Atlanta is perhaps the last place you think of when you think of Modernism, and for excellent reason: there’s not much of it there and not many of the locals appreciate it. Atlanta once had its share of Modernist buildings, but huge numbers of them have fallen prey to the wrecker’s ball and to the depredations of Dryvit-wielding remodelers. Even with this state of affairs, Atlanta has one Modern building that every Atlantan knows and appreciates, John Portman’s Hyatt Regency.

This exterior view shows the original 1967 building and the circular International Tower added in 1976.

The love affair between Atlantans and this Modernist extravaganza has been going on since May of 1967, when the Regency opened to the scoffs of competing hotel owners. Atlanta had long been known for its terrible hotels; the situation was so bad that it stood between the city and its ambitions as a center for international trade. Before the Regency’s opening, the major downtown hotel was the Henry Grady, an establishment of epic seediness. Stogie-chomping politicians roamed smoke-stained halls right out of a Forties Warner Bros. movie- it seemed Sydney Greenstreet would appear any moment to give guests trouble over their letters of transit. Other hoteliers felt that the Regency was simply too grand for its market; one said, "that concrete monster will never fly."

John Portman’s vision for the Regency was simple; it would be a world-class hotel where none had ever existed before, and its architecture would be so distinctive that the hotel would need no further recommendation as Atlanta’s premier place for visitors to stay. From the outside, the Regency went up as a fairly severe 22-story box that gave very little hint of what was to be found inside, until one looked up at the roof. Where most downtown buildings have nothing whatever, the Regency had a shimmering blue Plexiglas bubble of a revolving restaurant, known then and now as the Polaris.

This open, glassed entrance replaces the original, which gave no hint of what was to be seen inside.

It was only upon entering the hotel that a first-time visitor saw the considerable lengths to which its designer had gone to make this the most memorable hotel of its day. Portman had taken more than a few cues from an architect he respected highly; his respect was well-founded, since the architect was Frank Lloyd Wright. Portman’s first and greatest homage was to Wright’s Johnson Wax building.

Guests entered the hotel through an unassuming, tunnel-like, low-ceilinged entrance that gave no hint of what was to follow. The space allowed merely for traffic flow in and out; there was no decoration anywhere. As with the Johnson Wax building and its deliberately compressed lobby, the stage was set for a surprise, and it was, as they say, something else.

The Regency’s "little nothing" entrance suddenly gave way to the most amazing sight most Atlantans had ever seen; a twenty-two-story skylit atrium with half a square city block of floor space at its base. Like Johnson Wax’s Great Workroom, the atrium was nothing short of a shock after the entrance- and there was so much going on in that atrium, the shock continued to resonate with the visitor for quite some time after the initial ka-POW! punch.

Everyone has seen similar hotels today, but in 1967, this view was science fiction come to life.

The atrium offered more Wrightian motifs than even Wright ever used, but in new, showier ways. The Johnson Wax building’s demure little bronze-cage elevator had been turned into a bank of transparent-walled ‘space capsule’ elevators gliding up and down a huge concrete column. Wright’s vine-laden concrete trellises that lend so much grace to "Fallingwater" made an appearance, at the edges of the balconies that ringed each floor of the hotel; even the vines were in place. There was also an evocation of Wright’s stained-glass designs, in a huge circular domed construction forming the roof of the hotel’s Parasol Bar. The forty-foot canopy swung from the atrium’s ceiling on a 200-foot cable; its design referred to the traceries of Wright’s famed stained-glass windows. Not content with the entertainment value of the Parasol and the elevators, Portman threw in a Tivoli-style sidewalk cafe called the Kafe Kobenhavn; all the virtues of sidewalk cafes were suddenly available in a city whose hot, humid climate was most inhospitable to the real thing.

The crowning- literally crowning- glory of the hotel was the Polaris. The revolving rooftop restaurant was an instant hit; everybody who was anybody had to take the space-age elevators up for lunch, dinner, or just plain gawking. The opening of the Polaris had not been without hazard; the waiters who had been recruited flatly refused to get within fifteen feet of its transparent outer walls, until the 200-pound head of the construction company convinced them it was safe with a simple demonstration. He appeared via elevator in the middle of a waiters’ training session, donned a hard hat, ran at full speed from the center of the restaurant to one of the expansive windows, and threw himself at it with all the weight he had. The waiters gasped. The head of construction bounced off the window, caromed back into the room safely, and walked back into the elevator without a word. End of problem.

