Already on the wrong side of Thalberg, von Stroheim reluctantly pared the movie down to what he deemed a more acceptable three hours and forty minutes, but his new cut wasn’t good enough. Neither Mayer nor Thalberg was happy with von Stroheim or his still-too-long film. They called in their top title writer, Joseph Farnham, known for his brevity.
Farnham was instructed to maintain the storyline through title cards and cut the footage down to a more acceptable length. Farnham did as he was told and chopped the movie to ten reels. The problem being—Farnham never read the book and von Stroheim’s epic was decimated. The outraged director reportedly stated: “The only thing [Farnham] had on his mind was his hat!” The film slashing did nothing to improve relations between von Stroheim and Thalberg.
The driven Thalberg continued supervising the studio’s major productions including Ben-Hur: A Tale of the Christ (1925), another troubled movie that was already in process under Goldwyn when the MGM merger occurred. Under the old regime, filming of the biblical epic began in Rome with disastrous results. Two hundred reels of film were useless. Mayer’s most prized writers, Carey Wilson and Bess Meredyth who previously worked for Mayer at his production company, replaced scenarist June Mathis. The bible-sized script was rewritten. Ramon Novarro supplanted the movie’s original star, George Walsh—director Raoul’s brother. Fred Niblo was dispatched to take on the role of director from Charles Brabin. Shooting started over. Costs ran high. Cultural differences between American and Italian filmmakers only added to the difficulties.
Mayer, along with his family, personally traveled to Rome leaving Thalberg and Rapf to run the California studio. More irritable than usual, Mayer wasn’t well. He hadn’t been to a dentist in years and was in agony due to abscessed teeth. He finally collapsed in Italy where doctors deduced that toxins had spread throughout his body. With antibiotics not yet available, his only chance at survival was to have all of his teeth removed. As each tooth was extracted one by one inside his hotel room, Mayer hung on for his life throughout the pain. Daily wires flew back and forth between Los Angeles and Rome as Thalberg anxiously awaited word on Mayer’s condition. After several nerve-wracking weeks, Mayer improved and eventually stopped production of Ben-Hur. The disheartened group returned to California.
Thalberg had no intention of scrapping the movie. Instead, he ordered Cedric Gibbons to rebuild ancient Rome, complete with a new Circus Maximus, on the studio’s back lot. Thalberg spent weeks poring over every detail of the movie’s famous chariot race. He wanted close-ups of his stars as well as the running horses and the spinning wheels. To capture all of the action, dozens of cameras were placed around the set. A pit was even dug into the ground and a camera positioned inside it so the racing chariots could be filmed from below.
The day of the race, 3,900 toga-wearing extras were camera-ready. Thalberg demanded more so another 400 people were brought in from the local neighborhood and added to the crowd. When it was time for lunch, Thalberg refused to stop filming. The production manager protested saying that the extras were hungry and might riot. Thalberg never wavered. “Fine!” he spouted. “That’ll add some realism to the scene.”
After all the hoopla, it was no wonder that Thalberg’s bad heart caught up with him. During November 1925, he collapsed at work and was rushed to the hospital where doctors diagnosed a heart attack. Ordered to stay in bed, Thalberg couldn’t rest. He viewed daily rushes projected onto the hospital room’s ceiling. He read scripts and held meetings. One month later, he ignored his doctors’ advice, as well as his mother’s protests, and returned to MGM, but not before Ben-Hur premiered to high praise from the critics and loud cheers from the audience. Thalberg was not only credited for saving the production, but for turning it into a masterpiece.
From the exhilarating chariot race to the ambitious battle scenes, the film was one of the new studio’s greatest silent triumphs and set the standard for MGM movies to come. Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer had finally arrived on the landscape of movie history along with Louis B. Mayer’s long-desired respectability.
