The following year, Woods’ seventy-seven-year-old brother, Arthur, was still working as a researcher for Douglas Fairbanks when he came down with pneumonia. After three days of battling the virus, he died at home leaving his wife, writer Lotta Woods and a daughter. Five years later, Woods also lost his long-time wife, Ella.
Now alone, Woods lived another two years, but at the age of seventy-nine, died at home on May 1, 1939 after a brief illness. He was remembered by L.A. Times columnist Lee Shippey as “… always a credit to his much-maligned business, being just as pure of heart and sweet of soul as any minister of the gospel, and I’ve met plenty who weren’t as clean of speech as he was.”
A founder and active member of many professional groups including the Writer’s Club, the Screen Writers Guild, and as the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, Woods was one of Hollywood’s most respected citizens. Considered the film industry’s first serious film critic, as well as the first writer to pen a feature-length photoplay, Birth of a Nation (1915), Woods revolutionized filmmaking. From off-the-cuff ideas to carefully thought out photoplays, “Daddy” Woods not only witnessed the evolution of film, but helped shape those early flickers into an art form.
Compared to Frank Woods, Douglas Fairbanks was a latecomer. He entered the movies in 1916 at the urgings of D.W. Griffith after a successful stage career. Now an international celebrity and first President of the Academy, Fairbanks was married to “America’s Sweetheart,” Mary Pickford. The couple lived a sumptuous lifestyle at Pickfair—so named by the press.
The eighteen-acre estate was Fairbanks’ wedding gift to his wife. As befitted the top box office stars of their time, their hilltop home was situated on Summit Drive in a little-known area to the west of Hollywood called Beverly Hills. Their residence had two large wings with a magnificent view of the Pacific Ocean. On the grounds, a private beach surrounded their oyster-shaped swimming pool. Before long, other film industry giants were building their own mansions nearby and Beverly Hills became a popular place for Hollywood’s elite. Party or not, the dinner table was always ready for 15 guests since Fairbanks had a habit of inviting “funny people” to dinner, as Pickford once described her husband’s acquaintances.
A golden couple by any standards, the Fairbanks lavished each other with gifts and were inseparable for the first eight years of their marriage. They never spent one night apart. Together, they met the world head-on leading parades, attending dedications and working on charity drives. In between pictures, they traveled around the world. As they partied with royalty and played with aristocrats, the Fairbanks enchanted them all.
Each, however, was driven by their own differences. Pickford felt compelled by the duty that came with her position in Hollywood while Fairbanks just went along for the fun. She enjoyed the movie capital, while he wanted the world. Pickford preferred being home, making films and tending to social functions. A victim of wanderlust, Fairbanks relished adventure, traveling to faroff and exotic places. Eventually, Pickford grew tired of life on the road and wanted to settle down. Bored within the confines of Hollywood, Fairbanks took to traveling alone.
At work, Fairbanks’ newest release, The Gaucho (1927), had the misfortune of competing with Hollywood’s first talking picture, The Jazz Singer (1927), which eclipsed most of its silver screen rivals by the sheer novelty of hearing Al Jolson sing while he moved about on-screen. To make matters worse, Fairbanks played an outlaw who had no redeeming qualities, which didn’t endear audiences to the character. Of course, he changed for the better by the movie’s end because the censors wouldn’t have it any other way, but it didn’t help at the box office.
His final swashbuckler and last silent film was The Iron Mask (1929) where he reprised his role as D’Artagnan. The two had much in common—both still affective, but aging. Their long and successful careers were fading. At the end of The Iron Mask, and only after our hero rescued his country and everyone in it, he looked up to see a wispy vision of his co-musketeers who preceded him to the great beyond. They beckoned D’Artagnan to join them. As his body dropped to the ground, his spirit leaped upward, happy to reunite with his brothers, and poignantly marked the end of an era.
