By removing themselves from the major movie companies that employed them, Hollywood’s Big Five gained control of their films, as well as the profits. Hollywood spun into a certified tizzy. What were these hell-raisers thinking?! What could an artistic gang of rebels possibly know about business? Industry chiefs were outraged at such a display of audacity and afraid that their own movie empires might be heading for trouble, as the average movie-goer cared about actors and actresses—the faces they saw on-screen, not the producers, directors or studio heads they didn’t see. Even worse, what would prevent other artists from becoming defiant independents?
Ignoring the uproar, the Big Five went about their business. They brought in the current Secretary of the Treasury and son-in-law of U.S. President Woodrow Wilson, William Gibbs McAdoo, as their general counsel. Oscar A. Price, who had previously worked with McAdoo, took the job of president. William S. Hart, however, soon dropped out claiming he didn’t want to commit to the three-year time period that the other partners agreed to. His departure brought Hollywood’s Big Five down to four.
The new company had a slow start due to prior contractual obligations of the partners, but once they were free to make their own films, UA grew into a force of its own. While all of the partners enjoyed success under their new banner, Fairbanks, true to character, made the most noise. The first feature released through UA, His Majesty, The American (1919), cast Fairbanks in the title role of Bill Brooks, a misplaced prince. It was typical Fairbanks folly as he bounced across the screen in full throttle. Next came D.W. Griffith’s dynamic drama Broken Blossoms (1919) starring Lillian Gish and Richard Barthelmess—United Artists’ first major box office hit.
All the while, Pickford, still seeing the now-divorced Fairbanks, remained married to Moore until Fairbanks finally made her choose—divorce Moore or end their affair. Pickford traveled to Nevada and obtained a divorce after which she publicly apologized to her fans assuring them that she would never marry again. She had a quick change of heart, however, when Fairbanks proposed. The couple married in a secret ceremony on March 28, 1920—just a few weeks after her divorce.
When the newlyweds finally came forward about their marriage, they anxiously awaited the fallout. While the media frowned, the public surprised everyone with their hearty approval. As journalist Alistair Cooke put it:
Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford came to mean more than a couple of married film stars. They were a living proof of America’s chronic belief in happy endings.
But it wasn’t just America. Fans worldwide cheered the famous twosome as they honeymooned throughout Europe. In London, the celebrated pair even caused a riot when an enthusiastic crowd of fans snatched the petite Pickford from an open Rolls Royce. With a little help from police officers on the scene, Fairbanks rescued his stunned bride. For Pickford, the fervent attention was overwhelming, but her husband thrived on all of the hoopla. The couple may not have sported crowns, but they were as close to royalty as Americans would ever be.
Once home from their extended honeymoon, Fairbanks was about to take his biggest professional gamble. His romantic comedies were standard fan favorites as he whirled and twirled his way through each scene in that sparkling Fairbanks fashion. Complacent with his success, Fairbanks felt secure in the macho image he projected until he acquired the rights to a historical novella set in Spanish-controlled California—Johnston McCulley’s The Curse of Capistrano. Fairbanks was at first reluctant to make a period picture that required him to wear an outlandish cape and silly mask, but he went ahead with it anyway under the smart direction of Fred Niblo. As the outlaw Zorro, Fairbanks launched the second and most brilliant phase of his already unparalleled movie career, creating a new kind of film with a new kind of hero.
Released on December 5, 1920, The Mark of Zorro not only catapulted Fairbanks into a whole new dimension of popularity, but also defined the term “swashbuckler.” Making his first entrance as the foppish Don Diego, Fairbanks later emerged as Diego’s alter ego, Zorro. Once he brandished a sword and marked his enemies with that famous “Z,” Fairbanks never looked back. Instead, he took control.
From Zorro on, he wrote the scripts, chose the cast and handpicked his directors. Fairbanks supervised all aspects of production including set construction and costume design. He surrounded himself with people committed to maintaining his dynamic image. Even his engineer brother, Robert, took care of set logistics and special effects such as slow motion, double exposure and some early animation. He may have sought advice from his production crew, but it was Fairbanks who made all final decisions.
