1993) While You Were Sleeping  (1995) What Women Want  (2000) Cat City  (2003) Garfield: The Movie  (2004), voiced by Chicagoan Bill Murray Christmas with the Kranks  (2004)   Additionally, Chicago Film Archives —a non-profit that collects, preserves, and provides access to films representing Chicago and the Midwest—includes several home videos featuring cats and kittens in its collection. And let's not forget Morris , "the world's most finicky cat."   In 1968, Morris was discovered just outside Chicago, at a Humane Society in Hinsdale, IL . After auditioning for the role of spokescat for 9Lives cat food and getting the job, the art director reportedly said, “He’s the Clark Gable of cats!” The Black Cat Auditions (1961) But perhaps my favorite cat-movie connection is illustrated in the photos below of hundreds of people lined up outside a Los Angeles movie studio with their (mostly) black cats.   These are photographs from LIFE  magazine , taken by Ralph Crane in 1961. They show 152 black cats (and their owners) standing in line to audition for the film adaptation of Edgar Allen Poe's short story The Black Cat , starring Vincent Price and Peter Lorre. According to an LA Times reporter , all manner of black cats were present: "...big black cats, little black cats, black black cats, gray black cats, black kittens, black and white cats, white and black cats, nervous black cats, gentle black cats. There was even a white cat. It was there to keep a pal, a black cat, company."   LIFE 's Picture of the Week, screenshot, Dec. 15, 1961. The film's title role called for "a cat who gets plastered up in a wall [...] and reveals the crime with its ghostly mewing." As a result, cats were judged based on which had the most " sagacious " and "meanest" face. But all of this—including the audition process—was a lie. Unbeknownst to the crowd, the studio had already given the role to a professional cat actor. The heartening news: seven cats in line that day were chosen for understudies and studio publicity. So for a handful of participants, this visually striking audition was not necessarily "the biggest invitation to bad luck ever seen in one place," as LIFE magazine originally reported .

In the United States, movies and religion have virtually always been at odds. One early point of contention between the motion picture industry and religious people, mostly Protestants, comes in the form of blue laws. Moving Picture Weekly shows exhibitors how their "town will look on Sunday morning after the passing of Blue Laws." What Are Blue Laws? Blue laws prohibit certain activities, such as going to the movies, on Sundays. Their purpose? To promote the observance of a day of worship or rest. ​ ​While presumably outdated in the 21st century (and arguably unconstitutional), blue laws are still in effect in states like these that prohibit selling alcohol on Sundays before noon. How Did Blue Laws Affect Movies? ​As you might imagine, in cinema’s early days, theatre owners and other prominent industry members were NOT fans of blue laws. The same goes for many theatre patrons, whose grueling work schedules allowed them to enjoy movies and other recreational activities only on Sundays. As a result, citizens in and outside the industry protested and petitioned for the laws to be abolished. ​Even the 1921 movie Blue Sunday, produced by Carl Laemmle (whom we celebrate in our virtual tour on Chicago’s Jewish pioneers ), tackles the subject. This silent film comedy led exhibitors to market the movie, rather hilariously, with “exploitation ideas” like putting public stocks outside their theatres to match those in the film (picture above) and creating silencer masks for patrons (below). How Did the Movie Industry Fight Back? In the early 1920s, the Chicago-based theatre chain Fitzpatrick & McElroy repeatedly called on producers, distributors, and exhibitors to protest blue laws because they “threaten[ed] the stability of the entire motion picture industry.” ​Fitzpatrick & McElroy was reportedly the first to start an organized national campaign to kill this legislation. ​In 1921, the company’s 16,000,000 Club—named for the number of petitions it intended to send to Congress—was positioned to be renamed the 50,000,000 Club. Evidently, people were supportive of this cause! The protests were perhaps also gaining traction because participants were not only against the closing of the theatres on Sunday, but they were also against any blue Sunday legislation "intended to curb the happiness, pleasure, and innocent pursuits of the American people.” Did Protests Work in Chicago? ​In 1923, a headline in Exhibitors Herald reads: “Public Protest Brings Early Demise for Blue Law Measure in Illinois.” Senator James E. MacMurray of Chicago—rather oddly—both introduced and killed the bill. ​An Illinois newspaper clarifies: Senator MacMurray “was opposed to the bill and introduced it only at the request of Rev. W. S. Fleming.” Wait, Is that the End of Blue Laws? Blue law regulations arose in the U.S. movie industry until roughly the 1940s. As you might expect, many more protests and petitions followed suit. ​As professor Gary Rhodes points out in The Perils of Moviegoing in America: 1896-1950 , "Changes in state laws did not necessarily prohibit individual towns or cities from enforcing their own Blue Laws" (193). ​It took nearly four decades of disagreements and demonstrations, but after WWII, in most states, movies would play every day of the week.

