Two years later, Lloyd made the cover of Time magazine, but not for his movie work. He was recognized for being the Imperial Potentate of the Ancient Arabic Order of the Nobles of the Mystic Shrine—in other words, the Masons’ top man. In this position, he spoke to hundreds of thousands of Shriners across the country. For the last two decades of his life, he also worked for various Shriner Hospitals and their young patients, eventually taking on the role of President and Chairman of the Board.
Besides his dedication to the Shriners, Lloyd enjoyed an assortment of hobbies. He still played handball and bowled, but he also added painting and photography—especially 3-D stills—to his interests. Over the years, he took hundreds of thousands of photos. Many of his stills depicting nude models became popular as they appeared in various men’s magazines. He even photographed actress Marilyn Monroe as she lounged in a bathing suit near his pool. In 2004, Lloyd’s granddaughter selected some of his finest work for a book, Harold Lloyd’s Hollywood Nudes in 3D!.
In 1952, the Academy gave Lloyd a special Oscar for being a “master Comedian and Good Citizen.” He was also honored by the television series This is Your Life in 1955. In addition, he guest-starred on several TV shows such as What’s My Line? and Hedda Hopper’s Hollywood.
Lloyd owned and carefully guarded his body of movie work. He released and narrated Harold Lloyd’s World of Comedy (1962)—a compilation of many of his famous silent scenes. The film was shown at the Cannes Film Festival where the sometimes hard-to-please audience gave Lloyd a standing ovation. He followed up with another called Funny Side of Life (1963). Four years later, he worked as an uncredited supervisor for director Mike Nichols on The Graduate (1967).
Lloyd lived out his years in movie-star style on his beloved Greenacres. The opulent estate was designed by Michigan-born architect Sumner Spaulding and included a nine-hole golf course as well as a handball court. Inside the sunroom, Lloyd kept a fully decorated Christmas tree on display year round with ornaments he received from all over the world.
After experiencing kidney problems, he was ultimately diagnosed with cancer. Lloyd died at home on March 8, 1971, two years after his wife, Mildred. Greenacres was briefly run as a museum until 1975. The surrounding property was eventually sold, but the mansion still stands on six acres of land. It was recognized by the National Register of Historic Places in 1984.
Lloyd once said: “It has been amazing to me that these comedies can still strike a responsive note of laughter with audiences of all ages and in all parts of the world. Laughter is the universal language. It establishes a common identity among people—regardless of other differences. It is the sweetest sound in the whole world.”
George W. Cohen may not have been a funny man like Lloyd, but he took his work just as seriously. After developing the Academy’s constitution and by-laws along with Edwin J. Loeb, Cohen continued practicing law and working in the motion picture industry. At home, he and his wife, Carolyn, welcomed their second son, Richard, in 1928. Two years later, Cohen’s father, Isaac, died unexpectedly at the age of 82. He had been a well-respected resident of Los Angeles for over sixty years.
Cohen spent two decades at Loeb & Loeb where he personally represented many celebrities such as Jean Harlow, Greta Garbo and Clark Gable. In addition to their professional needs, he also handled their private issues when they got into a spot of trouble. Aside from the individual stars, he also represented top studios, such as MGM, Universal and Warner Bros. He even worked as an attorney on specific films like Gone With The Wind (1939). In addition, he handled the Hollywood legal business for songwriter Irving Berlin.
By 1944, Cohen left Loeb & Loeb and joined Kaplan, Livingston, Goodwin, Berkowitz & Selwin of Beverly Hills. With his expert understanding of entertainment legalities, he became known as the “dean of motion picture lawyers.” He also accrued a keen knowledge of the many types of Hollywood employment agreements and was often called the “father of the motion picture contracts.” He was president of the L.A. Copyright Society as well as the secretary of the Beverly Hills Bar and later served as committee chairman for its constitution and by-laws. Cohen was also a board member of the L.A. Legal Aid Foundation.
