When the stock market crashed in 1929, it devastated the Christies. The following year, the brothers merged with the Metropolitan Sound Studios, Inc. with plans to make feature-length talking pictures. The L.A. Times reported on September 30, 1930 that the company, now known as the Metropolitan Christie Picture Corporation, was organized under the laws of the State of Delaware as a $10,000,000 corporation with all common stock. Charles H. Christie was named President. “All agreements connected with the deal have been signed. These including the purchase of the Metropolitan Sound Studios and the Christie property at Studio City on Ventura Boulevard, which will be held for future development and the purchase of certain stock interests in the Christie Film, Company.” The Christie property at Sunset and Gower was not part of the deal—neither was the Great Depression.
Despite their merger and their grand plans, the brothers filed for bankruptcy in 1932. Their companies, the Christie Film Company, the Metropolitan Sound Studios, Inc., and the Christie Realty Corporation, Ltd., all went into receivership. After more than two decades of enormous success in the film industry, the Christies were forced to liquidate and never recovered from their losses. While brother Al continued making movies for other film companies, Charles turned his interests toward real estate. Neither of the men ever reached that same level of financial success the movies had brought them in those early days.
Al Christie retired from filmmaking in 1942 and joined the Douglas Aircraft Corporation. He remained an employee there until he died of a heart attack on April 14, 1951 in his Beverly Hills home where he still lived with his brother and sister. His estate was valued at just $2,597—$1,697 in cash along with $900 in personal property. After two decades in the real estate business, Charles also died in the same house on October 1, 1955 after a long illness.
By 1928, photoplaywright Benjamin Floyer Glazer was also a producer. He gained the prestigious title with the Paramount drama Street of Sin (1928) starring Swiss-born actor Emil Jannings and Fay Wray in her pre-King Kong days. Still a successful writer, he also won an Award of Merit for penning the highly acclaimed 7th Heaven (1927).
Just as his contract for Paramount was ending, Glazer experienced a minor flirtation with Irish-Catholic businessman Joseph P. Kennedy and his Hollywood connections. Kennedy needed experienced men to run his newly acquired studio. He convinced Glazer and MGM producer Paul Bern to come and work for him. He promised them that once his empire was fashioned they would be working for Hollywood’s greatest studio and would have full reign over film production. As they waited for the Irishman’s grand plans to unfurl, Kennedy put Glazer in charge of sound productions at Pathé and FBO Pictures Corporation, both companies now part of his organization. He also named Bern chief of production at Pathé.
Due to his prior experience with director Erich von Stroheim, Kennedy assigned Glazer to manage von Stroheim’s production of Queen Kelly (1929) starring Gloria Swanson. The strong-willed filmmaker hadn’t changed. He shot the film in sequence working long hours and demanding multiple retakes with no regard for cast, crew or budget. Producer and director clashed over the script. Glazer felt it was too long, but von Stroheim wouldn’t budge. Bern also encouraged cutting scenes, but to no avail. When Swanson complained to Kennedy about some of the director’s unorthodox ideas, such as another player drooling tobacco juice all over her hand, Kennedy fired von Stroheim. Glazer was then tasked with cutting sixteen boxes of film down to a more realistic viewing time, but Queen Kelly was not completed. Three years later, the film was pieced together and released, but only in Paris, France. Decades later in 1985, a restored version was shown in the U.S.
In addition to his Queen Kelly duties, Glazer overlooked sound production at Pathé and FBO. He shared some insight on that phenomenon:
I can give you a close-up of a sound, just as I can give you a close-up of a person. It is within my power to exclude any sound without offending your sense of reality. For as I show you only what action I want you to see, likewise, I let you listen only to what sounds I want you to hear.…
He also believed that many stage actors who learned to project their voices inside of a theater were not as effective on a movie set where sensitive microphones captured and exaggerated the slightest of sounds. A “natural” voice came across as more realistic on-screen. Instead of a long-winded speech or a never-ending oratory, simple conversation worked best. Dialogue was a challenge for all filmmakers from writers to producers to directors to actors. Learning what worked and understanding what didn’t in the changing medium took time and a lot of frustrating experimentation.
