HISTORY LESSON: Movie Stars and the Mob

Hollywood's favorite Gangster: James Cagney

There is something intoxicating about the element of danger, isn't there? All of our favorite actors possess it. Who is Brando without it? For that matter, who is Davis without it? Just as different celebrities hypnotize us through their various characters, so too were they mesmerized by a certain breed of the male animal that was even more intoxicating than themselves-- the gangster. Brutal, violent, merciless, not to mention unlawful, the birth of the thug came with the death of alcohol. In protecting human beings by taking away their booze, prohibition ironically unearthed an even more foul, yet even more tempting, villain. Iconically remembered with Tommy guns, cigars, and sometimes baseball bats (thanks to Robert De Niro's turn in The Untouchables), these tough guys emerged from a world of hard knocks and ruthlessness with no other agenda than to make a buck off other men's weaknesses. Businessmen and bruisers, they became rich and powerful through drugs, gambling, white slavery... You name it. Their legacy is a strange and dark mutation of the American dream. Living as the Royalty of the Underworld, it wasn't long before live villains started rubbing elbows with screen heroes. Elbows... and then some.

Why do good girls always want the bad boys? You'd think a lady would know to run far and fast when a man with a more-than-disreputable reputation came into view, yet the opposite effect more popularly occurs. Even some of our most beloved starlets have been hoodwinked by the charms of a devious gangster. Be it the allure of being that close to danger, the attraction of power, the money and spoils the "hood" is able to provide (however his means of obtaining them), certain women have temporarily muted their common sense for a forbidden adrenaline rush. One such lady was Lucille Ball (looking very much the gangster's moll in her role for Dance Girl Dance, left). As a fourteen year-old youngster, her first major boyfriend was a local hood named Johnny DeVita, whose resume included "chauffeuring" for his sketchy father-- aka transporting whiskey. Johnny was tough, which Lucille found a turn-on, and the fact that he carried a gun around made her even more enamored. However, not long after his dad was shot and killed, Johnny would find himself in Jail for his own transgressions. Lucy's taste didn't change much when she became a struggling model in NY. Working for Hattie Carnegie, she often came across gang members looking for good-looking dames to show a swell time. Lucy struck up friendships with many of these fellows, which helped her get a free meal or two, not to mention a false sense of protection. After a neighborhood shootout, she earned the nickname "two-gun." Just why remains a mystery.

Another tough guy Lucy would date and befriend was George Raft. Raft (right) had a lot of mobster ties dating all the way back to his boyhood. He had no ambitions to rise in the ranks of that type of "business," but he ingratiated himself to a number of wise guys who would later call on him for favors when he became a movie star. Mae West would recall meeting Raft for the first time when he was a mere chauffeur for Owney Madden. They had a brief fling, which left Mae reminiscing in later years that George was "all man." Mae, like Lucy, had a taste for the bad boys, but was too smart a business woman to get involved too deeply with them. Emotions remained out of the equation. Strangely, she tried to coerce Raft into appearing in her latest stage production, "Sex," but George had no ambitions toward being an actor either. He had no ambitions at all it seemed, other than to just live as comfortably as possible. It was thus a shock to Mae when, later, George made it to Hollywood before she did and secured a role for her in what would be her film debut: Night After Night. It was a welcome reunion. Despite this, Raft was known by some as hot-tempered and threatening. He still carried around a gun, cozied up to thugs, and had no qualms about slapping someone around. He would even testify on behalf of Bugsy Siegel when the latter was brought up on bookmaking charges. Yet, George seemed to have a soft spot for certain ladies. In addition to Mae, he was helpful to Lucy when he loaned her the money to rent her first bungalow in Hollywood. It was a touching move, for it allowed her to move her entire family from Jamestown to L.A. It would take her more than six years to pay him back, but her pal said that there was no rush.

