by Anne Girard
Although this is a work of fiction, I have taken the greatest care to respectfully recount events as they are known to have occurred. Some private scenes, such as Chuck and Harlean’s final farewell, or his appearance at the premiere, must be imagined, yet were based on their statements of one another years later, and on possibility.
For the sake of narrative flow, it was not recounted, but September 29, 1933, was the second time Jean Harlow left her handprints at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. She had done so four days earlier on September 25, but when the cement had dried it had shattered. Also of note, tennis courts had not yet been replaced by the swimming pool when the McGrews first arrived at the Beverly Hills Hotel, but it was added to acknowledge Harlean’s love of swimming.
Throughout this work, I have tried faithfully to recount this period of Harlean’s brief, shining life, consulted experts, walked in her footsteps, watched her films, read her novel, and it was my distinct privilege to do so.
I hope I have honored her truly extraordinary spirit.
One special note: true to Jean Bello’s prediction, someone in the future did come to revere Jean Harlow. A little girl named Norma Jeane Baker grew up wanting to be just like her... Before she became Marilyn Monroe.
Acknowledgments
Several Jean Harlow biographies were consulted for this project, particularly, but not exclusively: Bombshell by David Stenn; Jean Harlow, Tarnished Angel by David Bret; and Harlow in Hollywood by Darrell Rooney and Mark A. Vieira. Other works include: The Story of Hollywood by Gregory Paul Williams; Adventures of a Hollywood Secretary: Her Private Letters from Inside the Studios of the 1920s, edited by Cari Beauchamp; Early Beverly Hills by Marc Wanamaker; Historic Hotels of Los Angeles and Hollywood by Ruth Wallach; and Movie Studios of Culver City by Julie Lugo Cerra and Marc Wanamaker.
I also wish most sincerely to acknowledge and thank: Harlow aficionado extraordinaire, and digital artist, Victor Mascaro (@hollywood_stars_in_color), for his support for and knowledge of this project; Elisa Jordan of L.A. Woman Tours for leading me, with such amazing detail, through the steps of Harlow’s Hollywood; the Max Factor Museum for allowing me access to their wonderful Harlow memorabilia collection; and the Hollywood Chamber of Commerce.
My continued respect and admiration for the fabulous Irene Goodman, a literary agent and friend, unparalleled in support and encouragement of her authors.
Once again, and as always, my deepest thanks go to my unfailingly supportive family and an awesome group of friends who keep me wanting to tell these wonderful true stories from history: Ken, Elizabeth and Alex Haeger, Kelly Stevens, Karen Thorne Isé, Sarah Galluppi, Rebecca Seltzner, and Marie Mazzuca. Your love and encouragement are my greatest sources of inspiration.
PLATINUM
DOLL
ANNE GIRARD
Reader’s Guide
Questions for Discussion
Shortly after their arrival in Hollywood, Harlean declares that she has no interest in becoming an actress. Do you think she actually believed that of herself at that point?
When Harlean agrees to pose for Edwin Bower Hesser, she decides not to tell Chuck about it, despite the likelihood that the photographs will one day be published. Did you attribute that decision exclusively to her youth, or did you feel that some part of her was hoping the photographs might force an issue between them? What might have happened if Chuck had been accepting of that photo session rather than angry?
Mother Jean and Harlean have a complex relationship throughout the novel, as they really did during her short life. Did you find yourself understanding Harlean’s inability to stand up to her mother, or was that relationship difficult to read about? How did their use of the terms “Mommie” and “Baby” for each other strike you?
In the scenes recounting actual events, like the “underdress” mishap, or the San Francisco trip, was Harlean’s naïveté understandable to you given her age, or was it difficult to relate to when faced with the mindset of today’s wiser teens?
Toward the end of her life, Harlean sorrowfully acknowledged the loss of the child she had conceived during her marriage to Chuck. Did her youth, and her misgivings about Chuck’s drinking and propensity toward violence, make her decision somewhat understandable to you? If not, why not?
Chuck and Harlean had a tumultuous, short-lived marriage. For its demise, did you find yourself blaming their youth or Mother Jean’s influence more? Could anything have changed what happened?
While we don’t see the marriage between Harlean and Paul Bern take place, that, too, was of a short duration. Knowing what you do of Harlean’s spirit and ambition vs. her desire to be loved, if Bern had not died suddenly, do you think they would have remained married?
A Conversation with the Author
Why did you choose Jean Harlow as the subject for this novel? What about her life—and in particular, the part of her life recounted in Platinum Doll—were you initially drawn to?
While Harlow was a major star in the 1930s, and she has achieved icon status since then, there also seems to be a whole generation who knows nothing about her, the impact she had on Hollywood—or the influence she had on a young Marilyn Monroe. That was a huge draw for me creatively. I was fascinated by her coming-of-age story, her infectious spirit and how she triumphed in such a competitive business. Her marriage to Chuck has been eclipsed through the years and I also felt a duty to share a part of his story for how important he was at the time to her.
