King cast experienced actress Lillian Gish in the lead role, but for the part of the soldier, he spotted a newcomer—British stage actor Ronald Colman. A former soldier himself, Colman was seriously wounded in World War I and discharged from the service before becoming an actor. King, however, wanted a little more edge to his leading man. He is credited with penciling a thin mustache along Colman’s stiff upper lip giving the character his dash. The mustache was such a hit that Colman grew a permanent one.
For filming, King took his company to Rome. His art director, Robert Haas, designed a set with French windows. King tried to tell him that there were no French windows in Rome. The disbelieving Haas and the insistent director took a ride through several Roman neighborhoods to find that no one in the city had French windows. The set was redesigned and the French windows removed.
King even called upon the Catholic Church for assistance with the secular ceremony in which Gish becomes a nun. The director later described “a short, fat little priest” who came to the set carrying a script. Through an interpreter, the man of God staged the ceremony over the next eleven hours, careful to include every celebratory detail. The next morning King shot the scene. Only later did he discover that the rotund clergyman was the Vatican’s head ceremonial director—an expert’s expert.
The movie’s finale involved a dramatic eruption of Mt. Vesuvius. For this scene, King went to the mountain. He, along with a guide, a cameraman and other crewmembers, rode by horseback to the top of the volcano hoping to capture some of nature’s dramatics on film. Recalled King:
Well, we carried on up the side of the main crater and I wanted to look inside it. The hole in the top was about sixty feet across and it was banked up with ashes. I had a Leica. I gave it to the cameraman and told him to photograph me when I reached the edge. Well, the heat was so intense I couldn’t stand it. It singed my eyebrows and my hair. When I came back my face was blood red and the guide was lying on his stomach, praying. I asked him what the matter was. “Only one other man ever did that,” he said. “The bank of ashes gave way and he went right on in.” I never thought of that; I was just being stupid. That little expedition took twelve hours—but we got our film.…
King’s partner at Inspiration Pictures, Richard Barthelmess, was one of the silent screen’s favorite sons. While he continued making crowd-pleasing movies for the company, including several directed by King, Barthelmess’ private life took a colorful turn. In early 1925, he returned from Guantanamo, Cuba on board a Navy battleship where he was researching his role as a sailor in Shore Leave (1925). Back in New York, he was briefly hospitalized for treatment of an abscess amidst a swirl of rumors concerning his five-year-old marriage to entertainer Mary Hay.
By now, Hay, a former Ziegfeld girl, had discovered a new dance partner, Clifton Webb. The energetic stage couple was featured regularly at Ciro’s, a popular New York nightclub—until the place got padlocked for serving illegal hooch. After the Volstead Act violation, Hay and Webb hit the vaudeville circuit, taking the nine-man band from Ciro’s with them. Their comedic dance routines could always be counted on to please the crowd.
By mid-May, Hay admitted that she and her husband were separated, but denied that they were divorcing. She blamed their separation on business—she and partner Webb were committed to dancing in Europe while Barthelmess had contractual duties in the States, forcing them apart. That didn’t explain why Barthelmess moved into New York’s Algonquin Hotel the month before. Their toddler daughter, Mary, born in 1923, was to remain with Barthelmess during Hay’s absence. More permanent custody arrangements would be worked out upon the dancer’s return to California. But no one was talking about a divorce.
Later that same month, Barthelmess was the only passenger on a short flight from Norfolk, Virginia to Anacostia. A Navy man, Lieutenant Teneyck Dew Veeder, piloted the small plane. The officer was suddenly stricken with what was believed to be a heart attack just as he prepared to land the plane. Once the plane stopped on the runway, Veeder lost consciousness. When he failed to turn off the engines, Barthelmess tried to get the ailing man’s attention, but there was no response. Emergency workers were brought in. They tried to revive him, but Veeder died at the scene—a hero for bringing his plane and his passenger down safely despite the medical emergency that proved fatal.