Pat DiCicco also had mob connections. Publicly an acting agent, privately he was good friends with the likes of Lucky Luciano. Luckily, whatever fling Lucy Ball had with Pat was brief, but Carole Landis was too suckered by his deceptive charms. Initially turned on by his confidence and swagger, she soon found that her Prince Charming had some major rage issues. Their affair would quickly come to an end after a mysterious hospital visit: she was reported to be undergoing cosmetic surgery on her nose, though it is commonly believed that she was repairing the physical damage of a brutal beating. The girl was perfect, after all; she didn't need plastic surgery. Whatever the source of her visit, it marked the end of their relationship. Most notoriously, it was comedienne Thelma Todd who was all too seriously involved with Pat. The two were married in the 1930s (see newlyweds left). Like the others, Thelma fell for what she mistook as Pat's strength, only to find herself constantly on the receiving end of his anger and jealousy. A common error, most women sought these men in hopes of finding protection but put themselves in the line of fire instead... literally. As their marriage was ending, Pat introduced Thelma to Lucky Luciano aka Charles Lucifer, and the two began their own affair. But, as Lucky put the pressure on Thelma to give him space in her Sidewalk Cafe to use as a gambling center, Thelma adamantly refused. Consequently, she was found dead in her garage on December 16, 1935. Though Lucky was certainly the mastermind behind her "accidental" demise, many believed Pat too played an intricate part in ending his ex-wife's life. Since all of Tinsel Town knew this, it makes it strange that any other woman would give Pat a second glance, but in addition to winning over Lucy and Carole, Pat too would tac Joan Blondell, Gloria Vanderbilt, Virginia Bruce, and Elizabeth Taylor onto his roster.

Another infamous Hollywood death that has been tied to in some respect to gang warfare is that of The Black Dahlia, Elizabeth Short. Though many would attest that the macabre nature of her death and the precision with which she was brutally sawed in half suggested the work of a calculating psychopath or serial killer, there were also clues attached to her body that pointed to none other than Bugsy Siegel (right). One theory postulates that newspaper magnate Norman Chandler paid Siegel, along with the aid of a couple of other thugs and a doctor, to kill Bettie after she became pregnant with Norman's child. He feared the threat of a scandal and the tarnishing of his illustrious family's name. If so, this would explain the brutality with which Bettie was beaten across the head and face-- the sadistic Bugsy had a penchant for "pistol whipping." Because her uterus was removed, this too lends to the speculation that her murder was used to cover up an abortion/pregnancy. Also, her body was dumped not far from Bugsy foe Jack Dragna's house, and-- something the police did not let the press in on-- a "D" was carved into her skin, which many attribute to an antagonistic Sicilian "Eff you" from Bugsy to Dragna. With Bugsy's schedule, flying back and forth non-stop while finalizing his precious Flamingo Hotel in Las Vegas, it is possible that he was present to have just enough time to take part in the murder and, knowing him, enjoy it.

Whether or not he did play a role in Bettie's end, Bugsy had a very prominent role in Hollywood-- with both the women and the men. Whatever his sickening and reprehensible behavior in fact, he was able to at least concoct enough fiction to make him fascinating to all of the glitterati. He could be seen on the town at various shindigs, rubbing elbows with Clark Gable and Gary Cooper-- and George Raft, of course. Naturally, the man known as the handsomest thug too partnered up with several actresses, including Marie McDonald and Wendy Barrie. He was also in tight with Jean Harlow's abysmal step-father, Marino Bello, which put him in contact with Jean as well. (Harlow, of course, is also rumored to have had a relationship with Abner "Longie" Zwillman, who helped her secure her first acting contract. He too was said to carry around a locket containing hair from her... uh... nether-regions). Whether these actors truly liked Bugsy or merely tolerated him out of fear is uncertain. One would at least hope that they had their guards up. Most notoriously, Bugsy had a violent and torrential relationship with wannabe actress Virginia "Sugar" Hill (left), who was supposedly just as venomous and abusive as her lover. It would be at Virginia's home in Beverly Hills, 810 N. Linden Drive, where Bugsy would finally meet his maker and face the music for all of his worldly crimes. He was shot clean through the eye. His murder was believed to be payback for all of the money he owed his Flamingo investors.

But all of these names were floating around Hollywood for a reason. The Mob was moving West-- away from the Metropolises of New York and Chicago-- to do big business in show business. Names like Siegel, Luciano, Mickey Cohen, Meyer Lansky, and Frank Nitti are attached to Movieland for very specific reasons. One is now known as "The Great Hollywood Shakedown." Two lesser known names involved are those most responsible for what was to become an enormous extortion racket- Willie Bioff (right) and George Brown. Their scheme started in Chicago, where after dabbling in prostitution, they set their sights on the Stagehands Union. Step one, membership. The slogan was simple: join us you little, underpaid children... or be beaten within an inch of your life. Step Two, after Increasing dues, B&B threatened theater owners with "strikes" if they didn't pay up monthly fees for the use of the union members. Theater owners Sam Katz and Barney Balaban were some of the first hit with the new, raw deal. To keep their theaters running, they played the game, and business continued smoothly. Frank Nitti, Al Capone's heir, soon partnered up (or rather took over), and the venture moved West. Capone had already laid the ground work, and Nitti wanted to finish the job. With the corrupt Buron Fitts running things as the District Attorney in Los Angeles, a complete goon-takeover wouldn't be difficult.

