The Iroquois Theatre fire occurred on December 30, 1903, in Chicago, Illinois. It is the deadliest theater fire and the deadliest single-building fire in United States history. At least 605 people died as a result of the fire but not all the deaths were reported, as some of the bodies were removed from the scene.
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The Iroquois Theatre was located at 24–28 West Randolph Street, on the North Side between State Street and Dearborn Street in Chicago. The syndicate that bankrolled its construction chose the location specifically to attract women on day trips from out of town who, it was thought, would be more comfortable attending a theatre located close to the safe, police-patrolled Loop shopping district.[1] The theatre opened in November 1903 after numerous delays due to labor unrest[2] and, according to one writer,[3] the unexplained inability of architect Benjamin Marshall to complete required drawings on time. Upon opening it was lauded by drama critics; Walter K. Hill wrote in the New York Clipper (a predecessor of Variety) that the Iroquois was "the most beautiful ... in Chicago, and competent judges state that few theaters in America can rival its architectural perfections..."[4]
The theatre had three audience levels. The main floor (known as the "orchestra" or "parquet") was on the same level as the Foyer or Grand Stair Hall. The second level (the "dress circle") and the third level (the "gallery") were accessed through broad stairways that led off the foyer. The backstage areas were unusually large, with dressing rooms on five levels, an uncommonly large fly gallery (where scenery was hung), and even an elevator available to transport actors down to the stage level.
Despite being billed as "Absolutely Fireproof" in advertisements and playbills,[5] numerous deficiencies in fire readiness were apparent. An editor of Fireproof Magazine had toured the building during construction and had noted "the absence of an intake, or stage draft shaft; the exposed reinforcement of the (proscenium) arch;[6] the presence of wood trim on everything and the inadequate provision of exits."[7] A Chicago Fire Department captain who made an unofficial tour of the theatre days before the official opening noted that there were no extinguishers, sprinklers, alarms, telephones, or water connections; the only firefighting equipment available were six canisters of a dry chemical called "Kilfyre", which was normally used to douse residential chimney fires.[8] The captain pointed out the deficiencies to the theatre's fire warden but was told that nothing could be done, as the fire warden would simply be dismissed if he brought the matter up with the syndicate of owners. When the captain reported the matter to his commanding officer, he was again told that nothing could be done, as the theatre already had a fire warden.[9]
There were also structural deficiencies. Large iron gates blocked off the stairways during performances to prevent patrons from moving down from the gallery to the dress circle or orchestra. Many of the exit routes were confusing.'[10] Skylights on the roof of the stage, which were intended to open automatically during a fire to vent the heat and smoke, were fastened closed.[11]
On December 30, 1903, the Iroquois presented a matinee performance of the popular Drury Lane musical Mr. Bluebeard, which had been playing at the Iroquois since opening night. The play, a burlesque of the traditional Bluebeard folk tale, featured Dan McAvoy as Bluebeard and Eddie Foy[12] as Sister Anne, a role that allowed him to showcase his physical comedy skills. Attendance since opening night had been disappointing; poor weather, labor unrest, and other factors had kept playgoers away. The December 30 performance drew a much larger audience, with every seat being filled and hundreds of patrons in the "standing room" areas at the back of the theatre. Many of the estimated 2,000 patrons attending the matinee were children. The standing room areas were so crowded that some patrons instead sat in the aisles, blocking the exits.
At about 3:15 P.M., the beginning of the second act, a dance number was in progress when an arc light shorted and ignited a muslin curtain. A stagehand attempted to douse the fire with the Kilfyre canisters provided but it quickly spread to the fly gallery high above the stage where thousands of square feet of highly flammable painted canvas scenery flats were hung. The stage manager attempted to lower the fire curtain, but it snagged. Although early reports state that it was stopped by the trolley-wire that carried one of the acrobats over the stage,[12][13] later investigation showed that the curtain had been blocked by a light reflector which stuck out under the proscenium arch.[14] A chemist who later tested part of the curtain stated that it was mainly wood pulp mixed with asbestos, and would have been "of no value in a fire."[15]
Foy, who was preparing to go on stage at the time, ran out and attempted to calm the crowd, first making sure his young son was in the care of a stagehand. He later wrote, "It struck me as I looked out over the crowd during the first act that I had never before seen so many women and children in the audience. Even the gallery was full of mothers and children."[12] Foy's role in this disaster was recreated by Bob Hope in the film The Seven Little Foys. Foy was widely seen as a hero after the fire for his courage in remaining on stage and pleading with patrons not to panic even as large chunks of burning scenery landed around him.[16]
By this time, many of the patrons on all levels were quickly attempting to exit the theatre. Some had located the fire exits hidden behind draperies on the north side of the building, but found that they could not open the unfamiliar bascule lock. One door was opened by a man who had a bascule lock in his home and two were opened either by brute force or by a blast of air, but most of the other doors could not be opened. Some patrons panicked, crushing or trampling others in a desperate attempt to escape the fire.[17] Some perished while trapped in dead ends or while attempting to open windows that were designed to look like doors.
