Bringing Up Oscar: The Story of the Men and Women Who Founded the Academy

by Debra Ann Pawlak

  In poor health, Gibbons retired after 32 years with MGM—the studio he’d been with since it all began in 1924. He may not have personally designed sets for every movie that carried his name, but Gibbons defined the overall look of MGM while setting the standard for Hollywood glamour. Thanks to his Art Deco designs and outstanding managerial skills, he conjured up the class and elegance Louis B. Mayer envisioned. On July 26, 1960, the long-suffering Gibbons died at home. He left no personal papers, but he did bestow a polished mark of excellence on the movies he touched. He once said:

  I don’t claim that a good set can save a poor picture entirely, but it certainly can lift a good story into the realms of real triumph.

  Director Frank Lloyd also strived for excellence. By 1928, he was back at First National where he filmed the historical drama The Divine Lady (1929) depicting the famous romance of the married British Navy Admiral Horatio Nelson and his also-married mistress, Emma Hart. For his efforts, Lloyd received an Academy Award. Known in the film business as a reliable director who delivered fine films, Lloyd was recognized a second time by the Academy for another romantic drama, Cavalcade (1933), which also took top honors as Best Picture.

  Confusion reigned at the award ceremony that evening when another Frank was also nominated for Best Director. Host Will Rogers announced the winner by saying: “Come on up and get it, Frank.” At that moment, Best Director nominee Frank Capra jumped up, waved for the spotlight and began making his way toward Rogers who then added: “The winner is Frank Lloyd.”

  A horrified Capra froze as the spotlight left him and swept the room to find Lloyd. Totally embarrassed, Capra slinked back to his seat amidst much jeering. He recalled the moment as “the longest, saddest, most shattering” of his life. Capra later triumphed, however, with multiple Oscars of his own, but most likely paused to make sure that he was indeed the right “Frank” before he stood up.

  Despite his two Oscars, Lloyd’s most memorable film was yet to come when he took on the challenge of directing two major Hollywood stars—Charles Laughton and Clark Gable, who didn’t like each other one bit. Gable’s outright disapproval of Laughton’s homosexuality did nothing to improve their working relationship. Besides the fact that Gable did not want to film a period picture requiring him to wear knee pants and lose his world-famous mustache. His protests went nowhere, but he successfully drew the line at speaking with a British accent. Despite many tensions on the set and Gable’s own doubts, Mutiny on the Bounty (1935) was a box office hit. The film went on to win an Oscar for Best Picture and remains a classic.

  Whether he was working for MGM, First National or Republic, the always-dependable Lloyd brought his films in on time and within budget. He was well liked and learned to work with the many egos he faced on a daily basis. Never one to dictate how a scene should be filmed, he often asked his actors for their interpretation and then gave their recommendations a try. According to Time magazine, the director had a knack for showcasing ordinary people who found themselves living in the midst of extraordinary times:

  … [Lloyd] likes to take a few typical characters of the period, run them through the normal complications of normal people, silhouette them against a background of great dates, deeds, land marks.…

  During World War II, Lloyd entered the service as a major. He made documentaries about bombings in the South Pacific for the U.S. Army Air Corps including the short, Air Pattern-Pacific (1944). The 42-minute film depicted the 13th Air Force Combat Camera Unit and their participation in several aerial battles under Lloyd’s command. He earned the Air Medal as well as the Legion of Merit for his work. After his war service, he returned to his day job where he continued directing. Two films later, Lloyd quietly left Hollywood. When asked why, he gave a simple explanation:

  When I went into the Army, I was tired. When I got out, I was even more tired. I have traveled some 30,000 miles by air. That may be all right for the young privates, but it was a drain on the old colonel.

  My wife suggested that I quit and enjoy for a while. I had always liked the country around Carmel so I bought a place there. I played golf and managed my farm and we traveled a bit.…

  Lloyd’s blissful life in Monterey came to an end on March 16, 1952. Alma, his wife of almost forty years, died after a battle with cancer. Her death prompted his return to Hollywood. He made two films at Republic Pictures, The Shanghai Story (1954) starring actress Ruth Roman and The Last Command (1955) about the Alamo—neither film memorable. Lloyd also married writer Virginia Kellogg who penned one of James Cagney’s biggest hits, White Heat (1949). The couple wed on September 2, 1955 on a yacht as it sailed under San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge. Lloyd once again retired—this time permanently.