Next, New York's Lucky Luciano (left) was brought into the loop in a temporary or at least feigned truce, and the two branches would work together to take over Tinsel Town. Adding the projectionists' unions and IATSE to the scheme, they could return to men like Balaban, now in Hollywood running Paramount, and demand huge payments to keep their theaters running and their studios filming. The film-businessmen would be forced to pay or suffer the consequences: the loss of their livelihoods or worse, the loss of their lives. All of the major studios were hit: Paramount, Warners, Twentieth-Century, MGM... Game, Set, Match. In a way, it worked for everyone. Under mob control, the studios ran more efficiently than ever, as long as they payed up, and moguls actually saved money paying the bad guys instead of paying the Unions directly. Needless to say, the union members were the ones getting truly and financially screwed. As hot-shot gang members became commonplace at Hollywood parties, corruption whipped into full swing. Producer Joe Schenck even got in on the action via a Dupont Film monopoly, for which he paid ol' Bioff off with a Ranch. The feds caught up with him, however, ironically from a tip from Montgomery Clift, then the SAG President, whose informants alerted the IRS to the fishy financial goings-on. Schenck served five years in prison as a result. By the end of the '40s, with the cat out of the bag, the whole troupe of accomplices was led into court both for participation in the extortion plot and tax evasion. Most would get off due to their connections, but some did not fare as well, including Nitti, who blew his own brains out when the prospect of facing jail time became too daunting. The only one who escaped completely was Lucky, who (after killing Thelma Todd), had left the whole racket, or rather was kicked out by his own partners, to return to New York. He was later deported back to his native Sicily where he would die in 1962 at the ripe old age of 69. One hopes his soul did not fare as well.

Frank Sinatra (right) was the man most notoriously associated with the Mafia in the latter days of Hollywood's golden age. It is common knowledge by now that it was through Old Blue Eyes's influence and mob connections that the Kennedys were able to buy their way into the White House. Of course, after they got what they wanted, the Prez quickly disappeared from Frank's life so that his pristine public image wouldn't be maligned. Frank was... ticked. (There are continuing theories that many members of the mafia, who had connections with the Kennedy family, were outraged by the political family's inability to "do business" properly. While many in America were shocked when JFK was shot dead, those in the underworld were not). Frank often overcompensated for his diminutive stature by surrounding himself by powerful people. His big voice and even bigger ego were all the guy needed, but his need to appear tough and throw his weight around was enhanced by his relationships with gangsters. Sam Giancana and Mickey Cohen were co-owners of Frank's Cal Neva Lodge. Skinny D'Amato was the manager. Frank was also throughout his life associated with Joe and Rocco Fischetti and John Formosa. While this made him somewhat of a moral and political threat, it equally boosted his fan appeal and public image. His male fans particularly were more intrigued when they learned that little Frankie was more than just a singing heartthrob for the ladies. He was a bad-ass mother-f*cker! Say what you will, no one messed with Frank. Well, almost. Frank got a little miffed at Lucille's beloved Desi Arnaz after he started producing "The Untouchables." He felt it was insulting to both Italians and "his friends." Yet, even after he tried to persuade his Cuban comrade to pull the plug, Desi sweet-talked him out of his anger. As Frank himself would say, "I just can't stay mad at the guy."

Edward G. Robinson takes a bullet and makes a hit in Little Caesar.

"The Untouchables" turned out to be a huge hit for Desilu Studios, and one of many Hollywood products that contributed to our understanding of gang warfare. The show would make Robert Stack a star, though his role was that of Det. Eliot Ness (a character reprised by Kevin Kostner in the film version). The show was, however, more about the triumph of good over evil, whereas earlier Hollywood films made in the gangster infiltration hey-day-- specifically those produced during the pre-code era-- had a tendency to glorify the thugs, the goons, and the hoods. It's funny that, aside from Sinatra and Raft, some of the actors most famous for playing these guys were very far from their screen selves. Edward G. Robinson, the infamous pug-faced actor who rose to fame in Little Caesar, was in life an educated aesthete who collected fine art, had a wide knowledge of music and culture, and could speak seven languages fluently. And Cagney, the mad hero of Public Enemy and White Heat? His portrayals of gangsters were convincing, because he observed them while growing up in the Lower East Side of NY. But, while he studied them, he did not assimilate, despite the fact that many of his friends did. He put his passions and angst into his art, becoming a song and dance man instead. His true self would come to the forefront in Yankee Doodle Dandy. Though admitted facades that could never possess the brutality of the real truth, the classic reel tales of booze, violence, and "bidness," are still offers we can't refuse. I guess the flesh and blood (and I do mean blood) realities were just as enticing for some celebs, though dancing with the Devil too often left then burned.

