No one was allowed inside Pomeroy’s domain except the cast and crew. The entire production was shrouded in secrecy. The miracle-man was at work and his mystical magic was not something he wanted to share. When director Victor Fleming tried to enter along with his assistant, Henry Hathaway, a policeman guarding the locked doors refused to let them in. Pomeroy had given the officer strict orders to keep everyone out. An irate Fleming stormed off to the production head’s office and protested: “Look, this guy’s got locks on his doors! Jesus Christ, are you only going to have one director for sound? … We’re all going to have to know about it. This son of a bitch, he can’t direct all the pictures.” The doors were promptly unlocked and stayed that way.
Even other studios had to deal with Pomeroy. His sound stage was one of just a few in Hollywood at that time. Other companies were forced to ask permission to use it when filming talkies of their own. If Pomeroy gave the okay, outsiders filmed only at night when he wasn’t working.
Lasky shrewdly assigned William DeMille to “assist” Pomeroy. He was quite pleased to have someone as important as a DeMille reporting to him. DeMille, however, had his own agenda and learned how to work with sound. Soon Pomeroy wasn’t the only kid in town who could handle a microphone.
Then Lasky’s oracle had a fateful run-in with David O. Selznick. When the producer mentioned that a particular actor had been cast in Paramount’s next talkie, Pomeroy was livid. He let Selznick know that no one could cast a talking picture without his approval. Finally, Paramount executives realized that other studios were producing successful talkies without Roy Pomeroy. Zukor and Lasky contacted Western Electric who sent out their own technicians to work at the studio. After sharing their knowledge, Pomeroy was no longer a mystic, but a man who could be dispensed with.
When Pomeroy demanded yet another pay hike—this time he wanted $3500 a week—his request didn’t fly with the Paramount brass. Instead, they fired him. Picked up by RKO, he directed and produced Inside the Lines (1930), a World War I spy drama.
The following year, Pomeroy tried something new. He entered the mining business. Along with a group of filmmakers, he purchased several Bullfrog district mines, which were located in southern Nevada’s Bullfrog Hills where gold had once been discovered. The group incorporated their business as the Rhyolite Consolidated Mining Company with Pomeroy as president, but he soon sold out of the unsuccessful venture.
By 1932, Pomeroy was in the midst of establishing a motion-picture technical institute and bureau of research that would work with every studio in Hollywood by assisting with their individual technical and/or special effects problems. The institute would have a complete machine shop, laboratory and storage space for specialized “mechanical miniatures.”
Pomeroy was also instrumental in fine-tuning the Dunning-Pomeroy Self-Matting Process where background scenes were filmed in one location and brought to the studio. Actors would then appear in front of a screen where the background film would run making it look as if they were in any number of exotic places when in fact they never left the soundstage.
The last movie he directed (and wrote) was another World War I drama, Shock (1934) for W.T. Lackey Productions. He spent the remaining years of his life more or less in obscurity and died in Los Angeles on September 3, 1947 survived only by his wife, Sylvia. His power trip in Hollywood didn’t last long as he rode the sound waves that revolutionized the motion picture industry, but for a few great years in Hollywood, when Roy J. Pomeroy spoke—everybody listened.
MGM director Fred Niblo had no problem getting people to listen to him. Still sought after as one of filmdom’s favorite hosts, he was the first Vice President of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. Niblo also continued working in a silent world with top stars such as Lillian Gish in The Enemy (1927), and Greta Garbo in The Mysterious Lady (1928).
Still loving life on the road, Niblo visited several movie theaters now wired for sound while vacationing in 1929. Disappointment marred his experiences as a spectator. It seems in the big cities such as New York or Chicago, sound quality was top notch, but in the smaller towns, not so much. Niblo explained:
I enjoyed an all-talking picture in Hollywood, then attended it again in Salt Lake City. Although familiar with the story, I could not understand a word because the dialogue was so blurred due to faulty projection.… Distort the sound a bit, and the result is laughable or irritating in the extreme.
Nonetheless, his first talking picture was released the following year. He helmed the drama Redemption (1930), which featured silent superstar John Gilbert in one of his first speaking roles.
