flick starring Marilyn Chambers, the Mitchell brothers’ name became widely synonymous with “quality,” at least to the extent that such a thing existed at all in the business. They made dozens more movies over the years and opened a half dozen sex-show emporiums in San Francisco and Los Angeles.
The flagship of their empire, the O’Farrell Theatre, is located in one of the city’s toughest neighborhoods, but its outer walls are adorned with elaborate, colorful murals depicting jungle and underwater scenes. Inside, the plush red carpets, cleanliness, and state-of-the-art lighting and sound equipment are a far cry from the dreary, sticky-floored porn parlors found in most cities.
While the performers strutted their stuff in the various showrooms downstairs, upstairs in the office, Jim, Artie, and a collection of friends and colleagues could usually be found drinking beer, shooting pool, hatching all kinds of outlaw schemes. The Mitchell brothers’ coterie included an assortment of celebrated counterculture types, such as the late Black Panther leader Huey Newton and writer Hunter S. Thompson. On the wall above his desk, Jim had a framed letter from Abbie Hoffman, thanking the brothers for their generosity during a visit to the theater in the 1970s.
A number of book ideas to document this unusual empire have been hatched, including one by Thompson, who spent almost a year at the O’Farrell ostensibly working as the night manager. (His book has yet to be published, but those close to the theater remember his months there as one of the O’Farrell’s more ribald periods.) The brothers’ circle also included Warren Hinckle, the rabble-rousing, eye-patch-wearing newspaper columnist. Hinckle figured prominently in the theater’s most celebrated bust, the 1985 arrest of Marilyn Chambers for allegedly allowing a customer the privilege of “digital” penetration during her striptease act. Over the next week, Hinckle wrote a series of articles ridiculing the police department, which had used thirteen officers and a dozen or so backups to arrest the unarmed—and unclothed—porn queen. Hinckle’s columns touched off public outrage, not at the brothers but at the police.
So I wasn’t the first journalist to be seduced by the goings-on at the theater. In mid-February, I arrived in San Francisco to spend the better part of a week with Jim and Artie, in hopes of writing a book at some point on them and their operation. Jim had read and liked The Westies , a book I’d written about a group of Irish gangsters in New York City. Earlier we’d talked on the phone a few times; he seemed open to the idea of my spending time there and writing about them. “I have to check this out with my brother, Artie,” he said, “but, yeah, come on out.”
The last time I saw Artie Mitchell was in the middle of the afternoon, and he was rolling a joint. Carefully. The city had been suffering through one of those periodic dry spells when the gourmet herb that grows in nearby Humboldt County had yet to be harvested. Since Artie had a reputation as something of a connoisseur, he wasn’t about to waste the last of his stash. It was a tight, lean joint.
The office at the O’Farrell Theatre, the brothers’ base of operations since the day it opened in 1969, is up a flight of stairs. In the center of the room is a pool table. An old jukebox stands against one wall. A refrigerator in the corner is usually stocked with beer, and a selection of newspaper clippings relating to the theater have been framed and hung haphazardly around the room. Most conspicuous, though, is a bank of six surveillance monitors that dominates one wall. One of the monitors constantly reveals a gathering of nude and partially clad women lounging in a dressing room down the hall.
Even though he had precious little marijuana left that afternoon, Artie passed his joint around the office without hesitation. With his scraggly brown beard and equally unkempt
The flagship of their empire, the O’Farrell Theatre, is located in one of the city’s toughest neighborhoods, but its outer walls are adorned with elaborate, colorful murals depicting jungle and underwater scenes. Inside, the plush red carpets, cleanliness, and state-of-the-art lighting and sound equipment are a far cry from the dreary, sticky-floored porn parlors found in most cities.
While the performers strutted their stuff in the various showrooms downstairs, upstairs in the office, Jim, Artie, and a collection of friends and colleagues could usually be found drinking beer, shooting pool, hatching all kinds of outlaw schemes. The Mitchell brothers’ coterie included an assortment of celebrated counterculture types, such as the late Black Panther leader Huey Newton and writer Hunter S. Thompson. On the wall above his desk, Jim had a framed letter from Abbie Hoffman, thanking the brothers for their generosity during a visit to the theater in the 1970s.
A number of book ideas to document this unusual empire have been hatched, including one by Thompson, who spent almost a year at the O’Farrell ostensibly working as the night manager. (His book has yet to be published, but those close to the theater remember his months there as one of the O’Farrell’s more ribald periods.) The brothers’ circle also included Warren Hinckle, the rabble-rousing, eye-patch-wearing newspaper columnist. Hinckle figured prominently in the theater’s most celebrated bust, the 1985 arrest of Marilyn Chambers for allegedly allowing a customer the privilege of “digital” penetration during her striptease act. Over the next week, Hinckle wrote a series of articles ridiculing the police department, which had used thirteen officers and a dozen or so backups to arrest the unarmed—and unclothed—porn queen. Hinckle’s columns touched off public outrage, not at the brothers but at the police.
So I wasn’t the first journalist to be seduced by the goings-on at the theater. In mid-February, I arrived in San Francisco to spend the better part of a week with Jim and Artie, in hopes of writing a book at some point on them and their operation. Jim had read and liked The Westies , a book I’d written about a group of Irish gangsters in New York City. Earlier we’d talked on the phone a few times; he seemed open to the idea of my spending time there and writing about them. “I have to check this out with my brother, Artie,” he said, “but, yeah, come on out.”
The last time I saw Artie Mitchell was in the middle of the afternoon, and he was rolling a joint. Carefully. The city had been suffering through one of those periodic dry spells when the gourmet herb that grows in nearby Humboldt County had yet to be harvested. Since Artie had a reputation as something of a connoisseur, he wasn’t about to waste the last of his stash. It was a tight, lean joint.
The office at the O’Farrell Theatre, the brothers’ base of operations since the day it opened in 1969, is up a flight of stairs. In the center of the room is a pool table. An old jukebox stands against one wall. A refrigerator in the corner is usually stocked with beer, and a selection of newspaper clippings relating to the theater have been framed and hung haphazardly around the room. Most conspicuous, though, is a bank of six surveillance monitors that dominates one wall. One of the monitors constantly reveals a gathering of nude and partially clad women lounging in a dressing room down the hall.
Even though he had precious little marijuana left that afternoon, Artie passed his joint around the office without hesitation. With his scraggly brown beard and equally unkempt
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