Bringing Up Oscar: The Story of the Men and Women Who Founded the Academy

by Debra Ann Pawlak

  Locklear’s tragic death did not keep Macpherson grounded for long. In addition to her love of flying, Macpherson also liked speed. In March 1922, she took a spin with Italian racecar driver Pietro “The Red Devil” Bordino. Born in Turin, the dashing Bordino started out as a racecar mechanic for Fiat. By 1921, he was not just driving for the burgeoning car company, but he was one of the racing circuit’s major contenders. When Bordino visited the Beverly Hills Speedway, the daring Macpherson rode the track with him. Cranking his Fiat up to 110 miles per hour, she declared the exhilarating pace felt like “two streams of hot chocolate rushing into your eyes.”

  Macpherson met her match, however, when she entered a Detroit women’s penitentiary—all in the name of research. While working on her photoplay for Manslaughter (1922), Macpherson decided to serve time. She went to Detroit and, as “Angel Brown from San Francisco,” got herself convicted on a bogus charge of thievery. After pleading guilty, the judge gave her a choice—either pay a $10 fine or spend ten days in jail. She happily chose the latter. After getting her coveralls and cell assignment, Macpherson dined on her first prison meal of what she later described as sour soup and bread. That night, while confined to her cell, she met the local vermin. Sleep was out of the question. After 72 hours of penitentiary living, even the fearless Macpherson had enough. She managed to contact her mother who came through with the $10 fine. Macpherson claimed to have lost ten pounds during her lock-up. She described her ordeal in an article for Movie Weekly entitled “I Have Been in Hell.”

  Back in California, Macpherson and DeMille teamed up once again to produce another historical epic. This time they picked the biblical story of Moses. After the dismal failure of Joan the Woman, no one seemed interested in DeMille’s vision of the desert wanderers. Zukor refused to let him travel to Egypt for location shooting so DeMille settled for Guadalupe Dunes in central California. Taking thousands of workers and animals with him, DeMille replicated Egypt on a California beach. The oversized sets and special effects caused the shoot to go over budget once again, increasing the tension with Zukor. In the end, The Ten Commandments (1923) brought DeMille international acclaim and Zukor financial success. The spectacle-making director had found his strong suit and thanks to the magic of Roy Pomeroy, the parting of the Red Sea made movie history.

  As head of his own special effects department, Pomeroy continued delivering spectacular film footage. Often described as a “technical wizard,” his attributes were once listed as:

  1. He is a picture technical expert.

  2. A camera expert.

  3. A sound engineer.

  4. A director.

  5. An oil painter.

  6. An electrical engineer.

  7. A mechanical expert.

  8. A mathematician.

  He is also widely read on history, literature, drama, music and kindred arts.

  They forgot the part about “miracle man.” With his technical knowhow, the coming of sound would ensure his position but also cause his downfall. Even miracle workers can get tiresome.

  While moviegoers liked spectacle, they also liked adventure, cowboy-style. Lasky’s most popular Western star, Jack Holt, oozed brawn and muscle as he battled the bad guys with guns and horses. Unlike his contemporaries, Tom Mix and Buck Jones, Holt’s cowboy was a no-nonsense tough guy who wore a mustache—a rare sight for a hero in early Hollywood. The good guys were almost always clean-shaven with facial hair reserved for the wicked and villainous.

  Most of Holt’s movies took him away from the studio. Filming often occurred in places like Arizona’s Fish Creek Canyon near the Apache Trail. The travel and the authentic locations suited Holt just fine. He much preferred the road to the back lot and spent several months of the year away from home. While he still fit in a modern drama here and there, Holt was at his best in the saddle—both on-screen and off.

  When he wasn’t working, the actor spent much of his time playing polo and caring for the horses he kept at the Midwick Country Club Stables. The prestigious association, located near Monterey Park, opened in 1913 with over 200 acres devoted to polo, golf and tennis. Many top Hollywood figures joined in order to participate in one or more of the sports offered. Holt, an expert horseman, was a valued member of their polo team.