Another view of the atrium shows the suspended, lace-like roof of the Parasol Bar, left.

The hotel was a success from its opening day, soon boasting one of the highest occupancy rates of any luxury hotel in the world. Droves of people came just to see the place; the spot just inside the entrance was irreverently known to the staff as "Jesus Christ Corner", because the sudden sight of the atrium inspired so much use of the phrase.

Was it serious architecture? Is it? Portman has been criticized by many, including FLLW biographer Brendan Gill, for using Wrightian touches in such an un-Wrightian manner. For all its trellises and tracery, the hotel looks inward, not outward, as a Wright building would. The scale of the atrium is something Wright never conceived at his most grandiose. If the Regency is serious architecture, it is in the tradition of Morris Lapidus, who designed the Fontainebleau and Eden Roc hotels in Miami. Like Lapidus’ hotels, the Regency exists to lend drama, glamour, and added value to the most mundane business in the world- bedding down for the night. On that basis, it is serious architecture indeed; the hotel’s consistent high revenues can be directly traced to its visual impressiveness. The impact of the oh-my-God Modernism that was so cutting-edge in ’67 has been diluted somewhat by the appearance of dozens of similar structures all over the world. Many are owned by Hyatt and many are designed by Portman- but the Regency was first.

The Regency is unusual among iconic Modernist buildings in that it is still in use for its original purpose, still owned by its original owners, and all the considerable renovation and addition it has undergone has been at the direction of its original architect. The hotel is now twice the size it was originally; a circular bronze-glass International Tower was added in the 70’s, and 1996 saw the addition of another tower that neatly duplicates the original 1967 facade of the main building. The hotel has evolved in décor and amenities; the first iteration of the rooms was Sixties basic. Today, Hyatt offers visitors rooms ranging from businesslike-but-cozy to sybaritic. The staff has functionaries unheard-of in 1967 Atlanta, among them a concierge.

Hyatt's pride in its flagship hotel extended to putting a relief of the building on the tags of its room keys. The keys have long since been replaced by a keycard system.

The uses of the hotel have changed somewhat, as well. The Parasol still swings from its cable, and the Kafe Kobenhavn is still a delight. The Polaris is no longer THE spot for power lunching; dinner is where the action is today, and the restaurant is now Atlanta’s favorite place to propose marriage. Other restaurants have been added, and huge meeting rooms and exhibit halls are in the new additions; the Regency goes after- and gets- more of this business than any other downtown hotel in the city.

The Hyatt Corporation’s policy of aggressively, immaculately maintaining its properties means that the hotel is much as it was when new; you can see a Modernist building close to its best, rather than as the sad ghost of a former glory. The sole change that substantially alters the original design intent is a recent Portman Associates-designed "opening up” of the entrance; the original tunnel-like structure has been replaced with bright, airy glasswork. The result is fresh and very much in tune with today’s tastes, but the former delight of Wright-style spatial compression and release is gone. It may be just as well; everyone knows what an atrium hotel looks like today. It’s possible that no one would get the same charge 1967 visitors did when the awesome volume of the lobby space was so suddenly revealed.

For all the changes, and for all the differences in 1967 and today, the Regency stands as a fulfillment of the promises of Modernism. It was a cornerstone in the redevelopment of the northern end of Atlanta’s downtown, nearly filled today with Portman’s Peachtree Center buildings. It offers a self-contained world of entertainment and shelter; guests are completely insulated from Atlanta’s streets and lack of any downtown nightlife but the tourist-trap variety. Its architecture has endured for nearly four decades, to look as new today as it did when its first customers looked up, saw what John Portman had done, and let out an awestruck “Jeeeesus CHRIST!”

TRADEMARK NOTICES

Hyatt®, Regency®, Polaris®, Kafe Kobenhavn, and Parasol Bar are trademarks or service marks of Hyatt Corporation.

LINKS

Visit the homepage of the Hyatt Regency Atlanta at: www.atlantaregency.hyatt.com

Visit the homepage of John Portman Associates at: www.portmanusa.com

This article has not been authorized by any of the persons or entities mentioned in it; the author and Publisher are solely responsible for its content.

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