by Mark Griffin
“The story that I always heard is that when things started moving with Rock and a big deal agent took him under his wing, Rock left Ken, both professionally and personally,” says Richard Hodge. “I think Rock was very ambitious and motivated and when he saw bigger fish in another pond, he knew it was time to move on.”
According to Herbert Millspaugh, Roy Fitzgerald moved on without so much as a backward glance, ripping the rug out from under his first mentor: “Ken was pretty devastated. He moved back to Long Beach and sold most of his furniture and antiques. Then he signed on with Armed Forces Radio.” Roy’s abrupt departure was not unlike the one that occurred years earlier when Roy’s own father had walked out. In either case, the loss was deeply felt by the one left behind. Friends remembered that after Roy left, Hodge began drinking heavily.
“Part of the heartbreak was that it was very unexpected,” says Kare Grams. “After Roy left, Uncle Kenneth went to Europe for at least a year and tried to leave it all behind. I think that he was really broken hearted. He never had another important relationship that anybody knew about. Or other close friends, other than Leon. I think maybe he didn’t trust people after Roy said goodbye.”
“DISGUSTING,” “DIABOLICAL,” AND “Predatory” were among the terms of endearment that Hollywood insiders used to describe Henry Willson. If those descriptions were a bit too subtle, others took it a step further. “He was like the slime that oozed out from under a rock you did not want to turn over,” said actor Roddy McDowall, counting himself lucky that he had decided not to sign with Willson early in his career.
Though even those who found Henry Willson completely repugnant as a person would readily admit that as an agent, he was first rate. “I’d say that Henry Willson was one of the top three agents in Hollywood for an actor,” said television star Jack Larson. Veteran publicist Dale Olson, who would handle P.R. for Rock Hudson later in his career, felt that Willson’s contribution to the film industry went far beyond peddling a fresh face and collecting his 10 percent: “Henry Willson was much more than an agent. He was Hollywood’s first manager.” And it seemed that virtually every aspect of Willson’s life experience had thoroughly prepared him for that role.
Born in 1911 in Lansdowne, Pennsylvania, Willson was raised in New York and surrounded by stars from an early age. As his father was vice president of the Columbia Phonograph Company, Willson got to rub elbows with the likes of Will Rogers and Fanny Brice. As star-struck as young Henry Willson was, his unappealing looks immediately ruled out an acting career. Thick, overgrown eyebrows arched over heavy-lidded eyes. Then there was an aggressive nose, a protruding lower lip, and a receding chin.
The fact that he was no threat to Clark Gable wasn’t about to stop Henry Willson. After all, there was more than one way to break into show business. The ever-resourceful Henry discovered that there was a market for all of the juicy celebrity gossip that he and his family members were privy to. While still in high school, Willson began writing backstage tidbits for Variety. Henry may have been thrilled to be writing for the “showbiz Bible,” but Horace Willson was concerned that his son’s all-consuming interest in theatrical lore didn’t seem very manly.
In an effort to butch him up, Willson’s father shipped him off to an all-male boarding school in North Carolina. “One way or another, my dad got it into his head that the company of all those other boys would turn me into a real man.” As miserable as Henry may have been backpacking through the Blue Ridge Mountains, even this misguided attempt at heterosexual conversion would prove useful later on. “He won’t be gay when I get through with him!” Willson was frequently heard exclaiming whenever he was confronted with a client who seemed a bit light in the loafers.
Once he returned from his “vacation in purgatory”—as he would later refer to his exile to the hinterlands—it was right back to star-gazing. In the early 1930s, Willson relocated to Hollywood, where he began profiling actors for fan magazines like Photoplay and the New Movie Magazine. Henry churned out one adoring puff piece after another, increasingly aware of the fact that a movie star’s “real life” was usually an elaborate fiction, as carefully scripted as any role that actor played on screen.
Willson couldn’t help but notice that once his interview with a star was over, the matinee idol’s fixed smile quickly faded. And what if the public knew—as Henry did—that a demure ingénue was really a hell-raising dope fiend? Or that leading men like Ramon Novarro, William Haines, and Cesar Romero—all of whom romanced women on the screen—were frequently out cruising for male lovers? Willson learned firsthand that even after the cameras stopped rolling, Hollywood was fueled on illusion.