  As for Zukor and Lasky, they continued their partnership, but it would be a while before The Famous Players-Lasky Corporation formally adopted the Paramount name, even after they bought it out. In the meantime, Lasky, still “the nicest man in show business,” oversaw film production while the cigar-smoking “Creepy” Zukor looked down from his mountain top.

  Chapter Twelve

  LIONS AND TIGERS AND BROTHERS, OH MY!

  The Warner Brothers had come a long way from the Ohio bicycle shop they opened in 1899. In less than ten years, they established a successful movie theater and an even more financially prosperous movie exchange that they called The Duquesne Amusement Supply Company. Pulling in $2,500 per week from the exchange, the brothers sold their movie theater in 1909 and opened a second exchange in Norfolk, Virginia.

  By now, Harry and Rea were parents to infant son Lewis, born on October 10, 1908. They also owned a home just outside of Pittsburgh. Recently married Abe worked closely with Harry to run the Duquesne exchange. He and his new bride, Bessie Krieger, lived with her family on Fifth Avenue in Pittsburgh. Bessie, the eldest of seven children, was the daughter of shoe salesman Leon Krieger and his wife, Jennie, who immigrated to the United States from Russia. Single brothers Sam and Jack were rooming in a Norfolk boardinghouse while manning the exchange in Virginia. Warner life was good until Edison and the Trust choked their evolving business.

  In 1910, members of the Trust formed the General Film Company in an attempt to take over all of the independent exchanges and establish themselves as the sole monopolizer in the business. If owners refused to sell out, the new company just cut off their film supply forcing them to shut down. In some cases, the Trust employed tough guys who got their underhanded point across with a well-aimed punch or two. A representative from the General Film Company visited the Warners with such an offer. The brothers protested. They didn’t want to unload their lucrative business. Threatened with the termination of their film resources, however, the Warners realized that they had no choice but to close their doors. Brother Sam described the moment:

  [The representative] said he was going to give us a fair break and allow us $52,000 for our exchange. He handed us $10,000 in cash, $12,000 in preferred stock and the rest in four payments to stretch over a period of three years.

  Here we were—$10,000 among the four of us, not enough for a first-class peanut stand.…

  Despite their troubles, something about those silent flickers kept nagging at all of the brothers. Harry admitted temporary defeat and purchased a grocery store in Youngstown. He had a wife and a son to support, after all. Abe took to the road as a traveling salesman while Sam and Jack went to New York to somehow keep their hands in the motion picture business. Jack found work as a film splicer while Sam discovered a five-reeler that the Trust didn’t own. Sam’s foreign film, Dante’s Inferno (1911), provided the necessary jolt that the brothers needed to get back into the movie business.

  The Italian-made movie was hand-tinted and based on Dante’s famous poem. The film’s frightening depiction of a fiery Hell and depraved Lucifer fascinated Sam. He was sure the graphic action would have the same effect on paying spectators. He summoned Jack, and together they found an unemployed thespian with a fondness for liquor, a working wind machine and an ordinary sheet of metal. Then, with everything in place, they staged a showing. While the film rolled in front of an eager audience, the actor bellowed out the poem. At the same time, Jack created mechanical wind gusts and shook the sheet metal to emulate rumbling of thunder. Pulling in a profit, they took their show on the road. The Warners were making a comeback despite the unlucky craps game that took Sam and Jack for the $1500 they had just earned during a celebratory night out.

&
nbsp; The four brothers pooled their money allowing Sam and Jack to rent an empty foundry in St. Louis. In their makeshift studio, they directed and produced a western film starring Chicago-born actress Dot Farley who knew how to hang on to a horse. They even put members of the National Guard to work as pioneers heading west. The Peril of the Plains (1912) was the first film made under the new production company, Warner Features. Harry, still the brains behind the business, wasn’t impressed. Abe, the would-be film salesman, knew they were in trouble: “Soap I can sell. Pots and pans I can sell. Junk I can’t sell.”

