In 1919 the Grosses Schauspielhaus opened in Berlin. It was intended as a theatre for the masses with 3000 seats; a space to bring together a community that had been torn apart by war and technological advancement. At a moment in history when Germans were questioning how they could relate to their rapidly changing cities, new modern design and one another, this theatre was a space where a collective dream could take shape.
The design was conceived by Hans Poelzig, an architect deeply interested in factories and theatres. His essay, The Modern Factory, revealed a conviction that permanent architecture no longer fit the bill. Instead he was an early proponent of ‘loose fit’ buildings, whose interiors could rapidly respond to the changing needs of their occupants. An interesting choice for German dramaturge Max Reinhardt, to make when commissioning an architect to bring to life his vision for a theatre. Reinhardt’s search for an architect had not been an easy one and had spanned a decade that included the first world war. Originally, he bought an old building once occupied by a circus, with the intention of tearing it down and starting again. Then came the carnage of WWI and its budget tightened; the circus building was kept as it had enough seats, and Poelzig was invited to coordinate the retrofit.
Despite these constraints, we can see through photographs of the time that Poelzig achieved a series of deeply strange, impressive spaces. One image shows the auditorium with its abundant seating, whose roof has been clad with what can best be described as stalactites (the building became known as the stalactite cave), hung in concentric rings radiating outwards from the oculus of the central dome. At the end of each point was a light, all in different colors, that created a constellation once darkness descended. Even the house lights were installed using an elaborate system of mirrors to create a diffuse glow.
In the circulatory spaces we see columns transformed into fountains with abundant fluted plasterwork. Again, lighting is disguised and diffused; colour is abundant. What the black and white photographs of the time belie is the vibrant greens, yellows and pinks that greeted theatregoers as they came off the street. The facade was where Poelzig had the least effect. Here, instead of elaborate cladding, he installed a kind of frieze of arches and painted the whole thing red.
Decoration had a specific place in the creation of these spaces and symbols, but it was specifically circumscribed. In Poelzig’s words: ‘Every real tectonic constructional form has an absolute nucleus, to which the decorative embellishment lends a varying charm. First however, the absolute element has to be found.’
Here he makes it abundantly clear, the tectonic nucleus must subsume the decoration, if decoration is to be countenanced. Given Poelzig’s stance, contemporary criticisms of the theatre were damning. One of the most significant cultural critics of the time, Siegfried Kracauer, said Poelzig had succeeded only in creating a ‘pasteboard fantasy creation’ or in other words a building of purely ‘decorative embellishment’. For him, the building came apart at the seams. The lighting stagnated where it was meant to flow. The junctions between newly installed plasterboard and existing wall were awkward and ungainly. The transitions between spaces and materials were jarring. For Kracauer, this went beyond a merely aesthetic affront, instead what the Grosses Schauspielhaus had accomplished was a dangerous distraction from reality. It was advertising.
The question is then surely, why, if Poelzig was convinced that decoration could only proceed from an ‘absolute nucleus’ did he produce a project so apparently overwhelmed by it? Of course, every designer or artist knows the gaping chasm that can emerge between idea and drawing. Every architect is intimate with the gaps, some small, some large, between drawing and building. The hand has a will of its own, and so do builders.
Perhaps it was due to budgetary constraints that Poelzig failed to satisfyingly reconcile this struggle; failed to protect the nucleus from being overcome by decoration. Perhaps, it was shoddy building. What feels dishonest though is to say that the building had no nucleus at all. To reduce it, as Kracauer did, to advertising.
Especially now, with the building demolished, the drawings hold their own against photographs and plans and sections. The drawings are beguiling, articulate and descriptive. They are decorative, yes, but also consistent and essential. They have a nucleus. They last as rich imaginative tools in a world in which real people live.

Credit: Hana Nihill is currently the Architecture Programme Coordinator at the Royal Academy of Arts.
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Grosse Schauspielhaus by Hans Poelzig [ Architecture Enthusiast ]
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