Rinty was the first animal to reach international stardom. He went on to make dozens of movies for Warner Bros. and brought the financially stressed studio to solvency. The once-skeptical Jack took to calling Rinty the “Mortgage Lifter.” The studio wisely kept eighteen other Rin Tin Tins trained and standing by just in case of an emergency. When the real Rinty died in 1932, he went the way many red-blooded American fellas only dreamed of going—in the arms of a sobbing Jean Harlow who happened to live across the street from Lee Duncan’s Beverly Hills home.
Now that Warner Bros. had established itself, they needed some key players, as well as theaters to show their films. Harry brought in popular German director Ernst Lubitsch who then filmed The Marriage Circle (1924), one of the year’s most popular movies. Harry also signed on the flamboyant stage actor John Barrymore giving him the star treatment with more than $76,000 per movie, approval of his leading ladies, as well as a chauffeur-driven limousine and a suite at the Ambassador Hotel. Harry also authorized the building of Warner Bros. movie theaters in several major cities.
Still single, brother Sam took a shine to the radio. Always intrigued by sound transmission, he convinced Harry that Warner Bros. needed their very own radio station. That way, they could advertise their own movies however and whenever they wanted. Sam purchased an existing station and moved all of the equipment to the movie studio. Their first broadcast on KFWB introduced new singer Leon Zuardo—a.k.a Jack L. Warner. The innovative brothers also placed microphones on live film sets so curious listeners could hear the actual sounds of movies in progress.
With several moneymaking motion pictures and a theater chain behind him, Harry’s attention turned to the financially troubled Vitagraph Studio, which was failing and deeply in debt—they owed creditors almost one million dollars. When Harry approached Vitagraph officials about a buyout, they offered their company up for $800,000 plus the money they owed. Harry agreed to their terms. With his well-respected business sense, he had no trouble obtaining a loan for the take-over. Now armed with Vitagraph’s multiple film distribution networks or “exchanges” throughout North America, Warner Bros. became one of the biggest independent movie companies in the world.
The same day that Harry closed the Vitagraph deal, widowed Abe took a second wife—another Bessie. She, too, was a widow who had been married to one of Abe’s best friends, Jonas Siegel. Bessie’s husband, who changed his family name to Steel, died around the same time as the first Mrs. Warner. After losing their respective spouses, the already familiar Abe and Bessie grew closer. They married on April 23, 1925. Opposites in many ways, the two complemented each other. Always self-conscious about his lack of education, Abe especially liked the class that Bessie brought into his life. He enjoyed nothing better than a good cigar or a horse race that finished by a nose. She preferred fine art and priceless antiques. He’d never had children. She had one son, Arthur, whom Abe loved and treated as his own.
While the newlyweds honeymooned in Atlantic City, Sam had a serious romance of his own. On one of his many visits to New York, Sam met Ziegfeld Follies girl Lina Basquette. Lena Copeland Baskette was born in San Mateo, California to Frank and his wife Gladys on April 19, 1907. After Frank’s death, the overbearing Gladys married dance instructor Ernest Belcher and had a second daughter, Marjorie, nicknamed Marge, and the future Mrs. Gower Champion.
By the time Lena was nine, her mother had the child under contract with Universal Studios. After several movies, Gladys pushed her eldest daughter into the Ziegfeld Follies of 1923. The sixteen-year-old was presented as “America’s Prima Ballerina” and her name changed to the more intriguing Lina Basquette. Two years later and still working for Ziegfeld, Basquette met the one Warner brother who had so far remained single—thirty-seven-year-old Sam.
Smitten with the young dancer, Sam asked her out—along with her mother. Sam knew that without Gladys’ approval, his chances with Lina were slim. He needn’t have worried. Mama Gladys was overjoyed with her daughter’s new suitor—a big-time producer who didn’t drink. She even overlooked his occasional cigar. More importantly, she knew that Sam could fast-track Lina’s career. With Gladys’ blessing, the couple married on July 4, 1925 in New York. Their only child, a girl also named Lina, was born the following year.
