As sound transformed the movie industry, Sills had little to worry about. Unlike many of his contemporaries who couldn’t progress into a talking world, his professionally trained stage voice came across well on-screen. His first film for Fox was a crime drama mixed with a little music—an innovative gimmick in those early days of sound. Man Trouble (1930) paired him up with former Ziegfeld girl Dorothy Mackaill. Sills was such a hit as the hard-hearted nightclub owner who falls for the pretty lass that Fox offered him a long-term contract. Now assured of his leading man status, his second picture for Fox was The Sea Wolf (1929) based on an adventure novel by author Jack London. Sills, in one of his finest roles, played no-nonsense sea captain Wolf Larsen. With his compelling performances and his equally strong voice, it wasn’t sound that ended Sills’ career—it was an unreliable heart.
Six days before his latest picture was scheduled for release, Sills was on his tennis court. The forty-eight-year-old star wasn’t particularly well that day, but still felt up to lobbing the ball with his wife, daughter and her friend, Ted Lawton. Despite the pain he felt in his left shoulder, he continued with his game until he suddenly collapsed. Lawton and scenarist John Goodrich, a long-time friend who was also visiting that day, carried Sills into the house. Medical help was summoned but despite their best efforts, the emergency team could not revive Hollywood’s pet highbrow.
Felled by a heart attack and the first founding member to lose his life, Sills’ unexpected death on September 15, 1930 shocked Hollywood and left his fans stunned. Sills’ final movie, Sea Wolf, debuted two days after his funeral. The well-received talking picture would have assured the silent matinée idol a solid future in the new world of sound.
Adjusting to sound was something most Hollywood heavyweights had to contend with regardless of their job descriptions. Title writers like Joseph Farnham found themselves on the verge of extinction. If they couldn’t write dialogue, they were out of work. Still considered one of the best in his field, Farnham penned titles for eighteen movies in 1927 alone.
In addition to the Academy, Farnham was also a founding member of a new organization established exclusively for title writers—the Titular Bishops. It was an elite group with only nine members who earned anywhere from $50,000 to $150,000 each year. Made up mostly of former newspapermen, these individuals rose to the top of their ranks and were known for their extravagant lifestyles. One member, Malcolm Stuart Boylan, wrote about the group in an article for the New York Times:
… The membership clings jealously to the original nine, and to break into the sacred membership is no more difficult than getting into the College of Cardinals.… but the screen is a fickle mistress and tomorrow a distressing phenomenon may take place. The enchanted nine may haul up at their several studios to find that nine other young upstarts, heretofore unknown, are seated on the inflated cushions. Then, perhaps, there will be a membership drive for the Titular Bishops and a refurbishing of Rolls-Royces to make them last another year.
In 1928, Farnham was still creating titles with thirteen films to his name. The next year, his multiple title writing credits were topped off with a scenario about university life, So This is College (1929) featuring actors Robert Montgomery and Elliott Nugent. The two men played college senior football players, Biff and Eddie, who were best friends, as well as roommates, until flapper Babs Baxter came between them. She not only jeopardized their friendship, but also the school’s biggest football game.
That same year, the Academy honored Farnham with an Award of Merit for Best Writing (Title Cards) at their first annual award ceremony. He took top honors for the titles he penned in Fair Co-Ed (1927), Laugh Clown, Laugh (1928), and Telling the World (1928). It was the one and only time that the Academy designated an award for this category as sound soon replaced silence and made title writing obsolete, which brings to mind another distinction Farnham holds. Still working for MGM, but now developing dialogue, the forty-seven-year-old writer also died from heart disease on June 3, 1931 at his Beverly Hills home, making him the first Award of Merit winner to die.
Producer Irving Thalberg also had a bad heart and one of his favorite girls, comedienne Constance Talmadge, broke it. The party girl wasn’t interested in settling down with a film executive like her sister, Norma, so she ended their romance. Thalberg consoled himself by squiring several starlets around Hollywood, including a young actress from Montreal by the name of Norma Shearer. He thought Shearer had on-screen potential and put her under contract at MGM. Shearer referred to herself as “Irving’s spare tire”—he only asked her out when no one else was available.
