BANISHING THE PHANTOM
A few years ago, the Majestic Theatre was in pretty rough shape.
By the end of The Phantom of the Opera’s historic 35-year run, the theater bore the telltale traces of 20 million visitors’ worth of wear and tear. Plaster was cracked and crumbling, seats and carpets ragged and worn down. Architectural detailing was obscured by black paint. Faded drapery and dim lighting—light-fingered theatergoers had evidently helped themselves to the light fixtures—contributed to a sepulchral mood.
Enter Francesca Russo.
For more than three decades, Russo has been Broadway’s foremost restoration architect, turning back the clock and making century-old theaters look and feel like new. She’s a big reason these historic buildings remain both magnificent and functional.
“When I walk into these theaters and see them in their state of neglect, I can actually envision what they’d look like restored,” Russo said. “Like a little vision pops into my head.”
(Photo: T. Whitney Cox)
Most recently, Russo led the team that returned the Majestic Theatre to its original splendor, while modernizing it for 21st-century audiences. This was no simple spring clean. The overhaul included the full restoration of the theater’s intricate plasterwork, gilding and glazing, as well as a multi-million-dollar paint job. The black paint and drapery were removed, revealing the theater’s vibrant proscenium and ceiling. The original chandelier—stored away during Phantom’s tenure—was refurbished and rehung.
When the Majestic officially reopened on September 9, 2024, theatergoers admired the building in much the way theatergoers did on March 28, 1927, when it opened for the first time. Now, when Audra McDonald brings the house down in Gypsy, it feels right that it’s a house resplendent with rose and gold silk drapery, a glittering chandelier and a bounty of flowers, acanthus leaves, twining vines, caryatids and dancing figures.
It feels right, too, that in a prominent but hitherto concealed relief above the proscenium, a woman gazes at her reflection in a handheld mirror, admiring her own complexion.
THE DRAMA IN THE DETAILS
Over the years, Russo has left an indelible mark on the theatergoing experience in New York. If you’ve been to a Broadway show, odds are you’ve been pleasantly immersed in her handiwork.
(Photo: T. Whitney Cox)
At the Belasco, Tiffany-stained light fixtures cast their sumptuous glow on William Morris-style wallpaper much as they did a century ago. At the Golden, once-lost Moorish detailing and murals are on proud display. The James Earl Jones Theatre (formerly the Cort) got back its stunning proscenium arch and elegant marquee. The Venetian Renaissance-inspired plasterwork at the Shubert pops like frosting on a cake. All thanks to Russo.
The word “restoration” is hardly sufficient to cover the scope of the work, which often entails the wholesale recreation, replacement and redesign of key elements, or the addition of entirely new ones—seating, drapery, carpets, door moldings, stair railings, bar fixtures, wall coverings, ticket lobbies. Russo has even created her own abrasion-resistant fabric, designed to endure the friction caused by theatergoers’ rear ends; Francesca Wool is available in 20 custom shades including goldenrod, garnet and grape.
Every element is designed to relate harmoniously with the rest. “But each element is different from those in the other theaters,” Russo explains. “You don’t want it to be like walking into a Walmart.”
The ultimate effect is more than just skin-deep. Russo’s loving interventions restored the delicacy of the Schoenfeld, the gracious intimacy of the Booth, the warmth of the Barrymore and, yes, the majesty of the Majestic.
And while aesthetics matter, perhaps even more crucial is the integration of modern upgrades—HVAC systems, LED lighting, accessibility features—in a way that respects each building’s historical integrity. The Winter Garden got a new mezzanine lounge. The St. James got an extra row of seating. At the Majestic, restroom capacity was increased by 40 percent.
Russo’s work often involves undoing well-meaning but unfortunate “updates.” At the Belasco, murals by realist painter Everett Shinn had been painted over in gray, supposedly to brighten the room. The proscenium at the Winter Garden was stripped of its vertical ornament to make way for a circus performance. At the Virginia (now the August Wilson), 15th-century Florentine palazzo-style detailing had been obliterated.
Russo loses sleep over such crimes against architecture. “I actually dream about these projects,” she admitted.
“She was tenacious,” said Jennifer Hershey, formerly the Vice President of Building Operations at Jujamcyn Theaters. “She was always on the job site. She was constantly checking paint samples, working with the vendors, working out how the vents would work in the HVAC systems. She never lost her cool.”
“Francesca is obviously a great architect,” said Fred Basch, who worked with her on bringing the Selwyn—later the American Airlines, now the Todd Haimes—back from a state of rat-infested decrepitude. “But she’s also a painter. I have drawings of her original carpet design for the Haimes. You could hang that thing on the wall.”
