The Last Picture Show in Queens

It’s a cloudy Saturday morning in Astoria, and I’m sitting across from Pete, a lifelong resident and self-proclaimed ‘movie buff,’ at the Neptune Diner on Astoria Boulevard. Pete’s got the thick accent of someone born and raised in Queens, and he’s nursing a cup of coffee like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to this world right now.

‘I remember when they used to film those silent pictures,’ Pete says, pointing a finger like a gun, ‘right there at Kaufman Studios. I was just a kid, but you could always tell something magical was happening on those streets.’ He chuckles, a sound like gravel in a tumbler, and takes a swig of his dark brew.

Astoria’s Kaufman Astoria Studios, a 104-year-old cornerstone of New York City’s film industry, is under threat. Developers filed plans just yesterday for a 36-story tower at 34-12 36th Street, and it’s making waves in a neighborhood that’s seen its share of change. Pete’s seen it too, from the days of silent films to sitcoms, and now, the inevitable march of high-rise condos.

‘They’re calling it progress,’ he says, ‘but I call it erasing history. My old man used to tell me about the excitement when the stars would come into town. Swarms of people would gather just to catch a glimpse. It brought people together; it made us feel like we were part of something big.’

Kaufman Studios was a beacon, a flickering lighthouse of film history in a borough often overshadowed by Manhattan’s towering skyline. It’s where the Marx Brothers laughed, and where modern television found its rhythm with shows like ‘Sesame Street.’ But like many pockets of nostalgia in this city, its days seem numbered.

The conversation turns to change, a topic as perennial in New York as the seasons. Pete looks out the window at the bustling streets, and his voice turns wistful. ‘I get it. People gotta have places to live. But it feels like we’re losing more than buildings; we’re losing stories, memories.’

I think back to a moment earlier this week during a walk down 36th Street. I saw the old studio facade, its walls holding echoes of laughter and cinematic dreams. A young couple was posing for pictures in front of it, trying to capture a piece of history before it fades away. There’s something both hopeful and heartbreaking about it — a snapshot of a place that might soon be relegated to ‘Remember when?’

Pete’s voice pulls me back to the present. ‘You know, I used to work as a grip for some of the shows they shot there. Learned a lot just by watching. Those were good times, simpler times. But everything changes, right?’

It’s true. The only constant in New York is change. The city evolves, and with it, the faces and facades that define it. Astoria’s not immune; it’s just the latest in a long line of neighborhoods to face the bulldozer.

As we finish our coffee, the sunlight cuts through the grey clouds, casting a warm glow on the lacquered tables of the diner. Pete stands up, adjusting his worn Yankees cap, and gives a small nod towards 36th Street. ‘Maybe they’ll put up a plaque or something, remember what was there. I guess we’ll see.’

We pay our bill and step out into the lively symphony of Astoria — the clatter of dishes from a nearby café, the distant hum of traffic, the laughter of children playing. History, for now, still hangs in the air, mingling with the autumn chill, a whisper of countless stories told and untold.

As I walk towards the subway, I glance back once more at Kaufman Astoria Studios, standing resolute amidst the inevitability of change. The Q train rattles overhead, pulling out towards its next stop. Just another day in the city that never remembers, but always moves forward, one story at a time.

— Frank Donovan · Columnist