At home, the fifty-four-year-old Niblo and his wife, Australian actress Enid Bennett, had four children—Fred, Jr., whose mother was Niblo’s first wife Josephine Cohan, along with Loris, Peter and Judith. The Niblos built a semi-circular Spanish-style house topped by a red tile roof on their estate, Misty Mountain, in Beverly Hills. The twenty-two-room home, with its oversized veranda and private movie theater, was more than 8,000 square feet and perched at an elevation of 1,000 feet overlooking Catalina and the Channel Islands. The grounds included a children’s play area, a large swimming pool and a specially designed croquet lawn. His son Peter, recalled:
At home, Dad was strict.… when I got carried away, one look from my Dad ended it all.… He was tough, but very much on the right track. He loved classical music and gave me a look when I cranked up the phonograph to play Dixieland.
Niblo was tapped for his hosting talent to emcee a premiere of the award-winning western Cimmaron (1931). As he introduced the cast at the Los Angeles Orpheum Theater on February 6, 1931, the building was rocked by a sudden explosion. Just outside, a large piece of pavement catapulted into the air taking a taxi with it and tossing several people into the street. As panic overcame the crowd inside the theater, the quick-thinking Niblo assured patrons there was nothing to fear—or he would have been the first to run outside. Momentarily pacified, the crowd calmed down. Then they heard sirens outside and bolted through the doors. It was ultimately determined that natural gas had exploded directly in front of the theater injuring 31 people—some had been inside the lobby while others were outside just waiting to catch a glimpse of their favorite stars.
In 1932, Niblo put down his director’s megaphone and eventually turned to acting. He continued working in front of the camera for several more years. His last film appearance was in an uncredited role in the musical comedy Crazy House (1943), where he played a studio executive. Niblo soon retired from filmmaking altogether and spent most of his later years on his Lake County ranch. In need of money, he had been forced to sell Misty Mountain in 1940 for just $35,000.
In the fall of 1948, Niblo and his wife were enjoying a cruise to celebrate their thirtieth wedding anniversary when he fell ill with pneumonia. The couple disembarked in New Orleans where the seventy-four-year-old director was admitted to a local hospital. Two weeks later, he passed away on November 11, 1948.
Always a fan of life on the road, Fred Niblo started out in vaudeville before traveling the world. Once he landed in Hollywood, Niblo stayed to direct many of the silent greats like Douglas Fairbanks, Rudolph Valentino and John Gilbert. Whether it was a live audience made up of his peers or a crowd of spectators inside a darkened theater, Fred Niblo loved to entertain. All it took was a clever line, a striking visual and a little zigzag.
Another former vaudevillian, producer Harry Rapf, remained part of the MGM triumvirate up through the advent of the Second World War. While Irving Thalberg emerged as the man in charge of the studio’s high-profile productions, Rapf worked hard producing more light-hearted fare. True to his theatrical background, he preferred treating his audiences to singing, dancing and a bevy of beautiful girls leaving toe-tapping spectators with a smile. He also liked to make ‘em laugh and realized the value of a good screen team.
Harkening back to his vaudeville days, he remembered many of the greatest duos in entertainment such as the comic team of Weber and F
ields. Wanting to resurrect some of that lively to-and-fro, he often created odd screen couples. Pairing up actress Marie Dressler with ruffian Wallace Beery for the film Min and Bill (1930) resulted in one of the silver screen’s most dynamic teams.
Top screenwriter Frances Marion came to Rapf about a novel called The Dark Star written by her friend author Lorna Moon. He bought the rights even though he wasn’t quite sold on the idea. Rapf knew that Marion’s writer friend was ill with tuberculosis and needed money to enter a New Mexico sanitarium for treatment. Rapf, who had lost his own father from the dreaded lung disease, could not find it in his heart to refuse. Marion’s final script did not resemble the book, but the money allowed Moon admittance to the facility prior to her death on May 1, 1930. Min and Bill, released later that year, was one of MGM’s biggest hits with a Best Actress Academy Award going to Dressler.
