Gorgeous George

by John Capouya

  In 1950 twenty-four million admissions to wrestling matches were purchased for a cumulative take of $36 million, according to American Mercury magazine. That same year Major League Baseball, the respectable, aboveground national pastime, drew 17.5 million fans to its fourteen ballparks. Paul Zimmerman, sports editor of the Los Angeles Times, proclaimed baseball soundly beaten. “Wrestling has been taken into millions of parlors,” he wrote. “It is safe to say that families, from kid to grandmothers, know more about double hammerlocks than double plays.”

  The New York Times ran a lavishly arted Sunday-magazine piece entitled “Big Boom in the Grunt and Groan Business.” It began: “Upward of 3,000 huge men, and a few somewhat less huge women, right about now are looking forward to their most profitable season in the last twenty years…Audiences of 12,000 or 15,000 are not uncommon even in comparatively small towns. Wrestlers are being recognized on the streets just like movie stars. Their fees for shows have gone up. The ‘groaning business’ is happy.”

  Despite all the violence and the fakery in wrestling, there was barely a ripple of resistance. Once, in 1949, a group of parents voiced concern about “the consistency with which villainy triumphs over virtue on video,” as Washington Post columnist Shirley Povich put it. Heels were defeating heroes, with George leading this miscreant charge. Was this any way to teach children that cheaters never prosper? But this moral qualm—Povich called it a “squawk”—quickly dissipated, and George’s game grew unabated. “Television brought the Gorgeous One’s pure corn into the home,” Povich wrote, “and it apparently took root because the wrestling business was never so good.”

  In a story entitled “Gorgeous Georgeous,” Newsweek declared that California TV dealers “now credit him with creating more sales than any other program on the line-of-sight.” Since George was wrestling almost seven nights a week, the magazine added, “he gives set buyers plenty of return on their investment.” By this time, however, television, that delivery system for Gorgeousness, had become a conduit that flowed in the other direction as well, rendering from the public unto George. Most, of that era’s other TV stars, including Ed Sullivan and Arthur Godfrey, stayed tethered to the tube. That was where their fame was created and where they derived most of their income. George, on the other hand, made his living from live wrestling events, and every one of his televised matches served as a twenty-to-thirty-minute advertisement for his other, much more lucrative business. Since the Toast of the Coast’s appeal had little to do with actual wrestling, he attracted the broadest audience, drawing those who cared nothing for the ring as well as the dedicated wrestling fans. “Pretty soon,” Lou Thesz said, “promoters around the country were begging for George…knowing he’d bring out the curious as well as the regulars.”

  George and Betty began to demand 20 percent of each night’s gate receipts (after the promoter took 20 percent off the top for overhead). Normally, the two main-eventers would receive 4 or 5 percent each, yet George commanded five times that. “And he was completely worth it,” said the Butcher, Paul Vachon. “There was such a curiosity, everyone wanted to see him.” Some promoters raised ticket prices, usually fifty cents or a dollar, when George appeared; other impresarios, such as Morris Sigel in Houston, made a loud point of it when ducats didn’t get more expensive. One of his ads boasted: “There will be no increase in prices for next week’s card which will feature Gorgeous George!”

  Unlike the Hollywood actors and other star athletes of the day, who abstained from discussing their pay (leaving it to the press and their agents), George blasted about his earnings to anyone with a microphone or a notepad. As might be expected, though, George’s pay reports served more to magnify than to clarify. In 1948 Time said George earned “upwards of $70,000 a year,” which was probably close. Two years later the American Mercury said that only three of George’s rivals—former heavyweight boxer Primo Carnera; Gene Stanlee, aka Mr. America; and Antonino Rocca—approached the $100,000-a-year mark, and that the Toast easily surpassed it. “I don’t want to be a millionaire,” George explained to writer Ted Shane. “I just want to live like one.” He was getting there. The Los Angeles Times said George collected $160,000 for “unkinking his muscles and uncurling his hair,” pointing out that the Human Orchid could also be called “The Human Billfold.” When asked by a reporter to clear up these discrepancies, George told him to “take your pick.”