If he had any doubts about Zorro, Fairbanks went full speed ahead with The Three Musketeers (1921), playing the daring role of D’Artagnan—his favorite literary character. He even grew his trademark mustache for the film and continued sporting it for the rest of his life. Fairbanks would not settle for anything less than authenticity down to the last detail. The magnificent French sets were based on historic sketches, as were the costumes. It was also the film where the thirty-eight-year-old actor made what is widely considered his riskiest stunt—a perfect one-handed handspring while balancing on a dagger.
The infamous Robin Hood (1922) came next at a time when Hollywood had recently generated some bad press from the “Fatty” Arbuckle scandal to the William Desmond Taylor murder and movies were rapidly falling from public favor. Things were so tough that Fairbanks bankrolled the movie himself. When filming began, he modestly claimed that the oversized sets were too much for him. He couldn’t compete with such an enormous castle and gigantic drawbridge, but of course he could—he was Fairbanks—and the mammoth sets were his idea to begin with. Scaling the steep castle walls and gliding down the lengthy drapes (with the help of a hidden slide) was natural for him.
While Fairbanks took charge of saving the populace, Pickford made her own contributions to UA, but not until her contractual obligations to First National were met. Pickford’s first film released through UA was Pollyanna (1920). Once again, the now twenty-eight-year-old actress played the ever-optimistic adolescent. Her turn in Little Lord Fauntleroy (1921) finally gave her a chance to grow up—sort of. Pickford, playing the dual roles of the little lord complete with curls, as well as his widowed mother, triumphed at the box office.
With three of the Big Four pulling their weight at UA, Chaplin lagged behind. Still under contract to First National, his smash hit The Kid (1921) with child actor Jackie Coogan and featuring “The Tramp” at his best to date, could not be released through UA. Chaplin wasn’t free to work for United Artists until 1923 when he wrote and directed, but did not star in, A Woman of Paris: A Drama of Fate. Unfortunately, the very artsy film did not do well financially. Disappointed fans wanted “The Tramp,” which Chaplin didn’t deliver.
Fairbanks was still riding high on his swashbuckling wave when he filmed the magical The Thief of Baghdad (1924). With Raoul Walsh directing, flying on a steel-framed magic carpet suspended by six steel piano wires wasn’t enough. A fairy tale city was also created covering six and a half acres. To complete the fantasy, domes and minarets were erected for the flying carpet to glide over. And just to add a splash of realism, a large fan blew against the carpet’s eight-inch fringe providing an even greater sense of motion. It was Fairbanks at his grandest. When the movie was released, Photoplay magazine reported: “Here is magic. Here is beauty. Here is the answer to the cynics who give the motion picture no place in the family of art.” They also gave Fairbanks, now in his forties, much of the credit.
For Walsh, who had been under contract with Fox until 1920, The Thief of Baghdad was one of his greatest silent film achievements and came at a time when he sorely needed a winner to put him back in the game. Striking out on his own after his Fox contract ran out, he filmed several less than stellar vehicles. Mediocre movies like The Deep Purple (1920) and The Oath (1921) starred his wife, Miriam Cooper, and were panned by both critics and spectators.
Whenever he could, Walsh preferred taking his show o
n the road. Location shooting not only provided authentic backgrounds and scenery, but it also gratified the director’s wandering ways. Walsh swore that while filming the pirate movie Lost and Found on a South Sea Island (1923) in Tahiti, he tipped too many bottles and came away with a nose piercing. Photoplay magazine described the film as “the same old melodramatic hokum … before a Tahiti backdrop.” After riding Fairbanks’ magic carpet, however, Walsh was back on top and Paramount wanted him.
By 1924, UA had released several big box office films, but the independent studio was struggling. UA did not provide financial backing for its films. Hollywood’s Big Four were each responsible for obtaining funds for their own projects. Therefore, UA’s film output was far less than the major studios who churned out movies at an accelerated pace with a combined bankroll. In addition, UA didn’t own any theaters and their films couldn’t play in the first-rate movie houses owned by other studios. That meant UA films often ran in substandard establishments with lower ticket prices.