  Suffering from a heart and lung condition, the Scottish director died on August 10, 1960 with approximately 200 films to his acting, writing, directing and producing credits. A versatile showman and past president of the Academy, his career ran the gamut from silent films to modern movies that included a little romance and a lot of drama peppered with some very high adventure. He once said: “… a film should not be judged as a historical document, it should be judged purely and simply as an evening’s entertainment.”

  If Cecil B. DeMille was the most demanding, Cedric Gibbons the most debonair and Frank Lloyd the most down-to-earth, producer Joseph M. Schenck was probably the most diverse. In addition to his day job as United Artists’ top man, he was a banker, realtor and amusement park owner. Along with a good cigar and a bottle of whiskey, he also enjoyed an all-night round of poker with other Hollywood high rollers like Irving Thalberg, David O. Selznick and Sid Grauman. It was simply understood that the higher they bet, the more important they were.

  In 1927, Schenck was pretty important. His life insurance policy was worth $1,250,000—so was his wife’s. Under Schenck’s leadership, UA ended 1928 with a profit and, despite the stock market crash in 1929, ended that year in the black as well. Like many of his contemporaries, however, Schenck was skeptical when it came to talkies. He once stated:

  Sound film will leave nothing to the intelligence of the picture going public. In the silent drama a certain gesture, a particular facial expression, will often convey more than a subtitle. But in talking films nothing will be left to the imagination and for that reason they must only be a passing phase.

  By 1930, he knew he was wrong so, along with Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford, Schenck traveled to San Francisco to take a look at the “Farnsworth Television device”—an odd little box that allowed spectators to view movies right in their own homes. Not wanting to make another mistake, Schenck declared: “Television motion pictures for the home are coming just as surely as the ‘talkies’ came to the screen.”

  Three years later, Schenck partnered up with another producer, Darryl F. Zanuck, to establish a new motion picture company. Zanuck, a World War I veteran, started out with Warner Bros. as a writer for Rin Tin Tin. He soon moved up the corporate ladder to producer and eventually became Head of Production under Jack L. Warner. Before long, the ambitious Zanuck realized that, as an outsider, he would never “inherit” the family studio so he started looking for other options. That’s when Schenck made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. While Schenck kept his position as head of UA, the two movie men co-founded Twentieth Century Pictures with UA distributing.

  Shortly after, Schenck and brother Nicholas sold their interest in the Palisades Amusement Park for almost half a million dollars to another pair of brothers—Irving and Jack Rosenthal. Schenck’s marriage to Norma Talmadge also came to an end. She and “Daddy” considered divorcing for several years, but until Talmadge decided to marry George Jessel, they kept their troubled marriage intact. Evidently, there were no hard feelings. In 1935, Schenck and Zanuck merged their company with the financially stressed Fox Film Corporation to form Twentieth Century Fox Film. With Schenck installed as chairman of the board and Zanuck as head of production, one of their first contracts went to George Jessel—now married to Talmadg
e.

  By this time, organized crime was making inroads in the Hollywood hotbed. Chicago mobster Willie Morris Bioff, who had ties to Al Capone, was in charge of the International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees & Moving Picture Machine Operators (IATSE)—the union representing many professional studio workers, technicians and craftsmen. Bioff assured the studios that the only way to avoid “trouble” was by paying him, which ultimately meant handing over lots of dough to the Chicago syndicate.

  Many studio executives complied, but in 1939 after an investigation by the National Labor Relations Board, indictments involving labor racketeering were made. For the most part, studio brass spread their costs over several of their current productions. Schenck, however, made the very bad decision of giving Bioff a $100,000 personal check that intrigued the IRS. Schenck was soon charged with income tax evasion and found guilty. Sentenced to three years in prison, he was free on appeal when he agreed to testify against Bioff and his partner in crime, George E. Browne, in exchange for a plea bargain.