By now, Fairbanks was forty-six years old and there was only so much leaping and lunging left in him. Talkies were quickly replacing silent movies, but it wasn’t his voice that finished him. He sounded fine. The new medium just didn’t suit that grandiose Fairbanks style. After an unusually long run with more successes than most of his peers, his star was simply dimming as was Pickford’s who was just getting too old to play the coquettish young girls people wanted to see her as. The super couple filmed one talking picture together, The Taming of the Shrew (1929), but ticket sales were down. The Great Depression along with the audience’s changing taste didn’t help either. Four pictures later, in 1934, our hero stopped making movies altogether.
By now, Fairbanks usually traveled alone. During one such trip to Europe, he met Lady Sylvia Ashley—a title she gained through marriage. As Fairbanks dallied with the still-married Ashley, Pickford kept company with a much younger Buddy Rogers. Despite several half-hearted attempts to patch things up, Hollywood’s golden couple remained on shaky ground. Then the Fairbanks-Ashley affair went public when her lordly husband sued for divorce citing Fairbanks as the reason why. A humiliated Pickford reached her breaking point and on December 8, 1933, she sued Fairbanks for divorce claiming mental anguish. Devastated, Fairbanks returned home begging her forgiveness. She refused. Two years later, their divorce was final. Hollywood’s royal couple was no more, signaling an end of the era of silent film glory in more ways than one.
Looking for a diversion, Fairbanks traveled to New York with his son, now an actor in his own right. The two men talked of filming a movie together, but one morning when Doug, Jr. was supposed to meet his father for breakfast, the elder Fairbanks had vanished. He had impulsively booked passage for Europe the night before and was already at sea. Shortly after his departure, a telegram arrived for him, and in his absence, the desk clerk gave it to his son. The message was from Pickford. She wanted Fairbanks to come home.
Doug, Jr. frantically searched his father’s room for the name of the ship he was sailing on. It took some time to place the call, but when he finally reached his father, Doug, Jr. read him the telegram. Fairbanks didn’t believe him. He accused his son of lying and always taking Pickford’s side before abruptly hanging up. He continued on to Europe and on March 7, 1936, married Lady Ashley in Paris. The following year, Pickford wed Buddy Rogers.
When the new Mr. and Mrs. Fairbanks returned from abroad, they settled into a quiet life at Fairbanks’ Santa Monica beach house—mostly entertaining her friends. Gone were the lavish parties with Chaplin and Barrymore and the dedicated staff that surrounded the once-agile actor. He no longer had an executive suite at the studio, or a gymnasium or a Turkish bath. Now in his fifties, Fairbanks was no longer the top man in Hollywood—something he couldn’t accept.
Several weeks after Britain’s Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain officially declared war on Germany, 56-year-old Fairbanks suffered a heart attack. A gregarious sportsman who always worked out, he liked being physical and took great pride in his shipshape appearance, so when doctors ordered complete bed rest, Fairbanks found it unthinkable.
Just before midnight on December 11, 1939, he requested that his nurse dim the lights and open the window so he could hear the sounds of the ocean. When asked how he was feeling, he flashed that Fairbanks grin and said: “I’ve never felt better.” Less than two hours later and totally out of character, he peacefully slipped away.
Before Fairbanks, moviegoers had never witnessed so much on-screen action. Whether he was leaping, fencing or cracking that whip, he set the standard for those who had enough nerve to follow. Without his vibrant presence and desire to dazzle, Hollywood’s patina would never have shined quite so brightly.
Chapter Nineteen
THREE MEN AND A LADY
Frank
Woods knew what he was talking about when he discussed the studios’ problems with lawsuits and screenplays. Several months after The King of Kings (1927) debuted, former film actress Valeska Suratt brought charges against Cecil B. DeMille and Jeanie Macpherson for stealing her story. She claimed that Macpherson’s script closely resembled her own, which DeMille had previously rejected. Suratt wanted one million dollars in damages. The director defended Macpherson, publicly stating that her work was based on well-known information from the bible—not on Suratt’s script. The actress lost her case.