BITS OF COINCIDENCE: Part IV

Ava Gardner (above) has long been labeled as one of the loveliest women to grace the silver screen. In a town full of beautiful girls, it is no surprise that she occasionally came gorgeous face-to-gorgeous face with one of her fellow competitors for the title of "Most Beautiful." One instance goes way back. When she was making her initial train ride to Hollywood in 1941, she was unaware that another MGM starlet was on board: Hedy Lamarr  (below).  However, while LB Mayer let Ava keep her melodic sounding name upon her arrival, Hedy had not been so lucky. When she was first signed at MGM, LB changed her name from Hedwig Eva Maria Kiesler, having decided to name her after Barbara La Marr-- one of Movieville's greatest forgotten beauties. Ava and Eva, who knew? Both girls had been plucked from their native homelands by MGM-- Ava from North Carolina and Hedy from Hungary-- to be made into stars, though Ava was a complete unknown, and Hedy had already appeared in several foreign films (including the notorious Ecstasy). In fact, when Ava first made the rounds in Los Angeles, Jimmy Fidler said she "looked like Hedy Lamarr, only better." Interestingly, the two women would cross paths again after they became famous, this time in Mexico when Ava was on her honeymoon with Frank Sinatra, and Hedy just happened to be vacationing in the same place! It's a small world for Goddesses.

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A similar parallelism happened to Norma Shearer (left) and another struggling actress. Back when Norma was a model in NY, playing the piano at local movie theaters to get by, she constantly bumped into another ingenue at casting calls. However, while years later people would recall the ambitious and passionate beauty that Norma was even then, they struggled to remember the other girl in their midst: Jean Arthur. Jean (below) was too shy and awkward to draw much attention behind the cameras, but Norma? As photographer Alfred Cheney Johnston put it: "Now... there was an outstanding personality!" The two ladies were very soon off to Hollywood, but they would not share a train. Norma made it out west in early 1923, and Jean followed a few months later. Strangely, people are more familiar with bashful Jean's movies than Norma's these days (thanks to the former's work with Capra and Stevens). Yet, while Norma's acting style seems a bit outmoded in these modern times, the eternal diva lives on in her celluloid kingdom as the dangerous, free-wheeling Prima Donna of her generation.

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Once upon a time in New York, a young dancer was being instructed on new  choreography for the "Embraceable You" number in her upcoming stage production, Girl Crazy. The man teaching her the new moves was a skinny, scrawny sort of fellow, but he also had a strange sort of charm and an amazing talent to boot. An initial curiosity was sparked, and they went out on a date-- dancing of course. Though they liked and respected each other a great deal, romance was not on the menu. Instead, they went their separate ways, working on their own individual entertainment careers. Years later, they would be re-teamed in a major motion picture in which their dance routines stole the show: Flying Down to Rio. Though the magic never happened between them in real life, in reel life they were electric, and audiences would savor them together on the screen nine more times. They would enjoy one of the most enduring romances of cinematic history despite their lack of attraction those years ago.  Back when Fred Astaire was polishing Ginger Rogers's technique on that NY stage, he had no idea that he had just met his professional soul mate!

Destined to Dance- Ginger and Fred

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When gifted thespian Judith Evelyn (right) was performing in the play "Craig's Wife" in 1947, she had the privilege of working with a young ingenue whom she found to be quite mature for her years. The young blond was educated, ambitious, patient, and generous with her co-stars-- a real pro. Judith was impressed and was certain that the lovely young lady would carve out quite a career for herself. Of course, she had no way of knowing that the junior actress's notoriety would eventually surpass her own. Years later, the two were reunited on the set of Rear Window, in which Judith played the important role of Ms. Lonelyhearts. When Grace Kelly (below) discovered that her former co-star and hero would be working with her, she invited Judith to her dressing room to share a bottle of champagne and celebrate their reunion. They often met during the shoot to catch up and reflect on old times. Judith found Grace to be as humble and sweet-natured as ever. At least some things never change.

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Now, for a bit of pre-Halloween spookiness...