In the course of your research, what was the most interesting and surprising thing you learned about Jean Harlow?
I loved learning that she was well-educated, that she loved reading and writing, and that she once described herself as a bookworm. The book she begins writing in the novel, Today Is Tonight, was published after her death. I was also particularly drawn to her love of animals. Learning about the many facets of her life, was a wonderful reminder that one shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. There was so much depth beneath that stunning platinum hair.
What was the most challenging part of writing Platinum Doll? The most rewarding?
Based on the research of her biographers, I accepted the premise that abortion was the likely cause of the loss of her child. It was a challenging sequence to write, particularly because, later, Harlow was quoted as saying that one of her greatest regrets was the loss of that same child. Trying to take on Harlean’s mindset, theorizing about why she allowed it to happen, and yet making that sensitive and highly personal decision understandable and palatable for readers was probably what challenged me the most. I hope I succeeded.
I think the most rewarding part occurred during my research as I discovered what a huge legion of wonderful, devoted experts and fans Jean Harlow maintains to this day. I was privileged to get to know many of them during the process, to visit many of the places Harlow knew, and to benefit from their broad knowledge of her life. I was thrilled to be able to add many of those details to the novel.
In your previous book, Madame Picasso, you explored the art world of Paris. In Platinum Doll, you wrote about film in America. What is it about the cultural arts of the early twentieth century that you find most inspiring as a writer?
The period from the turn of the century all the way through the 1930s was a time of such dynamic and explosive creativity, and new thought, which is so exciting to contemplate and to imagine having been a part of, whether in art, literature or film. I’m sure to those who lived it, it felt like anything was possible. In my own career, I continue to be inspired by the idea of crossing creative boundaries and the possibility of being part of something totally new, just as Pablo Picasso and Jean Harlow both were.
Can you describe your writing process? Do you outline first or dive right in? Do you write scenes consecutively or jump around? Do you have a writing schedule or routine? A lucky charm?
&nb
sp; I begin by reading everything I can get my hands on about my subject, as well as the times in which they lived—history, politics, fashion—so that I have a framework established in my mind. I do make a general outline of where I think the story will go, but then I dive in. I write scenes consecutively, but oftentimes the story veers completely away from the outline I intended it to follow as I get to know the characters and allow them to tell their story through me. That really is the best part of the process. My schedule is fairly strict. First coffee, and then I write at least something every day, almost always mornings so that I don’t lose the flow of the story. My lucky charm is a coin, a 1551 douzain from the French Renaissance I found on my first research trip. I keep it on my desk to remind me that the people I write about were once as real as that coin, and so I have a duty to be respectful with the stories I have been entrusted to tell.
“With a deft eye for detail and deep understanding for her protagonists, Anne Girard captures the earnest young woman who enthralled the famous artist and became his unsung muse.”
—C.W. Gortner, bestselling author of The Queen’s Vow
If you liked Platinum Doll, then you won’t want to miss the mesmerizing untold story of Eva Gouel, the unforgettable woman who stole the heart of the greatest artist of our time:
Madame Picasso
“Girard is a talented storyteller and historian, drawing readers into the world in which her characters live.”
—RT Book Reviews
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Madame Picasso
by Anne Girard
Chapter 1
Paris, France, May 1911
Eva dashed around the corner, whirling by the splashing fountain on the place Pigalle at exactly half past two. Intolerably late now, she clutched the front of her blue plaid dress, hiked it up and sprinted the rest of the way down the busy boulevard de Clichy, in the shadow of the looming red windmill of the Moulin Rouge. People turned to gape at the gamine young woman—ruddy cheeks, wide, desperate blue eyes and mahogany hair blowing back and tangling with the ruby-colored ribbon on the straw hat she held fast to her head with her other hand. Her knickers were showing at her knees, but she didn’t care. She would never have another chance like this.
She darted past two glossy horse-drawn carriages vying for space with an electric motorcar, then she turned down the narrow alleyway just between a haberdashery and a patisserie adorned with a crisp pink-and-white awning. Yes, this was the shortcut Sylvette had told her about, but she was slowed by the cobblestones. Too far from the sun to fully dry, the stones were gray and mossy and she nearly slipped twice. Then she splashed through an oily black puddle that sprayed onto her stockings and her black button shoes the moment before she arrived.
“You’re late!” a voice boomed at her as she skittered to a halt, her mind whirling in panic.
The middle-aged wardrobe mistress looming before her was ominously tall, framed by the arch of the backstage door behind her. Madame Léautaud’s bony, spotted hands were on the broad, corseted hips of her coarse velveteen black dress. Her high lace collar entirely covered her throat, lace cuffs obscured her wrists. Beneath a slate-colored chignon, her large facial features and her expression were marked by open disdain.
Eva’s chest was heaving from running, and she could feel her cheeks burn. She had come all the way down the hill from Montmartre and across Pigalle on her own. “Forgive me, madame! Truly, I promise you, I came as quickly as I could!” she sputtered, straining to catch her breath, knowing she looked a fright.
