Behind the Green Door
A Memoir
by Claudia Jackson
It is often the "off the record" and "behind the scenes" stuff that make news reporting so very interesting. My first published story was for the San Francisco State student newspaper, The Phoenix, in September 1982. It provided a behind the scenes look at the O'Farrell Theater, or as Hunter S. Thompson called it, "The Carnegie Hall of Sex."
My class adviser assigned me to interview a local newsmaker. I picked Art (Artie) Mitchell, co-owner with his brother, Jim, of the O'Farrell. The brothers had been in the news since 1969 when they began making porn films and opened their theater space in San Francisco's Tenderloin District. They first achieved fame (notoriety) when they produced an early film, entitled Behind the Green Door (1972).
Charges of obscenity and prostitution, and numerous police raids, sometimes headed by then Supervisor Dianne Feinstein, kept the brothers in local celebrity status. When interviewed, Artie said, "the police just wanted to visit without paying admission."
The O'Farrell was a marginal underworld kind of place in 1982. My friends and acquaintances did not go there, or at least didn't tell me about it. But Artie and Jim were semi-old friends from our hometown, Antioch, in the East Bay. Antioch had a crazy kind of bonding; even to this day, there is an "Oh My God—You Are From Antioch!" moment when people mention living in Antioch. We stand on common ground. We stick together and help each other out. In 1982, it was more so. The brothers hired mostly Antioch people to staff their place and they helped me out by letting me interview them in depth.
Richard, who I knew from my Antioch days, greeted me at the door with some gossip about old classmates who performed in movies and on stage at the O'Farrell. Some names came as a shocker. Who would have thought?
On our way upstairs to meet Artie, Russ (who I knew as "Virus" in Antioch) called out, "Hey, Claude of Dirt," a nickname from my older brother's friends. He opened the door, and announced that I was there. I heard one Mitchell brother say, "Tell her to come in."
The office was the size of two large living rooms with early Reno decor. There were two large, glassed-in, mahogany gun closets filled with various rifles that Artie would show me later. A huge pool table sat to the right of a 12-foot-by-12 foot oak dining table where Marilyn Chambers, Artie and Jim sat eating tacos and enchiladas and drinking Coke from the can. Everyone except Jim was smoking cigarettes.
Artie gave me the interview and a two-hour behind the scenes tour of the place which was the size of a small movie lot. After the eye-opening tour for the 35-year-old college student, as I was then, I went home and wrote my story.
Nothing in my story told about the striptease in progress on the Las Vegas style stage, the Ultra Room, where customers peeped in on women cavorting, or about the quasi-nightclub where a Chico bachelor party was happening and three women were dancing with each other.
My story left out Artie's constant trips to the bathroom, only to return rubbing his nose, and sounding a little bit more enlightened about the future of pornography. In this case, his predictions were right on.
"I have become friends with a lot of my famous customers," he told me proudly, "for example, O.J. Simpson, Buddy Rich, Sammy Davis, Jr., Tom Jones, the DA, Herb Caen, and even local Police and Fire Chiefs." He added, "Some bring their wives and make it a family affair."
My last stop was a visit with the women performers in their dressing room. There, I heard stories of sexual abuse as children, single parent problems, and how much they liked Artie and Jim. They said the Mitchells paid all their medical expenses, as well as for daycare and evening babysitters.
My story for The Phoenix made the front page. A letter to the editor in the next issue said, "The story forces us to see Art Mitchell as a human being." The letter then went on to denounce the paper and pornography.
I went on to finish my BA in Journalism, and then to report for The San Mateo Times, The Oakland Montclarion, and, for a few years, some San Francisco independent newspapers.
On February 27, 1991, Jim Mitchell drove to Artie's home, shot eight rounds of a .22 rifle and killed his brother. Jim was convicted of voluntary manslaughter and sentenced to six years. When he was released from San Quentin in 1997, he returned to run the O'Farrell Theater.