Franchot Tone (left)was one of the handsomest leading men of his day. Though he is less remembered than some of his contemporaries, he was certainly man enough to win the affections of Joan Crawford, to whom he was briefly married. He was quite the Lothario-- a charming ladies' man. His position as a famous Hollywood actor only made it easier to impress women. One night in 1944, he was out at the infamous Formosa Cafe when he spotted a beautiful young woman with dark hair and piercing blue eyes. Naturally, he singled her out as his lady of choice for the evening. They got to talking, and he discovered that she was an aspiring actress. She was quite fascinated with him. She asked him questions and was eager to learn how she too could get her own career going. In his head he thought, "This one's in the bag!" Franchot assured her that he could give her some advice, introduce her to the right people, etc. She was eating out of the palm of his hand by the time he got her into his car to meet an "associate." 

They drove to his swanky bachelor pad, and the young lady's attitude changed when she realized Tone had no associate waiting for her and instead had other things in mind. When Franchot tried to put the moves on her, she resisted completely, trying instead to change the subject back to her career. He realized that he had made a mistake. Despite her beauty and gorgeous curves, she was really a naive little girl at heart. She hadn't come to his room for a rendezvous;  she had really hoped to learn something from him. Feeling a bit embarrassed, Franchot dialed things down, and they talked for awhile before he put her in a cab. Less than 3 years later, he would receive quite a shock when he learned that her body was found beaten, mutilated, and cut in half, lying on a patch of grass at 39th and Norton in downtown LA. The papers were calling her "The Black Dahlia." He had known her only as Bettie Short (pictured below). Disturbed by the experience, he probably looked at every woman he tried to pick up a bit differently after that...

Hope your costume hunting is going well! Just two weeks to go!!!

BITS OF COINCIDENCE: Part One

In the world of history, all roads intersect. It truly is a small world, but the knowledge that we are all bound together inside of it can be a powerful thing. In studying Hollywood, I am focused on a very particular section of the past, but it is impossible to study the geography of one place without encroaching on other territories. The landscape of human life is forever intertwining, forever overlapping. Sometimes the bridges we forge between worlds is entertaining-- a hysterical bit of trivia-- and sometimes reassuring. Seeing the pieces of a massive puzzle all coming together to form one picture, albeit an ever-evolving one, makes the mystery of life and human connection all the more compelling. Is this not why we burrow into the past? To understand, to learn, to seek a commonality, which gives life a new meaning?

It is interesting to note the strange connections that different celebrities have with each other, outside of well-forged friendships. Chance encounters, life-altering meetings, and brief glimpses of different people from different generations seem to weld together the otherwise disconnected feelings that we have about important historical figures. I admit freely that I tend to think of people as existing within their own time line, so when I research a particular person and am introduced to the peers and acquaintances within their "community," I find it surprising. All of these separate stitches come together to form one large, all-encompassing fabric. It amuses me, and at the same time makes the person I study more tangible. Here are a few random encounters that struck me when I came across them:

~ Rin Tin Tin was one of the most famous, best beloved, and highest paid stars in Hollywood when he died on August 10, 1932. He peacefully met his maker in the arms of a new neighbor who had just moved in with her husband, Paul Bern. The new Hollywood ingenue? Jean Harlow.

 

~ In 1920, Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks were returning from a lengthy, European honeymoon. While aboard the SS Olympic heading for New York, they encountered a charming 16-year-old, English lad who was headed for America for the first time. His name was Archibald Leach. He would later be known as Cary Grant.

~ When Carole Lombard's plain tragically went down in January of 1942, it crashed into the mountains of Nevada. Before her husband, Clark Gable, had even heard the tragic news, 2 famous neighbors from the silent film days saw the flames going up over the mountains beyond their ranch. Rex Bell and Clara Bow were unaware of the gravity of the event when Rex went riding out to the scene, being one of the first to offer help.

~ One night in 1929, struggling actor Boris Karloff was leaving the Universal lot after a hard day of extra work. He was tired, and was thus very grateful when a generous man pulled over and offered to give him a lift. Lon Chaney then gave Boris the best career advice he was ever to receive- "The secret of success in Hollywood lies in being different from anyone else. Find something no one else can or will do-- and they'll begin to take notice of you." Clearly, Boris took the words of wisdom to heart.

 

 

~ Back in the 1940s, one of Hollywood's most notorious hot-spots was the Florentine Gardens. Many big-wigs went here to see and be seen, flirt with the pretty girls, and spend money on a strong drink. Young wannabe actresses went there hoping to bump into a producer or director, who would maybe give them a screen test. Two ingenues who met here? Elizabeth "The Black Dahlia" Short and Norma Jean Baker, otherwise known as Marilyn Monroe.