“There can be no simpering excuses here, do you understand? People pay for a show and they expect to see a show, Mademoiselle Humbert. You cannot be the cause of our delay. This is not a particularly good first impression, when there is so much to be seen to just before a performance, I can tell you that much!”
At that precise moment, Eva’s roommate, Sylvette, in her flouncy green costume, and thick black stockings, tumbled out into the alleyway beside her. Her face was made up to resemble a doll, with big black eyelashes and overdrawn cherry-red lips. Her hair, the color of tree bark, was done up expertly into a knot on top of her head.
One of the other girls must have told her of the commotion, because Sylvette was holding an open jar of white face powder as she hastened to Eva’s rescue.
“It won’t happen again, madame,” Sylvette eagerly promised, wrapping a sisterly arm across Eva’s much smaller, slimmer shoulders.
“Fortunately for you, one of the dancers has torn her petticoat and stockings in rehearsal and, like yourself only a few moments ago, our regular seamstress is nowhere to be found or I would send you on your way without another word. Oh, all of you wide-eyed young things come down here thinking your pretty faces will open doors only until you find something better, or you trap a gentleman of means from the audience to sweep you off your feet, and then I am abandoned.”
“I am a hard worker, madame, truly I am, and that will not happen. I have no interest in a man to save me,” Eva replied with all of the eager assurance that a petite country girl with massive blue eyes could summon.
Madame Léautaud, however, did not suffer naïveté, ambition or beauty gladly, and her halfhearted protestation fell flat. Sylvette this morning had warned Eva—she could be out on her delicate backside and returned to their small room at la Ruche (so named because the building was shaped like a beehive) before she could conjure what had hit her if she didn’t convince the woman of her sincerity. Sylvette had worked here for over a year and she herself was only a chorus girl in two numbers, an anonymous background figure—one who never made it anywhere near the bright lights at the front of the stage.
Three dancers in more lavish costumes than the one Sylvette wore came through the door then, drawn by their mistress’s bark. They were anxious to see a fight. In the charged silence, Eva saw each of them look at her appraisingly, their pretty, painted faces full of condescension. One girl put her hands on her hips as she lifted her eyebrows in a mocking fashion. The other two girls whispered to each other. It brought Eva back swiftly to the cruel Vincennes hometown rivals of her youth—girls for whom she had not been good enough, either. They were one of the many reasons she had needed to escape to the city.
For a moment, Eva could not think. Her heart sank.
If she should lose this chance...
She had risked so much just to leave the city outskirts. Most especially, she had risked her family’s disapproval. All she wanted was to make something of her life here in Paris, but so far her ambitions had come to very little. Eva looked away from them as she felt tears pressing hard at the backs of her eyes. She could not risk girls like these seeing her weakness. At the age of twenty-four, she could let no one know that she had yet to fully master her girlish emotions. There was simply too much riding on this one chance, after an unsuccessful year here in Paris, to risk being seen as vulnerable.
“You hope to be a dancer perhaps, like one of them?” Madame Léautaud asked, indicating the other girls with a sharp little nod. “Because it has taken each of them much work and hours of practice to be here, so you would be wasting more of my time, and your own, if that is your intention.”
“I am good with mending lace,” Eva pressed herself to reply without stuttering.
That was true. Her mother had, in fact, fashioned wonderful creations since Eva was a child. Some of them she had brought with her to France from Poland. As a legacy, Madame Gouel had taught her daughter the small, careful stitches that she could always rely upon to help pay the bills once she had
married a nice local man and settled into a predictable life. Or so that had been her parents’ hope before their daughter had been lured into Paris just after her twenty-third birthday. This was the first real job opportunity Eva had managed to find, and her money was nearly gone.
Sylvette remained absolutely silent, afraid to endanger her own tenuous standing here by saying a single word more in support. She had given Eva this chance—told her the Moulin Rouge was short a seamstress because, with all of the kicks and pratfalls, the dancers were forever ripping or tearing something. What Eva made of it now in this instant was up to her.
“Very well, I will test you, then,” Madame Léautaud deigned with a little sniff. “But only because I am in dire straits. Come now and mend Aurelie’s petticoat. Make quick work of it, and bring me the evidence of your work while the others are rehearsing.”
“Oui, madame.” Eva nodded. She was so grateful that she suddenly felt overwhelmed, but she steadied herself and forced a smile.
“You really are a tiny thing, like a little nymph, aren’t you? Not altogether unattractive, I must say. What is your name again?” she asked as a casual afterthought based on what Sylvette had told her.
“Marcelle. Marcelle Humbert,” Eva replied, bravely summoning all of her courage to speak the new Parisian name that she hoped would bring her luck.
Since the day she had arrived alone in the city wearing her oversize cloth coat and her black felt hat, and carrying all of her worldly possessions in an old carpetbag, Eva Gouel had been possessed by a steely determination. She fully meant somehow to conquer Paris, in spite of the unrealistic nature of such a lofty goal. Hopefully, this first job would mark the beginning of something wonderful. After all, Eva thought, stranger things had happened.