Shearer, however, was smitten and made up her mind to one day marry the boss. Eventually, Thalberg noticed. He especially admired her individualism—like the time she sported a shocking red dress at a ball where the ladies were specifically told to wear white. He liked her devotion to the movies. He was also impressed when the clever Shearer went out of her way to make friends with his mother, Henrietta, and sister Sylvia.
One afternoon, the practical Thalberg called Shearer into his office and presented her with a tray of diamond rings. She simply picked one out—a large blue marquis and the deed was done. They married shortly thereafter on September 29, 1927. Shearer’s brother, Douglas, gave the bride away with Mayer acting as best man and Sylvia maid of honor. After a brief honeymoon on the Monterey Peninsula, Shearer moved into her husband’s home where Henrietta ruled.
The newlyweds stayed in separate bedrooms as Mama Thalberg took care of her son, the way she always had. Despite her mother-in-law’s shortcomings, Shearer liked being part of Hollywood’s upper echelon and her status at the studio took a leap. Shearer often got the plum roles much to the dismay of other MGM actresses. Joan Crawford once moaned. “How can I compete with Norma when she sleeps with the boss?” Not on Henrietta’s watch.
Shortly after the Thalberg-Shearer nuptials, The Jazz Singer (1927) debuted. Initially, Thalberg wasn’t impressed, but he soon realized that talking pictures were not just a passing fad. If MGM wanted to remain on top, they had to make themselves heard. It was unfamiliar ground and Thalberg needed someone he could trust. His brother-in-law, Doug Shearer, had an engineering background so Thalberg put him in charge of a new sound department. MGM then officially began the multifaceted process of upgrading their silent film studio to a modern moviemaking facility.
Once Thalberg realized the benefits of sound, he took things further. Instead of just dialogue, he wanted ringing telephones and slamming doors. Then came the challenge of MGM’s first all-talking picture, Broadway Melody (1929), a singing and dancing extravaganza. When Thalberg viewed the final cut, he wasn’t happy with one of the musical numbers and ordered it reshot. Doug Shearer suggested that they use the original sound recording and sync it up with the new action—effectively cutting the cost of recalling an entire live orchestra. As a result, the first playback system was devised and Thalberg triumphed with an Academy Award for Best Picture.
That year, in addition to converting the studio to sound, Thalberg was responsible for the production of approximately fifty pictures. During pre-production, he met with directors and writers, meticulously going over each script. He approved the players, costumes and sets. He also took charge of publicity and advertising. During filming, he oversaw the budget and settled disputes. He also resolved production issues giving advice to his crew when they asked and sometimes when they didn’t.
Once the movie was finished, he stepped in again. “Movies aren’t made, they’re remade,” he acknowledged altering the old adage “writing is rewriting.” Thalberg perfected the post-production previews, which ran in front of test audiences. Their reactions would then be carefully measured. If people voiced dissatisfaction, scenes were reshot, even if the sets had to be rebuilt and the entire cast reassembled. In addition to his demanding day job, he also sat on the Academy’s Producers-Technicians Joint Committee as well as the Committee on College Affairs.
At home, Shearer gave birth to a son,
Irving Grant, Jr., on August 24, 1930 and the Thalbergs finally moved into a place of their own—away from Henrietta. Then fate smiled even more on Thalberg when he crossed paths with a young unknown, Clark Gable. He cast the unpolished actor as a gangster in A Free Soul (1931), opposite Shearer. This was a pivotal role for Gable. As Shearer’s leading man, the script required him to shove her down. Surprisingly, audiences loved the rough stuff and a new kind of movie hero emerged.
Thalberg went on making box office history with Grand Hotel (1932) and its all-star cast. Up until then, it was considered a waste of talent to have more than two famous players in the same movie. For this film, however, Thalberg insisted that an MGM star portray each of the main characters. He cast John and Lionel Barrymore, along with Greta Garbo, Joan Crawford and Wallace Beery. The film cost over $700,000 but it not only made money for the studio, it claimed another Best Picture Award of Merit.