  A clearer light is shed on this by, of all people, the Hangman, Howard Cantonwine. A hard drinker and frequent brawler with a volcanic temper, when he became George’s business manager around 1949, Cantonwine nonetheless kept careful records. His log and account book from that year indicate that the Gorgeous One was indeed hauling in over $100,000 a year, even after he paid his booking agent a 10 percent fee. In one short stretch of April nights, for example, George got paid $1,494 in St. Louis for beating Chief Don Eagle on a disqualification; $1,939.68 for a win over Gypsy Joe Dorsetti in Milwaukee; and just $459.08 in Wichita for a no-contest against Sonny Myers. Cantonwine almost always appeared lower down on the cards George worked, and made about $200 to $250 a week, extremely good money for a workingman.

  That same year Hank Williams, the undisputed king of country music, made $92,500, according to his biographer, Paul Hemphill. A year later Joe DiMaggio, the Yankee Clipper, retired and walked away from his $100,000 salary, one of the highest in all “legitimate” sports. Movie stars like Spencer Tracy and William Holden made much more, but the Washington Post was nonetheless correct when it said of George that “in answer to cries of ‘sissy’ he laughs much of the way to the bank.” Most of the time, that is. At others George whined that he wasn’t getting to keep enough of the lucre, sighing that “If you net a million you can only keep $110,000 of it.” It was true—for much of his career George’s earnings placed him in the highest tax bracket, and that was the 90 percent tier. Since George worked in a cash business, though, he may have been able to submerge some of his income. Each night at the arenas, right after the receipts were counted, promoters literally paid the boys out of cigar boxes filled with crumpled bills. Dick Steinborn, a former wrestler whose father was a promoter, stood in the locker room at the Jamaica Arena in Queens, New York, one Friday night in 1949. After a televised match, with Dennis James as the announcer, Steinborn watched as his father counted out $1,155 in cash into George’s perfumed paws. (The other boys on the card that night made $175 or $250, and were happy to get it, when, as Steinborn said, “regular people were making ninety dollars a week.”) To consistently declare all that cuddlesome cash on one’s income taxes seems like the act of a mark, jarringly out of place in the Gorgeous universe.

  At least one person thought George made too much money. In 1949 Joseph L. Mankiewicz wrote and directed Letter to Three Wives, a film about suburban life and marriage, a new postwar subject. The film’s strongest message, he said, had to do with Kirk Douglas’s character, a schoolteacher who earned very little. This injustice was based in reality, Mankiewicz explained, and it rankled. “My father, Prof. Frank Mankiewicz, was himself an educator,” the son said. “With his help I once could have made an assistant instructorship in English literature. If I had, I probably would have been earning for a year about half of what Gorgeous George gets for one wrestling match.” (How Mankiewicz felt about the exorbitant pay scale in Hollywood, compared to teachers’ earnings, wasn’t included in the interview.)

  Beyond the loot George won something else, a prize that he never complained about. He became a national celebrity, and his was a new kind of outsize, feeds-on-itself fame. From the late 1940s to the mid-1950s his image was so pervasive, and his silliness so addictive, that virtually everyone in the country—English speaking or not; interested in sports or indifferent; television owning or lacking—recognized Gorgeous George. George and Betty’s timing was perfect: In their day we saw for the first time how TV exposure led to more print and radio publicity, which led to more packed arenas, which then occasioned more coverage. The cycle spun in widenin
g circles until the media event that was George became news, which needed to be covered again. Before long George’s fame outgrew wrestling and television, and became its own entity. He became famous not so much for what he did in either of those venues anymore, but simply for who and what he was—for being so famously Gorgeous George.

