I don't feel bad about being blunt, because I'm disappointed. Crestfallen. Heartbroken. Betrayed, almost. This building is like a Christmas toy you approach with a deep sense of wonder about whether this could really be true, are-my-eyes-deceiving-me wonder that gives way to amazement, amazement followed by suspicion then disappointment and frustration.

Or like a beautiful little girl with blue hair singing a strange siren song, a little girl who turns out to have Stiv Bator's vocabulary and steel-toed boots when she kicks you in the shins.

Respect, I guess, for large-scale beauty from the same wellspring of gratuitous & mysterious playful surrealism that brought us The 5000 Fingers of Dr. T, and respect for the interior, which is a perfectly workable city library, but respect is not really what I feel.

Why?

Facts first. "Big Red" here was designed by the Mexican architect Ricardo Legorreta, winner of the AIA Gold Medal in 2000. (Bad sign.)

Legorreta was chosen by design competition in 1991 and the building opened in 1995. He's well-known for the Hotel Camino Real in Ixtapa, all bold clunky masculine forms, intelligent play of sun and shade, the bright colors you might expect from a friend of Luis Barrigan. And he's a good and busy architect all through the southwest.

Because in this building, Legorreta's playfulness doesn't include you. It's not the kind of color and joy you can participate in; it's the kind of color and joy you can look at through the window. The seven-story interior is organized around a central bright-yellow light-well with a series of balconies and overlooks, but the balconies inside are teasingly closed. Permanently closed, and surveyed by surveillance cams in big cans in case you decide to press the issue. (Cue sarcastic Sonny Bono voice: "Nice cans.")

Big Red's got balconies outside too, including one long shaded loggia on the parking-lot side, meant as outdoor reading rooms according to Legorreta. They're also permanently closed to prevent you from enjoying yourself. This building's footprint from floor to floor is irregular, angular, through cutouts and grills and clever lines-of-sight and windows, is always showing you where you could be, except that you've been hermetically sealed off for your own good and they're unreachable. This all adds up to a sense that the building is so oriented towards its own enjoyment it's a jerk.

But none of that excuses the jarring, massive exterior façade, with those frozen balls. (Cue sarcastic Cher Bono voice: "Nice balls.") That fortress-sized blank seven-story red wall is hostile to the street; it doesn't connect or relate to any surrounding building. Some people would think that the SAPL is great architecture because it's so in your face, you're very aware of it being architected, just as some people think Steven Soderberg is a great director because he's directing at you all the time. This building is all about its own shape, a prime example of architect-oriented architecture.

Particularly galling, since Big Red stands a short walk away from one of the best pedestrian environments on the continent.