From movie set to Instagram backdrop—discover how Ferris Bueller’s Day Off may have inspired changes inside the Art Institute of Chicago. Art Institute of Chicago, Gallery 240, with screenshots from Ferris Bueller's Day Off . The artworks highlighted above reside inside the Art Institute of Chicago . You might know them from the 1986 movie Ferris Bueller's Day Off .   At left, Auguste Rodin's sculpture Portrait of Balzac  stands confidently on its chunky pedestal. At right, Georges Seurat's painting A Sunday on La Grande Jatte  brightens a gray wall.   Currently, the pieces are positioned across from each other in Gallery 240 . But that was not always the case. As the Art Institute of Chicago has renovated and expanded over the years, Rodin's sculpture and Seurat's painting, like many artworks in the collection (including those shown in Ferris Bueller's Day Off ), have moved around.   For example, in 2004, the Seurat hung in a tighter space  than it does now, and it was surrounded by stanchions and a bench .   Likewise, in 2010, the Rodin did not stand across from the Seurat. Rather, the sculpture welcomed visitors  as they walked into the Impressionism wing. In 2025, Rodin's sculpture stands confidently in the foreground; Seurat's painting hangs in the background. I am unsure when Portrait of Balzac  and A Sunday on La Grande Jatte  were configured in their current location in Gallery 240. But by 2015 , the two were already arranged similarly in Gallery 201. It seems likely, then, the artworks were brought together in the early 2010s—coinciding with the rise of social media and the growing influence of user-generated content . I often call attention to this shift on my guided walking tour inside the museum, The Art of Ferris Bueller . With both the Rodin and the Seurat in our sight, I ask guests, In an age of social media, why might the Art Institute so closely pair these two pieces—that (the still-popular) Ferris Bueller's Day Off prominently highlights? Then, as my guests mimic the positions of Ferris and friends, and ask me to photograph them for their own Facebook and Instagram accounts, potential answers to my question become clear. As does the realization that museums, like most long-running institutions, must adapt to survive .   Grab your spot on my next Ferris Bueller walking tour  at the Art Institute—so you can dive into the movie and the artwork yourself !

A van named "Candy Man" sparked a dive into Chicago’s past, where 1920s candy jobbers mixed sales with racketeering and violence. Van with a plan: selling candy. One evening, while driving through Chicago's western suburbs, I pulled up behind a white van named "Candy Man." After doing a double take, two thoughts came to mind:   Does this company realize it shares a name with the 1992 horror movie Candyman , filmed on location in Chicago? Did this business purposely name itself after said horror film? Honestly, every possible answer here is amusing. But I'd like to think this distributor knowingly named his Chicago-based business after the horror movie Candyman . That would be dark comedy marketing at its finest! Regardless, the van's name also brings to mind Chicago's deep-routed candy history , which, as you'll see below, turned surprisingly dangerous for some so-called "candy men" in the late 1920s. We'll use the Maywood Candy Co. as an example. Maywood Candy Co. (since 1920). Maywood, IL. Google Maps. Chicago's 1920s Candy Jobbers The small brick building pictured above was once home to the Maywood Candy Co., a wholesale candy distribution business founded around 1920 at the height of Chicago's candy boom . From what I can tell, the business , located in Maywood, IL, ceased operations around the early 2000s. By all accounts, the Maywood Candy Co. lived a quiet existence. However, the years spanning roughly 1927 to 1930 must've been nerve-racking ones for its owner and select colleagues. In the late 1920s, the founder of Maywood Candy Co.—along with with approximately 250 other local candy distributors— is listed as a member of the Candy Jobbers Association of Chicago. These jobbers, or wholesalers, purchased candies from manufacturers and dealers in Chicago, New York, Boston, and other major U.S. cities. Then, they sold and delivered their goods, via automobile and wagon, directly to candy retailers throughout Chicagoland. At the time, the Candy Jobbers Association of Chicago's collective business was estimated at $7,000,000 annually—or about $129,000,000 today. Women shoppers at Mrs. Snyder's Candy Shop, South Michigan Ave., Chicago, 1927. Wikimedia Commons. On the whole, the Candy Jobbers Association of Chicago's goals were to twofold: to make improvements to the candy business to advance the social conditions of its members Admirable objectives, I'd say. But in April 1926, a newly elected leader named Vincent Pastor wanted to make some changes. Pastor was growing concerned that tobacco dealers who were not members of the association were "selling candy as a side line" after receiving it at a discounted cost. As a result, he proposed a strict amendment to the Chicago Candy Jobbers Association's constitution to induce "tobacco shops to abandon the candy business." Specifically, Pastor requested all members comply with these rules among a few others : Do not purchase candy from manufacturers who do not support our association. Do not purchase candy from subjobbers who do not support our association. Do not sell to any one who jobs candy and is not a member in good standing. The Candy Jobbers Association of Chicago, as reported , unanimously approved