I came across another coincidence lately that went beyond the actor-actor connection. This one actually blew my mind, for although the "6 degrees of Kevin Bacon" law unites us all... this one stretches so far back into history, uniting two unlikely people, that all I could do was shake my head at the craziness of it.

                                                                     Wallace Reid                                                     

~Few people today remember the handsome matinee idol, Wallace Reid, although at one point he was one of Hollywood's biggest stars. Even fewer are familiar with his wife, Dorothy Davenport (below, top left), a movie star in her own right, who was descended from a long line of accomplished thespians, including the illustrious Fanny Davenport (bottom left), her aunt. (Fanny had, by the way, started an acting company in which the young actor Cunningham Deane aka William Desmond Taylor was performing in 1896). Dorothy's grandfather, Edward Loomis Davenport (top right) was a huge theater star in his time. So famous had he become, that his face appeared on etched cigar bands. Abraham Lincoln (left) was a fan of his work, and was excited when E.L. invited him to a performance of Othello at the Grover Theater on April 14, 1864. Unfortunately, Mary Todd had already made plans for them to see Our American Cousin at the Ford's Theater where, the night of the play, actor John Wilkes Booth (bottom right) shot Lincoln in his private box. Dorothy Davenport's grandfather very nearly saved Lincoln's life with his invitation, but fate had other plans. (Interestingly, E.L. had made his stage debut with Booth's father Junius Brutus Booth in Providence, RI). Wallace Reid-> Dorothy Davenport-> E.L. Davenport-> Abraham Lincoln. Less than 6 degrees of KB! Amazing! 

 

 

Hollywood seems to exist as its own separate universe- a galaxy of luminous stars radiating beyond the realm of the general population. Even living in Hollywood, one feels that there are two separate dimensions: the real world, and then the glossy world of fiction and fantasy-- the Olympus hovering somewhere overhead. It is a place that we cannot see nor touch, but that we are somehow constantly aware of. That is why I take such pleasure in the aforementioned instances of historical convergence, where "Hollywood" comes out from hiding and reveals itself as a real populace, filled with real people.

PERSONAL NOTE: My Year with Bettie

Now that the crazy mayhem of the Halloween Holiday has passed, I am more than ready to rest, recuperate, and enjoy the general gluttonous merriment that is certain to come as Thanksgiving approaches- a much more restful holiday. This past year has been a hectic one for me, and in many ways an eerie one. Twelve months worth of research and grave-hunting has caused me to unearth some, at times, unsettling facts, and I have had more than one spooky experience to make me wonder whether or not I have tarried too long with the ghosts of the past. At these odd moments, when I stumble upon something or someone in the crumbling facade of Hollywood that leaves me- for lack of a better word- uneasy, I fear that these phantoms have followed me into the present. It is a burden that is sometimes difficult to shake off.


When it comes to my research, I feel as though I am guided by a force greater than myself. Almost every time I choose a subject, some odd occurrence or stroke of luck leads me to a happy coincidence that would have completely passed me by had I not ventured down this particular path at this particular moment. These moments of chance, as it were, are often uplifting: me researching Errol Flynn, only to randomly discover that a personal friend of his is giving a lecture on his life that night, (a mere stone's throw away at the Hollywood Heritage Museum); me researching the current month's muse Mr. Chaney, only to discover that his famous makeup bag is on display to the public for a limited time, when it is normally tucked away collecting dust (rubbish). But there are times, when certain situations occur that strike me the wrong way, or rather in asking questions, I get more in answer than I bargained for. I am thence guided still by a force, but it is leading me to darker truths instead of lighter fare.

So it was with my investigation of Elizabeth Short (above): an adventure that culminated this October 31, 2009, when I kept a promise to dress up as her for Halloween. My relationship with her, if I can call it that, is strong, perplexing, and other-worldly. It crept up on me out of nowhere and has stayed with me for 12 months. Perhaps now I can finally put her to rest... though it is hard to imagine a sad soul such as hers ever finding true peace. As a bit of post-Halloween spookiness, here is an account of my experiences with her for the past year:

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The exact year that I became aware of the shocking tale of the "Black Dahlia" escapes me. I do know that it was in the 6th grade that my fascination with cinema began to take hold. Alfred Hitchcock led to Cary Grant, who led to Katharine Hepburn, who led to etc. etc. etc. So, I can logically assume that it was sometime in my early junior high-school years that I came to know "Bettie." I asked for the book Severed for Christmas, which probably would have concerned any parents other than my own, who fostered all of their children's curiosities, mundane or macabre as they may have been. I read John Gilmore's tragic reconstruction of Bettie's life and death, shed a tear for her, and put the book away. Armed with a little more knowledge, I let the Sleeping Beauty lie, and went on to my next topic of interest, which I'm sure was a more uplifting one.