In between films, Glazer witnessed weddings. He played best man for his good friend silent screen star John Gilbert when he wed actress Ina Claire on May 10, 1929. Glazer also stood up for MGM art director Cedric Gibbons when he married actress Dolores del Rio on August 6, 1930.
Glazer’s own marriage unraveled in 1931 when he and Alice divorced based on her charges of neglect. The next year, Glazer married Paramount actress Sharon Lynn in Yuma, Arizona. Glazer pal Cedric Gibbons along with his wife, Dolores del Rio, witnessed the nuptials. Born in Weatherford, Texas, Lynn’s career got started when she entered a beauty contest and won a screen test. The couple eventually had two daughters, Charlene Frances and Barbara Helen.
At work, Glazer produced several films for Pathé including Strange Cargo (1929), which he also wrote and directed. Moving on to Paramount, he produced Ernest Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms (1932) and Alice in Wonderland (1933) featuring newcomer Cary Grant as the Mock Turtle and the more experienced Gary Cooper as the White Knight. In addition to his movie work, Glazer also took punches.
While on the set of Bolero (1934), tough guy George Raft had words with Glazer about a line in the movie. When the producer refused to alter the problematic words, Raft hauled off and slugged him right in front of the cast and crew—although Glazer later described it as more of a “push.” Their dispute was settled in the executive offices with Raft apologizing and Glazer accepting. It was back to work for everyone.
Glazer received his second Academy Award for Best Writing with Arise My Love (1940), billed as “a romance that could only happen in 1940” featuring Claudette Colbert. That same year, he returned to Broadway—this time with a partner, Ernest “Papa” Hemingway. “Papa” penned his play, The Fifth Column, while staying at a Madrid hotel during the volatile Spanish Civil War. The story tells of the perilous situation faced by hotel inhabitants comprised of journalists, spies and members of General Franco’s “fifth column” also considered rebel spies.
After several failed attempts to stage the play, Glazer caught wind of it. He persuaded Hemingway to let him have a go at it. The Hollywood producer had already successfully brought Hemingway’s Farewell to Arms (1932) to the silver screen, and so “Papa” agreed. Under the terms of their contract, if “Papa” approved of Glazer’s ideas, “Papa” would revise the play under his own name and the two writers would split any profits. If “Papa” didn’t like Glazer’s offerings, Glazer could go ahead with the play anyway, but it would only be billed as an adaptation of Hemingway’s original play. In the end, “Papa” hated Glazer’s version and tried to back out of their agreement with no luck. The Fifth Column debuted on Broadway in the spring of 1940—after the Spanish Loyalists faced defeat.
Directed by the legendary Lee Strasberg, the play starred actors Franchot Tone and Lee J. Cobb. With mixed reviews—some praised the acting while others knocked the writing—the play closed after fewer than 90 performances. Hemingway never saw one.
In 1946, Glazer and partner Nat W. Finston founded Symphony Films. The independent company completed one production, which Glazer wrote and directed, Song of My Heart (1948), a fictional telling of the life of the composer Tchaikovsky. Sixty-year old Glazer then left Hollywood.
On February 16, 1956, yet another adaptation of Glazer’s beloved Liliom made it to the big screen. This time it was an Oscar and Hammerstein song-laden film, directed by Henry King. Carousel (195
6) starred Gordon MacRae with his booming voice as the deceased Billy Bigelow and joined the ranks of the many popular musical films that began with MGM’s The Broadway Melody back in 1929.
One month later, the 68-year-old Glazer died of circulatory failure at Cedars of Lebanon Hospital in Los Angeles. The rabbi who officiated at Glazer’s service spoke eloquently when he said: “Some of us walk the earth treading the pavement, while others with sensitive souls are given the ability to see the beauty of things. They climb ladders—Jacob’s ladders—high above the sky while others walk the earth.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
MOGUL TO MOGUL
As Louis B. Mayer got the Academy rolling, MGM was flourishing. By the middle of 1927, the studio had more than 70 movies under development with several more ready for release. Of the original triumvirate, Thalberg was responsible for major productions, with Harry Rapf bringing up the rear. Mayer remained in charge of all studio business and reported directly to Marcus Loew of Loew, Inc., MGM’s parent company. Mayer delivered topnotch entertainment and Loew was pleased with the fine films running in his theaters across the country. Loew and Mayer were businessmen who understood each other.