Chapter Fifteen
THE REST OF ’EM
Not all of the Academy’s founding members were affiliated with major studios. Some were independents with their own show business interests while others were filmmakers who carved a separate niche in the house of Hollywood. Take Sid Grauman for instance. After the San Francisco earthquake, he and his father once again found tremendous success in the City by the Bay. Eventually, they opened several movie theaters and vaudeville houses throughout the area, but that wasn’t good enough. The Graumans wanted to be in the center of the newly developing motion picture industry—not in a city north of it. Around 1917, they took a gamble. Sid Grauman met with Famous Players-Lasky Corporation President Adolph Zukor, persuading him to buy all of their San Francisco theaters. He also persuaded Zukor to finance a new theater in downtown Los Angeles.
Together, the father-and-son team converted an office building, located at Third and Broadway, into a magnificent showplace they called the Million Dollar Theater. The Spanish Baroque-style structure was aptly named since it cost over one million dollars to refurbish. With striking statues, detailed murals and ornate carvings, the opulent theater rivaled any showplace that the east coast had to offer. Grauman never settled for plain old run-of-the-mill grandeur, he insisted on razzle-dazzle. For his patrons, attending a movie was not just a temporary distraction—it was an unforgettable event.
When the doors opened on February 1, 1918, William S. Hart’s western film The Silent Man (1917) was shown after one of Grauman’s soon-to-be-famous live prologues set the mood. Among the crowd that night were director Cecil B. DeMille, along with silent screen stars Douglas Fairbanks and Charlie Chaplin. The new theater was such a hit that even with 2,345 seats, Grauman turned away customers night after night.
In 1919, he purchased Quinn’s Rialto, a two-year-old nickelodeon. After several weeks of remodeling, Grauman turned the arcade into the New Rialto Theater. Holding approximately 1,000 patrons, The Rialto reopened on November 20, 1919 with DeMille’s Male and Female (1919), which was adapted for the screen by Jeanie Macpherson and featured former slapstick comedienne Gloria Swanson. Unlike the Million Dollar Theater, which only played movies for one week, the Rialto kept its films for longer engagements.
Grauman’s third venture, also located in downtown Los Angeles, was the art deco Metropolitan Theater on Sixth and Hill. It cost approximately four million dollars making it the most expensive and most elaborate theater out west. Always outrageous, Grauman placed a sphinx, topped by a George Washington head, on a pedestal in the lobby with the inscription: “You cannot speak to us, O George Washington, but you can speak to God. Ask him to make us good American citizens.” But Sid Grauman wasn’t done dazzling. He soon moved on to a suburb just west of Los Angeles called Hollywood.
There, on Hollywood Boulevard at McCadden Place, Grauman’s team of architects and designers outdid themselves with the magnificent Egyptian Theater. Resembling the ancient palaces of the pharaohs, it was the first major cinema erected outside of the downtown area. Unlike most theaters of the time, the Egyptian had a courtyard complete with statues of a regal-looking elephant wearing royal garb and an over-sized man with a dog’s head who kept an eye on a row of shops that stood along one side. Grauman even paid a fellow to dress like an Egyptian soldier. This employee marched along the roof proclaiming the start time of each show.
Patrons passed through four colossal columns (more than four feet wide and twenty feet high) on their way into the lobby. Inside, the stunning details transported paying customers into another world and time. Egyptian figures stood tall while hieroglyphic-like markings were carved on the walls. A sizeable sphinx along with faux sarcophagi added to the ambience. The theater’s focal point, a large golden sunburst poised strategically above the movie screen, created a mystical aura.
Costing a mere eight hundred thousand dollars, the Egyptian had no balcony and sat only 1,770 moviegoers. It open
ed on October 18, 1922 with the first showing of Douglas Fairbanks’s Robin Hood (1922). That night, Grauman pulled out all the stops. Searchlights swept the sky, as thousands of movie fans lined the streets to glimpse their favorite stars, decked out in their finery, stroll down a red carpet. The movie premiere in all its glamour and glitz was born, making Sid Grauman a preferred favorite among Hollywood bigwigs.
While Grauman went about building theaters and showcasing films, Fred Beetson tried his best to protect America. As Will Hays’ right-hand man in Hollywood and Vice President of the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America, he was in charge of censorship issues, but he also watched over the animal actors and helped establish a bureau for the thousands of extras who constantly scrambled for work. He even placated the local ladies when, as a guest speaker, he joined the Women’s Club of Hollywood for lunch. He let them know that:
Our office has nothing to do with the personal conduct of people in the motion picture industry. We are not waiting for laws to guide us in making better pictures. We are looking for cooperation and suggestions from the women.
