This weekend workers removed the large CBS lettering from the exterior of the Television City complex on Beverly Boulevard — a visible marker of a long cultural relationship between the network and the building that bears its name. The removal has stirred nostalgia online and renewed attention to how the complex will be preserved even as a major redevelopment moves forward.

Television City is an early example of mid-century modern design adapted to industrial/studio needs. The complex was conceived as a horizontally oriented production campus with clean geometric volumes, curtain-wall glazing and large, flexible soundstage volumes — a synthesis of modernist office language and the functional requirements of TV production. The campus’ public face (the entrance canopy and façade treatments) reads as mid-century modern commercial architecture, while the massive white soundstage boxes represent the studio function. 

When CBS Television City opened its doors in 1952, television was still a young industry, scrambling for legitimacy. The network wanted not just a set of soundstages but a statement — a purpose-built campus that embodied television as the medium of the future.

They turned to Pereira & Luckman, the Los Angeles architectural partnership behind some of the city’s most forward-looking postwar designs. William Pereira, later famous for the Transamerica Pyramid and LAX’s Theme Building, brought the logic of modernism to the unruly world of television production.

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The result was a 25-acre complex organized around four primary soundstages, each measuring roughly 16,000 square feet — cavernous enough to accommodate elaborate sets, live studio audiences, and the bulky equipment of early TV cameras. The buildings were clad in stark white panels and curtain walls of glass, a modernist vocabulary adapted for industrial scale.

The public face of the complex — the dramatic entrance canopy on Beverly Boulevard — became an icon in its own right: a steel-and-glass pavilion that framed arriving stars and audiences, projecting a sense of modern glamour. Behind it stretched a rational grid of rehearsal halls, prop shops, costume facilities, editing rooms, and support wings, laid out with near-military efficiency. In effect, it was a factory for television — but a factory dressed in the sleek optimism of mid-century Los Angeles.

Television City was not just another studio lot. It was the first major broadcast facility in the U.S. designed expressly for television rather than adapted from film. The technical innovations included:

• Acoustically engineered soundstages: heavy concrete walls and floating slabs minimized interference.

• Retractable seating risers: allowing a stage to transform between audience-based variety shows and closed-set dramas.

• Integrated broadcast control rooms: perched above each stage, wired directly into master control, making live multi-camera broadcasts efficient in an era before videotape.

• On-site transmission tower: for sending live feeds straight to network affiliates.

Its importance was recognized formally in 2018, when the City of Los Angeles designated the complex a Historic-Cultural Monument (No. 1167). This ensured that the original Pereira & Luckman structures — especially the Beverly façade and the first four soundstages — could not be demolished, even as ownership passed from CBS to Hackman Capital Partners in a $750 million deal.

For seven decades, Television City was where American pop culture played out in real time. The Ed Sullivan Show beamed Elvis Presley’s hip-shaking to a nation of shocked parents from these stages. Carol Burnett capped off every episode of her legendary variety show by tugging her ear to say goodnight to her grandmother, standing before an audience in Studio 33. Game show fans know that same stage as “The Bob Barker Studio,” home to The Price Is Right for more than 40 years.

Beyond entertainment, the facility hosted political debates, telethons, and news specials that helped define the shared experience of American television. Walking its long, fluorescent-lit corridors, one could pass costume racks for soap operas, hear the echo of audience warm-ups, or glimpse a set under construction that millions would soon see in their living rooms.

The removal of the CBS letters is not the end of the story — it is the beginning of a new chapter. Hackman Capital Partners has committed over $1.25 billion to modernizing the complex. Plans call for doubling the number of soundstages, constructing new production offices, and upgrading technical infrastructure to serve streaming-era demands. Importantly, the original Pereira & Luckman buildings will be preserved and incorporated into the new masterplan, maintaining the historic bones even as the complex grows upward and outward.

In other words: the CBS Eye may no longer look down from Beverly Boulevard, but Television City will remain a place where cameras roll, audiences laugh, and culture is manufactured. Its architectural DNA — sleek, modular, resolutely modern — is protected, ensuring that the birthplace of so many televised memories will continue to shape new ones.

 The Pan Pacific Auditorium was a dazzling example of Streamline Moderne architecture, a style that emerged in the 1930s as a sleek, futuristic evolution of Art Deco. Characterized by aerodynamic curves, horizontal lines, and nautical motifs, Streamline Moderne embodied the optimism of a machine-age America. The Pan Pacific’s west-facing facade was a visual spectacle: four stylized towers resembling aircraft tails, flanked by flagpoles and painted in a striking green-and-white palette. It wasn’t just a building—it was a statement of progress, motion, and modernity.