Regardless of his ongoing personal mishaps, Barthelmess maintained his matinée idol cool and continued to be one of Hollywood’s top box office draws. From the drama of The Enchanted Cottage (1924) to the comedy of Shore Leave (1925), the handsome actor stayed in his audience’s good graces. Of course, the ladies might have admired him just a little more now that he was raising a daughter alone.
Director Frank Lloyd also had a daughter, Alma, whom he often cast as an extra in many of his top-grossing films. Lloyd not only liked romance and drama, but he also took pride in getting things right. By 1924, when he helmed the swashbuckling epic Sea Hawk, based on the novel by writer Rafael Sabatini, his reputation for fine work was established. The seafaring adventure starred actor Milton Sills. He played Sir Oliver Tressilian, a British knight who later turned into Sakr-el-Bahr, a Sea Hawk, or pirate. The film employed thousands of extras and called for elaborate sets, as well as detailed period costumes.
Four sixteenth century-like ships measuring over 100 feet in length were built, along with a pier, on the northeast end of Catalina Island. Set builders also constructed a three-story Algerian slave house complete with a minaret as well as three other similarly themed structures. The Los Angeles Times also reported on the vast amount of props used for the film:
… There were 213 cannon made especially for the production, of three different types, Spanish, English and Moorish … There were 400 Spanish muskets, 200 English muskets and 400 Moorish rifles of the sixteenth century. Five hundred spears and 300 battle axes. Six hundred brass shields, several hundred helmets of three styles, hundreds of bows and arrows, 150 cross bows … powder horns, ancient water buckets, barrels, ammunition kegs, casks, blankets, scimitars, dueling swords … sabers, cutlasses, lanterns … candles, rum bottles (entirely empty) …
Working more than 65 miles from the studio and forty miles from the nearest harbor in San Pedro made a daily commute impossible. Crew-members erected over 100 tents for workers to live in, plus a dining hall, a barbershop, a bathhouse and an executive office. Dubbed “Camp Lloyd,” supplies arrived daily by boat and, every other day, an aeroplane dropped off new film and returned negatives to the main studio for processing. To alleviate boredom, nightly entertainment consisted of boxing matches, band concerts and whatever else the group could muster.
Lloyd also took pride in righting wrongs. The California State tax law imposed a three-cents-per-gallon gas tax for gasoline used on the highways. Lloyd complained to the State Treasurer’s office because he paid this tax on gasoline purchased for the film’s four ships. He pointed out that his ships never once entered a public road. The state presented Lloyd with a $252 check—the first refund given since the tax law took effect the year before.
It was no wonder that Lloyd’s doctors advised him to rest once filming ended. He packed up his family and headed to Japan, China and Hawaii for several months in the fall of 1925. Shortly after his return, Lloyd was hospitalized and required surgery after an attack of appendicitis.
By the time Sea Hawk wrapped, its star, Milton Sills, was at the top of his professional game. Prior to his huge success as Sakr-el-Bahr, Sills freelanced, working at several major studios. He filmed Dangerous to Men (1920) with Viola Dana for Metro Pictures and appeared opposite Lois Wilson in Lulu Bett (1921) for Famous Players-Lasky. By 1924, he was ready to settle down professionally and signed a long-term contract with First National where he starred in Sea Hawk, after which his career soared even higher. Now more than just a handsome and sophisticated matinée idol, Sills was a super hero.
At home, super hero status did not apply. In the fall of 1925, his wife, Gladys, filed for divorce claiming desertion. She st
ated that her husband permanently left her on August 11, 1924. In a letter, Sills wrote: “Close and sealed forever, any possibility of my ever living again under the same roof with Gladys. I shall never again go back to Hollywood and the old home or let her come to New York to live with me.”
Their divorce was final on October 11, 1926 with Gladys, who never remarried, given full custody of their daughter, Dorothy. The very next day, Sills married actress Doris Kenyon, one of his previous costars. The couple wed in a quiet ceremony overlooking Silver Lake in the Adirondacks near Ausable Forks, New York where Kenyon owned a summer home. It was reported that the bride had been quite ill; therefore, the guests were limited to immediate family. According to Sills’ daughter, Gladys tried to commit suicide that same day.