After King of Kings (1927), Macpherson used her pen to write the photoplay for yet another DeMille drama, The Godless Girl (1929). The film starred Lina Basquette and Marie Provost who played high school students who secretly attended atheistic gatherings and ended up in reform school. The school was built on a back lot and then burned down in a spectacular fire as the camera caught dozens of extras, dressed as students, fleeing the structure. Despite some precautions, like spraying the actors’ clothes with asbestos, multiple injuries occurred. Basquette claimed her eyebrows were burned and never grew back quite the way they were. The final assault took place at the box office where the blazing film just plain flopped.
Without DeMille, Macpherson took a break from high drama as she worked for Hal Roach, penning The Devil’s Brother (1933) featuring Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy as eighteenth century Italian bandit brothers, Stanlio and Ollio. It was the funny men’s first foray into comic opera. The movie was such a hit that they tried it again a few years later with The Bohemian Girl (1936)—this time without Macpherson who by now was back with her director of choice.
When DeMille began work on Cleopatra (1934), yet another of his historical epics, Macpherson left the writing to someone else. She took on the role of head researcher. DeMille put her in charge of 12 people responsible for period architecture, interior design, props, and costumes that would bring ancient Egypt to life. For months, Macpherson and her team read all they could about the Queen of the Nile and the time period she reigned. They visited museums studying everything from hairpins to chariots making sure that any items appearing in the movie would be authentic. Under Macpherson’s direction, studio workers recreated everything Egyptian from battle gear to palatial rooms to ornate headpieces. If Cleopatra herself had visited the set, she would have felt right at home.
At the studio, Macpherson’s unusual office was right next to DeMille’s. The walls, lined with logs, gave a rustic impression of cabin life. She worked at an oversized desk, but also had an additional table with chairs and books, books, books. She once described her space as a blend between a workshop, a library and a den. Her typical workday began when she arrived at the studio between nine and ten in the morning. She spent her first hour taking care of correspondence along with routine matters that needed daily attention.
Once she had an idea, she ran it by DeMille. If he liked it, she drafted a solid story always centered on a specific theme. A stickler for details, she spent long hours researching information needed to ensure her manuscript’s authenticity. When she was finally ready to compose the actual photoplay, Macpherson preferred to write it out on paper and then let her secretary type it. After a day of writing, she often conferred with DeMille in the evening, staying as long as it took to get the job done. Her drawn-out days and DeMille’s impatience didn’t leave much time for the inspirational muse, as she once explained:
… While other authors gave themselves long vacations to woo inspiration, I sat and worked at my desk. I have found that if a director and a picture company are waiting for you to write a story for them, and you know that each day you delay means a wasting of their time and money, you’re very apt to produce the goods. Wooing inspiration is a long and thankless pastime. For the more one woos her, the farther away she flies. So I sit at my desk and work.…
Remaining with DeMille, Macpherson worked on adventure films like The Crusades (1935), which told the story of Richard the Lionhearted and The Buccaneer (1938) starring Frederic March as the pirate Jean Lafitte. In the late thirties, Macpherson traveled to Rome to work with Italian producer Vittorio Mussolini, the son of “Il Duce,” on one of his ill-fated film ventures.
In 1939, Macpherson and DeMille created a movie made up of a series of scenes from various other films depicting the history of the United States from pre-Revolutionary days through the current year. Some of the footage came from classics like Billie the Kid (1930) with Johnny Mack Brown, San Francisco (1936) with Clark Gable and The Story of Alexander Graham Bell (1939) with Don Ameche. Land of Liberty (1939) was produced by the MPPDA and made specifically for the New York’s World’s Fair with Macpherson doing some of the narration.
While filming Unconquered (1947), DeMille called upon Macpherson’s services one last time. Her girlish good looks and days as the director’s mistress may have been behind her, but he still valued her professional prowess. She made a valiant effort to assist him with the historical drama starring Gary Cooper and Paulette Goddard, but advanced cancer prevented her from finishing the job. DeMille, accompanied by his adopted son, Richard, visited Macpherson at the hospital a few days before she died. According to Richard: “[DeMille] held her hand and told her they would surely meet in the next world. She murmured that they would.”