WHEN BROADWAY WAS BEAUTIFUL
“We consider the theater part of the theatergoing experience,” Robert E. Wankel, the president of the Shubert Organization, said during a private tour of the Majestic. “People appreciate the architecture of these buildings. They really look at them.”
New York’s historic Broadway theaters are portals back into a time when the area around Times Square must have felt like the most electric and exciting place on earth. Between 1903 and 1930, 74 new theaters went up in the district. It was the densest concentration of theaters in the world. “Going to the theater was a special event,” Franklin J. Handy, a professor of theater at the University of Maryland, said. “The architecture needed to rise to meet that moment.” Theater architects went all out. As Broadway hummed with energy after the First World War—the area saw a whopping 254 shows across 76 houses in the 1927-28 season—each new theater opening was more impressive than the last.
Once the Depression hit, and as the century wore on, it became far less economically viable to construct palatially extravagant buildings to house Broadway shows. Tastes changed; theater spaces were neutralized. Numerous relics of Broadway’s golden age were reduced to rubble.
“A theater is a machine for magic.“
–Francesca Russo
Thankfully, a good number of the old theaters were permitted to remain: the flamboyantly frilly grand dames of the district who watched as the neighborhood got weird.
Within these buildings, it’s possible, for the sensitive theatergoer, to sense a connection to, and continuation of, the Broadway of the early 20th century—what the author James Traub has called “the sense of antiquity, of unbroken tradition”.
Sometimes, mostly by happy accident, the interior architecture rhymes with the art on stage. The architects of the New Amsterdam set out to evoke the feeling of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, which became the first work to be staged there. Mythological figures grace the walls of the Walter Kerr Theatre, home to Hadestown‘s retelling of the Orpheus and Eurydice myth. Oh, Mary! director Sam Pinkleton was delighted to discover that the Lyceum, with its over-the-top ornamentation, feels like the theater from The Muppet Show.
Beyond that, though, it’s worth pondering: Does it really matter if a Broadway theater is beautiful?
Consider how stepping into a Broadway house instantly makes you forget about the world outside. The lighting and decoration, the colors and textures—a building-wide invitation to open the mind and heart, to slip into another, more receptive state of mind. All the better—depending on the nature of the show—to grapple with deep emotions or bid adieu to reality.
“It does matter,” Jesse Green, the New York Times theater critic, said. “Whether consciously or not, there’s a kind of elevation of the audience’s expectation. A priming of the emotional pump, you might say. When you’re surrounded by burnished gold leaf and pictures of historical figures and mythological cherubs and things like that, as in a church, it does tend to elevate your thinking. Or, at least, ask you to consider coming to some other kind of world once you sit in it.
“I love the feeling of going into a theater and being excited about what I’m going to see. Although many people don’t believe that’s what critics feel, I feel it every time. The architecture is an enhancement to that feeling—a challenge to rise up to that feeling and to try to stay in that feeling as long as possible. Until the work defeats you, as it may do.”
Given the assaultive tumult of modern-day Times Square, you could say that preserving the architectural beauty and grace of Broadway matters more than ever. “It’s a place of transition,” said Russo. “You’re out on the gritty streets of New York, and then you walk into this place of elegance and calm. You’re transported.” She cited Le Corbusier’s famous line—that a house is a machine for living. “Well,” she said, “a theater is a machine for magic.”
A THEATRICAL CAREER
Francesca Russo grew up immersed in the performing arts. With a singer father and eight siblings who sang, danced and performed, her childhood looked like something out of a musical comedy. Even so, she found herself drawn to quieter pursuits.
One formative experience came during summers spent with her grandmother on Buffalo’s west side. She was tasked with dusting the wood wainscoting in the old house—an assignment she took to with unusual care. “I just loved the detail of the wood,” she recalled. “That’s one memory I’ll always have: dusting that wainscoting, feeling the detail on the panel molding. I was always aware of things that had a lot of art and effort in them—whether it was a piece of furniture, a piece of fabric, a whole room, a whole building.”
Russo performed in high school productions of Damn Yankees and South Pacific and studied theater and dance from a young age. But she eventually realized she wasn’t outgoing enough to pursue a life on stage. Instead, she gravitated toward design, earning a degree in textiles at the State University College of New York at Buffalo before shifting gears again to study architecture at SUNY Buffalo.
“When you’re surrounded by burnished gold leaf … it does tend to elevate your thinking.“
–Jesse Green
Though her training emphasized contemporary design, history kept pulling her back. One of her earliest assignments was to design an infill façade for a historic block—a blank space where a new structure would be inserted. “I remember an instructor asking, ‘Are you respecting the building next door?’ That always stayed with me. If you create something contemporary, it should respect and speak to whatever is adjacent. Some architects don’t feel that way. I strongly do.”
