Movie review: Columbus (2017)

Columbus is a soft-spoken movie full of serendipitous meetings against the backdrop of Columbus, Indiana.

This small-size midwestern town is known for its architecture. Columbus is the home of Cummins, a large engine manufacturer with an oversized footprint on the town. Cummins executive J. Irwin Miller along with the Cummins Foundation was behind the boom in modernist architecture in Columbus that went on for decades. The movie highlights many of the architectural treasures in Columbus as the storyline unfolds—the Irwin house, First Christian Church, the Cleo Rogers Memorial Library, the Irwin Conference Centre, Mill Race Park, the Miller House, the Republic Newspaper Building, Clifty Creek Elementary School, and Columbus City Hall.

The storyline? A world-renown architect is in town for a talk. He and his assistant are at the famous Miller House when he falls ill and is hospitalized. (The Miller House makes appearance throughout the movie. As an aside: the house is well worth a tour.)

The architect’s son, Jin, flies from Korea to be present for…his father’s recovery? His death? As the movie progresses we learn about the strained relationship (or lack of one) with his father, expectations in Korean society about family, and Jin’s own feelings about the situation.

Meanwhile, Cassey, a resident of Columbus and architecture aficionado, encounters Jin. The two of them start a friendship that quickly delves into deep topics. Initially she takes Jin to various architectural sites. Discussions move from superficial talk about the buildings to her feelings behind them to her life.

The discussions with Jin force Cassey to confront her life: she has stayed in Columbus (and told herself she was fine with that) as friends and classmates went off to college. Why, if she has an interest in architecture and was clearly bright, did she not go to college to study architecture? Previously another scholar of architecture offered to take Cassey under her wing. But Cassey demurred.

The discussions with Cassey force Jin to admit to his feelings surrounding Korean societal expectations and his relationship with his father. He is in limbo in Columbus. He is staying in the room his father had at the Irwin House. The movie shows shots of him in the house and views of the gardens. (You can also tour the Irwin House, and the gardens are open to the public during certain hours.)

In the end, there are no clean resolutions. Cassey does move on with her life, clearly scared to leave the town and mother she loves. Jin is stuck, moving from the rooms of the Irwin House to a house he can rent by the month. He is waiting for his father to die or to live. Like real life, the movie doesn’t show us how things end.

Orchestrions and soda jerks

Orchestrions aren’t the kind of item you encounter everyday. I’ve seen a few over the years, but their numbers pale in comparison to the number of orchestrions I have run into since being back in the Midwest.

I recently stumbled across several at a quirky little museum in Columbus, Indiana. Zaharakos Ice Cream Parlor, established in 1900, is a step back in time. On one side is an old fashion soda fountain counter and restaurant. On the other side a museum of orchestrions and soda fountains.

Music filled the parlor from, of course, an orchestrion. The museum includes four different music machines. Three have information about their origins. One is a coin-operated piano (think forerunner to the modern jukebox). Another is a banjo orchestra. (I would have loved to hear that one play!) The remaining two contain organ pipes with metal cylindrical drums.

J.P. Seeburg Style L Coin Piano
Chicago, IL
first introduced in 1921
ca. 1925

Banjo Orchestra
D.C. Ramsey Piano Co.
Chicago, IL

M Welte and Sohne 
New York, NY

The rest of the museum is filled with early soda fountains. Apparently soda fountains were a huge business (and judging by the records of litigation over patent infringements and monopolies on the Internet, a rather cut-throat business).

I quickly realized that when I thought of soda fountains, I thought of soda fountain counters. I conflated the soda fountain with the counter that you typically see in American movie scenes from the early 20th century: young children stopping by the drugstore on the way home from school to pay a nickel to enjoy a soda at the counter. But, as the museum shows, the soda fountains are self-contained units. (Though it is hard to imagine a soda fountain without a long counter and soda jerks.)

The museum collection ranges from the 1850s (!) to 1902. The fountains are beautiful contraptions, orate-looking with marble (real or not) and shiny metal parts, built to house ice to cool the soda. Each soda fountain in the museum has information about its origin and history.

Otto Zwietusch Soda Fountain Apparatus
Milwaukee, WI
produced from late 1850s to early 1960s

Cottage Soda Fountain
James W. Tufts
Boston, MA
ca. 1869

The Oracle Soda Foundation
R.M. Green (who, by the way, is credited with inventing the ice cream float)
Philadelphia, PA
ca. late 1880s

Puffer Soda Fountain
James W. Tuffs
Boston, MA
ca. 1888

Shelburne Soda Fountain
Chas. Lippincott and Co.
Philly
ca. 1890

Haussling Soda Fountain
Newark, NJ
ca. 1890s

American Soda Fountain Co.
Boston, MA
ca. 1894

The Keynote Soda Fountain
Liquid Carbonic Acid Manufacturing Co.
Chicago, IL
ca. 1902

For a lovely collection of photos of the soda fountains, orchestrions, and the ice cream parlor, see Billshoot’s SmugMug site.