I did not seriously think of Bettie again for several years, other than a random cursory thought that flitted in and out of my mind. Even watching De Palma's film, The Black Dahlia, did not incite in me anything more than irritation that Hollywood could have gotten one of its most infamous daughters so completely and utterly wrong. (If you haven't seen the movie, DO NOT waste your time. It does no justice to that poor girl or the way she died).


Then one morning, in November of 2008, I woke up to a normal day, with the afternoon sun pouring through my window (must have been a weekend), and Elizabeth was on my mind. I did not know where she came from, nor why all of a sudden she was so present in my thoughts, but there she was: Elizabeth Short, Elizabeth Short, Elizabeth Short... beating like a mantra in my head. I tried to shrug it off at first as an attack of randomness, but later I decided to pursue her strange re-emergence. It began simply enough. I flipped through the old Gilmore book, still aghast at the horrendous photos of what was done to this beautiful, young girl. Then I got on the internet, looked up the ever accumulating theories surrounding her macabre murder, and later found a site with photographs of the location where her body was found over 60 years ago.

Then, a light-bulb went off! Now living in California, I could add the gruesome site to one of my weekend jaunts! I typically find time to go scavenging about town, looking for former homes of the stars, important landmarks, graves, etc. So, adding this to the agenda, I drove out to 39th and Norton in East Los Angeles, and found myself in an average neighborhood tucked behind Crenshaw Blvd. All of the houses were one level, bearing little ornamentation; the dry grass was cut almost identically the same short length all down the road. Then, I pulled up to 3925 Norton (below), the address that was identified as being closest to where Elizabeth was found in pieces on the morning of January 15, 1947. I got out of the car, took some photos, and stood for a second. For some reason I felt disappointed. I don't know what I expected to find, or see, or feel, but it was not there. So, I tucked my camera back in my pocket, and drove away with an awkward feeling on my shoulders.

This little bit of investigation still did nothing to quell the overwhelming feeling of unease and anxiety that was taking hold. Something was wrong. I felt, as strange as it sounds, that Bettie was trying to talk to me or that she wanted me to "find" her. So, I went to the book store, bought every thing I could find on the Dahlia case, and got to work with my investigation.


For the next month, I delved into the mystery, the theories, the cover-ups, the scandal, the sadness, and most importantly the gruesome death. I was appalled. I now felt that the reason I was so urgently looking for answers was because the explanation I had accepted before as a youngster was not the whole truth, but merely the tip of the iceberg. The book I found that most closely captured the spirit of the media mayhem and the sorrow of the departed, and the book that for me produced the best theory of Elizabeth's death, was the immaculately researched, sympathetic, and intelligent-- The Black Dahlia Files: The Mob, The Mogul, and The Murder That Transfixed Los Angeles by Donald H. Wolfe. In it, Wolfe postulates that Bettie was done away with to protect the image of Norman Chandler, (heir to the family fortune and distinguished owner of the Los Angeles Times), who had gotten her pregnant. He called in a favor to a few cronies, Bugsy Siegel among them, and ordered her killed. Of course, the humiliating and torturous fashion by which she was "done away with" was not part of the plan, but then Bugsy and his retinue were not the most honorable of characters. (For a more descriptive explanation of the case as well as Beth's life and death, visit my Elizabeth Short Bio ). 

All of the information about Bugsy's (right) involvement also unearthed a memory from the not-so-distant past. As I mentioned, I am somewhat of a grave-hunter, and the Hollywood Forever Cemetery on Santa Monica Blvd. is thus a goldmine where my scavenging is concerned. I have spent many a day there, going down my list of the interred, and paying my respects to Rudolph Valentino, Tyrone Powers, Marion Davies, etc. After I had searched every nook and cranny, and broken into every shady corner, there was but one "stone" left unturned: Bugsy Siegel. I wasn't too interested in him, as he is not directly linked to film and is more notorious than celebrated. But, since I had reached the end of my quest, I figured "Why not?"