In 1926, Beetson was also called upon to support the newly formed Studio Relations Department (SRD)—another Hays effort to combat movie demons. Under the leadership of Colonel Jason S. Joy, a former military man and American Red Cross executive, this group was charged with bringing the various studios together and improving work conditions across Hollywood. The SRD concerned itself with developing work-related recreation such as athletic activities, overseeing the treatment of child actors and organizing lunchrooms where crew members could get decent meals for fair prices.
In addition, Beetson was part of a five-man committee along with producers Joseph Schenck, Jack Warner and Irving Thalberg, as well as First National representative John McCormick. This group reviewed formal grievances submitted by film actors, from stars to extras. If the committee determined an allegation was valid, they ensured that corrective measures were taken and the matter resolved to everyone’s satisfaction—without fear of repercussions. If, after an investigation, they deemed an issue as baseless, they clarified their findings making certain that all parties involved understood their position.
As Beetson righted wrongs and tried to keep films smut-free, M.C. Levee continued running United Studios on Melrose Avenue. As studio president, he also thought about movie censorship and took things one step further when he spoke to the press about fiction in general:
I believe the entire field of modern fiction will soon undergo a radical change. Authors frequently realize more money on the film rights to their books or plays than from any other source. Writers of modern fiction will very shortly begin to realize that unless their stories are without objectionable situations or themes a very lucrative avenue of revenue is closed to them … I predict a marked change in the type of book and play which has seemed so popular during the last year, as a direct result of Mr. Hayes’ idea.
By now United Studios had a lot to offer. They housed pre-built sets that included churches, schools, hotels and formal gardens. The studio even had city centers patterned after famous places like Paris, Tokyo and Honolulu. Their props and furniture ran the gamut from Renaissance to Modern with everything from stained glass windows to fireplaces to draperies. United Studios also carried a large collection of musical instruments, oriental rugs and costumes. And if they didn’t have something a filmmaker needed, artisans on staff could build it, sew it, paint it or plant it.
In 1924, United Studios, under Levee’s direction, kept busy with several major productions including Lilies of the Field (1924) directed by John Francis Dillon and French filmmaker Maurice Tourneur’s The White Moth (1924) starring the popular Barbara LaMarr. Director Frank Lloyd’s classic action movie The Sea Hawk (1924), featuring silent screen favorite Milton Sills, was also filmed at United Studios. Levee predicted that in 1925 his studio would soon reach maximum production capacity with more and more filmmakers moving permanently to California.
Charles H. Christie was another successful producer during the Roaring Twenties. He worked alongside his brother, Al, at the Christie Film Company. With funnyman Al making the movies, Charles took care of the serious stuff like running the studio. Top filmmakers known worldwide for their comedy features, Christie films played in over thirty countries. The brothers not only worked together, but also lived together. They shared a home with family members including their mother, Mary, and half-sister Anne.
Charles was also committed to the community. He was a member of both the Hollywood Athletic and the Lakeside Country Clubs. He sat on the Hollywood Chamber of Commerce, which was founded in 1921, and assisted in the creation of the Motion Picture Relief Fund along with Mary Pickford. In addition, both brothers took a shine to terriers. They not only raised the pups, but also organized the first dog shows in Hollywood. The Dog Fancier magazine reported in November 1922:
Mr. Charles Christie, finding competition in Bull Terriers not very interesting, has for some time been looking for a breed to which to transfer his fancy, and with the acquisition of the imported Scottie, Taybank Pilot, believes he has found what he wants and will have several Diehards at future shows. His Bull Terrier, Champion Heatherene Boy, continues to win the specials but, most likely will see his last ring at Hollywood as he is to be withdrawn from all competition thereafter.