The architects behind this iconic structure were Walter Wurdeman and Welton Becket, two Los Angeles-based visionaries who would go on to shape much of the city’s mid-century landscape. Commissioned by event promoters Phillip and Cliff Henderson, the Pan Pacific Auditorium was designed to be more than just a venue—it was a cultural hub. Wurdeman and Becket’s design fused theatrical flair with functional space, creating a 100,000-square-foot facility that could host thousands while dazzling passersby with its futuristic facade.

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The grand opening took place on May 18, 1935, with a 16-day model home exhibition that drew massive crowds and media attention. At the time, Los Angeles lacked a major indoor venue, and the Pan Pacific filled that void with style and substance. Its debut marked the beginning of a golden era for the building, which quickly became the go-to location for everything from sports events and political rallies to concerts and car shows.

Over the next three decades, the Pan Pacific Auditorium was the beating heart of LA’s indoor entertainment scene. It hosted the Ice Capades, Harlem Globetrotters, and even served as home court for UCLA and USC basketball teams. Legendary figures like Elvis Presley, Dwight D. Eisenhower, and Richard Nixon all made appearances there. In the 1950s, it became a hotspot for televised wrestling and national radio broadcasts, further cementing its place in American pop culture.

But by the early 1970s, the Pan Pacific’s star began to fade. The opening of the Los Angeles Convention Center in 1972 rendered it obsolete, and the building was closed. Though it was added to the National Register of Historic Places in 1978, years of neglect followed. Still, the Pan Pacific refused to disappear quietly. It made a memorable appearance in the 1980 cult classic Xanadu, where its futuristic design fit perfectly into the film’s roller-disco fantasy. n one of the film’s most iconic scenes, the legendary Gene Kelly—at 68, in his final on-screen dance—glided across the floor with Olivia Newton-John to the tune of “Whenever You’re Away From Me”. Olivia, radiant and ethereal, embodied the muse Kira with a voice that shimmered and a presence that lit up the screen. Her beauty and talent gave the Pan Pacific one last moment of cinematic glory, transforming it into a temple of dreams.

Tragically, on May 24, 1989, a massive fire engulfed the Pan Pacific Auditorium, reducing the beloved landmark to ashes. Though the exact cause remains uncertain, the loss was deeply felt across Los Angeles. Today, the site is home to Pan Pacific Park, and a scaled-down replica of one of the original towers stands as a remembrance. Disney paid tribute to the Pan Pacific Auditorium in a subtle yet striking way—by immortalizing its iconic facade in the entrance design of Disney California Adventure Park in Anaheim. The park’s front gates, with their swooping fins and Streamline Moderne styling, are a direct homage to the Pan Pacific’s west-facing facade. It’s a loving nod to a building that once embodied the spirit of Los Angeles: bold, glamorous, and full of promise.

And so, the curtain falls.

The Pan Pacific Auditorium was never just steel and stucco—it was a dream in motion, a place where the city gathered to celebrate, to cheer, to dance. Its towers stood like sentinels of a bygone era, watching over generations of Angelenos as they roller-skated through youth, applauded legends, and chased the shimmer of neon nights. Though the building is gone, its spirit lingers—in the soft glow of vintage photographs, in the echo of Gene Kelly’s final steps, and in the timeless grace of Olivia Newton-John’s muse-like smile.

For those who remember, the Pan Pacific isn’t just history—it’s a feeling. A flash of glamour. A flicker of light. A place where Los Angeles once believed in magic

 It began with a silver voice drifting from Sunset Boulevard, and ended in a hush beneath rubble and time. NBC’s Radio City Studios—once a beacon of glamour and innovation—stood proudly at the crossroads of old Hollywood and the brave new world of television. Here, beneath shimmering stage lights and the whir of cathode tubes, stars were born, dreams were aired, and history was made in high fidelity. But as the final broadcast faded and the demolition crews rolled in, the studio’s grand story closed not with applause, but with silence.

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In the golden glow of October 17, 1938, the curtain rose on NBC Radio City in Los Angeles—a shimmering jewel of Streamline Moderne architecture with sleek aluminum trim and a blue-green façade that caught the California sun like a starlet on opening night. At the crossroads of Sunset Boulevard and Vine Street, the studio wasn’t just built—it was unveiled, with the kind of pomp reserved for royal premieres. Inside, cavernous auditoriums pulsed with orchestras, laughter, and coast-to-coast broadcasts that gave America its nightly voice. This was the West Coast citadel of sound, where silver voices danced through velvet microphones and stars stood beneath the crackle of studio lights.

The mastermind behind NBC Radio City’s visual flair was none other than architect John C. Austin, whose résumé glittered with L.A. landmarks including Griffith Observatory and the Shrine Auditorium. With Radio City, Austin leaned into the sleek elegance of Streamline Moderne, sculpting a building that felt as dynamic as a broadcast itself. The curves whispered motion, the aluminum shimmered like a microphone grille, and the building stood like a monument to modernity—a beacon where stories could leap from airwaves to imagination. The facility was designed with multiple studios, including four large auditoriums capable of seating 350 people each, making it a major center for radio broadcasting. 

