Turning a Spaceship Into Just a Bowler Hat

The Pacific Cinerama Dome promises a futuristic experience, but all it delivers is a nice place to see a movie.

It appears on the landscape of Sunset Boulevard like a spaceship, ready to take us into new realms. Its very name implies a grandeur derived not from some abstract theme, like Mann’s Chinese, but from the glory of space itself.

Instead, we circulate around a zone of concrete-block walls, marble columns and terraced planters. We enter a thin lobby, and then a large auditorium that just happens to have a rounded roof. The screen is large and curved, but the architecture of the place does nothing to heighten the inherent drama.

The Cinerama Dome is, more precisely, a geodesic dome. It is composed of hexagonal elements that distribute the forces of gravity so that a very thin shell can a large area.

This efficient system of enclosing space was pioneered by R. Buckminster Fuller in the 1950s. Fuller foresaw whole cities covered with lightweight, climate-controlled domes, and thought that the elegance of their construction symbolized the dawn of a new, more rational age. His technology was applied to space frames that now house everything from stadiums to ski huts.

William Forman, founder of the Pacific Theaters movie chain, thought the system was appropriate for the introduction of a technological marvel in the entertainment industry, Cinerama. Unfortunately, Forman insisted that the building be finished in 17 weeks, in time for the premiere of “It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World” in November, 1963.

This didn’t leave the designers, Welton Becket & Associates, much time for design, and it shows. They took the grand form and buried it in a parking lot, leaving behind only curtains and walls to trace the form’s barest outlines.

The dome sits on top of a broad stucco rim. The base hides behind screen walls, trees and planters that have nothing to do with its sweeping shape. It looks a little like a bowler hat, and has been decorated as such for special movie premieres.

The marquee--on which the theater should convey its character and message--is a separate structure propped up on four incongruously slick marble columns.

There is no place in the lobby to see the full expanse of the space. You are confronted with the glare of the concession stand as soon as you enter.

The 959-seat theater is a vast realm of yellow and green curtains that rise up straight on all sides. The tiers of seats ignore the circular shapes with equal rigidity. You have no sense of what is holding the whole space together. Only above a heavy-handed lip of gold does the dome reach up into the dim distance.

Sit down, and you have no sense that you are in a space that has been created by weaving together a honeycomb of hexagons. You are just in a big room that presents you with a large screen. The only fun is that the screen is so large and so curved that, when you sit close enough, it fills your peripheral vision and makes you feel as if you are part of the action.

There is an inherent energy to a circle and a majesty to a dome that could have spent the whole Pacific Cinerama Dome spinning off into glory. Instead, it is an isolated, utilitarian object swimming in a sea of parking.

The dome is a point in a barren expanse, neither a place of fantasy nor a public gesture of any great merit. You want it to rise over Sunset Boulevard, to deliver us the future that technology once promised us. The reality of making a recognizable, efficient place has deprived us of that vision.

Aaron Betsky teaches and writes about architecture.

* Pacific Cinerama Dome: 6360 Sunset Blvd.

* Architect: Welton Becket & Associates