In the meantime, Harry made business plans for 1926. Among the dozens of movies Warner Bros. would release that year, one of their biggest would be Sea Beast (1926). Former MGM scenarist Bess Meredyth penned the photoplay based on Herman Melville’s novel Moby Dick. The classic film starred Barrymore who so thoroughly approved of his leading lady, newcomer Delores Costello, that he made her the third Mrs. Barrymore.
Meredyth had completely given up acting for the pen after her 1917 marriage to actor Wilfred Lucas. In between dozens of photoplays, she gave birth to a son in 1919 and officially named him Wilfred Meredyth Lucas, but everyone called him Jack. Eventually, he legally changed his name to John.
By the time she signed on with Warner Bros., however, she and her husband were divorced. Now a single mother, the outgoing blonde had also caught the eye of Michael Curtiz, a talented Hungarian director recently put under contract by Warner Bros. Aside from her personal problems, Meredyth was one of the highest-paid female scenarists in Hollywood ranking with the likes of Jeanie Macpherson, Frances Marion and June Mathis. Meredyth believed in simple stories with just a few characters planted in the midst of intriguing circumstances. Like too many cooks who spoiled the broth, she believed that too many characters could turn a good movie bad. The L.A. Times described the energetic writer known for her quick wit:
If effervescence of spirits has anything to do with the intelligence of a person, and this intelligence heightened by the ability to converse, at length, understandingly and interestingly on any subject broached, then Bess Meredyth is a very superior sort of person. For she is literally bubbling over with good humor, and anyone who leaves her feeling the least bit low is ready either to drape the interior of a coffin or take up quarters in a select asylum.…
While the Warners tapped Meredyth to write the photoplay for Barry-more’s next movie, Don Juan (1926), Sam picked this period film to experiment with sound. At Sam’s urgings, the brothers partnered up with Western Electric forming the Vitaphone Corporation. Sam championed the simple disc system whereby a large record captured the sound and then played it back as the corresponding film rolled through the projector. These early attempts at pre-recorded sound were primarily for music used to accompany shorts—an effective replacement for live musicians. Sam, however, wanted to take things further. The Warners reconfigged Vitagraph’s Brooklyn studios for the purpose of recording sound. They even bought the Piccadilly Theater in New York and wired it for sound in order to have a place to run their cutting edge films. The New York Times reported on April 26, 1926:
Perfection of a new apparatus which makes possible the release of music and reproduction of the human voice in their natural tones, to be used in connection with motion pictures, has been attained … and rights for the exclusive use of it have been purchased by the Warner Brothers …
Don Juan let Barrymore show off his dashing side as he brandished a sword with bravado and leapt into the arms of his ladylove played by fan favorite Mary Astor. The adventure film also let Sam try out the Vitaphone process on a full-length feature. Although the experiment with its musical score and clanging swords was a success, dialogue was not spoken. In addition, the vast majority of movie theaters were not equipped for sound, forcing most patrons to view the typical silent treatment anyway.
Sound, however, was not about to go away, and it would be Sam Warner who finally got the ball rolling after nearly three decades of silence, despite brother Harry’s vociferous qualms: “Who the hell wants to hear actors talk?”
Chapter Thirteen
THE LUNATICS
The year 1919 was a time of worldwide change. The Treaty of Versailles officially ended World War I after more than 15 million lives were lost: in some countri
es, a whole generation of young men. The League of Nations was formed in Paris and Benito Mussolini founded the Fascist Party in Italy. Health officials announced that the deadly, globetrotting pandemic known as the Spanish Flu was over, which had been claiming lives by the millions alongside the machine gun fire. Walter Owen Bentley established Bentley Motors Limited in England.
Events in the United States were also unfolding. Congress made the Grand Canyon the country’s seventeenth national park, preserving its beauty forever. A few months later, these same seemingly wise men also passed the Volstead Act triggering Prohibition, which paved the way for underground speakeasies, bathtub gin and bootlegged hooch. The Purity Distilling Company of Boston experienced an explosion that let loose a giant wave of molasses covering city streets and killing 21 people in its path. The Black Sox Scandal gave Cincinnati the World Series Championship and baseball a lingering black eye. A deadly hurricane devastated the Florida Keys, as well as Corpus Christi, Texas causing more than 700 deaths.