  Ever the realist, Harry knew that with their limited budget, they couldn’t make a better movie. They were stuck with the footage they had. If there was any hope for Warner Features Company, the brothers had to escape the Trust and distribute the film themselves—no matter how bad it might be. With some financial help from their folks, the Warners split up. Sam established an exchange office in Los Angeles; Jack did the same in San Francisco; Harry and Abe opened a business office in New York.

  At home, Abe and his wife, Bessie, remained childless while Rea presented Harry with daughter Doris on September 13, 1913. Sam was content with the single life, but Jack met a girl in San Francisco through theater owner Sid Grauman. Irma Claire Salomon came from an affluent family of Jewish-German descent. Jack fell hard for the pretty young girl and persuaded her to marry him on October 14, 1914. Jacob and Alice Salomon didn’t approve of their daughter’s mate, but Jack laid on the charm and soon won them over. The couple had a son, Jack L. Warner, Jr., on March 27, 1916.

  The following year, Jack joined Sam in Los Angeles where the two hobnobbed with experienced filmmakers. There, the brothers hoped to find a worthy project that they could turn into a moneymaking movie. Sam discovered exactly what he was looking for in a bookstore window—My Four Years in Germany. James Watson Gerard, the former American Ambassador to the German Imperial Court, penned the nonfiction book. He detailed the years he spent in Germany from 1913 to 1917 at which time the German government ordered him to leave. With The Great War in full swing, the timely memoir generated public interest. Sam bought the book and after reading it, pitched his movie idea to Harry.

  With actor Halbert Brown playing the part of Gerard, My Four Years in Germany (1918) depicted the stark atrocities of a country at war—mistreated prisoners, ruthless executions and merciless leaders whose twisted minds plotted unthinkable horrors. Billed as “fact, not fiction,” the explicit film made an unforgettable impression on American moviegoers, stirring up a fervent patriotism in the midst of World War I. The box-office success of this documentary-style motion picture turned Harry, Abe, Sam and Jack into serious Hollywood contenders.

  The brothers then rented a shabby studio near the Selig Zoo in Edendale. Early filmmaker William Selig bought what was now the zoo property in 1913 and turned it into a home for the animals used in his movies. The still-struggling Warners started filming serials, but they-couldn’t afford highly paid actors. Instead they featured beasts borrowed from the neighboring zoo. These non-human players were cheaper to hire, but not always pleasant to work with. Both cast and crew faced tigers with big tempers, monkeys with sharp teeth and elephants with bad attitudes. Despite the hazards, however, one pretty girl being menaced by lions, tigers and bears on a weekly basis caused audiences to come back for more.

  Within a year, the Warners moved on up to a new location in an area known as Poverty Row. Located on Sunset Boulevard between Gower and Beachwood, this new studio was so bad the brothers didn’t even hang a shingle to identify themselves. Convinced that Poverty Row was just another temporary place, Sam found ten acres on Sunset Boulevard and Bronson. The site already had an office building where they could conduct business and a barn to film in. With zero dollars down, the Warners bought the property for $25,000. Shortly after, Harry and Rea completed their family with daughter Betty May born on May 4, 1920.

  Warner Bros. was the only family-run studio in town. As always, Harry, the eldest, was the headman in charge. Generally a quiet, conservative man who maintained his sense of honesty, Harry installed himself as President. Abe, an oversized guy with an intimidating physical presence, was really on the shy side. He acted as Treasurer and overseer of exhibitor relations. Sam’s gregarious personality made up for Abe’s timidity. Sam, always fascinated by mechanical gadgets, was a fun-loving forward-thinker who couldn’t wait to try something new. As Vice President and Sales Manager, he acquired stories and kept up with the latest technology. Unofficially, Sam also acted as peacekeeper/referee between Harry and Jack during their many rowdy confrontations.

  Jack, Vice President in Charge of Production, liked his film executive job as much as he liked making movies. His biggest problem was Harry. Jack still resented his older brother’s authority. Complete opposites, the two Warners were a constant source of irritation to each other—on the job and off. At home, Harry was a devoted family man who didn’t approve of Jack’s philandering. At the studio, Harry believed in an honest day’s work. Jack did, too, but he also liked to have fun—a little too much fun for Harry’s tastes. The two often clashed at work where studio employees claimed to have once seen the usually subtle Harry chasing Jack with a lead pipe.

