Fontainebleau Miami Beach: The Legendary Resort’s Untold History | Architecture Stories

Hey everyone, and welcome back to All Things Architecture, where every building has a story. I'm Steve, and today that story takes us to Miami Beach, to a hotel born from the mind of an architect who radically changed what a hotel could be. This is the story of the Fontainebleau. Before we dive in, if you're preparing for the ARE 5.0, check out PPI. They've been helping architecture grads pass their exams for over 40 years. Just scan the QR code on screen, or click the link below to get started, and support All Things Architecture in the process. Now, let's get to our story. It's 1952. Architect Morris Lapidus is sitting across from hotelier Ben Novak, who has one question. What does luxury look like? Novak had just acquired the former Firestone Estate on Miami Beach's Millionaire's Row. He wanted a hotel that radiated glamour, a place where every guest felt like a star. At first, he hired Lapidus just to design the interiors. But Lapidus, never one to play small, convinced Novak to give him the whole job, inside and out. Novak already had a name in mind, Fontainebleau, inspired by a recent trip to France, a name that sounded elegant, timeless, and expensive. Lapidus's journey to Miami started in New York, designing storefronts and stage sets. He trained in the classical Beaux-Arts style, but leaned into modernism, pulling inspiration from European architects like Erik Mendelssohn. But more than anything, he looked to Hollywood. He was inspired by the dramatic film sets designed by the likes of Cedric Gibbons and Van Ness Polglaise. Lapidus believed architecture could have that same magic. In a city of boxy, beachfront hotels, Lapidus designed a dramatic, curving tower with 565 rooms, its shape inspired by Erik Mendelssohn's 1930 design for the Schocken department store in Germany. Lapidus argued it didn't even need a sign. The building was the sign. Guests pulled up under a grand portico chair and stepped into a lobby built for spectacle. There were fluted columns, replicas of French Baroque statues, a bowtie motif in the floor, and for some reason, a mural of the Roman Forum, in a hotel called the Fontainebleau. But when it all came together, it seemed to work. Of course, there was the now-famous staircase to nowhere in the lobby. It led to a cloakroom. But more importantly, it gave every guest the chance to make a grand entrance. The Fontainebleau had it all. Upscale shopping, fine dining, the popular Laurent Supper Club, where Frank Sinatra and Jerry Lewis were regulars. Outside, a pool deck with 265 cabanas and Versailles-inspired gardens completed the dream. At the time, a hotel with this kind of multifunctional programming was virtually unheard of, and would lay the groundwork for future mega-resorts. The hotel was an immediate hit when it opened in December 1954, but not everyone was a fan. Architecture critics hated it. Interior's magazine called it, quote, bastardization of architectural styles, and accused Lapidus of making a mockery of the profession. But Lapidus had heard it all before. He didn't design for critics. He designed for people. And people loved the Fontainebleau. In 1959, Lapidus returned to design an expansion that would include a new hotel tower. Lapidus and Novak disagreed on the site of the new Versailles tower. Novak insisted on placing it next to his rival's Eden Rock Hotel, ironically also designed by Lapidus. The new tower casted a long, petty shadow over the Eden Rock's pool area. Lapidus said that the tower threw off the original balance of the hotel. But Novak won, and locals dubbed the new tower the Spite Wall. Still, Lapidus made the best of it, adding circular windows that looked like champagne bubbles to the base of the tower. While the critics in New York and Chicago sneered, others were taking notes. Architects like Robert Venturi and Denise Scott Brown called Lapidus' work neo-eclectic. Even Philip Johnson, hardly a fan, admitted, quote, he's trying to do architecture and he's willing to fight for it. Meanwhile, Vegas developers like Jay Sarno were inspired by the hotel's theatrical style. Sarno would go on to build Caesar's Palace in 1966, changing Las Vegas forever with a blend of modern elegance and a little touch of fantasy. Novak sold the hotel in 1978, but the hotel remained relevant. It had starred in The Bellboy and Goldfinger, and remained a hub for celebrities. In 2001, Morris Lapidus passed away. By then, attitudes had shifted. What was once seen as kitsch was being re-evaluated as visionary. Lapidus was finally getting the credit he deserved. A year later, architect John Nichols led a major renovation, adding two new towers. While the pool and gardens were lost, the new design honored Lapidus' spirit, with curved forms and ribbon windows that nodded to the past without copying it. In 2008, the Fontainebleau was added to the National Register of Historic Places, securing its place in American architectural history. Today, the Fontainebleau is more than a hotel. It's an icon. In 2023, the brand expanded to Las Vegas with a long-awaited sister resort. While the new hotel features modern art and amenities, subtle design cues like the bowtie motif pay tribute to Lapidus' original vision. Back in Miami, the original tower still curves along the sand. The staircase still spirals to nowhere. And though it took decades, Morris Lapidus was proven right that architecture could be joyful. And the Fontainebleau remains a monument to a time when architecture dared to be extravagant and unforgettable. Thanks for watching. If you enjoyed this story, hit that like button and subscribe, and let me know in the comments which building you'd like me to explore next. Anyway, I'm Steve, and remember to keep looking up. Because every building has a story. See you next time.