Rapf also liked sentiment. He persuaded Louis B. Mayer to take a gamble on The Champ (1931), pairing up the ill-tempered Wallace Beery with child actor Jackie Cooper. The film depicting a has-been boxing champion who is cared for by his young son was nominated for Best Picture with top honors going to Beery as Best Actor and King Vidor as Best Director.
Rapf was also in charge of the “B” pictures and “shorts,” which were the least costly films and used in conjunction with major features to round out theatrical bills. These low-budget features were also a testing ground for new talent both human and non-human—something that was right up Rapf’s alley. With Rin Tin Tin still making features at Warner Bros., Rapf went looking for MGM’s own canine star. He found Flash the Wonder Dog, a Chicago-born German Shepherd with his own radio show. After bringing the three-year-old pooch to Hollywood for a screen test, Rapf put him under contact and starred him in Shadow of the Night (1928). With Rinty still leading the pack, however, Flash didn’t quite measure up.
In addition to his movie-making duties, Rapf sponsored the MGM Lions—a football team comprised of juvenile players headed up by Mickey Rooney. He often talked MGM stars like Clark Gable into refereeing the games. He also found work for family members. His eldest son, Maurice, delivered mail to the stars and also gave tours of the studio to interested visitors. As Rapf’s son, he gained entrance to many of the otherwise closed movie sets.
With such a dizzying pace and so many pictures to keep up with, Rapf, like Thalberg, suffered a heart attack in 1932, which began a subtle shift in power at MGM. In 1933, Mayer gave David O. Selznick a two-year contract and his own production company while an ailing Thalberg recuperated in Europe. Mayer took on the responsibilities of production and named Rapf, along with several others, as his executive assistants, effectively weakening both Rapf ’s and Thalberg’s power at the studio.
When he wasn’t working, Rapf enjoyed fishing. After building a second home on the beach in Malibu, he was either casting a line from the pier or from a chartered boat almost every summer Saturday. One of his fishing expeditions turned deadly when a violent storm with 65-mile-per-hour winds suddenly materialized off the coastline, north of Los Angeles. Dozens of boats were destroyed or missing as the U.S. Navy was brought in to search the waters for more than forty men, women and children. Rapf watched in horror as one vessel, carrying twenty-six people, capsized when a thirty-foot wave broadsided her. Only one man and one woman survived. Rapf fared better that deadly afternoon when his fishing boat safely reached shore.
As if he didn’t have enough to worry about, his Malibu home caught fire in 1934. No one was inside at the time, but the damages were substantial. Part of the roof was destroyed and much of the home ruined by water for a total loss estimated at $3,000 to $5,000.
At MGM, Mayer remained in charge and wanted to stay that way. He formed an executive staff made up of several vice presidents—Rapf included. Eventually, a nine-man committee supervised the actual productions while Mayer supervised them. Rapf still ran the “shorts” department that now replaced the phased-out “B” pictures. Mayer teamed him up with a former MGM writer who was now promoted to producer, Dore Schary. The Rapf-Schary unit was formed in 1941. Their first two projects were Mr. and Mrs. North (1942) starring funny girl Gracie Allen and the thriller Joe Smith, American (1942) based on a story by author Paul Gallico.
Despite their successes, Rapf and Schary did not get along and were often at odds with each other over creative differences—mostly who was in charge of them. Their constant quarreling led Mayer to fire his long-time associate, Rapf, on April 21, 1942 for hindering production. When Rapf assembled his producers to say good-bye, they were outraged. According to Sam Marx, who worked for Rapf, these loyal men ganged up on Schary insisting he go back to Mayer and have him rehire Rapf. The next day, Rapf penned this note to Marx:
Dear Sam—It is only in time of trouble that the true strength of friendship can be found. Your sincerity and loyalty to me yesterday was something I will never forget.
The following year, Rapf, still looking for his next canine celebrity, cast a dog named Pal in the movies. The picture-perfect collie played the brave and beautiful Lassie in the drama Lassie Come Home (1943). It was another case of cross-dressing, however, since Pal was a boy and Lassie a girl. In the sequel, Son of Lassie (1945), Pal played the title role of Laddie and another collie named Lassie played his mother.