In order to remain solvent, the Big Four realized they needed someone in charge who not only understood moviemaking, but also high finance and talent. They called on independent producer Joseph M. Schenck who was currently the head of United Studios, as well as president of the MPPDA. Schenck had more than just business smarts, he had famous family under contract—his wife, actress Norma Talmadge, his sister-in-law, comedienne Constance Talmadge, and his brother-in-law, the deadpan funnyman, Buster Keaton. All were top stars that equated to very big box office.
Schenck was brought in as a partner and named UA’s first Chairman of the Board in 1924. His renowned kinfolk tagged along and so did one Latin lover, Rodolfo Alfonzo Raffaele Pierre Filibert Guglielmi di Valentino d’Antonguolla, also known as Rudolph Valentino or just plain Rudy to his friends. Schenck went straight to work reorganizing the company and establishing the Art Cinema Corporation, for the purpose of bankrolling UA films. Now more films could be made, boosting UA’s earnings. He then formed the United Artists Theater Circuit, which would acquire or build first-run theaters nationwide for the exclusive showing of UA films.
While Schenck was saving UA, however, he also had his hand in several other endeavors. He was president of the Hotel Holding Company of Hollywood, which was responsible for building the 2.5 million dollar Roosevelt Hotel at the corner of Hollywood Boulevard and Orange Drive. He also sat on the advisory board of a Los Angeles branch of the Bank of Italy and controlled two-thirds of the Federal Trust and Savings Bank at Hollywood and Highland. And of course, there was still that old amusement park business back in New Jersey.
While Schenck brought in actress Gloria Swanson and producer Samuel Goldwyn (formerly Goldfish), who had been running his own production company, Fairbanks reprised his role of masked crusader. Since the original Mark of Zorro (1920) had been so popular, Fairbanks, in true Hollywood fashion, decided on a sequel. Don Q Son of Zorro (1925) found Fairbanks playing two roles—the original Zorro, as well as his son. He even used flashbacks from the first Zorro movie for continuity and fought side-by-side with himself. To prepare for the role, Fairbanks had to learn how to crack an Australian stock whip. Always a quick study, he could soon whip-snatch a cigarette from the mouth of some brave soul who stood smoking several feet away.
Next up, Fairbanks was a buccaneer in The Black Pirate (1926) where he slashed the sails of an enemy pirate ship. Starting at the top, he plunged his dagger into the sail and while clutching the knife, he descended downward slicing the sails in half as he went. It was a spectacular way to cripple his adversaries, but by now audiences expected no less from the fearless Fairbanks. He also used a new two-tone negative process making The Black Pirate the first silent feature filmed entirely in Technicolor.
Scenes were shot on Catalina Island with four of the seven Technicolor cameras in use at that time under the watchful eye of Joseph Arthur Ball. Ball and his wife, Isabel, were now living in California where he headed up Technicolor’s west coast facility. Color, however, remained controversial. Some still contested it was bad for the eyes, but that didn’t stop Fairbanks. If new technology resulted in better pictures, he was all for it.
The color process itself was somewhat improved, but just as before, included only red and green. Blue was still out of the picture, but Ball and his team continued working on it. The Technicolor film itself posed another problem since its thickness was uneven. It sometimes buckled and often broke as it ran through the projector. At the very least, it caused a fuzzy picture. Replacement reels were in constant demand by the exhibitors and Technicolor employees were left to iron out the kinks—literally. The application of heat would smooth out any unevenness in the film.
In between Fairbanks’ last two swashbucklers, the lagging Chaplin finally hit his own bases-loaded homerun for UA with The Gold Rush (1925) depicting “The Tramp” and his gold-searching adventures in Alaska. The silent film, famous for its scene featuring “The Tramp” dining on his boot, was one of Chaplin’s, and UA’s, all-time biggest moneymakers. The partners could no longer accuse Chaplin of not pulling his weight.
With Schenck leading the way for Griffith’s edgy dramas, Fairbanks’ daring adventures, Chaplin’s funny business and Pickford’s youthful innocence, UA remained a solid force in an industry where being major didn’t always equate to being better.
Not bad for a bunch of lunatics.