Their status quo came to an abrupt end on September 5, 1927 when fifty-seven-year-old Loew succumbed to heart disease and Mayer lost his greatest ally. Loew’s estate was worth approximately $30,000,000. In addition, his widow and twin sons inherited his controlling shares of the company. Nicholas Schenck, Loew’s right-hand man, inherited Loew’s job—a move that concerned Mayer. Nick Schenck was hard to get along with—even his brother, Joe, knew that. Running his business decisions by Schenck rankled Mayer. At the same time, Schenck resented Mayer’s control over MGM. Despite their differences, the two men continued working together, but their mutual aversion drove a deeper wedge in an already rocky relationship.
1927 also brought with it The Jazz Singer (1927). Like it or not, sound was now officially part of filmmaking, but MGM wasn’t equipped to make talking pictures. Instead, Mayer had to cut a deal with Paramount chief Adolph Zukor allowing MGM’s talking scenes to be filmed after hours on Roy Pomeroy’s soundstage. By 1928, Mayer also had to find the perfect roar, as MGM’s silent symbol now needed a voice. The Bronx Zoo recorded one of their noisier felines and that sound was synced up with the original Selig lion clip. The roaring lion was first heard as White Shadows in the South Seas (1928) began to roll.
In late January 1929, new U.S. President Herbert Hoover, whose campaign Mayer had vigorously supported, offered the studio head a diplomatic position—Ambassador to Turkey. Mayer turned him down, claiming he was just too busy with MGM. It was the truth. Mayer had his hands full.
The studio was catching up to the new technology as more than twenty sound stages were being built. Mayer was also actively involved with the first annual Academy Awards. As supervisor of the voting, he worked with the Central Board of Judges to identify the winners in each category. In addition, he dealt with difficult stars like Greta Garbo who had recently ticked off the Swedish royals due to her affair with their prince, which caused her to return to the States in a nasty mood. To top it all off, William Fox, head of Fox Film Corporation, bought controlling shares of stock in Loew’s, Inc. from the Widow Loew and her children behind Mayer’s back. Fox also bought Nick Schenck’s shares. Feeling that Schenck sold him out, the MGM chief realized that if all went according to Fox’s plan, there would be a corporate merger, leaving Mayer without a job.
Turkey might have been the better option if Fox hadn’t had a serious car accident that put him out of action followed by the stock market crash. Both unfortunate events proved lucky for Mayer. Fox lost pretty much everything including his control over Loew’s Inc. Mayer remained in charge of MGM and Schenck gained a nickname. Mayer took to calling his boss Nick “Skunk.”
At the beginning of the new decade, both Mayer and Thalberg had new contracts assuring them positions at MGM for the next five years. Despite the Depression, the scandals and the temperamental stars, MGM, now completely converted to talking pictures, pulled in $12,000,000 worth of profits for 1931. Mayer once wrote in a telegram: “Spare nothing, neither expense, time, nor effort. Results only are what I am after.”
He believed in showcasing great stars in great films and liked to brag that MGM had “more stars than there are in heaven.” But keeping those stars shining bright was often a challenge. When faced with real or imaginary opposition, Mayer cajoled. He berated. He begged. He threatened. When that didn’t work, he’d fall to his knees, hands clasped, as crocodile tears leaked from behind his glasses. His assorted tactics almost always worked. He got exactly what he wanted as many a bewildered celebrity bolted from his office wondering what had just happened.
He ran his studio like a grand old patriarch ran his family. He believed in motherhood, America and happy endings—a little beauty, glamour and optimism never hurt either. Mayer wanted to give the American people films they could be proud to bring their families to see. In that sense, he defined MGM and in turn MGM represented the best Hollywood had to offer. It all came down to that class and respectability he still craved.
If only it were so easy at home. Mayer had two headstrong daughters, now young adults and interested in men. As their father and head of the family, he had to sanction any would-be suitors. When daughter Edie announced she was seeing film executive William Goetz, Mayer approved, but ordered her to only go out with him every other night. After their engagement, he insisted on throwing a lavish wedding at the Biltmore Hotel befitting a man of his position, and most likely pleased his daughter and her intended.