If you find yourself in Columbus (Indiana), stop by Zaharakos Ice Cream Parlor for a treat from the soda fountain (served by soda jerks). Then wander over to the museum to check out the orchestrions and historical soda fountains.

Photo: Irwin gardens

Image

Photos of the Irwin gardens, Columbus, IN, July 2, 2017
Irwin gardens in Columbus, IN
View of sunken gardens and cascading fountains from the house patio

Irwin gardens in Columbus, IN
Recast of elephant from Japanese Pavilion at 1906 St. Louis World’s Fair

Irwin gardens in Columbus, IN
Italian wishing well

Irwin gardens in Columbus, IN
View of the gardens from the amphitheater, with Italian stone wishing well in the distance

Irwin house and gardens

I ran into Selma sooner than I thought I would.

I was on a tour of the historic Irwin house and gardens in Columbus, Indiana. I had walked by this walled house with garden, intrigued by the European looking gardens and the Italianate architecture. It was an historic home turned into a bed and breakfast, closed to passersby except for a few hours twice a week when its gardens are open to the public.

Or when a tour is available.

The tour I was on had just moved from the foyer to the parlor. I was scribbling notes, listening to the docent. And then I looked up. I was flabbergasted. There was Selma over the fireplace. Of course, it was a replica. (The original is back in Steele’s studio on his Brown County property.)

I had arrived a bit early, per the tour instructions. As we waited for all the people signed up for the tour to arrive, the guide let us loose to wander the house. I was so focused on all the details of the rooms, I missed Selma on my initial walkthrough!

The house was originally a Victorian structure built in 1864 for Joseph Irwin, who owned a dry goods store. Luck smiled on Irwin. As the sole owner in town of a safe, he stored money for other businessmen. Unsurprisingly, in the 1870s, he founded a bank—Irwin Union Bank & Trust (which went out of business just a few years ago).

Flushed with cash, in 1890 he enlarged and remodeled the house. The house doubled in size and resembled little of its former self.

In 1910, the house underwent a final renovation and transformation, remodeled by Massachusetts architect Henry A. Philips. Gone were Victorian touches, replaced with Edwardian style.

The house stayed in the Irwin family, passed down through married daughters, which explains its reference as the Irwin-Sweeney-Miller house. Multiple generations often lived in the house at the same time. I attempted to make some sense of the generations of this family, its history, and Cummins, the company associated with the city. Clessie Cummins, who founded Cummins, was a chauffeur and mechanic for the Irwin family. William Irwin, Joseph Irwin’s son, financially backed Cummins’ venture.  J. Irwin Miller, great-grandson of Joseph Irwin, was the late great CEO of Cummins.

In 1996, the last family member who lived in the house passed away. The Miller family maintained the house and garden, but the family never lived in the house again. In 2009, the house left the Irwin-Sweeney-Miller hands. In 2010, the new owners, the Stevens opened the house as a bed and breakfast, and maintained the family tradition of opening the gardens to the public on certain days.

The tour started in the current foyer and included all rooms (sans kitchen area) in the downstairs area. (As the house is a functioning bed and breakfast, we did not get to tour the second or third floors.)

The current foyer is dark, covered with wood paneling and filled with a lovely staircase. What, I wondered, was the wood? As if reading my mind, the docent explained that the Irwins had a choice: use cheaper local wood that would keep the remodeling on schedule and in budget OR use tiger oak from England that would last 200 years? They chose the latter. Long-term thinking people. The wood in the house is in mint condition. They clearly made the right choice.

The parlor, as she pointed out, is like other parlors, not a comfortable place, only meant to greet guests before moving to somewhere else. Huh. Not something I ever realized about parlors. Interesting tidbit to learn. The furniture in this room didn’t look particularly comfortable. (But hey, you could gaze at Selma in the Garden here!) The furniture on the first level is all original. For the most part, when the house was sold to the Stevens in 2009, the original belongings were sold with it.

Next to the parlor is a small “music” room. The baby grand is gone but replaced with a smaller piano for guests to use while they enjoy tea in this room. I noticed that the fish in the large bowl on the piano must have been spooked as we traipsed through. He was hiding in the castle archway. (When I initially perused the room, he was out swimming around.)

After the music room is a side door and strange hallway. This was the original entranceway, the docent explained. The entrance and hallway seemed like an afterthought, not a grand entrance like the current foyer. (To my chagrin, I didn’t ask about what the current foyer originally was.) Why is the original entrance no longer used? It opens on the side of the house, not facing the street. Immediately to the side of the house sits the modern public library. A pity that the property lines are so close.

