On the 28th of January, 1922, Washington DC found itself in the midst of a two-day snowstorm
that was sweeping over the northeast United States.
As it raged, the storm blanketed the city in unprecedented amounts of snow and ice.
As night set in, hundreds of people sought out some light relief from the weather with
a show at the much-loved Knickerbocker Theatre.
Almost a hundred of them, however, would not survive the night.
By the early 20th century movies had become a cultural phenomenon across America.
Enthusiasm for this relatively new form of entertainment lead to the golden age of the
“movie palace”.
These large, lavishly decorated entertainment centres began popping up across America, from
big cities to small towns.
In most cases they were multi-use cultural hubs: films were screened there, but the space
would also be used for theatre performances, lectures and concerts.
In 1917, businessman Harry Crandall commissioned the Knickerbocker Theatre in Washington DC.
Crandall was known as a theatre enthusiast, and already owned around 20 theatres across
the country.
Located in the Adams-Morgan neighbourhood north of downtown Washington DC, the Knickerbocker
was to be the city's largest picture house.
Seating around 1,700 people, it was lavishly decorated with gold and ivory.
Pale blue walls were supplemented by luxurious silk tapestries.
When it opened in October of 1917, papers referred to it as “one of the costliest
and most beautiful structures devoted to cinema entertainment.”
On the 27th of January, 1922, Washington DC was hit by a formidable blizzard.
Lasting two full days, this storm would dump around 76 centimetres (or 30 inches) of snow
on the city.
It was DC’s biggest snowstorm since records began, and it had already caused a number
of small accidents as it swept across the country, including significant flooding in
parts of Virginia.
Despite the heavy snow, hundreds of people bundled up and made their way to the Knickerbocker
Theatre.
Estimates of the number of people in attendance that night range from just 200 to as many
as 1,000.
They were there to see a screening of the silent comedy, Get-Rich-Quick Wallingford,
which would be scored (as many films were at the time) by a live orchestra.
All this would set back attendees just 25 cents – less than $5 in today’s money.
The screening proceeded without incident until just after the intermission.
At around 9:00pm, theatregoers heard a loud hissing or ripping noise, and a stream of
dust fell from the roof down into the orchestra pit.
Most people in the building were too absorbed by the film to notice this, and those who
did notice weren’t overly worried by it.
The orchestra kept playing and the audience stayed seated.
Seconds later, however, the theatre’s flat roof cracked under the weight of the snow
that had built up on top of it.
A report in the Sunday Star described the collapse as relayed by a survivor: “There
came a hiss — a terrific crash — the rattle and clatter of falling timber, stone, steel
and plaster.
A stillness, an unearthly pause, followed the din.
Then a scream, an agonized cry, a moan.
Beneath tons of steel and masonry scores of men, women and children were buried.”
The roof had fallen straight down in one large piece, smashing into and destroying the theatre’s
balconies on the way down.
The collapse created a wave of compressed air that blew out almost every window in the
building.
At the same time, several guests were picked up by this wave and thrown clear of the structure…
something which, fortunately, saved them from any further injury.
In the immediate aftermath of the collapse witnesses quickly raised the alarm.
A telephone operator, once informed of the disaster, reached out to local hospitals,
the police, firefighters, and the military.
Many civilians also rushed to the scene to support the rescue effort, and to see what
had unfolded at the theatre.
In the initial hours of the rescue operation, things were chaotic.
The snow continued to fall, and hundreds of people swarmed the site, searching for survivors
in the rubble.
After a few hours, however, a more organised rescue effort began.
Army Major, George S Patton was put in charge of the rescue, coordinating over 600 soldiers
and marines, as well as police and firefighters.
At the time he happened to be recovering from an allergic reaction to some seafood he had
eaten the day before… but he didn’t let his own condition stand in the way of his
organisation of the rescue operation.
There were, in any event, plenty of other obstacles to content with.
The heavy snowfall made getting rescue vehicles and equipment to the scene challenging.
With many vehicles stuck in the snow, volunteer taxis and ambulances from the Walter Reed
Army Medical Center were able to reach the theatre and played an important role getting
the injured to local hospitals.
However, the challenging conditions meant that by the early afternoon of the next day
the rescue team were still struggling to reach those trapped beneath the rubble.
In some cases it was believed that victims had survived the initial collapse, but had
died while awaiting rescue.
There are accounts of at least one man who was unearthed from the wreckage deceased,
but with no apparent injuries.
He was found to have died from a heart attack after the disaster had taken place.
Local people helped where they could, providing basic equipment such as blankets and bandages
to the victims, and providing the large rescue team with warm food and drinks.
A small boy also volunteered to crawl into narrow parts of the wreckage to deliver much
needed water to survivors.
Nearby homes and shop fronts were transformed into makeshift first aid centres, and the
local church was turned into a morgue.
It was badly needed – in total, 98 people lost their lives in the Knickerbocker Theatre
collapse, and at least 133 were injured.
The stories of those involved were often visceral.
In one case a young couple were visiting the theatre together.
They arrived late, and were hurrying through the lobby when the collapse took place.
The woman – a clerk named Agnes Mellon – was just a few steps ahead of her boyfriend James
Hoffman.
She was caught in the crush and died before she could be rescued, while James was thrown
back into the lobby by the rush of compressed air and survived with just a few scratches.
In another case, violinist Joseph Beal, who had gotten married just a few days before
and was still technically on his honeymoon, allowed himself to be talked into joining
the orchestra that night.
His new bride decided to avoid the snow and stay home, and only learned that her husband
had been killed in the collapse early the next morning.
Several investigations were undertaken into the cause of the collapse, and came to the
conclusion that faulty design had contributed to the incident: girders had been used in
the construction of the theatre, where stone pillars might have been more appropriate.
Another investigation concluded that the collapse was the result of steel beams being incorrectly
installed when the Knickerbocker was first built.
While the reason for the collapse was debated, one thing was generally agreed upon: the building
as it stood had complied with all necessary building codes.
The failure of the roof despite this fact meant that these codes were insufficient.
In response to this finding, movie palaces and picture houses across Washington DC were
closed for inspection.
Building codes were dramatically updated, with particular attention paid to structures
which, like the Knickerbocker, had flat roofs.
Although cleared of any wrongdoing, the owner of the Knickerbocker Harry Crandall eventually
committed suicide, leaving behind a note wherein he appealed to the press, “Don’t be too
hard on me, boys, not for my sake but for those I’m leaving behind me […] I’m
despondent and miss my theatre, oh, so much.”
Before his death, Crandall had rebuilt the theatre, renaming it the Ambassador but keeping
the structure’s original frontage.
However, as television became more accessible its business declined.
The space became a concert venue, and was finally closed in 1967.
Despite many calls for a memorial on the site, three years later the structure was demolished
and replaced with a bank, and subsequently a plaza.
On the 100-year anniversary of the disaster local DC residents, as part of the Neighbours
for the Knickerbocker Memorial Group, gathered at the site to make another call to permanently
memorialise those that lost their lives in the collapse.
As a temporary memorial the group erected a wooden sculpture of a violin – a tribute
to the violinist Joseph Beal, who died in the disaster.
In this way, even a hundred years on, the victims of this particular tragedy are still
remembered today.