  Jack once again paired up with his favorite brother Sam to direct another serial, A Dangerous Adventure (1922). In this fifteen-part series, the animals were back under the guise of a traveling circus. This time, the public wasn’t interested in mad monkeys and even madder elephants, so the brothers trimmed multiple episodes down to one feature-length film and then released it. Their new strategy worked and earned some sorely needed cash.

  The Warners realized, however, if they wanted to stay out of the red, they needed someone on their staff with more filmmaking savvy. Successful New York producer Harry Rapf seemed like a good choice so Warner Bros. made him an offer. Rapf accepted and moved his mother, Eliza, along with his family to California, where Mama Rapf continued her reign over their household. It was Eliza who approved the move, did the grocery shopping and supervised meals, making sure the cook knew how to fix her son’s favorite foods, while wife Tina mostly stayed out of her way.

  With Rapf as Head of Production, Warner Bros. released only three pictures that year including Rapf’s film Why Girls Leave Home (1921). It was his first success under the Warner banner and the studio’s only profit-making film for 1921. Secure in his new job, Rapf then signed on the Warners’ first contract player, the young actor Wesley Barry.

  With their company finally making money thanks to the good movie sense of Harry Rapf, the Warners’ finances improved. Eventually, they remodeled their studio and moved out of the barn. With the financial backing of one of their greatest supporters, banker Motley Flint, the four men officially incorporated to form Warner Bros. Pictures, Inc. on April 4, 1923. Not long after, Abe Warner lost his wife Bessie to a bout of influenza.

  Just because they were official, however, didn’t mean they would stay afloat. It was more important than ever to make profitable films, as competition from other studios like Universal and Paramount was growing. Harry Rapf came to the rescue with a canine hero, but first he had to persuade a skeptical Jack Warner to get back into the animal business. Jack had had his share of being bitten, charged and growled at. The last thing he wanted was another unpredictable creature running amok in his studio. Rapf disregarded his boss’s lack of enthusiasm when he brought a German Shepherd and its owner, Lee Duncan, to Jack’s office. Duncan put his pet through the paces and, despite his misgivings, an impressed Jack Warner agreed to give the dog a chance.

  Rin Tin Tin was found by U.S. Corporal Lee Duncan in Lorraine, France during World War I when he and his troop came across a bombed out dog kennel. Huddled inside the ruins, Duncan and company discovered a female German Shepherd with several newborn pups. Duncan personally kept one male and female, while battalion members cared for the rest. Duncan named his dogs “Rin Tin Tin” and “Nanette” after tiny French dolls that soldiers sometimes carried for g
ood luck.

  After the war, Duncan returned home to Los Angeles and made arrangements to bring his pets with him. Sadly, the long trip across the Atlantic was too much for Nanette and she died, but the highly clever and energetic “Rinty,” as he was nicknamed, flourished on American soil. So impressed with his dog’s abilities and intelligence, Duncan taught him to perform. Duncan then set his sights on making Rinty a movie star. He wrote a story called Where the North Begins and shopped it around to several studios—none of which were interested until he finally stumbled across Harry Rapf at Warner Bros.

  Where the North Begins (1923) was Rin Tin Tin’s first smash hit, running in sold-out theaters nationwide. The likeable canine played an orphaned dog raised by wolves. When he heroically rescued a fur trapper from certain death, Rinty became a superhero. He could swim rapids with ease, operate machinery, open locked doors and woo his favorite female—all in the name of justice and love. Within a few short years, Rin Tin Tin was one of the top box-office names in Hollywood earning thousands of dollars each month. His personal appearances drew enthusiastic crowds wherever he went. Fan letters poured in to the studio by the truckload. Rinty’s famous face even appeared on boxes of dog biscuits. Living up to his superstar image, he donned a diamond-studded collar, dined on steaks and even had his own orchestra for mood music—not to mention his very own radio show.