the amendment. But in hindsight, it seems as though most members, including Maywood Candy Co.'s, did not fully know what they were getting into. Chicago's "Candy Racket" Case In 1926-27, the Candy Jobbers Association's new leader, Vincent Pastor, began to carry out his rules, " actively and aggressively " forcing manufacturers and subjobbers to comply with his terms. Those who refused were allegedly subjugated to verbal threats and rough handling as well as "assaults and bombings and smashing of store fronts." All of these actions , along with attempted price fixing, were executed to "terrorize the small dealers, in order to require them to become members." You'll even find the Chicago candy jobbers listed under "racketeering" in the 1929 book Organized Crime in Chicago . Moreover, some sources like Jazz Age Chicago (2022) claim Al Capone was behind all the violence. Sheesh. As a result of the association's "terroristic methods," 45 officials and members—including the founder of Maywood Candy Co.— were initially indicted  for enacting violence against competitors and violating the Sherman Anti-Trust Act of 1890 , which outlaws monopolistic business practices. Ultimately, 35 members went to trial. Sixteen members, including Victor Pastor, were convicted and sentenced, liable to a year in prison and fines ranging as high as $5,000 (about $95,000 today). The 19 other men named in the indictment were acquitted  since "evidence did not show their guilt, and interstate commerce [was] not involved." Since Maywood Candy Co. only appears at the outset  of this trial, we can assume either its owner was one of the 10 men who didn't go to trial or he was of the 19 acquitted. Either way, good news for this Chicago "candy man" and his distribution company. For many, the name "Candy Man" might conjure up images of a hook-handed  horror villain. But in 1920s Chicago, the real terror came from men in business suits—candy jobbers threatening shopkeepers, smashing storefronts, and fixing prices. Candyman (1992), screenshot. IMDb.com

Frank Lloyd Wright’s Unity Temple, famed for its concrete design and lack of religious iconography, appears mostly in documentary film, including one narrated by Brad Pitt. Exterior of Frank Lloyd Wright's Unity Temple, Oak Park, IL. I recently took a guided in-depth tour  of Frank Lloyd Wright's Unity Temple in Oak Park, IL, about 9 miles west of Chicago.   Here are three tidbits I learned about it: Still used for its original purpose—the oldest Wright building to do so Constructed of concrete since funds were slim and concrete was cheap Eschews religious iconography for precise geometric proportions   Fascinating! But is Unity Temple in any movies? Eh, not so much. Is Unity Temple in Any Movies? Naturally, Unity Temple pops up in documentaries on Wright's architecture  and in PBS specials like The Most Beautiful Places in Chicago . But to date, I've not found it represented in any narrative films—like these Wright buildings: Ennis House : House on Haunted Hill (1959), Blade Runner (1982), The Rocketeer (1991) Guggenheim Museum : Bye Bye Birdie (1963), Manhattan (1979), Men In Black (1997) Marin County Civic Center : Gattaca (1997), THX 1138 (1971) Unity Temple's onscreen destiny so far, it seems, lies within the documentary form. See Wright's Guggenheim Museum in the sci-fi comedy Men in Black . Narrating Unity Temple Onscreen The most recent documentary devoted to Unity Temple is called Frank Lloyd Wright’s Modern Masterpiece: Unity Temple (2021) and is directed by Lauren Levine. The 55-minute film focuses on the painstaking—and quite expensive ($25 million)— two-year restoration process  of the Wright church. When deciding on narration for the film, Levine wanted to avoid a traditional documentary approach, so she "searched for relevant Frank Lloyd Wright quotes that would infuse the story with a bit of insight into Wright’s process and philosophy." Those quotes—like this one—she would weave into the film's transitional moments: "The mission of the architect is to help people understand how to make life more beautiful, the world a better one for living in, and to give reason, rhyme, and meaning to life." But who would speak these words within the documentary? Enter Brad Pitt. Shifting Complications of Star Power Frank Lloyd Wright’s Modern Masterpiece: Unity Temple is narrated by Brad Pitt, an actor whose interest in architecture is well-documented. Recall his and (now ex-wife) Angelina Jolie's private tour in 2006 of Wright's Fallingwater house in Pennsylvania. The two-hour tour ended with a private birthday party for Pitt in Fallingwater's living room. In 2008, after Hurricane Katrina, Pitt’s Make It Right Foundation worked alongside an architectural firm to build environmentally friendly homes in New Orleans’ Lower Ninth Ward. The intent was to build 150 safe, affordable houses for families who lost everything in the hurricane. But years later, because of foundational problems and decay, the project faced several class-action lawsuits . Speaking of lawsuits, Pitt's personal life, we should note, has also recently drawn controversy , including allegations of domestic violence. As a result, cultural dialogue around the actor these days has shifted. It is more cautious, with some critics warning audiences not to be fooled by Pitt's hollow attempts at public redemption . So while the latest onscreen representation of Frank Lloyd Wright's Unity Temple adds a layer of Hollywood star power, it is, for some anyway, now a more complicated one. The documentary on Wright's Unity Temple is now streaming on Apple TV .