By 1932, MGM was financially sound, but due to the Great Depression, profits were down. With an annual salary of $500,000, Thalberg continued churning out successful pictures. His relationship with Mayer, however, was strained. Thalberg believed that Mayer and his New York boss, Nicholas Schenck, now top man at Loew’s, Inc., were getting rich off of his accomplishments. As for Mayer, he felt threatened by Thalberg’s growing power over the studio.
Thalberg’s grueling schedule continued but physically, he was wearing down. On September 5, 1932, the untimely death of his friend and MGM colleague, producer Paul Bern, from a reportedly self-inflicted gunshot wound, devastated Thalberg who just three months earlier, had witnessed Bern’s marriage to the glamorous Jean Harlow. The resulting rumors of Bern’s impotency were even harder to deal with. Thalberg’s taxing work responsibilities and his emotional overload took a toll. Often irritable and tired, he wanted nothing more than a relaxing trip to Europe. Besides, he knew that at age 32, he had already outlived his doctors’ most optimistic predictions.
It wasn’t long before fate intervened. On Christmas morning, 1932, Thalberg was struck at home by another heart attack. This time, his doctors chose not to admit him to the hospital. They just sent him to bed, feeling that rest would do more for him than anything a hospital could offer at the time. Shearer kept everyone away including Henrietta, Mayer and Schenck. By February, Thalberg was feeling well enough to take that long-awaited European cruise.
Before the Thalbergs’ departure, Mayer, with Shearer’s approval, paid her husband a visit. He explained that in order for MGM to continue running smoothly, Mayer had no choice but to replace him. Mayer chose his son-in-law, David O. Selznick, current head of RKO studios, for the job. Mayer even gave him a unique contract that included freedom from Thalberg’s leadership. Unlike the other MGM producers, Selznick would report directly to Mayer and Schenck.
Thalberg was furious. As much as he respected Selznick, he knew he had been undermined. His MGM team agreed and Selznick’s presence caused a major rift within the studio. The Thalberg camp supported their ailing leader while Camp Mayer stayed loyal to Louis B.
On June 13, 1933, Thalberg was still relaxing on the French Riviera when he received a telegram from Mayer. MGM had been reorganized. Thalberg’s job as Head of Production was eliminated. Mayer’s telegram didn’t mention that he also offered each of Thalberg’s crew their own individual production units. Unknown to Thalberg, the subordinates he left behind would now be his peers.
When Thalberg returned home via New York, he met with Schenck who strategically offered him a filmmaking unit of his own. Schenk also assured the former Head of Production that he would have sole control of his unit and could choose whatever projects he wanted. Loew’s headman further explained that due to Thalberg’s failing health, no one expected him to carry the same workload as he had before. Most importantly, Thalberg would not report to Mayer, but directly to Schenck.
The deposed Thalberg had his own agenda, however. He wanted to film the story of Marie Antoinette starring Shearer as well as produce a musical version of The Merry Widow. Once Schenck gave his blessings to both projects, Thalberg agreed to the new arrangements.
Upon his return to MGM in August 1933, Thalberg discovered the truth. Instead of being in charge of MGM productions, he must now compete with other studio producers including Selznick. Despite his loss of power, Thalberg remained successful producing such classics as Mutiny on the Bounty (1935), The Barretts of Wimpole Street (1936) and Marie Antoinette (1938).
Selznick had his own MGM triumphs including Dinner at Eight (1933), which curiously boasted an all-star cast, much like its predecessor, Grand Hotel (1932). Mayer’s son-in-law knew, however, that he didn’t receive the same warmth or loyalty from the staff that Thalberg did and was savvy enough to realize he never would. Against his father-in-law’s wishes, he ultimately left MGM to start a production company of his own. Always an admirer of Selznick’s high standards, Thalberg quietly invested money in the new venture.
At home, Shearer was once again expecting. When it was time for the baby to come, Shearer, always the protector, refused to disturb her busy husband at work. After their daughter, Katherine, arrived on June 13, 1935, she sent word to the new father that all was well.