While Schary left the studio only to return with a vengeance several years later, Rapf remained with MGM until his death from another heart attack on February 6, 1949. His final production, the drama Scene of the Crime (1949) starred Van Johnson and Arlene Dahl. It was released almost six months after Rapf’s death. Of all his accomplishments, he was proudest of those whom he helped reach the top:
… not just the little fellows who have jobs and are making living wages for their families, but 125 very successful men and women in the business, each one of whom had his first picture job from me. That means more to me than anything I can think of.
Chapter Twenty
MAD HATTERS, MACHO MEN AND MEXICAN DIVORCES
Recently widowed, director John Stahl left MGM to start up his own company in conjunction with Tiffany Pictures, which was run by producer Phil Goldstone and best known for several features starring popular actress Mae Murray. As vice president in charge of production for Tiffany-Stahl Productions, Stahl went right to work as a producer. Between 1927 and 1929, he produced over forty films—none of which were particularly memorable, but profitable enough to keep his career in a holding pattern. Stahl left the company in November 1929, selling his interest to controlling stockholders. He then moved on to Universal where he once again picked up the megaphone.
Stahl also married former silent screen actress Roxana McGowan. Born in Chicago, McGowan once worked for Mack Sennett, but her movie career ended in 1919. By the time she married Stahl in 1931, McGowan had two children, Albert, 9, and Roxana, 6, from her first marriage to director Albert Ray, which ended in divorce. Besides gaining a wife, Stahl adopted her children and found himself with a ready-made family.
Later that year, Stahl made his second film for Universal, Strictly Dishonorable (1931). The movie was based on a play by writer Preston Sturges featuring lots of romance, comedy and opera. A box office success, it brought Stahl back into good-standing director status. His next film, however, established his position as the master of melodrama. Back Street (1932), starring actress Irene Dunne with her leading man, the dapper John Boles, is the story of a successful businesswoman who has the misfortune of falling in love with a married man. Scandalous, titillating yet moving, the film focuses on the long-suffering Dunne and her loyalty to her unattainable lover. Then came two more classics, Imitation of Life (1934) followed by Magnificent Obsession (1935), putting Stahl on top of the melodrama madness.
When asked about his movies’ popularity, the silver-haired Stahl admitted that he played to the female part of the audience:
It’s my commercial instinct, as much as anything. Matinees are made up of women patrons, and at night the women drag in the men. In directing, I simply remembe
r to use the feminine approach.
He focused on the human aspect of his characters bringing out their emotions and feelings. Personally, he rarely watched his own movies. He just couldn’t sit through them without being critical. He much preferred a good laugh that came from the funny papers or a slapstick comedy, something he didn’t specialize in professionally. Journalist Margaret Reid once reported that Stahl’s personal creed was: “God, my mother and Charlie Chaplin.”
Stahl returned to MGM to direct Clark Gable in Parnell (1937), which detailed the life of Irishman Charles Stewart Parnell and his struggle to gain Ireland’s independence from England. The film was Gable’s biggest box office flop. It was so bad that Gable swore off period pictures from that point on. Only with great reluctance did he agree to play Rhett Butler two years later, the role that would make him the undisputed King of Hollywood.
For Stahl, it was back to Universal where he filmed Letter of Introduction (1938), which featured ventriloquist Edgar Bergen and his wooden chum, Charlie McCarthy. While Bergen worked hard and did his best to follow direction, McCarthy threw fits on the set making everyone aware of his complete distaste for filmmaking. Whenever Stahl ordered retakes, Bergen just smiled while McCarthy spewed words that would make a sailor blush. No one, not even the normally in-control Stahl, was quite sure how to handle the incorrigible little stiff.
Stahl stayed with Universal for five years before making one picture for Columbia, a comedy, Our Wife (1941) starring the much-acclaimed Melvyn Douglas. The director then signed a contract with Fox where he made more classics like Keys of the Kingdom (1944) featuring a young Gregory Peck in his first major role and Leave Her to Heaven (1945) with Gene Tierney. His final movie was also his only musical, Oh You Beautiful Doll (1949)—a not-so-memorable film starring actress June Haver.
Bringing Up Oscar: The Story of the Men and Women Who Founded the Academy Page 26