When he wasn’t practicing law, Cohen enjoyed cooking. The “Chicken Salad a la Cohen” served at Perino’s, a popular restaurant that opened on Wilshire Boulevard in 1932, was named after him. At one point, Cohen also tried his hand at winemaking and went so far as growing his own grapes in the backyard. Eventually, he gave up the private winery, but remained a strong supporter of California wines.
After suffering from heart trouble and a stroke, Cohen had a heart attack and died at Cedars of Lebanon Hospital on December 27, 1971. He left his widow, Carolyn, two sons, Donald and Richard, and his piano-playing sister, Gertrude.
Film executive M.C. Levee may not have been a lawyer, but he inspired confidence with his knack for fundraising and budgeting. He had already acted as treasurer for the Motion Picture Relief Fund and Hollywood’s elite social society, the Mayfair Club, as well as the first chairman of the Community Chest Drive. It’s no wonder Levee was chosen as the Academy’s first treasurer, chairman of their Contracts Committee and a member of their Producers-Technicians Joint Committee.
Professionally, Levee joined Joseph M. Schenck at United Artists where he acted as General Studio and Business Manager. Always good with numbers, Levee knew exactly how film money was utilized—right down to the penny. He told a group of UCLA students that out of every dollar spent to make a movie 25 cents went to actors’ salaries; 20 cents was applied to studio overhead; 19 cents for the sets; ten cents each on crew and story; eight cents for location expenses; five cents on the film itself and finally, three cents for costumes.
During his tenure at UA, Levee was also in charge of sound. True to form, he approached the problem logistically. Science had determined what normal eyesight should be, but not normal hearing. Therefore, it was hard to figure just what, and how much, spectators heard when they sat in front of a movie screen. Levee explained:
One of the greatest weaknesses in talking pictures today—a weakness that will never be overcome as long as talking pictures are made—is the difference in the hearing of people.
You are capable of receiving 2000 or more cycles than I. You will hear the faintest whisper, where it cuts off as far as I am concerned. We are in the monitor room of a studio, listening to a “playback” of a record. I say, “That’s too loud.” You say “That’s perfect.” Which is right?
Two years later, as sound became the norm instead of another ticket-selling novelty, Levee accepted a position of Executive Manager at Paramount. He also served as the Academy’s president from 1931 to 1932. When his Paramount position was eliminated in 1932, he was let go.
That spring, Levee went on to establish the Screen Guild—a non-profit organization similar to the east coast Theater Guild. Like its New York cousin who produced plays, the west coast Screen Guild was meant to produce movies. According to Levee:
The Screen Guild will aim to create an opportunity for accomplishing for screen entertainment in a measure what the Theater Guild has accomplished for the stage. It will be an entire independent producing organization not designed as an opponent of existing production companies but rather as a means of filling a recognized gap in the industry whereby higher creative talent will be offered for unhampered development and expression along lines that will meet public approval.
This private cooperative was expected to realize substantial savings, while encouraging creativity because it did not have the same overhead as the larger studios. Guild members who backed the endeavor would be entitled to a share of the profits. Any subsequent earnings of the Guild itself would be put right back into other productions. The Bank of America agreed to act as trustee and dole out the dollars.
Not long after, Levee left the filmmaking side of Hollywood. He opened his own business, the M.C. Levee Agency, where he ran a one-man show. With no staff or co-agents, he single-handedl
y represented many of Hollywood’s top celebrities including Bette Davis, Merle Oberon and Paul Muni. Recognized for his insider’s knowledge and for having the wherewithal to negotiate fair contracts, Levee remained a popular figure in the film community.
As an agent, he often defended the big salaries that came with big stars. For many, fame was fleeting and the oversized paydays didn’t last long, but to a financially stressed public, the high dollars were obnoxious. Levee attempted to explain:
Those who challenge the salaries of famous stars do not give them credit for much except luck in winning out as they do; they don’t consider the brevity of the whole thing. They don’t give proper credit for the gifts and ability that go into the success, and the short time in which the great revenue may be gained. You never hear anybody condemn the owner of land on which an oil gusher is found, because of the great wealth that he accumulates through petroleum royalties.… In nine cases out of ten, the person who acquires it hasn’t a thing to do with it. He just happened to hold onto that particular piece of land by sheer luck.