  In the meantime, Schenck resigned from his position as Twentieth Century Fox’s Chairman of the Board. He pleaded guilty to one count of perjury admitting that he lied to government investigators by describing his $100,000 payoff to Bioff as a loan. As a result of his testimony, Bioff and Browne were convicted of extorting money from several major Hollywood producers and Schenck’s original sentence was suspended. He was given a new, lighter one for the perjury—one year and one day. Schenck served only four months and five days in Danbury, Connecticut before being released on parole on September 7, 1942. Three years later, President Harry Truman pardoned him and Schenck returned to Fox.

  Over the years, Schenck, who partied hard and gambled big, was linked to many dazzling women including actresses Merle Oberon, Jean Howard and Marilyn Monroe. Monroe, who became a regular at his house parties, was known as “Joe Schenck’s girl.” The upcoming starlet appreciated his position at Fox, his lavish surroundings and the VIP company he kept. She was fascinated by his ambiance as she once described him: “It was as much the face of a town as a man. The whole history of Hollywood was in it.” He arranged for her small part in the comedy Scudda Hoo! Scudda Hay! (1948) and then used his influence with Harry Cohn to get her a contract at Columbia.

  In 1949, Schenck submitted his resignation as executive producer at Twentieth Century Fox, but his superiors flatly refused to accept it saying he was indispensable. Current Fox president Spyros P. Skouras claimed that Schenck was the “father” of the company and Fox couldn’t run without him.

  Schenck received a special Oscar in 1952 for his “long and distinguished service to the motion picture industry.” The following year, he resigned once more from Fox and this time, his resignation was accepted. He was then re-elected Chairman of UA. He also partnered up with producer Mike Todd to form the Magna Theater Corporation, which was primarily established to market the Todd-AO wide-screen system—a very profitable venture. He retired in 1957 after which he suffered a stroke and never fully recovered. Schenck, in his eighties, died at his home in Beverly Hills on October 22, 1961, living alone except for his house staff.

  While Joseph M. Schenck was riding high, writer Carey Wilson, one of Hollywood’s top paid penmen, had a run of bad luck in 1927. Earlier that year, Wilson pulled the plug on his nine-year marriage when he moved out of his Beverly Hills home and into the Ambassador Hotel. Mrs. Wilson claimed that her husband deserted her and their two children on July 29, 1927 when he packed up his clothes and refused to tell her where he was going. Wilson accused the Mrs. of cruelty when she kicked him with her shoe before cutting him with a broken glass towel bar from the bathroom. Never mind the blood drawing, he also complained that she spent grocery money on jewelry. In turn, Mrs. Wilson claimed that her husband liked women and that she once found him dancing a little too closely with a strange young woman who later showed up at their home. She further stated that Wilson hit her when she voiced her objections to the visitor.

  As if all that commotion wasn’t bad enough, Wilson broke his foot that fall while playing tennis. The injury laid him up for six weeks. Then there was the ill-fated magazine venture sponsored by the Academy. Acting as co-editor along with art director Cedric Gibbons and screenwriter Waldemar Young, grandson of Mormon leader Brigham Young, Wilson put his skills to good use when the Academy published a magazine called Motion Picture Arts and Sciences in November 1927. Written for film industry professionals, the publication was canceled after only one issue.

  Two years later, the divorce was final with Mrs. Wilson gaining their $100,000 home, a car valued at $18,000 and custody of nine-year-old daughter Nancy and son Carey Anthony, Jr., age three. She also received a monthly alimony payment of $500 for the first year with an additional $250 in monthly child support. Wilson mistakenly thought he was done with the towel bar beater.

  In 1934, he took a second wife, actress Carmelita Geraghty, the daughter of screenwriter Thomas J. Geraghty. Born in Rushville, Indiana in 1901, her ten-year acting career came to an end when she married Wilson. Their first twenty-four hours as man and wife were challenging. Right after the “I dos,” matron of honor Jean Harlow dramatically announced the end of her marriage to cameraman Hal Rosson. The very next day, the first Mrs. Wilson was back in court demanding an increase in her child support causing the newlyweds to postpone their honeymoon. The judge turned down the request stating that “too much money sometimes spoils children.”

