Courtesy of Whitecap Films
One of the most remarkable things about Mark Richard Smith's Louis Sullivan documentary: he makes the buildings feel like living things. Apropos for Sullivan, an architect whose decorative facades were inspired by nature, and whose ornamental bric-a-brac seemed not so much affixed to the buildings as growing on them.
Part of how Smith achieves this effect—that is, of buildings feeling organic and alive—is through technique. To capture the astonishing details inside Chicago's Auditorium Theatre, Smith used a 50-foot telescopic crane, zooming in on Sullivan's complex and vegetal designs, including stenciled walls, bannisters, terra-cotta tiles, and lighting elements, many of which had never been seen up close and in such great detail before.
But it is Sullivan's brilliant designs, combined with Smith's warmth for his subject, that imbues every frame of this film with energy. And it would have been easy to make this a dry, niche film appealing only to building-huggers. Even among that set, Sullivan is sometimes dismissed as merely a missing link between fussy Victoriania and sleek Modernism. The popular narrative is that his most important role was as Frank Lloyd Wright's mentor. When he died, or so the story goes, he was a drunken, ruined figure who was largely forgotten by his industry, and buried only because Wright deigned to pay for the funeral.
Though Sullivan's gravesite in Chicago is modest, the truth is not so pathetic. Smith recasts Sullivan from mere bringer-of-Wright to prophetic figure who had the bad luck of being far, far ahead of his time. Sullivan's deepest desire was to establish a uniquely American architectural vernacular during the late Victorian period, when the country, still seasick from a depression, wanted to cling to the comfort of European Beaux-Arts building styles. Because he would not compromise his artistic integrity for fashion, Sullivan suffered some terrible financial woes during that same economic downturn. But as Smith shows, even as he aged and was forced to take on smaller, more modest commissions—small-town Midwestern banks that became known as "jewel boxes"—Sullivan's work lost none of its vigor or vision. In fact, even his last commission (the facade of a Chicago music store) shows the same beauty and genius of his early work. He may have died poor, but Sullivan was never diminished artistically, and he did not die a disgraced man. He had the complete support and respect of his peers, including Wright, even if the whims of architectural fashion prevented him from landing large commissions.
After watching this film, one wonders how it is that Smith was the first to document Sullivan's life and work on film; his influence is everywhere. His firm, Adler & Sullivan, created the first modern skyscrapers (his partner, Dankmar Adler, was an engineering genius). And by the by, it was Sullivan—not Wright—who coined that phrase "form ever follows function." His visionary design would go on to influence some of the most important artistic and architectural movements of the 20th century, including Wright's Prairie School, the Bauhaus School, and the Art Nouveau and Secessionist movements.
Though this film does have its flaws (including incidental music and voice-overs that at times have the mawkish, precious tone of public TV at its worst), overall it shows an artistry, meticulousness, and soulfulness that does its subject matter proud. St. Louis audiences will be happy to see our own Union Trust Building and Wainwright Building—considered the world's first steel-frame skyscraper—on the screen. Oddly, though, Smith chooses not to include Sullivan's famous Wainwright tomb in Bellefontaine Cemetery, which is a destination point for architecture students all over the world. Though it may not be as large as the Getty Tomb, which receives some serious attention here, like all of Sullivan's buildings, no matter how large or small, it is a masterpiece. And isn't that the point the film is trying to make?