The small entrance and hallway house the phone and elevator, added during the 1910 remodel. The elevator—not an Otis!—is oval shaped and can fit two people with a suitcase. (Otis was THE elevator manufacturer with Indiana roots.) Contrary to typical Amy behavior, I did not investigate the elevator. I blame it on the cramped hallway, the size of the tour, and the tour moving on. But I am disappointed that I didn’t investigate it.

The dining room houses a long table, not the original to the room, but the original type of table. The owners recently acquired a similar model to what the Irwins had. The art hanging over the table was another pleasant surprise—a large Audubon print of red-shouldered hawks. (The Indianapolis Museum of Art is currently running a special exhibit of Audubon’s works, full of prints like this one.)

The library is rather the pièce de résistance. Its dark wood paneling is the same as in the foyer. The fireplace is the only one in the house that they use. One wall is lined with books, that any guest is welcome to peruse. (In fact, books, the docent told us, fill the house.) On occasion, guests stumble across interesting tidbits such as letters in the books. The current owners just ass the treasure finders to place the items back where they found them after enjoying their contents. (Gosh, what historic secrets are in the pages of these books?)

In hindsight, the house—at least the main floor—is surprisingly small. I would have LOVED to get an entire tour, including what was the bachelor pad of an unmarried son on the third floor. The gardens, which were built from 1911 to 1913, are about the same footprint as the house.

After sharing a few stories about the gardens, we were left to wander to our hearts’ content. Really? The tour instructions mentioned that we would have limited photography opportunities in the garden. But in fact, the gardens were opening to the public soon.

The gardens are modeled on Pompeii ruins, something that the family must have been smitten with on their travels. (Of course, the style fits in well with the Italianate style of the house.) Pergolas with wisteria (the sole remaining original plant in the garden) mirrored each other, housing busts of four Greek philosophers. The symmetry continued with dual ponds sporting turtle fountains. To one side is a shaded garden, where brides emerge during wedding ceremonies.

Past the dual ponds with turtle fountains are steps that lead down to a sunken garden with another fountain and rectangle pond. To the left is an elephant, originally from the 1904 St. Louis World’s Fair (it has been subsequently recast), and steps leading to a mini amphitheater.

Opposite the elephant on the other side of the fountain in the sunken garden is a stone wishing well. In a separate side garden, by the Italian wishing well, is what currently is the herb garden. (It originally was a rose garden.)

The high point of the garden (design-wise and geographically) are steps leading up to a “tea house”. Up the steps are five fountains: a man with a walrus face, a boar, a ram, a bear, and two boys. From the top, you can look down on the entire gardens and gain a good view of the house.

The gardens were a piece of quiet and respite, the sound of the many fountains creating a sense of calm. After the gardens opened to the public, the space gradually filled with people: parents with small children stopping for a quick visit, people coming to take photographs from different vantage points. The world was intruding into this walled space. Time to join it.

Jumping into the sofa pit

Columbus, Indiana. Probably not a place that comes to mind when you think architecture. Yet the American Institute of Architects named Columbus as the sixth most architecturally important city in the US.

There I was, in the middle of a tour, wandering through the Miller House, the mid-century home of the former CEO of Cummins, the largest employer in Columbus, Indiana. Irwin Miller was also the philanthropist responsible for architectural design throughout Columbus, the very architectural design that landed Columbus in the sixth spot.

The Millers raised five children in this house, including one oops—a child that announced it was coming after the house was designed. The house is laid out as compartments, with a section for the children’s rooms, a section for guests, and a section for the parents. The center is a large communal area with a rectangular sofa recessed in the floor.

It didn’t seem like a house for children. But stories started to emerge. The floors were a beautiful travertine and terrazzo, preserved by having tour guests walk only on carpeted runners. Yet children being children, the floors weren’t always treated with this respect. The children roller skated on it. Gasp.

And before the house was given to the Indianapolis Museum of Art for preservation, a painting hung by the dining table, a painting that the children used to bounce balls off of. A painting of water lilies. Yes, those water lilies. By Monet. A painting that later fetched nearly $81 million at an auction. They bounced balls off of it. Double gasp.

My favorite tale about the children’s escapades involved the sunken sofa. The sofa graced the large communal room, with a plethora of pillows on the cushions. After strategically moving the pillows from the sofa cushions to the floor in the center of the rectangular sofa, the children would take a running leap from a far corner of the large communal room. Flying through the air, they landed on the soft pile of pillows. Jumping into the sofa pit must have been the perfect remedy for a house with no wooden banister to slide down.

And I wished I could take a stab at it. Of course, being Amy, I would have to add sound effects. The obligatory “wheeee” as I flew through the air. And landed on the pillows.