After their honeymoon, Sills and Kenyon returned to Hollywood. Still considered one of the most intelligent and well-read actors in the business, the serious-minded Sills often drove reporters batty. During interviews, he liked to discuss the distance between stars, the speed of light or the joys of growing phlox divaricata in his garden. Philosophy, along with the meaning of Shakespeare, was also among his favorite topics. Interviewers were always relieved when the conversation turned to the movies and Sills’ current film. One reporter affectionately referred to the actor as “filmdom’s pet highbrow.”
Whether they worked for a major or minor studio, or simply struck out on their own, Hollywood heavyweights took command. Directors, actors, exhibitors and producers shared one common goal—the continued success and growth of the motion picture industry.
Chapter Sixteen
THE GANG’S ALL HERE
A mention of the Roaring Twenties conjures up images of short-skirted flappers, serious marathon dancing and illegal speakeasies where horn-blowing bands showcased a new, controversial sound called jazz. But there was more to this decade than a quick-kicking Charleston and a long raccoon coat. It was a time of rebellion, a time of cultural change and a time for risk takers to act.
European borders shifted as various treaties were signed following World War I. Germany, still recovering from The Great War, found new interest in a young Nazi leader. “Il Duce,” Italy’s current prime minister, was putting the squeeze on his country’s king, Victor Emmanuel. King Tut’s tomb was discovered near Luxor. Catholic Pope Benedict XV proclaimed the young French heroine Joan of Arc a saint. Mexico was absorbed in its own violent rebellion while a powerful earthquake terrorized Japan. Toronto scientists discovered how to extract insulin from dogs giving hope to diabetics.
In America, country folk were deserting the farm for the big city. Women, seeking independence, finally gained the right to vote while Native Americans were promoted from their tribal ranks to U.S. citizens. Congress passed the Emergency Quota Act limiting the number of incoming immigrants in an attempt to appease Americans who now feared the influx of foreigners. Boston baseball hero Babe Ruth moved out of the Red Sox dugout and into New York. Names like Al Capone, Charles Darwin and Lucky Lindy made the news.
Henry Ford revolutionized life in the factories with his forty-hour workweek and assembly-line approach to manufacturing. His affordable Model Ts were quickly becoming part of the landscape that now included concrete roads and gas stations. Families gathered around the radio for in-house entertainment and mother used a telephone when she needed to catch father at work. Flying remained mostly for thrill-seekers, but barnstormers still drew wide-eyed crowds who preferred to watch while keeping their own feet on the ground.
Flickers had turned into features and larger studios were replacing many of the smaller production companies. During the 1920s, Hollywood’s Big Five Studios rose to prominence: Warner Bros. Pictures, Paramount Pictures (formerly Famous Players-Lasky Corporation), Radio-Keith-Orpheum (RKO) Pictures, Metro-Goldywn-Mayer and Fox Film Corporation. In addition, three smaller studios also evolved: Universal Pictures, United Artists and Columbia Pictures. The major difference? The Big Five owned their own theater chains while the Little Three had none.
In order to sell movie tickets, the studios needed stars. Producers competed by offering higher and higher salaries to those bankable stars that guaranteed big box office. Eventually, those high dollars drew public criticism that claimed these extravagant salaries were decadent and made the film industry look bad. Reformers who belonged to church groups, ladies’ clubs and other civic-minded organizations had already won their battle with the bottle. Now, they targeted Hollywood where they believed fast cars and even faster women prevailed. For highly paid stars that lacked discipline, the “easy” money came too quickly and gave way to evil excess. Their palatial homes were too large; their fancy clothes too garish; their lavish spending too wasteful. Morality was tossed aside as divorce, adultery and drug use took precedence setting shameful examples for Christian-raised youth. “Sin City” and its inhabitants must be cleaned up—much like the booze factor was a few years before with the start of Prohibition.
In Hollywood, there was no common ground where decision-makers could meet to ward off these accusations. Instead of being proactive, authority figures reacted, one voice at a time, to all of the bad press. Lacking industry standards and guidelines, Hollywood also faced its own unrest. Infighting between the various factions was another problem; directors, producers, actors, writers and technicians often played the blame game when things went wrong—or even when they didn’t. As a result, these individual groups were gaining strength with talk of unionizing. In addition, technology was advancing faster than anyone was prepared for; sound was coming and bringing with it a complete overhaul of “business as usual.”