Behind those studio doors, legends were made. Radio City hosted a constellation of stars who defined the Golden Age of Radio—from Bob Hope spinning comic gold to Fibber McGee and Molly crafting sitcom magic long before television claimed the format. Jack Benny’s dry wit, George Burns and Gracie Allen’s repartee, and Bing Crosby’s croon filled the auditoriums with live audiences and coast-to-coast listeners, turning Hollywood’s crossroads into a shrine of stardom, laughter, and the human voice.

From soap operas to suspense thrillers, Radio City pumped out programming that captured the heartbeat of a restless nation. The studios birthed classics like The Lux Radio Theater, where movie stars reimagined silver-screen roles in one-night-only radio dramas. One Man’s Family delivered heartfelt domestic tales, while The NBC Symphony Orchestra, under Arturo Toscanini’s baton, brought high culture to humble living rooms. These weren’t just broadcasts—they were rituals, threading millions of listeners together in shared experience, all launched from Sunset and Vine.

As the 1940s unfurled, Radio City pivoted with the times. The soundscape began to hum differently—not just with radio waves but with flickering screens and cathode rays. NBC christened its new television station, KNBH-TV (now KNBC), bringing moving pictures into the sacred halls built for sound. The studio walls, once echo chambers of audio drama and variety shows, now tried to accommodate the visual spectacle of early television. But the glamour of innovation met cold limitations: the power demands were too great, the infrastructure not built for the dazzle of live TV. And so the dream flickered—brilliantly, but briefly.

As television flickered to life inside NBC Radio City, a new generation of entertainers traded microphones for makeup chairs, stepping into America's living rooms through cathode-ray magic. Dinah Shore’s warmth, Bob Hope’s sparkle, and George Burns’s ever-dry delivery lit up the cameras just as they once lit up the airwaves. Even Hollywood royalty like Lucille Ball and graced the studios in guest appearances, bridging the gap between radio tradition and television glamor. Sunset & Vine became the glittering portal where radio legends reinvented themselves for a visual age.

NBC Radio City wasn’t just a backdrop—it was an incubator for early television experiments that shaped the medium. In January 1949, the studios launched KNBH-TV, the first NBC television station in Los Angeles (now known as KNBC). Programming blossomed quickly: the variety show Your Show of Shows, co-starring Sid Caesar and Imogene Coca, set the template for sketch comedy. Early dramas and live broadcasts tested the limits of stage-to-screen technology, and shows like The Colgate Comedy Hour and Truth or Consequences kept audiences glued to their glowing screens. Though the building struggled to meet the technical demands of the new medium, its walls witnessed television’s awkward adolescence and dazzling debut.

Through the 19 50s and into the ’60s, NBC Radio City clung to relevance as the cultural tides shifted. Radio had lost its throne, television wanted more, and the once-glamorous cathedral struggled to keep pace. Studios that had once hosted live audiences were repurposed into sterile office space; applause was replaced by paperwork. In 1962, NBC halted entertainment programming for its radio network, silencing one of the loudest voices of the past. By the 2020s, the building that once shaped a nation’s imagination had been rebranded—its glittering facade reduced to a footnote in commercial real estate.

Now, the ground at Sunset and Vine whispers stories only old receivers and faded postcards remember. The razing of NBC Radio City wasn’t just the demolition of walls—it was the burial of a bygone era. 

Long after the final red light dimmed and the stars rolled off Sunset Boulevard, NBC’s Radio City lived on—in crackling memories, in vintage postcards, in whispers through cathode haze. Glamour may fade, broadcasts may break, but the legacy of that studio still flickers in the static of history. Beneath the dust and neon lies the soul of a golden age, one that took its final bow—but never truly left the stage...

Here are some interesting shots of the outdoor movie theatre we have out here where you drive in and sit in your car to see the show. 

It's now doing a capacity business, even when it rains. with two shows nightly and cars lined up for blocks along Fico Boulevard waiting to get in. Car lights are turned out at the ticket gate and an attendant mounts the running board with a flash light to guide your car to a parking place Just as an usher does in a regular theatre. 

At each parking place is a loud speaker which hangs a few inches from the ear radiator. The reception is so good you can hear the film with the car windows rolled up. One of the pictures shows the scale of a man and the screen. 

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HARRISON FORMAN | LIFE Magazine, March 8, 1937

Many attractive suburban shopping districts are part of Los Angeles. The "Miracle Mile" on Wilshire Boulevard is one of the most unique and fascinating streets of unusual shops, cafes and theatres in the country.