Conquering zombies and catching a show at the Alley
“Highly defensible from zombies,” my daughter said approvingly. We were whiling away an intermission, standing on the Alley Theatre’s enormous outdoor balcony. I was admiring one of my favorite views of the downtown skyline. She was looking down at Texas Avenue, imagining an invasion of the undead.
“Boiling oil?” I asked. The Alley’s concrete turrets always makeme think of knights and medieval defenses.
No, she told me; zombies don’t feel pain. We’d have to destroy them physically, maybe by dropping heavy things on their heads. She looked over the balcony’s edge: No problem.
At the Alley, your cultural experiences aren’t limited to the play.
The Alley’s architect, Ulrich Franzen, 91, died Oct. 6. While reading his obituaries, I couldn’t get that zombie conversation out ofmy head. Clearly, the living dead weren’t what Franzen had in mind when he designed the place.
But what on earth had he been thinking, to design a theater that looks like a fortress? Why, in 1968, did that theater make architecture critics swoon? What made it a seminal work in the Brutalist style, and what made Brutalism appeal to anyone at all?
If not zombies, what barbarians did Franzen and his fans imagine at the gate?
released theWhite Album on Nov. 22.
The Alley opened four days later: Nov. 26, 1968. In vintage photos, without the big colorful banners that now advertise its plays, the building looks even more forbidding than it does now. Nothing hints that it’s a theater; nothing welcomes all comers inside.
And finally, I think I understand why. The Alley was a fortress— not against zombies, but against the particular nightmares of the 1960s. Whatever the forces— be they rioters, assassins, draft boards, Viet Cong or BlueMeanies— here was a place you could defend yourself. Once inside, you’d be safe.
The world outside was coming apart at the seams. But inside, you could relax and enjoy a show.