The dancers on stage were also eventually forced to flee, along with the performers backstage and in the numerous dressing rooms.[18] Many escaped the theatre through the coal hatch and through windows in the dressing rooms, while others attempted to escape via the west stage door, which opened inwards and became jammed as actors pressed toward the door frantically trying to get out. By chance a passing railroad agent saw the crowd pressing against the door and undid the hinges from the outside using tools he normally carried with him, allowing the actors and stagehands to escape.[19] Someone opened the huge double freight doors in the north wall, normally used for scenery, allowing "a cyclonic blast" of cold air to rush into the building and create an enormous fireball.[20] As the vents above the stage were nailed or wired shut, the fireball instead traveled outwards, ducking under the stuck asbestos curtain and streaking toward the vents behind the dress circle and gallery 50 feet (15 m) away. The hot gases and flames passed over the heads of those in the orchestra seats and incinerated everything flammable in the gallery and dress circle levels, including patrons still in those areas.
Those in the orchestra section were able to exit into the foyer and out the front door, but those in the dress circle and gallery who escaped the fireball were unable to reach the foyer because the iron grates that barred the stairways were still in place. The largest death toll was at the base of these stairways, where hundreds of people were trampled, crushed, or asphyxiated.
Patrons who were able to escape via the emergency exits on the north side found themselves on the unfinished fire escapes. Many jumped or fell from the icy, narrow fire escapes; the bodies of the first jumpers broke the falls of those who followed them.
Students from the Northwestern University building located north of the theatre tried bridging the gap with a ladder and then with some boards between the rooftops, saving those few able to manage the makeshift cross over.
Corpses were piled ten bodies high around the doors and windows. Many patrons had clambered over piles of bodies only to succumb themselves to the flames, smoke, and gases. It is estimated that 575 people died on the day of the fire; well over 30 more died of injuries suffered over the following weeks. Many of the Chicago victims were buried in Montrose, Forest Home, and Graceland cemeteries.[21]
Of the 300 or so actors, dancers, and stagehands, only the aerialist (Nellie Reed), an actor in a bit part, an usher, and two female attendants died. The aerialist's role was to fly out as a fairy over the audience on a trolley wire, showering them with pink carnations. She was trapped above the stage while waiting for her entrance; during the fire she fell, was gravely injured, and died of burns and internal injuries three days later.[22]
In New York City on New Year's Eve some theaters eliminated standing room. Building and fire codes were subsequently reformed; theaters were closed for retrofitting all around the country and in some cities in Europe. All theater exits had to be clearly marked and the doors rigged so that, even if they could not be pulled open from the outside, they could be pushed open from the inside.[23]
After the fire, it was alleged that fire inspectors had been bribed with free tickets to overlook code violations.[24] The mayor ordered all theaters in Chicago closed for six weeks after the fire.[25]
As a result of public outrage many were charged with crimes, including Mayor Carter Harrison, Jr.. Most charges were dismissed three years later, however, because of the delaying tactics of the owners' lawyers and their use of loopholes and inadequacies in the city's building and safety ordinances. The only person convicted was a tavern keeper charged with robbing the dead. By 1907, thirty families of the victims had been financially compensated for their loss, receiving a settlement of $750 each (equal to $17,620 today).
The exterior of the Iroquois was largely intact. The building later reopened as the Colonial Theater, which was torn down in 1926 to make way for the Oriental Theater.[26]
A bronze bas-relief memorial by sculptor Lorado Taft without any identifying markings was placed inside the LaSalle Street entrance to City Hall.[27] On December 31, 1911, The Chicago Tribune described the marker as depicting "the Motherhood of the World protecting the children of the universe, the body of a child borne on a litter by herculean male figures, with a bereaved mother bending over it.” The memorial was located in the Iroquois Hospital on Wacker until the building was demolished in 1951. It was placed in storage in City Hall until it was installed in its current location in 1960. On November 5, 2010, the memorial was rededicated and a descriptive plaque was donated by the Union League Club of Chicago. The dedication was attended by members of the Chicago City Council, the Union League Clug and Taft's granddaughter.[28]
Chicago held an annual memorial service at City Hall, until the last survivors died.[27]
The Iroquois fire prompted widespread implementation of the panic bar, first invented in the United Kingdom following the Victoria Hall disaster. Panic exit devices are now required by building codes for high-occupancy spaces, and were mass manufactured in the US following the Fire by the Von Duprin company (now part of Ingersoll Rand).[29]
A second result of the fire was that it was required that a fireproof asbestos curtain (or sheet metal screen) be raised before each performance and lowered afterward to separate the audience from the stage.
The third result was that fire codes limited the maximum number of seats between aisles to six or eight for faster evacuation.
The fourth result was that all doors in public buildings must open in the path of egress, but that practice did not become national until the Collinwood School Fire of 1908.[30]
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