In 1943, Willson would become the head of talent for David O. Selznick’s production company, Vanguard Films. Having scored back-to-back triumphs with Gone With the Wind and Rebecca, Selznick was not only the most acclaimed producer in Hollywood but one of the most powerful individuals in the business. Working with Selznick would not only offer Willson an invaluable education in film production but a master class in unrestrained self-indulgence.
“Henry learned a lot about the business from Selznick but he also picked up some bad habits during his apprenticeship,” says Willson biographer Robert Hofler. “The whole thing about drug-taking, that’s something that Henry picked up from Selznick, who was severely addicted to Benzedrine. Henry needed to keep up with Selznick, so he starts taking amphetamines . . . Then there was a whole pimping thing that Henry learned from him. Selznick would send Henry a memo and it would say, ‘There’s a girl posed by a surf board on page twelve of the Los Angeles Times. Get her in here. I think she’s a good bet.’ It was Selznick who started this whole thing with Henry picking up people, whether it was on the beach or in a nightclub. All of that sexual stuff started with Selznick, who was the ultimate womanizer and eventually Henry became the ultimate ‘manizer,’ if there is such a word. And in his case, there should be.”
The two men shared many of the same personality traits. Both were fiercely driven, exceedingly generous and nurturing (if one was in favor), and determined to control virtually everything and everyone in their orbit. Despite being married to Irene Mayer, who was the daughter of MGM mogul Louis B. Mayer, Selznick was an incorrigible skirt-chaser, one with an impressive list of conquests.
In the name of equal opportunity lechery, Willson began pursuing any attractive young man he considered to be “a good bet.” Whether it was on the dance floor at the Trocadero or in the midst of a bustling studio commissary, he could always spot them. A terrific-looking guy with untapped potential; a diamond in the rough in need of the Willson polish. “I can always tell within ten minutes if the person has it or not,” Willson told a reporter. “With this inner sense of mine, I know if he has picture potential.” If Henry had any lingering doubts regarding a prospective client’s future, he would invite the young man over to his house in Beverly Hills. They would have drinks. And if the new discovery played his cards right, he would depart the next morning, confident that he had not only found an agent but a surrogate father and supportive friend.
As preproduction work began on the World War II tearjerker Since You Went Away, David O. Selznick and Henry Willson would each find an obsession. Selznick began to exert a Svengali-like control over star Jennifer Jones, while Willson would become fixated on his own object of desire. It was at a Lux Radio Theatre broadcast that Henry spotted a “demigod” seated in the audience. A vision in his navy whites, the young sailor was so extraordinary that Henry had to force himself to occasionally avert his gaze. The fresh-faced twenty-one-year-old with the splendid physique was just on “the right side of rugged” and his name was Robert Moseley.
The rigorous grooming process that other Willson clients—Tab Hunter, Troy Donahue, Rory Calhoun—would be subjected to was launched with Moseley, the hunk for whom the term “beefcake” would be coined. Although he would appear on screen for only a matter of minutes in Since You Went Away, Willson worked Moseley over as though he’d be ca
rrying the entire picture. The first thing that needed fixing was his name.
Henry decided that the former telephone lineman would be introduced to moviegoers as “Guy Madison.” “I always give a green actor the gimmick of a trick name to help him get known while he’s learning his trade,” Willson explained. “I named Guy Madison for a signboard advertising Dolly Madison cakes—all that boy thinks about is food.” Although Henry never tired of seeing Guy in uniform, he knew it was time to introduce his protégé to a pair of cuff links. Willson took his favorite client shopping. Guy tried on dress shirts and dinner jackets while Henry selected an inoffensive cologne for him. The sailor’s sun-bleached locks were carefully cut and colored at Comb ’n’ Shears. They needed to be ready when Photoplay beckoned.