Also in 1922, the brothers created the Christie Realty Corporation. Charles even joined together with journalists/editors Albert Shaw and Arthur Brisbane, as well as movie czar Will Hays to buy Innerarity Island near Pensacola, Florida—former hangout of real buccaneer Jean Laffite. The group originally intended to use the place as a real estate investment, but changed their minds and decided to keep the picturesque acreage for themselves.
The very busy Charles also succeeded Joseph M. Schenck as president of the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America in 1925. He was elected to office along with First Vice President Irving Thalberg, Second Vice President M.C. Levee and Secretary Treasurer Fred Beetson. That same year, the Christie Brothers purchased the Hollywood Studios located on Santa Monica Boulevard for $250,000. There, the Christies filmed one of their most famous comedies, Charley’s Aunt (1925), starring Sid Chaplin, the famous Little Tramp’s brother, with titles written by Joseph Farnham. The story centers on a young man posing as his aunt, which causes all kinds of unexpected havoc—a cross-dressing theme that still generates laughs.
Spectators enjoyed the long and hearty guffaws that a Christie comedy guaranteed. They also expected the same from Harold Lloyd. Now with his own production company, the bespectacled funnyman meant big business. His first picture under the Harold Lloyd Corporation was Girl Shy (1924) with new leading lady, southern belle Jobyna Ralston. She replaced Mildred Davis, who was now Lloyd’s wife. Born in Tennessee, she was named after her parents’ favorite theatrical actress, Jobyna Howland. Ralston’s career began on stage as a youngster and, at twenty-one, she made her Broadway debut. Eventually, she took on minor film roles until producer Hal Roach cast her in several one-reelers. From there, she came to Lloyd’s attention when he was hunting for a new actress to play “The Girl.”
Girl Shy was another wildly successful vehicle for Lloyd’s “glasses character.” In this film, “The Boy” tries to save “The Girl” from marrying an undesirable man who already has a wife. In order to stop the deceitful wedding, “The Boy” takes a wild ride, first, as a passenger in an automobile until a policeman on a motorbike pulls the car over. As the policeman asks the driver, “…What are you trying to do—run away from your rear tires?,” “The Boy” steals the officer’s motorcycle. He races through the city streets dodging pedestrians, streetcars and chickens until the bike wipes out. He then continues his exhilarating romp with a two-horse carriage. When a wheel falls away from the carriage, he climbs onto one of the horses. Astride one horse and holding the second one close by, “The Boy’’ gallops to the wedding just in time to whisk his ladylove away from the underhanded bridegroom.
Lloyd was also a hero in real life when a gas heater exploded in his home. Roused from his bed, he found his chauffeur unconscious and dragged him to safety. He was also one of Hollywood’s favorite bosses. Most people who worked for Lloyd stayed with him. He valued his “gag men” and paid them top dollar. Some earned as much as $800 per week—an outrageous amount considering the average worker in 1925 pulled in about $25 each week. Other studio employees were equally important. Lloyd kept many of them on the payroll year-round—whether they were working or not. He often insisted that the workday end at three p.m. to allow his cast and crew some recreational time for a friendly game of handball. He believed that the sport was a great stress reliever and an even better way to keep trim, not to mention the camaraderie and loyalty it fostered.
For all his popularity, Lloyd, who never wore his horn-rimmed glasses off-screen, was rarely recognized in public. He once recalled:
I’d be with Doug Fairbanks and Mary Pickford and heck, I’d get pushed out of the way. The people wanted them, not me. Without the glasses, no one ever recognized me.
Inspiration Pictures, founded by New York attorney Charles H. Duell along with Director Henry King and his actor-partner Richard Barthelmess, was another production company that claimed its own success. Their hit film Tol’able David (1921) won several international awards and set a precedent for Inspiration movies to come. King didn’t disappoint. He delivered when he took on The White Sister (1923), which was based on a novel by writer Francis Marion Crawford. Crawford’s story takes place in Italy where the heroine is engaged to a military man whom she believes has been killed. In sorrow, she joins the convent, but after taking her final vows as a sister of God, her fiancé makes a shocking return.
Bringing Up Oscar: The Story of the Men and Women Who Founded the Academy Page 20