Consequently, many who were once on top of their game suffered financially when they couldn’t find work. Levee’s efforts with the Motion Picture Relief Fund attempted to help many filmmakers who were down on their luck.
As an agent, he specialized in high-maintenance. When he took over the representation of Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. and his new wife, Joan Crawford, Levee also tended to Fairbanks’ mother, paying her bills and ensuring she had enough money to live on. He also intervened when a couple from Denmark attempted to blackmail the actor. When Crawford decided on divorce, it was Levee who broke the bad news to Fairbanks.
Throughout the years, he continued acting as a super agent to the stars taking care of business—professionally and sometimes personally. He was also a founder and the first president of the Artists Management Guild—a trade organization for talent agents. Stricken with cancer, Levee died on May 24, 1972 in Palm Springs at the age of 81. Valued for his honesty, smarts, loyalty and friendship, the innovative producer-turned-topnotch-agent maintained his well-respected position in the filmmaking community for decades.
Chapter Twenty-Five
LAST FOUNDERS STANDING
The unexpected loss of Sam Warner in 1927 sent his youngest brother, Jack, reeling. Sam was the champion behind Warner Bros.’ talking picture The Jazz Singer (1927), which changed movies forever, but he never lived to see the movie’s premiere nor its legacy endure. None of the brothers saw the premiere. Instead, they were busy making funeral arrangements. While Harry and Abe mourned their brother, Jack grieved for his best friend. Now, there was no one to maintain a semblance of peace between him and his older siblings. In the meantime, the success of The Jazz Singer brought the studio back from the brink of bankruptcy—much like Rin Tin Tin had done in the past. Ticket sales proved that Hollywood had reached a pivotal turning point and sound was here to stay.
While Harry ran the business, scooping up controlling interest in First National, he also took time to scold his little brother. He made it very clear that Jack’s loose living was not acceptable to the family, nor were his many affairs conducive to the good name of their company. A livid Jack snapped back: “Talk to me all you want about holding down production costs, but my personal life is damn well my own.”
As the Great Depression strangled the country, Warner Bros. remained profitable. Sparked by the novelty of talking pictures and a need to escape their misfortunes, financially strapped spectators continued buying movie tickets. The studio owned several subsidiaries as well as film exchanges and theaters. They employed over 18,000 people and funded a multi-million-dollar payroll. By the end of 1931, however, even the mighty Warners were feeling the pinch. With unemployment rates skyrocketing, many moviegoers had to choose between feeding or entertaining their families. Groceries won, and the studio ended the year in the red.
None of the country’s woes, however, kept Jack from running wild, much to Harry’s dismay. Loud and brash, Jack relished the spotlight, living large with flashy clothes, bawdy jokes and fast women. Without Sam to reel him in, Jack grew even more obnoxious, gleefully watching Harry smolder over his little brother’s not-so-discreet indiscretions. Despite his bad behavior, Jack knew good material and fine talent when he saw it. He was also savvy enough to hire the right people—like producer Darryl Zanuck who successfully juggled multiple productions on a daily basis. When Zanuck left the studio to join Joseph M. Schenck at Twentieth Century, Jack replaced him with another talented producer, Hal Wallis. No matter how much good business sense Jack displayed or how many outstanding movies he made, Harry couldn’t see past his brother’s faults. As for Jack, he took a keen delight in making Harry mad. Cain and Abel had nothing on the warring Warners.
Jack’s extramarital fun was just that. None of his relationships were serious and leaving his wife, Irma, was not on his mind—until 1932 when he met the also-married Ann Paige. The attractive brunette was the wife of former Warner Bros. player Joseph Paige whom Jack had christened Don Alvarado hoping to give Valentino a little competition. By the time Jack met Ann, she had a young daughter, Joy, and her husband’s career was floundering now that Latin lovers were no longer in vogue.