“Some of Henry’s boys really had nothing going for them outside of their good looks,” says Robert Hofler. “You take someone like Guy Madison, who was a sailor or Rory Calhoun, who was an ex-con—Henry would tutor these guys, groom them and give them manners. He would always take them out to restaurants and show them what fork to use or how to behave in public. Henry Willson was like Henry Higgins but it’s a better story than My Fair Lady because he didn’t have one Eliza Doolittle. He had a few hundred.” And out of the hundreds of hopefuls that Willson mentored over the years, one would stand out above all the rest. It was in the summer of 1947 that Willson met the young man who would become his most celebrated invention.
Roy Fitzgerald was the perfect specimen and everything that Willson could have hoped for in a client—devastatingly handsome, extremely ambitious, and almost effortlessly manipulated. Henry quickly cued into the fact that at six foot four, Fitzgerald may have been physically imposing but his clumsiness combined with a boyish sweetness and vulnerability made him completely nonthreatening. Then, too, Willson simply recognized the obvious: “I also saw a face that had the possibility of flipping a lot of women.”
It took Henry all of ten minutes to figure out how to sell the slouchy hunk in front of him. A decade later, Look would sum up Willson’s approach with an insightful analysis of the gentle giant’s movie star aura: “He’s wholesome. He doesn’t perspire. He has no pimples. He smells of milk. His whole appeal is cleanliness and respectability—this boy is pure.” What’s more, there was something for everyone—men would like him because of his easygoing masculinity, while women and nancy boys would fantasize about him as a romantic idol. It was more than just the twinkle in his eye. Willson sensed that beneath the placid surface, there were plenty of unexpressed feelings churning around. That kind of stuff was great for actors. But, hold on a second, could this kid even act?
As the story goes, during their first meeting, Henry asked Roy if he had any acting experience. Before he could stop himself, Fitzgerald had blurted out, “No.” After listening to one newcomer after another babble endlessly about their summer stock experience, Willson found the unguarded response refreshing. “He liked my honesty when I said, ‘I have no training . . .’” Roy remembered. “He said, ‘You’re the only one who’s ever told me that.’ So, points for me, right?”
It’s uncertain how quickly the relationship between mentor and protégé segued from professional to personal, but considering Henry’s track record and Roy’s extraordinary ambition, immediately is a safe bet. Fitzgerald now had a powerful player in his corner, an influential insider who would take a very personal interest in the progress of his career. Just as David O. Selznick transformed Phylis Lee Isley of Tulsa into Jennifer Jones of Hollywood, Willson went to work on Roy Fitzgerald. As with Guy Madison before him, the first thing to go was the name. Thinking big, Willson combined the Rock of Gibraltar with the Hudson River (or was it the economy-sized Hudson convertible?) and Rock Hudson was born.
Once the name was in place, actor Robert Stack said Willson then proceeded “to develop a character that fit the name.” But Roy Fitzgerald, being all too human, occasionally slipped and displayed one of the effeminate traits that his stepfather hadn’t managed to obliterate. There was a girlish curl to his upper lip whenever he smiled. Instead of a manly guffaw, there was that fluttery giggle. And at times, there was an uncomfortably high pitch to his voice. None of this said “Rock Hudson.” In addition to stomping out any vestiges of Roy’s inner sissy, Willson tried to get his client to stop plucking at his fingernails. “Rock Hudson” should be stoic and uncomplicated. Never neurotic or insecure.
The overhauling of Roy Fitzgerald had only just begun. Next there would be drama lessons with Florence Cunningham, who subdued his Midwestern drawl, straightened his stooping posture, and taught him how to relax—or at least give the impression that he was relaxed. There were voice lessons with Lester Luther, a rotund former opera singer. Hudson always said that he owed his seductive baritone to Luther, who advised him to wait until he had a cold and then head into the mountains and holler like a banshee. This would “break” the vocal cords, and when they healed he’d sound like Franchot Tone on his best day. While Rock would retell this story in dozens of interviews, it’s been rumored that early in his career he had surgery on his vocal cords, which eradicated the high pitch and left him with a more sensual sounding low tone.