Sadly, the location filming in Chicago of the 1961 movie A Raisin in the Sun echoed the racism in the play. A Raisin in the Sun onstage. Wikimedia Commons. When I started teaching general literature courses in graduate school, I often assigned Lorraine Hansberry's play A Raisin in the Sun as an example of contemporary American drama. The 1959 play was the first Broadway production penned by a Black woman and the first with a Black director, Lloyd Richards . A Raisin in the Sun always went over well with my Texas students—as did clips from its 1961 film adaptation, co-starring Sidney Poitier, who died today at age 94 . At the time, I had no idea I'd one day live near this movie's locations and then dive into its poignant production history. Chicago Filming Locations In the summer of 1960, the cast and crew of A Raisin in the Sun began filming on location in four areas of Chicago: University of Chicago Michigan Ave. Kitty Kat Club (a gay nightclub on 611 E. 63rd) 4930 W. Hirsch St., featured below Screenshot, trailer A Raisin in the Sun (1961) 4930 W. Hirsch Street, Chicago, IL. Google maps. Situated northwest of Chicago's South Loop, this house on W. Hirsch St. serves as a major plot point in A Raisin in the Sun . To recap: The Younger family receives a life insurance check for $10,000 after the death of the father. The matriarch uses part of this money for a down payment on a new house. Instead of resettling her family in a Black neighborhood, she opts for an all-white one. The property there, after all, is cheaper. But, as you might imagine in 1950s America , the Younger family quickly runs into a roadblock. The neighborhood's white residents are vehemently opposed to an interracial population. The Younger house in relation to Chicago's South Loop. A "Black Movie" on Our Street? According to the Black newspaper The Chicago Defender and contemporary industry reports, the Chicago location filming of A Raisin in the Sun eerily echoed the play's narrative. During an exterior shoot at a West Side Chicago home, "neighbors in the block began registering objections to the jam of sepians [Black people] on scene, while others protested because they thought the neighborhood was being invaded by sepians" (Oct. 15, 1960). More specifically, one neighbor contacted  the homeowner, scared "they were selling their house to 'Negroes.'” The house in question—4930 W. Hirsch Street (see above)—belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Casaccio, a middle-class Italian family with two sons. The Casaccio's neighbors, as the book Chicago Whispers describes , clearly did not want "a 'Black' movie on their street." As a result, cast and crew were reportedly "forced out of the neighborhood"—an ordeal that imitated the real-life Chicago experiences that inspired Hansberry's play. Production also apparently faced bigotry when the University of Chicago stipulated the movie could shoot on school grounds only "if the institution’s name was not used." Kitty Kat Club: Hollywood's Choice On a more positive note... Ad in the 'The Chicago Defender' from Feb. 21, 1961. A Raisin in the Sun  also filmed scenes at Chicago's Kitty Kat Club , a gay nightclub located at 611 E. 63rd. No longer in existence, the club was once known as "a haven for gay South Siders and its on-the-pulse music programs." Hoping its ties to the 1961 movie might increase business, the Kitty Kat Club owners promoted their establishment alongside the film . The gay nightclub took out ads in The Chicago Defender reading: "Hollywood's Choice, Make It Yours" "Where Scenes from A Raisin in the Sun Were Filmed" (I haven't looked at data, but I'm guessing attendance went up at the Kitty Kat Club in the early 1960s?!) RIP, Sidney Poitier, and thank you for your stellar body of work, even amidst seemingly insurmountable odds. Correction : an earlier version of this post inadvertently cited the Casaccio family as participants in the neighborhood protests when, in fact, they owned the house that is shown in the film. Poitier onstage with co-stars Ruby Dee and Louis Gossett, Jr. Wikimedia Commons

The movie studio didn't want it, but Harrison Ford had other plans for his beard. Warner Bros. was not happy Harrison Ford insisted on donning a beard to play Dr. Richard Kimble in The Fugitive , the action-thriller partially filmed in Chicago. Says Ford, the studio "paid for the face they wanted to see, so they were very concerned about that."⁣ ⁣ But according to an interview from Los Angeles Daily News (29 Aug. 1993), Ford had two reasons for keeping the beard: ⁣ First, Kimble had "little time between the escape and the end of the movie to meet the obligation of disguise." Shaving off a beard would easily change his appearance, Ford believed.⁣ Second, the beard sets up Kimble as "slightly idiosyncratic, a character a bit outside the medical establishment, which comes to play later on in the story."⁣ Does Ford's beard here work for you?