As 1926 turned into 1927, MGM headman Louis B. Mayer was troubled by this unstable climate that threatened the continued success of the film industry. Something had to be done, but he couldn’t do it alone. In early 1927, Mayer invited Fred Niblo, Conrad Nagel and Fred Beetson to dinner at his Santa Monica beach house—all men he respected for their ability to get things done. The foursome discussed the many woes that currently faced the motion picture industry and they came to one conclusion—Hollywood lacked unity and it was time to regroup. Niblo, Nagel and Beetson all had past experience with various work-related organizations and it was only natural for these particular men to think along these lines. Mayer heartily agreed.
Now, more than ever, they felt that Hollywood needed a single authoritative voice to speak out on its behalf. Stand alone and go down with declining ticket sales or present a united front and move forward with a positive spin. If they could establish a single organization made up of Hollywood’s finest writers, producers, actors, directors, and technicians, they might be able to ward off an angry public, clean up their tarnished image, promote their good works and resolve their own inner conflicts. And with any luck, they might even be able to pave the way for the next generation of filmmakers.
Inspired by their dinner conversation and believing they could make a difference, Mayer, Niblo, Nagel and Beetson each contacted a cross-section of those industry leaders who, in 1927, were at the top of their game. They explained their idea of organizing a single group to represent them all, and their plan was well received. Encouraged by the positive feedback, Mayer arranged for a banquet to be held at Los Angeles’ Ambassador Hotel on January 11, 1927. There is no official record of who was actually invited to dinner that night, but the following men and women stepped forward, prepared to take action:
THE PRODUCERS
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Charles H. Christie—Considered one of the first movie moguls, Christie ran the internationally known Christie Film Company, which specialized in comedies, along with his younger brother Al. The two men also established the Christie Realty Corporation. Aside from his movie work, Christie was very influential around town. He was heavily involved in various Hollywood organizations and community efforts ranging from dog shows to chamber of commerce initiatives. The Christies were also looking for new property in the San Fernando Valley hoping to expand their production facilities. Most recently, p
artner-brother Al was in a serious auto accident that killed actress Marie Prevost’s mother.
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Milton E. Hoffman—Back from Britain where he opened a studio for the Famous Players-Lasky Corporation, Hoffman was now the company’s executive manager on the West Coast. The studio had recently moved from the old Vine Street location to Melrose Avenue. Highly respected for his efficiency, hard work and many years associated with the film business, he was soon to take on his greatest challenge as president of the Central Motion Picture District—an organization responsible for the development of movie studios in and around Los Angeles. The group was about to invest $20,000,000 in the construction of a new film center called Studio City.
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Jesse L. Lasky—Now Adolph Zukor’s partner and head of production at Famous Players-Lasky Corporation, Lasky was in charge of one of the world’s largest motion picture companies. Their groundbreaking movie, It (1927), starring ultimate flapper Clara Bow, was about to be released and make Bow Hollywood’s very first “It Girl.” At home, the forty-six-year-old Lasky was the father of three—two sons and a daughter. His elaborate Hollywood estate was one of the first to have a tennis court and swimming pool built on the premises. The press reported that Lasky was worth about $20,000,000 and that he carried a life insurance policy valued at $5,000,000.
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M.C. Levee—In 1926, Levee sold his impressive United Studios to Famous Players-Lasky. He then accepted a position as General Executive Business Manager at First National. With the many department heads reporting directly to him, Levee took care of the company’s business side. Well respected for his keen insight into studio mechanics, he also supervised the construction of First National’s new $2,000,000 studio. Located on Olive Avenue in Burbank, the original site covered almost eighty acres that included a hog farm. After its completion, the sprawling facility boasted thirty buildings with four enormous stages and a restaurant.
Bringing Up Oscar: The Story of the Men and Women Who Founded the Academy Page 21