  Despite his troubles, Wilson continued penning movies such as His Captive Woman (1929) featuring Milton Sills, Polly of the Circus (1932) with Clark Gable and Marion Davis and Bolero (1934) starring George Raft and Carole Lombard. He was also one of three writers who worked on the screenplay for director Frank Lloyd’s Mutiny on the Bounty (1935). That same year, MGM formed a department devoted to shorts and it was there that Wilson did some of his most memorable work.

  MGM writer Samuel Marx happened to see a play called Skidding about a small-town judge, James Hardy, and his all-American family that included a teenage son, Andy. Bringing the story back to MGM, the studio turned it into A Family Affair (1937) starring Lionel Barrymore as the judge and Mickey Rooney as Andy. Wilson then produced the popular Andy Hardy series while Mayer personally saw to it that Andy never disrespected his mother or got into serious trouble. If the script didn’t meet with Mayer’s approval, he simply crossed out the offending scenes. Mayer must have known exactly what he was doing. The Andy Hardy series won a special Oscar in 1942 “for its achievement in representing the American way of life.”

  Wilson also became fascinated with the French seer Nostradamus after reading a book about his many controversial predictions, which dated back to the mid-1500s. Between 1938 and 1955, Wilson produced, wrote and narrated several shorts detailing the life and mysterious quatrains written by Nostradamus. In addition, Wilson worked on the many Dr. Kildare films starring Lew Ayres as the young doctor and Lionel Barry-more as his mentor, the all-wise Dr. Gillespie.

  In between these various series, he also produced features such as The Postman Always Rings Twice (1946)—a controversial film noir starring Lana Turner as a two-timing wife who prefers killing her husband to leaving him. The following year, Wilson produced the action-packed Green Dolphin Street (1947), which won an Academy Award for its spectacular earthquake and tidal wave scenes. His final production was a documentary called This is Russia (1957), which he also wrote and narrated.

  After retiring from his Hollywood job, Wilson continued producing films for the U.S. Army and other government agencies. On February 1, 1962, Wilson died at Good Samaritan Hospital a few hours after suffering a stroke in his home. Although he thought of himself as a writer, he also played the role of producer and once said: “A producer in a movie factory is man who is ready for a good night’s sleep when he gets home.”

  Handsome matinée idol Richard Barthelmess probably looked forward to a good night’s sleep, too, after the heady success of his latest film, The Patent Leather Kid (192
7). Now raising his daughter, Mary, and under contract with First National, he was working on his next film, The Drop Kick (1927), a drama about college football. Under his contract, First National paid him well—$375,000 annually for three pictures.

  Barthelmess also found a new girl, actress Katherine Young Wilson. Born in Jacksonville, Florida, Wilson tested her stage presence in the local community theater before moving to New York. The couple announced their engagement in August 1927 and planned a New York wedding the following November. At that time, Wilson announced she was trading in her day job for full-time housewifery. She was already remodeling Barthelmess’ Beverly Hills home. The short-lived engagement ended when Wilson decided she’d rather be a working girl.

  Barthelmess had better marital luck in 1928 when he wed for the second time. His new wife, Jessica Stewart Sargent, from Selma, Alabama, was recently divorced and a single mother. Their April 21st wedding took place in Reno, Nevada followed by a Hawaiian honeymoon. Barthelmess later adopted her five-year-old son, Stewart. He also made a successful transition to sound under the direction of Frank Lloyd. In Barthelmess’ first talking picture, Weary River (1929), he played a gangster who ends up in prison. When the jailbird sings on a radio show broadcast from the big house, the public demands more, dramatically changing his life—maybe.

  As the thirties progressed, Barthelmess’ career slowed down. He made fewer movies and his matinée idol status turned into character roles. That didn’t deter Trinity College, Barthelmess’ old academic stomping grounds, from recognizing his many achievements. The school invited him to “graduate” with the senior class of 1938 and receive his degree. According to the principle, it was customary for the college to give degrees to students who had dropped out, but were still considered successful twenty years later.