After more than thirty years of loving, working and flying with DeMille, Macpherson fell into a coma. She died on August 26, 1946 at the age of 58. Once, when commenting about the secret to DeMille’s “bigness,” she simply said: “He will take advice from anyone—if it’s right. He won’t take it from anyone if it’s wrong.”
Like Macpherson, Roy Pomeroy was another alumnus of Paramount whose “bigness” came from his ability to create on-screen magic. From complex special effects to sound, he was the man who Paramount relied on when they needed more than just a mere mortal. Thanks to Pomeroy, director William Wellman’s war drama Wings (1927) had more than just thrilling aerial combat scenes. Audiences around the world heard buzzing planes, thunderous explosions and the staccato popping of machine-gun fire. Movies were changing and Pomeroy was at the forefront. He was even honored with an Award of Merit for his special effects in Wings. A member of the Academy’s Committee on College Affairs, he was an advocate of formal technical training for the next generation of filmmakers.
With the popularity of Wings and the tremendous success of The Jazz Singer (1927), Paramount turned to their miracle man. Designating him Director of Sound Effects, they sent Pomeroy back east to investigate various methods of recording at Western Electric and RCA. When he returned to Hollywood, Lasky described Pomeroy as “something of a sacred oracle” and the only man in town who clearly understood this mysterious new process. Pomeroy was put in charge of a committee formed by several studios including MGM and First National to study sound.
He was also assigned the task of testing the voices of all Paramount stars. The players were petrified that this powerful potentate might cast them off the mountain if he felt that their voices didn’t measure up. Pomeroy declared that Mary Pickford sounded best and approved the terrified Clara Bow, who stuttered. He also advised the studio to let others, like top Paramount player Bebe Daniels, go. Evidently, he didn’t know everything because Daniels moved on to another studio where her voice worked out just fine.
When the writer’s branch of the Academy came together to discuss sound, Pomeroy did most of the talking. He assured the members that a sound film would take one year to complete and required a very expensive budget. He further explained that strategically placed microphones must be hidden around the sets and the players’ movements limited, ensuring that they stayed within range. He also believed that there should be a significant lapse in time between speakers so befuddled spectators could adjust from one character to another. In addition, he advised that when characters speak, they should never be photographed from behind because the audience wouldn’t understand who was talking. By the end of 1928, Pomeroy had designed and was in charge of the construction
of four more sound stages at Paramount, each measuring 70 feet wide by 100 feet long.
In order to remain competitive, Paramount also needed a talking picture. Pomeroy assured Lasky and Zukor that he, and only he, could deliver the goods. He convinced them that no one else at the studio was qualified to direct a talkie because of the complex process involved. Pomeroy then demanded and got a raise from $250 to $2500 a week. Lasky later recalled in his autobiography:
So our first talkie was directed by a special-effects man who became a sound engineer by virtue of a trip through the laboratories of Western Electric and RCA. We couldn’t have treated him with more awe and homage if he had been Edison himself.
The film, Interference (1929), was shot on a small sound stage where Pomeroy, sometimes called “the Marconi of the movies,” ruled over the production from a chair. At his signal, large stage doors swung shut and after one final look over the scene, someone yelled “Interlock!,” which meant that the cameras and recorders were now in sync and ready to roll. The traditional shout of “Camera!” just didn’t work in Pomeroy’s new world. A bell would then ring ordering silence on the set followed by a flashing red light. Finally, the scene would begin. Once it was over, the doors would reopen and studio workers could continue on with their business of the day.
To help contain background noise, floors were carpeted and the actors’ shoes soundproofed with special material that cut down on unwanted squeaks and thudding footsteps. Swishing clothes and jingling jewelry also had to be dealt with. A scene in Paramount’s film Varsity (1928) required the rustling of a newspaper. Once replayed, however, it sounded more like a machine-gun spewing bullets at the bad guys. Pomeroy’s solution was to wet the pages before the paper was handled. Likewise the shrill tone of a police whistle was ear-shattering on film so Pomeroy had the whistle blower stand behind a thick curtain effectively muffling the sound.
Bringing Up Oscar: The Story of the Men and Women Who Founded the Academy Page 25