After Jim's death from an apparent heart attack, in 2007, his funeral was held in our old hometown of Antioch. Among those in attendance were Mayor Willie Brown and ex-District Attorney Terence Hallinan.
My class adviser assigned me to interview a local newsmaker. I picked Art (Artie) Mitchell, co-owner with his brother, Jim, of the O'Farrell. The brothers had been in the news since 1969 when they began making porn films and opened their theater space in San Francisco's Tenderloin District. They first achieved fame (notoriety) when they produced an early film, entitled Behind the Green Door (1972).
Charges of obscenity and prostitution, and numerous police raids, sometimes headed by then Supervisor Dianne Feinstein, kept the brothers in local celebrity status. When interviewed, Artie said, "the police just wanted to visit without paying admission."
The O'Farrell was a marginal underworld kind of place in 1982. My friends and acquaintances did not go there, or at least didn't tell me about it. But Artie and Jim were semi-old friends from our hometown, Antioch, in the East Bay. Antioch had a crazy kind of bonding; even to this day, there is an "Oh My God—You Are From Antioch!" moment when people mention living in Antioch. We stand on common ground. We stick together and help each other out. In 1982, it was more so. The brothers hired mostly Antioch people to staff their place and they helped me out by letting me interview them in depth.
Richard, who I knew from my Antioch days, greeted me at the door with some gossip about old classmates who performed in movies and on stage at the O'Farrell. Some names came as a shocker. Who would have thought?
On our way upstairs to meet Artie, Russ (who I knew as "Virus" in Antioch) called out, "Hey, Claude of Dirt," a nickname from my older brother's friends. He opened the door, and announced that I was there. I heard one Mitchell brother say, "Tell her to come in."
The office was the size of two large living rooms with early Reno decor. There were two large, glassed-in, mahogany gun closets filled with various rifles that Artie would show me later. A huge pool table sat to the right of a 12-foot-by-12 foot oak dining table where Marilyn Chambers, Artie and Jim sat eating tacos and enchiladas and drinking Coke from the can. Everyone except Jim was smoking cigarettes.
Artie gave me the interview and a two-hour behind the scenes tour of the place which was the size of a small movie lot. After the eye-opening tour for the 35-year-old college student, as I was then, I went home and wrote my story.
Nothing in my story told about the striptease in progress on the Las Vegas style stage, the Ultra Room, where customers peeped in on women cavorting, or about the quasi-nightclub where a Chico bachelor party was happening and three women were dancing with each other.
My story left out Artie's constant trips to the bathroom, only to return rubbing his nose, and sounding a little bit more enlightened about the future of pornography. In this case, his predictions were right on.
"I have become friends with a lot of my famous customers," he told me proudly, "for example, O.J. Simpson, Buddy Rich, Sammy Davis, Jr., Tom Jones, the DA, Herb Caen, and even local Police and Fire Chiefs." He added, "Some bring their wives and make it a family affair."
My last stop was a visit with the women performers in their dressing room. There, I heard stories of sexual abuse as children, single parent problems, and how much they liked Artie and Jim. They said the Mitchells paid all their medical expenses, as well as for daycare and evening babysitters.
My story for The Phoenix made the front page. A letter to the editor in the next issue said, "The story forces us to see Art Mitchell as a human being." The letter then went on to denounce the paper and pornography.
I went on to finish my BA in Journalism, and then to report for The San Mateo Times, The Oakland Montclarion, and, for a few years, some San Francisco independent newspapers.
On February 27, 1991, Jim Mitchell drove to Artie's home, shot eight rounds of a .22 rifle and killed his brother. Jim was convicted of voluntary manslaughter and sentenced to six years. When he was released from San Quentin in 1997, he returned to run the O'Farrell Theater.
After Jim's death from an apparent heart attack, in 2007, his funeral was held in our old hometown of Antioch. Among those in attendance were Mayor Willie Brown and ex-District Attorney Terence Hallinan.