Chapter Fourteen
IN THE ZOO
Junk dealing was part of Louis B. Mayer’s past and he wanted to keep it there. Married with two young daughters, he was now the established owner of the upscale New Orpheum Theater tucked neatly inside the boundaries of Haverhill, Massachusetts. Mayer, however, was satisfied with neither his current place of business nor his good standing in the community. He wanted class and long-lasting respect that teetered on worship. When Louis B. Mayer wanted something, he went after it like a hound focused on a foxhunt. By 1911, he had obtained the backing of several local businessmen and built a grand theater that far surpassed the New Orpheum.
The Colonial Theater was presented to the public on December 11, 1911 at a black-tie event. For the first time, tuxedoed patrons experienced the opulent ninety-five-foot lobby that boasted artwork on every wall including one prophetic painting that captured a lion at rest. Awed by the rosewood trimmings that surrounded them, as well as the plush carpeting that cushioned their well-heeled feet, guests ascended an imposing marble stairway that led to the 1,500-seat interior. An eye-catching proscenium arch dominated the main room where a large stage and live orchestra greeted the crowd. Ever the showman who could work a room better than most actors, Mayer took the spotlight in an emotional speech with just the right mix of gratitude, humility and tears—a practice he continued throughout his life, whether standing before a league of cheering fans or an audience of just one disgruntled movie star.
With his professional reputation on the upswing, Mayer booked the Boston Opera Company to play at his new theater. He worked hard bringing in popular Broadway plays with big names like entertainer extraordinaire George M. Cohan. A few new and upcoming performers such as Milton Berle and George Burns also graced The Orpheum’s marquee. He even formed his own stock company to ensure his theaters had quality shows to book. A sincere patriot, Mayer also swore allegiance to the United States, becoming a proud American citizen in 1912. All the while, Mayer, who opened several more New England theaters, still kept an eye on the growing movie industry.
His business worries, however, fell from the forefront during October 1913, when Mayer’s beloved mother, Sarah, grew ill from a bad gall bladder. Mayer immediately took his wife, daughters and personal physician back to St. John. He even brought in one of Canada’s finest surgeons. Despite his best efforts, Sarah died. Mayer, feeling like he failed her, was crushed. He carried Sarah’s picture with him every single day for the rest of his life and often showed an unusually high level of empathy, for an otherwise aloof man, toward anyone caring for their dear, old mom.
Mayer�
�s good movie fortune began from the distributing end of the business. In early 1915, he joined Pittsburgh millionaire Richard Rowland to form Metro Pictures Corporation, a film distributor for early production companies like Quality Pictures and Tiffany Film Corporations. Their biggest coup came from D.W. Griffith’s cutting-edge film, Birth of a Nation (1915). The group obtained the regional distribution rights to the much-ballyhooed Civil War drama. Taking advantage of the notorious buzz surrounding the film, Mayer claimed to have invested $55,000 (which equates to over one million dollars today) and earned at least ten times that amount.
After this windfall, Metro Pictures was ready to make films of its own. They signed on popular leading man Francis X. Bushman and the young Mary Miles Minter. Situated in Manhattan over a garage, the studio quickly churned out dozens of movies including Mayer’s first personal attempt at producing an 18-episode serial, The Great Secret (1917), starring Bushman. Unfortunately for Mayer, the married Bushman, a father of five, conducted an unsavory affair with his leading lady, actress Beverly Bayne. The blissless Bushmans soon separated and suffered a hate-filled divorce complete with public name-calling. Partly due to the ugly Bushman breakup, the not-so-great action adventure series bombed. Mayer never forgave the high-maintenance actor for his obnoxious indiscretions.
Mayer did, however, learn that the role of moviemaker was more to his liking than movie exhibitor. Realizing that the best place for his future film endeavors was the west coast, he took over the troubled Selig Studios on Mission Road in Edendale, California in 1918—right in the middle of the Selig Zoo and across the street from two animal farms, one raising alligators and one hatching ostriches. There, he established Louis B. Mayer Productions. Working in the zoo was good practice for the future, but when the monkeys escaped from their cages, nothing was safe as they pillaged the place. Columnist Hedda Hopper, who once worked for Mayer as an actress, recalled those early days:
Bringing Up Oscar: The Story of the Men and Women Who Founded the Academy Page 18