With their blissful days behind them, Ann left Alvarado. Jack then set her up in a Malibu beach house where he stayed whenever he could get away from the studio and Irma. He even helped Ann obtain a divorce in Mexico, but all the while, Jack himself remained legally married. As he spent more and more time in Malibu, his frequent absences from home forced Irma to face the truth. After a tearful confrontation, Jack left his wife. Ann soon admitted that she was pregnant and their daughter, Barbara, was born on September 10, 1934—something Jack kept from almost everyone since his divorce wasn’t yet final. When his marriage to Irma officially ended in 1935, the divorce decree ordered that neither party could remarry for at least one year.
Despite her hopes for a reconciliation, Irma and her son, Jack, Jr., moved out of their Beverly Hills home. In a bold move, Jack quickly moved Ann in, along with his stepdaughter Joy and the new baby. Finally, in 1936, after the waiting period required by the divorce, Jack and Ann were married in New York. Irma’s hopes for a happy ending were shattered. The outraged Warners read about the wedding in the newspaper. An angry Harry wrote to Jack: “The only thing good that has come on this day is that Mama and Poppa did not live to see it.” The animosity between the two men deepened and now spread throughout the entire family. Brothers and sisters alike voiced their strong aversion to Jack’s new bride. Ann wisely stayed away from Warner family gatherings, knowing she wasn’t welcome.
Family relations didn’t improve when Jack and Ann suddenly announced their adoption of a two-year-old girl. Nor did the Warners approve when Ann overhauled the mansion to suit her own taste. The end result was so extravagant that the place was dubbed “San Simeonette”—after Hearst’s spectacular castle in northern California.
Jack’s typical day at the studio began around 9:30 a.m. with a phone call to his secretary asking if there were any pressing matters. He usually arrived at his office by noon, read the mail and met with various production heads. Once he was told that brother Harry had left the dining room, he’d have lunch. Most afternoons, he viewed rushes filmed the day before. During the latter part of the day, he’d read the daily papers and any new story ideas submitted by studio readers. He then treated himself to a shave by his own private barber. Around eight, his secretary usually made a pot of coffee and Jack often remained at the studio until midnight.
Over the next several years, Jack supervised productions for such major films as The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938), starring the sound era’s favorite swashbuckler, Errol Flynn, as well as the edgy drama The Dawn Patrol (1938)—another Flynn vehicle. The war years followed with training films like Winning Your Wings (1942) featuring Lieutenant James Stewart and the musical Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942) along with the wartime classic Casablanca (1942), considered by many to be one of the b
est films ever made.
After the war, another national pastime emerged—hunting for Communists. The House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC) called Jack to Washington for his testimony concerning a suspect Warner Bros. movie, Mission to Moscow (1943). The film, originally made at the suggestion of U.S. President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, put a positive spin on Stalin’s Russia in order to gain the sympathy of Americans during World War II. Now the film seemed like a nod to Communism, which the HUAC would not tolerate. A nervous Jack tried to explain the wartime situation to committee members who didn’t seem to believe him. To protect himself and his studio, he offered names. Immediately afterward, he knew what he did was wrong, but the damage was done. Jack even tried to retract his statements at a second hearing, but it was too late. The blacklisting had begun.
The following year, Jack purchased a villa in southern France on Cap d’Antibes near the French Riviera’s famous casinos. Far from the judgmental eye of his eldest brother, Jack indulged in one of his favorite pastimes—gambling. The games provided an intriguing escape from the producer’s hectic life, as well as his frowning family. Maybe it was a way to remove himself from the HUAC debacle as well. And the attention of European royalty suited him.
After HUAC, Hollywood had another battle to face—television. During the early fifties, more and more moviegoers chose to stay home huddled around a small black-and-white screen that offered entertainment minus the price of an admission ticket. At first, studio executives bristled at the very word “television,” but as their profits fell and TV’s popularity rose, they gave in and joined forces with the new medium.
Bringing Up Oscar: The Story of the Men and Women Who Founded the Academy Page 34