With his new name, deeper voice, and more confident posture, Henry’s client seemed ready for the marketplace. But as they made the rounds in the late 1940s, they were met with one disappointment after another. Selznick said no, as did independent producer Walter Wanger. The common refrain: “He’s too green, Henry. Bring him back when he’s gained more experience.” At MGM, Lucille Ryman Carroll, the studio’s head of talent, rejected the fledgling actor for reasons other than his inexperience. “He stumbled and giggled, and I can’t tell you what made me know that he was gay, but it was there,” Carroll recalled. “I suspected that Henry and Rock were lovers, from the way he held Rock’s hand when he stumbled. I just felt it . . . The studio was very anti-gay when it came to hiring stars . . . There was no way I could have taken on someone like Rock with even the possibility of his being gay.”
Rock was greatly discouraged, but not Henry Willson. He knew that if he could get his client in front of the right individual, one who could see beyond the awkwardness and inexperience, they would be going places. All it would take is someone who could look into the future.
BY THE TIME Rock Hudson met Raoul Walsh, the “one-eyed bandit” was more than halfway through his fifty-year career in Hollywood. As an actor, Walsh had played John Wilkes Booth in The Birth of a Nation. As a director, Walsh’s films—The Roaring Twenties, High Sierra, White Heat—were virile, unpretentious, hard as nails. Not unlike Walsh himself. “Raoul was tough as a fucking boot,” says actor L. Q. Jones. The black pirate patch the director wore over his right eye (jackrabbit through the windshield) only enhanced his reputation as a “colorful roughneck,” as Gregory Peck put it.
Accounts differ regarding how Walsh first met Hudson. In the most plausible version, Henry Willson arranged for Hudson to visit the director at his office on the Warner Brothers lot. “I tend to believe the story that Rock turned up in Walsh’s office,” says Marilyn Ann Moss, the director’s biographer. “It just sounds like the way Walsh would have dealt with a newcomer hungry for work.”
Willson was well aware that Walsh had not only made some of Hollywood’s finest Westerns, but the director had once been a cattle herder himself. By the time Henry was through, Hudson looked as though he had detoured to the interview on his way to a gunfight at the O.K. Corral. Rock’s chinos were replaced with a pair of weathered blue jeans; his customary loafers swapped out for a pair of leather boots. Willson stopped short of borrowing a buckskin jacket from Western Costume, but even without it Hudson filled the eye.
“Walsh just saw this towering figure before him and said, ‘Wow! . . . who is this guy?’” says Moss. “With that perfectly symmetrical face and his strong jawline, it was the equivalent of what we’d now call eye candy.”
After giving Hudson the once over, Walsh knew that the young man would mesmerize the ca
mera, in much the same way the director’s earliest and most important discovery had. “It must have been like seeing the young John Wayne all over again,” Moss says. “Walsh always said that Wayne was one of the most beautiful creatures he’d ever seen. And then Rock walks in. Walsh is introduced to this big, beautiful man and he’s thinking maybe he’ll be the next John Wayne.” Or, “At the very least, he’ll be good scenery,” Walsh muttered.
Eighteen years earlier, the director had pulled Marion Morrison, a former USC football player, out of the Fox property department, renamed him John Wayne, and put him in The Big Trail. Eventually, Wayne would become one of the best-known and most successful stars in Hollywood history. Could lightning strike twice? Walsh had a good feeling about Rock Hudson, green as he was. Despite the director’s reservations about Rock’s lack of experience, Walsh put him under personal contract. He’d give Hudson a bit part in his next picture. Basically, Rock would be set dressing, but Walsh would see to it that he was given a few lines. Maybe even an entire scene.
For Walsh, this first assignment would serve as an elaborate screen test for his new protégé. For Hudson, it was the fulfillment of his unspoken dreams. At last, he was going to make his debut as an actor. The movie was called Fighter Squadron and it was the kind of hard-boiled, two-fisted action picture that Warner Brothers specialized in. Robert Stack, Edmond O’Brien, and John Rodney were cast as the “gallant warbirds” whose personal lives become entangled as D-Day approaches. Whereas Stack would collect $1,750 per week for starring in the film, Rock would earn a comparatively modest $175 a week. But at least it was a start.