Irene’s choice of the wordy David O. Selznick aggravated Mayer. He took a dim view of their engagement despite the young producer’s success at Paramount, and so in contrast to Edie’s elaborate bash, Irene married Selznick at the family’s beach house in Santa Monica. Mayer reluctantly gave the bride away using his father’s recent death as an excuse for the low-key affair. He did, however, experience a change of heart toward his talented son-in-law two years later. When Thalberg had his heart attack, Mayer brought Selznick into MGM.
Without Thalberg to temper him, Mayer ran his studio with a firm hand. The individual production units he established eventually found their footing. Weekly board meetings were held by studio executives to discuss current business. Mayer, however, made all final decisions. Headman, father figure and secret-keeper, he guarded his studio like a king protected his realm. He gave praise, doled out punishment and dictated orders expecting loyalty and respect in return.
Mayer’s choices in film took precedence and his participation in the production end of the business increased after Thalberg’s death. With romantic dramas such as Test Pilot (1938) and classics like Boys Town (1938), Mayer pleased Depression-era spectators with just the right amount of adventure and sentiment. He cast the popular Mickey Rooney in the familial Andy Hardy series, and used Judy Garland to full advantage in The Wizard of Oz (1939)—only after being told that Shirley Temple wasn’t available. And when his son-in-law David O. Selznick decided that only Clark Gable could play Rhett Butler in Selznick’s production of Gone With the Wind (1939), Mayer and MGM garnered the distribution rights to the blockbuster film in exchange for their top star.
World events and Nazi Germany soon impacted Hollywood. As Hitler invaded country after country, Loew’s, Inc. lost their European theaters as well as their control over the continent’s MGM film distribution. In response, MGM churned out films like Comrade X (1940) concerning an American reporter in communist Russia, Escape (1940) about a young man searching for his mother in Nazi Germany and Waterloo Bridge (1940), the story of a British officer at the onset of World War II.
Once the United States entered the war, many top stars including MGM’s recently widowed Clark Gable traded their studio costumes for military uniforms. Those who stayed behind volunteered their services at the Hollywood and Stage Door Canteens. Some worked on the Hollywood Victory and War Activities Committees. Being a genuin
e patriot and proud of his American citizenship, Mayer encouraged his employees to join the war effort—even if it affected MGM’s bottom line, or business relationships. When actor Lew Ayres declared he was a pacifist and refused to enlist, Mayer released him from his contract.
When Mayer wasn’t at MGM, he bred racehorses at his 500-acre ranch in Perris, California—about 70 miles north of Los Angeles. While riding there during the summer of 1944, he took a nasty fall and broke his pelvis. Rushed to the hospital, he underwent surgery to repair the damage. Undaunted, Mayer continued running MGM from his hospital bed. Rumors of his retirement surfaced. Mayer, however, would have none of it and by year end, he was back in the saddle as well as his office.
As the war finally reached its conclusion, things were looking up. One by one, the stars returned to work. Fan favorites like Clark Gable came back from the Army and Robert Taylor from the Navy. Even Mayer’s horses were doing well at the tracks. He quietly shared his good fortune with several employees who were down on their luck. He gave money to his driver to help feed the man’s family and a check for $7,500 to his caterer so she could buy a house for her mother. Always softhearted when it came to mothers, Mayer even gave the grateful woman an extra grand to take her mother shopping for new clothes.
While Mayer kept his studio humming, his marriage fell apart. Over the years, Margaret, a cancer survivor, had been in and out of mental institutions while Mayer, for the most part, kept his many dalliances discreet. After a long separation, the couple officially ended their 43-year union. The divorce cost him dearly. He had to give Margaret $1,500,000 up front and another $2,000,000 paid in installments over the next few years. She also got the beach house in Santa Monica. Mayer walked away with his freedom and soon became involved with a former Busby Berkeley dancer, Lorena Danker—a widow with a young daughter.
Bringing Up Oscar: The Story of the Men and Women Who Founded the Academy Page 29