Thalberg continued working long hours, often coming home exhausted. Shearer begged him to lessen his workload. His solution was to hold meetings and story conferences at home. Late in the summer of 1936, Thalberg was given a fifty-page summary of Margaret Mitchell’s Civil War novel, Gone With the Wind. Thalberg liked it, but declined. “No more epics for me now. Just give me a little drawing-room drama. I’m tired. I’m just too tired.”
And Thalberg was tired. Rundown, he caught a cold that Labor Day weekend while visiting the Monterey Peninsula. Back home, he was diagnosed with strep throat. Routine treatment failed and he quickly weakened. Shearer brought in a heart specialist from New York who assured everyone that Thalberg’s heart was strong, but his health did not improve. Arrangements were made to fly him to the Mayo Clinic where doctors could try a new drug, but he wasn’t strong enough to travel.
Within days, his condition grew grave as he coughed up blood and shook with chills. He asked for one of his secretaries and, attempting to humor him, Shearer sent for her. By the time the woman arrived, Thalberg had slipped into a coma. On September 15, 1936, his tired heart allowed one final beat. Always a fighter, he had outlived doctors’ original prediction by almost a decade. News of his death hit Hollywood hard.
Two days later, MGM suspended the day’s production while Irving Grant Thalberg was laid to rest. Throughout Hollywood, movie productions at other studios paused for a moment of silence. President Roosevelt sent his condolences. “The world of art is poorer with the passing of Irving Thalberg. His high ideals, insight and imagination went into the production of his masterpieces …”
During his lifetime, Thalberg refused to allow his name to appear in any of the films he produced. “Credit you give yourself isn’t worth having,” he explained. His final movie, The Good Earth (1937), released after his death, was the only one that carried his name. Mayer authorized a title card to be seen before the credits, which read:
To the Memory of Irving Grant Thalberg
We Dedicate this Picture, His Last Great Achievement.
In 1937, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences embodied his memory in a statuette honoring “a creative producer who has been responsible for a consistently high quality of motion picture production.” The much-coveted Irving G. Thalberg Memorial Award has been given to such distinctive filmmakers as Cecil B. DeMille, Walt Disney, and George Lucas. Even though the award is presented at the Academy Awards ceremony, it’s not given out every year—and it doesn’t even look like an Oscar. It looks like Irving Thalberg.
While Thalberg was the youngest founding member of the Academy, Frank Woods was the oldest. In addition to being the Academy’s first Secretary, he was actively involved in their arbitration process. Woods proudly told journalist Edwin Schallert that within the Academy’s first ye
ar, approximately thirty disputes were resolved along with fifty informal complaints. He was also happy to report that many legal proceedings were averted due to the Academy’s intervention.
Woods also continued his work with the Motion Picture Relief Fund. By mid-1929, many Hollywood employees, including once highly paid actors and directors, were financially strapped. He saw a fifty percent increase in requests for assistance because so many were out of work while studios made the transition to talking pictures. Film production slowed down while sound stages were built and theaters wired to accommodate the latest technology. Woods remained optimistic that once the adjustments were made, production would pick up again and more jobs would become available.
As for new writers, Woods had some very practical advice: Don’t submit a manuscript directly to a studio—write a book or a Broadway play first. Studios were always interested in adapting successful works from other mediums for the silver screen. They were not so anxious to do business with unknown penmen. In 1931, Woods further explained the industry’s position:
It is impossible now for anyone not an established writer to sell an original story to the studios unless he has some friend inside. The studios simply won’t read originals unless they come from established writers. They do not even receive them, but return them unopened. That is because they have had to fight so many suits. Clever crooks … would send in stories in which a boy and a girl fell in love with each other and, after a few heartaches, married. They would have proof that they sent such a story to a certain studio on a certain date—knowing that within the next few years that studio was sure to use a story somewhat resembling theirs. The studios simply had to quit reading original stories for self-protection.
Bringing Up Oscar: The Story of the Men and Women Who Founded the Academy Page 24