On the west coast, the University of California established its second campus in Los Angeles and four major Hollywood players banded together to form their own film company, United Artists Corporation (UA). In response to this radical move, disgruntled Metro Pictures president Richard Rowland is often credited with saying: “The lunatics have taken charge of the asylum!” The aforementioned crazies were Hollywood icons Douglas Fairbanks, Mary Pickford, D.W. Griffith and Charlie Chaplin.
Douglas Fairbanks was a successful theater actor before he headed west to work for D.W. Griffith at Triangle Films. He was also a married man who had fallen in love with Pickford who was still the unfortunate Mrs. Owen Moore. As their affair became physical, the situation got touchy. Silent film stars were presented to the public as wholesome, morally upstanding citizens—their private lives flawless. To movie fans, Fairbanks was an incomparable hero with noble values and Pickford was America’s Sweetheart with uncompromising virtue. An adulterous scandal could destroy both of their careers and rattle the movie industry’s fragile foundation. As rumors enveloped them, the couple repeatedly denied each one.
Fairbanks’ best friend and confidant was the equally famous Charlie Chaplin. According to Chaplin’s autobiography, he and Fairbanks met through their mutual friend, actress Constance Collier. The two male stars were also a little wary of each other, as Chaplin described it:
From Constance I had heard much about Douglas Fairbanks’ charm and ability, not only as a personality but as a brilliant after-dinner speaker. In those days I disliked brilliant young men—especially after-dinner speakers. However a dinner was arranged at his house.
… Before going I had made excuses to Constance that I was ill, but she would have none of it. So I made up my mind to feign a headache and leave early. Fairbanks said that he was also nervous, and that when the doorbell rang he quickly descended into the basement where there was a billiard table, and began playing pool. That night was the beginning of a lifelong friendship.
There are other versions of the story—some even told by Chaplin and Fairbanks themselves, but whatever the circumstances, the two actors were each other’s greatest fan. In many ways, they were opposites—Chaplin was quiet and disliked attention off the stage/screen while the gregarious Fairbanks thrived on it. Chaplin was moody; Fairbanks upbeat. Their on-screen personas also differed—Chaplin the master of physical comedy as the Little Tramp and Fairbanks a dazzling heartthrob known for his acrobatics. Yet they also shared similarities. Both had errant fathers who imbibed more than they should have, leaving mothers to raise their children alone. Unlike Ella Fairbanks who had been a strong parental figure in her son’s life, Hannah Chaplin suffered from mental illness most likely due to syphilis and was institutionalized while her son was just a boy, leaving Chaplin essentially orphaned.
Hollywood beckoned both men from the stage, and the films they made catapulted them into box office deities. The clever Chaplin, with his baggy pants and cane, created a resourceful, endearing character that movie fans found irresistible; the agile Fairbanks with his good looks and romantic action films left women swooning and men wishing they had just some of his bravado. Then there was Little Mary who retained her curls, as well as her title, “America’s Sweetheart,” despite being a mature, poised, even shrewd, business-minded woman off-screen. The child-like Pickford, who symbolized purity and innocence, remained the public’s all-time favorite female star during those years. For movie fans, Chaplin, Fairbanks and Pickford were no less than Hollywood royalty.
It was no wonder that the White House requested their help selling Liberty Bonds as Americans joined in The Great War. Fairbanks welcomed the nationwide bond drives. Not only could he partake in shenanigans with Chaplin, the tours also allowed him some cozy time with Pickford—all in the name of patriotism, of course. As for Chaplin and Pickford, each respected the other’s talent and good business sense, but the Little Tramp and America’s Sweetheart merely tolerated each other. Their common ground was always Fairbanks. If he wanted them to get along, by golly, they would.