One of Chicago’s newest museums encourages you to explore public housing history in the U.S. and an exhibit devoted to the TV series Good Times . Small exhibit in the National Public Housing Museum devoted to Good Times . (Photo: Chicago Movie Tours) I recently visited the National Public Housing Museum  located in Chicago's Near West Side . The museum opened in April 2025, and admission is free.   Inside, you learn about the histories of public housing in Chicago and nationwide—including discriminatory policies and practices like redlining  that help shape said housing developments and the families living within them. On view, you'll find everyday objects from public housing : a Pyrex dish, dog collar, wedding dress, and yellow rotary phone. Optionally, a Historic Apartments tour  allows you to visit recreated apartments that reflect different families’ experiences in public housing history between the 1930s and 1970s. That tour, which I enjoyed, is $25/person. Finally, if you're Gen X —or perhaps the owner of a tour company that researches Chicago-based movies and TV—then one exhibition inside the museum will likely catch your eye. Exterior, National Public Housing Museum. (Photo: Chicago Movie Tours) Seeing Yourself on TV Tucked away in the museum's lower level is a space devoted to Good Times , the 1970s sitcom about a Black family living in Chicago public housing. Good Times , which ran on CBS for five years (1974-79), centers on Florida and James Evans and their three children, James Jr. (J.J.), Thelma, and Michael. Throughout the series, the family attempts to overcome poverty in inner-city Chicago, always doing so with a sense of humor and impeccable comedic timing. That's not to say Good Times shies away from difficult topics. Racism, gang wars, unemployment, and evictions factor into storylines. And we should recall that real-life conflicts between producers and actors occurred as well, causing involuntary cast dismissals and voluntary resignations. Still, according to the National Public Housing Museum, "the first time public housing residents saw themselves on mainstream television" was on Good Times . The Evans family, from left: Ralph Carter (Michael), BernNadette Stanis (Thelma), Jimmie Walker (J.J.), Esther Rolle (Florida), and John Amos (James). (Photo: Wikimedia Commons) Where Does Good Times Take Place? Good Times never mentions the family's Chicago housing project by name. We are only given the address: 963 North Gilbert Avenue, Apt. 17C. (For the curious, here's the Evans' apartment floor plan .) But based on the following, we can deduce the fictional Evans family likely lived in Chicago's real Cabrini-Green public housing development . For example, Good Times ' opening credits reveal actual location shots of Cabrini-Green. The show's co-creator Eric Monte grew up in Cabrini-Green . Notably, Monte also wrote Cooley High  (1975), a film set and shot on location in Cabrini-Green. Adding to this, in the museum's small installation, you can watch clips from the series—all selected by  current Cabrini-Green residents . The National Public Housing Museum offers a thoughtful look at the lived experiences, systemic challenges, and cultural legacy of public housing in America. From personal artifacts and immersive apartment recreations to a nostalgic yet critical nod to Good Times , the museum invites you to reflect on the past while considering the future of housing and community.

Celebrate six Chicago actors and the Hollywood musical for which they are most remembered Singin' in the Rain often ranks as the best film musical ever made—and, indeed, one of the best movies ever made. Set in 1927, the film tells the story of silent film stars as they navigate Hollywood's transition from the silent era to "talkies." No, Singin' in the Rain was not filmed in Chicago, nor does it take place here. But at least six of the movie's cast members are from or have strong connections to the Windy City. So on this virtual tour, which begins at a rain-inspired sculpture in Chicago, we will celebrate these six actors and the delightfully entertaining Hollywood musical for which they are remembered. Watch Excerpt This is an excerpt from Singin' in the Rain and Chicago . In the clip, Kelli introduces the talk, which runs about an hour.