Six years after graduation, Russo moved to New York. Considering the path her career would take, it was fortunate timing. In 1982 alone, a number of historically important Broadway houses were demolished in what was dubbed, a little dramatically, “The Great Theatre Massacre.” That destruction prompted an outcry from the theatrical community. A few years later, the Landmarks Preservation Commission rushed to protect what buildings remained with “landmark” status, the result being what the architectural historian Francis Morrone describes as “an orgy of designations.”
“It was the most dramatic emergency action by the Landmarks Preservation Commission in its history,” he said. “It’s pretty amazing that we have, as a result, so many intact theaters.”
By the time Russo arrived in the city, there was a collective push to restore and protect Broadway theaters instead of razing them.
In 1994, Jujamcyn Theatres approached Russo about potentially sprucing up the colors at the Eugene O’Neill Theatre. When she entered the theater, she saw that a few coats of paint wouldn’t cut it.
“I had that overwhelming feeling that this was the opportunity,” she said. “When I walked into the theater and could see the potential to return it to its original beauty, I was thrilled.”
When she was done, the O’Neill gleamed in golds and violets, accented with soft green and terra cotta hues. It also had new lighting, seating, carpets, drapery, cast-iron railings, marble, plaster ornamentation and a terrazzo floor in the lobby. “Back then, I was very naive about how much time things took. We probably made five dollars an hour on that project. But I learned.”
More theater jobs followed. Soon, theater restoration became her primary focus. “It’s kind of like theater itself—you get typecast, and you just keep doing the same thing over and over again,” she said. “Not that I minded. I really liked it. I liked the repetition.”
In our conversations, Russo repeatedly emphasized how important it is to her to honor the original architectural vision behind these buildings. She has spent a lot of time scouring the archives of Columbia’s Avery Library, the New York Public Library’s Billy Rose Theatre Division, the New-York Historical Society and the Landmarks Preservation Commission, as well as the Shubert Organization’s own records. “I do as much research as I can,” she said. “It’s like archaeology.”
Uniquely, Russo paints her proposal art by hand, using hazy watercolors to create a “dream-work visualization” of the theater-to-be. It’s useful for figuring out the color combinations that work their subtle magic on theatergoers: the deep reds and greens at the Belasco; the shades of umber with gold and mulberry highlights at the Booth; the ivory and green at the Music Box (the only Broadway interior color scheme protected with landmark status).
You’d be hard-pressed to think of anyone in the history of Broadway who has gotten to know its theaters better. Each one has its own needs, its own personality. The James Earl Jones (formerly the Cort) feels, to Russo, like “a French female aristocrat.” The Golden, with its stucco walls and twisted columns, “has the feel of a Spanish hacienda.” The Booth evokes “an English manor house.” The Music Box reminds her of Wedgwood china.
For much of her career, Russo commuted into New York from her home in Cape Cod, often working on the train from Rhode Island. “Sometimes I would sleep, sometimes I would work. Sometimes I would sleep and dream about work. I often would dream about a problem and have a resolution when I woke up.” During the pandemic, she and her husband moved to Wilmington, North Carolina. The move made her work more difficult and considerably less satisfying. She oversaw the Majestic Theatre’s restoration partly remotely, trading in-person inspections for Zoom meetings. It just wasn’t the same. “I missed wandering the theater itself,” she said.
She was in New York for the project’s completion, however. “There was a little celebration for everyone who worked on it. We had lunch on stage and looked at the fruits of our efforts.”
Russo never had children—“I didn’t really have time for that,” she said—but she guesses that seeing a restored theater welcome an audience again is “probably like sending a kid off to college.”
(Photo: T. Whitney Cox)
Following the Majestic project, Russo decided it was time to retire. She had already submitted a restoration proposal for the Imperial Theatre but couldn’t be persuaded to work on it. The curtain had come down for good on what was, by any measure, a remarkable Broadway career. “It breaks my heart, but I’m not young anymore.”
Retirement, Russo confessed, has been tough. She misses New York. Most of all, she misses the buildings—and the solemn thrill of having an auditorium all to herself. “There’s something magical about walking out on a stage in an empty theater,” she said. She is not a religious person. “But in an empty theater, I always feel spirits.”
Hopefully, she’s heartened to know that her contributions to Broadway will be felt for a long, long time. In March, Roundabout Theatre Company announced that the Todd Haimes Theatre would undergo a restoration. In effect, Russo’s own restoration work will be the subject of a restoration.
In our last conversation, Russo let on that, actually, two theaters that she worked on share a single carpet design. She wouldn’t say which ones; it was a cost-saving measure that clearly still nagged at her. She laughed. “There’s a certain quality, I believe, that comes with obsession. It doesn’t help the rest of your life.”