As the lovers’ secret trysts continued, Fairbanks’s respect for Pickford’s uncanny sense of business grew. While most men talked down to her, Fairbanks never did. He valued her smarts and savvy insights into the motion picture industry. In turn, Pickford enjoyed something she, along with most women of this era, wasn’t accustomed to—being treated as an equal. Before long, their romance was well known throughout the film colony, but the public remained blissfully unaware of the unholy alliance taking place right under their noses.
Oddly enough, it was their spouses who first mentioned the covert affair. In April 1918, Beth Fairbanks told the press that her husband had met a mystery woman whom he felt was the great love of his life. Neglecting to specifically name Pickford, she referred to her husband’s mistress as one of his business associates. Moore, on the other hand, defended his wife to her fans, perhaps out of guilt for his continued addiction to the bottle, or maybe just to save face. He claimed that Fairbanks was taking advantage of his poor, little Mary who just didn’t know any better. Privately, Moore threatened to hunt down his rival and kill him, which drew a loud laugh from the much nimbler, and more sober, Fairbanks.
The following October, Mrs. Fairbanks had enough. She filed for divorce in New York where the only legal grounds was infidelity. Her soon-to-be ex-husband publicly refuted the charges, but the divorce was granted giving her custody of their only child, Douglas, Jr., as well as a cool half million dollars. With Fairbanks a free man, Pickford wavered. Unsure of what to do, she stayed with Moore. The thought of a scandal was more than she could handle, and any public condemnation of their affair would most likely have fallen harder on Mary, as a woman, due to an unfortunate social double standard.
Professionally, Fairbanks had left the Triangle Film Company and in early 1917 formed the Douglas Fairbanks Pictures Corporation, about two years before United Artists was established. He felt that Triangle was making millions off of him and not compensating him accordingly. For the first time, Fairbanks produced his own pictures beginning with the comedy In Again, Out Again (1917) penned by Anita Loos.
Pickford, too, had her own production company, but she was still under contract with producer Adolph Zukor who had recently merged his Famous Players Film Company with the Jesse L. Lasky Feature Play Company. Along with this merger came Zukor’s concept of block booking. He sold the company-owned movie theaters a set number of films of his choosing. Theater owners had no say in which pictures they ran. They had to take the good with the not so good and could only hope that the better films outnumbered the duds.
In retaliation, a powerful group of nationwide theater owners banded together calling themselves the First National Exhibitors Circuit. They had the money to finance their own films for their own theaters. All they needed were box office names to make their idea work. They first recruited Chaplin and then, in late 1918, Pickford, by offering each of them an unheard sum of one million dollars. An emotional Pick
ford left “Papa Zukor” who gave “sweetheart-honey” his blessing. Before Pickford even settled in, however, rumors ran wild that her new employer was about to merge with Zukor and his Famous Players-Lasky Corporation.
According to Chaplin, he, along with Fairbanks and Pickford, hired a female detective to snoop around the Alexandria Hotel where the First National Exhibitors Circuit was holding a convention in January 1919. The detective reported back that “a forty million dollar merger” was in the works. Chaplin recalled: “They intended putting the industry on a proper business basis, instead of having it run by a bunch of crazy actors getting astronomical salaries.”
Next, Chaplin’s brother and business manager, Sidney, called a meeting with an impressive list of attendees that included top names in the shaken film industry: actors Charlie Chaplin, Douglas Fairbanks and western star William S. Hart along with legendary director D.W. Griffith whose Triangle Films had been taken over by Zukor. Last, but hardly least, queen mother Charlotte Pickford was called upon to represent her daughter who was down with the flu.
The very next day, the Big Five, as they were called, publicly announced their intentions of producing their own films and releasing them through their very own new company, United Artists Corporation, with the following statement:
We believe [United Artists] is necessary to protect the exhibitor and the industry itself, thus enabling the exhibitor to book only pictures that he wishes to play and not force upon him … other program films which he does not desire … We also think that this step is positively and absolutely necessary to protect the great motion picture public from threatening combinations and trusts that would force upon them mediocre productions and machine-made entertainment.
Bringing Up Oscar: The Story of the Men and Women Who Founded the Academy Page 17