  In March of 1948 Gorgeous George debuted his nightclub act at Slapsy Maxie’s, an L.A. nightclub on Beverly Boulevard that he and Betty frequented. More than once the owner, Maxie Rosenbloom, a former light-heavyweight boxing champion turned comedian, put on a wig and bathrobe and lampooned George while the couple was in the audience. On the nights when he was wrestling earlier in the evening, George would get his hair redone in a limo from Hollywood Legion Stadium or the Olympic, then take the stage at Maxie’s. Sharing the bill with comedian Ben Blue, George didn’t wrestle, dance, sing, or tell jokes. He just…acted Gorgeous, strutting to and fro wearing one of his robes, handing out some Georgie pins and answering a few questions in his dandified character. (He would work a similar act at the Silver Slipper in Las Vegas in the 1950s.) Just seeing George be George was what the cover charge bought the nightclub patrons, and that was enough.

  George—or, rather, the Gorgeous George character—permeated the popular culture, even as he helped to shape it. When Eddie Cantor, also known as “Banjo Eyes” and “The Apostle of Pep,” welcomed G.G. to his 10 P.M. radio show, George bellowed out: “I refuse to speak until my valet has fumigated this place. Jefferies!” Listeners then heard the swish-swish of the famous spray gun. Cantor then set George up with his line about Chanel Number 10, and there was a “surprise” intrusion by an upcoming opponent, the Mad Russian, who called George a “snooty patootie.” This segment ended with Cantor asking his guest star: “There is one thing I always wanted to know. What makes you call yourself Gorgeous?”

  To which George answered: “Honesty.”

  Lauritz Melchior, the opera star, was photographed kissing George’s hand. In so doing, the world’s reigning Wagnerian tenor may have spared himself the embarrassment of the Georgie Kiss. In this ritual the wrestler would take a lady’s hand, bow gallantly, and bend over as if to buss the proffered paw. Instead, as the Gorgeous lips approached their presumed target, he’d flip his wrist over, then kiss the back of his own hand instead. George most famously pulled this stunt on Kim Novak at Chicago’s Chez Paree Lounge, whereupon well-known Tribune columnist Herb Lyon wrote it up in his “Tower Ticker” column.

  Photographic Insert

  “Cleanie,” not “meanie.” The original George: a handsome black-haired babyface or good-guy wrestler, circa 1937. Jack Pfefer Collection, University Libraries of Notre Dame.

  Team Wagner in Hawaii, 1941. Here, Betty briefly became a part of the ring act, then went back to making mischief behind the scenes. Courtesy of the George family.

  Ab work. George does sit-ups on the Hawaiian beach, using a ninety-five-pound wifely weight for resistance. Courtesy of the George family.

  Team Wagner expands. George and Betty with Carol Sue and the just-adopted Don, most likely in Tulsa, 1946. Courtesy of the George family.

  The transformation begins. George in one of his early robes, around 1943. His smile hasn’t yet given way to the trademark sneer. Jack Pfefer Collection, University Libraries of Notre Dame.

  Robes Gallery

  Getting pinned. George tossed his fans much sought-after souvenirs: “gold-plated” Georgie pins that held his intricate curls. Courtesy of John Pantozzi.

  Satin Doll. The haughty heel in his finest fabrics, ruffles, and lace. Jack Pfefer Collection, University Libraries of Notre Dame.

  Ring action. After all the preliminary strutting and sneering, the Pompous Prissy turned into a snarling beast, a surprisingly fast, high-flying athlete. Courtesy of John Pantozzi.

  The “claret” flows. Arena fans roared at the sight of blood. A subset of grapplers known as blade men cut themselves intentionally to get heat from the crowd. Jack Pfefer Collection, University Libraries of Notre Dame.

  Toast of the Coast. George with comedian Jack Benny (above first), crooner Bing Crosby (above second) [Jack Pfefer Collection, University Libraries of Notre Dame], and Burt Lancaster (above third), “The Killer,” at a 1948 charity event in Santa Monica. Bob Hope stands in for Jefferies, assuming the role of George’s valet. It seems there’s a midmatch phone call for the master. Courtesy of the George family.

  Made for TV. G.G. at L.A.’s NBC station. In the foreground, his hairstylists, Frank and Joseph. While George is very much in his element, Poppa Wagner, left, is clearly uncomfortable in the spotlight. Courtesy of the George family.

  “I solemnly swear…” The Sensation inducts fans into the Gorgeous George fan club, which requires swearing that “I will never confuse this gold Georgie pin with an ordinary bobby pin, so help me, Gorgeous George.” Courtesy of the George family.

  Like father… Young Donnie, George and Betty’s second adopted child, emulates his famous dad.

  Courtesy of Dick Steinborn.

  Betty goes blond. Borrowing her husband’s fan, she poses at their home in Windsor Hills, California. Her hair was so naturally dark it took sixteen bleachings to get it to match George’s platinum ’do. Courtesy of the George family.

  Turkey world. George and Betty raised thirty thousand turkeys on their ranch in Beaumont, California—including a few dyed orchid, the same color as the couple’s house and cars. Courtesy of the George family.

  Betty today. George’s muse and co-conspirator in 2006, more than sixty years after they invented Gorgeousness together. “I pushed, and he did it,” she liked to say. Courtesy of the author.

  Matinee idol. George’s one and only movie was released in 1949. George played himself—channeling Bette Davis and Tallulah Bankhead. Courtesy of the author.

  Musical tribute. George the cultural icon inspired popular songs. This ditty proclaimed that “his wavy hair and dainty air” made him “the darlin’est boy.” Courtesy of Brenda Cantonwine.

  Legally Gorgeous. Betty helps George primp before his 1950 court appearance to have his name changed from George Wagner to Gorgeous George. Los Angeles Times.

  The archenemy. Promoter Jack Pfefer sent out his own wrestlers, dressed in fancy robes with their hair dyed blond, and billed them as Gorgeous George. Jack Pfefer Collection, University Libraries of Notre Dame.

  Gorgeous George Grant. He worked the gorgeous act and used a valet, another gimmick used by the original G.G. Courtesy of Scott Teal.

  The “valette.” George’s female valet—and second wife—former showgirl and dancer Cherie Dupre. Courtesy of John Pantozzi.

  The stakes will be mighty high… Referee magazine hyped the hair vs. mask match—if George lost, his curls would be shorn, and if the Destroyer lost, he’d finally be unmasked. Courtesy of Tom Burke.

  Still game. The forty-seven-year-old George, in debt and looking for a quick payday, lets The Destroyer throw him from pillar to post to put the match across for the fans. Courtesy of Tom Burke.

  The final indignity. In 1962, George gets his gorgeous locks shaved off after losing a match to the masked Destroyer, exulting at left. Courtesy of Tom Burke.

  Jesse “The Body” Ventura. A flamboyant heel in the 1970s and ’80s, Ventura took the trappings of Gorgeousness—all the way to the Minnesota governor’s mansion. Photofest.

  Nature Boy. Ric Flair, a wrestling descendant of George’s rival Nature Boy Buddy Rogers, flaunted robes the Gorgeous One might have envied. wrealano@aol.com.

  “Shocking, scary, and silly.” That’s how filmmaker John Waters remembers Gorgeous George. His outrageous movie characters, including Divine, right, are in some ways based on George. Copyright by Fred W. McDarrah.

  Glam man. George in all his confounding, sui gorgeous glory. As the title of a 1978 Henry Winkler movie loosely based on G.G.’s life put it, he was The One and Only. Jack Pfefer Collection, University Libraries of Notre Dame.

  At the Bachelors Ball in Los Angeles, a high-societ
y costume party held at the Biltmore Bowl, Sharp Whitmore, a prominent lawyer, got much praise for his Gorgeous George portrayal. Gorgeous songs played on the radio, and then in the arenas before George’s appearances. Jimmy Lennon, the singing ring announcer, recorded one such tune that began:

  He has an armful of muscles and a head full of curls.

  He wrestles with the fellows and he thrills all the girls.