I walked back into the Beth Olam Mausoleum, which lines the south side of the cemetery, and walked toward Bugsy's grave (above). As I approached, a sickening feeling took over. I felt uneasy... "icky," if you will. I stood in front of his marker: "Benjamin Siegel," and for some reason did not want to take a picture. I didn't like it, standing there. I believe my exact reaction was: "Blech." At the time, I had no knowledge of Bugsy, or his violent crimes against men. All I knew of gangsters was what the movies had taught me: they were sexy bad-asses with tommy guns. Feeling foolish, and assuming I was merely spooked by the claustrophobic graves surrounding me, I snapped a quick shot and booked it out of the mausoleum. 

Looking back, I now see that I was having a reaction to Bugsy himself, not his grave. I had felt the presence of a man who was malicious, twisted, and demented. I disliked him, sensed his evil before I knew of the dark nature of his soul. Warren Beatty got it all wrong in his Bugsy, a film that sugar-coated one of the most Devilish human beings who ever lived; humanized what cannot be humanized. My unease those months ago was confusing, but as I read about Bettie's death, they became warrented. It truly sickens me that Bugsy is glamorized today, and receives a kind of hero worship when in reality he was just... well... "Blech!"


Anyway, jumping back to November of '08: having just read about the brutal nature of Bettie's death and the ensuing cover-up, I was enraged! I was angry, fuming, confused, scared... The world around me seemed to change. I had lived a naive life, blessed with the ignorance of a secure childhood, a safe home, and maybe just blind luck. I thought the Good would be protected, the Dirty punished... but No. There was no karma, there was no God, so deep went my frustration and empathy for Bettie and what she had endured. I felt like lashing out, but where, and how?!?! I hopped online again to do some fishing, for something was needling me. I looked up again the location where her body was found, and this time saw my error: the correct address was 3825 Norton, for it was closer to the fire hydrant by which her body was discovered. Arming myself with my camera and canning my nerves, I drove back to the nook behind Crenshaw to see "the spot" (below).

This time, things were different. Perhaps just fueled by the emotions I was experiencing from my research and all the new information I had come across, I stood at the lonely patch of grass and felt an overwhelming sense of despair land on me like a weight. I could barely lift my hands to take a photo. Here Bettie was found ripped in half. I knew it. This was it. I could see it, just as Betsy Bersinger had seen the gruesome sight when she had been out walking her baby on that January morning. I saw the pale, mangled body in the weeds, the face sliced into a brutal, ironic smile, the bloodless mannequin that used to be a living body. I became numb. My fury left, and all that remained was pity, sorrow...


I got into my car, put my hands on the wheel and looked up. There, up in the hills, guarding the golden city, was the Hollywood sign. The same sign (minus the -land) that once had filled Bettie's heart with hope and joy; the symbol of the fame she was sure to achieve, but that she only found in death. The same letters that inspired her to come out to California from Massachusetts had watched coldly from the hills as two men unloaded her bit by bit into the grass like she was garbage. My heart sank; I clutched the wheel as the realization of the great ugliness that had been done hit me. I wept. I wept, and wept, and wept, unable to control myself, as if possessed by Bettie's own sadness. Finally, mustering my strength and realizing the scene I was making before all of the Norton neighbors, I turned the ignition and drove on. But in my mind and in my heart, I could feel Bettie with me, as if she were sitting in the back seat, while I drove us away.

Things shifted after this. My desire to "get to the bottom of things" was still present, but not as intense. Not as manic. I more and more seemed to sink into a deep depression. I felt that the things I had learned had altered me, and I wasn't certain that I would ever be the same again. Even around friends I wondered, "Could they see the change in me? Was my sadness and confusion apparent?" I tried to keep it under wraps, but social outings had become cumbersome and exhausting. Life was not fun, and when it was I felt guilty in the enjoyment of it. Why should I have happiness when Bettie had suffered such torture? Why should I live a spotless life when she had had hers ripped away?


One day, I received word from my manager that I had an audition- a little independent number, scheduled for sometime later that night. While at work, I put the address into Google and printed out directions. Early that evening, I grabbed some dinner to kill time before I made the trek out to downtown L.A, and as I ate I finished reading the last pages of Wolfe's book. In it, he stated that he had discovered the location where Elizabeth was actually murdered- a bungalow, owned by the police protected Brenda Allen, a "Madame," and loaned to Chandler and Siegel for the deed. The address was 835 Catalina Street. Reading the closing remarks, I closed the book and felt a relief. It was over. The journey I had been on was finished. I knew what I believed to be the truth, or as close as I would ever get to it, and I could move on and leave Bettie behind. Or could I?


Going down to my car, I prepped myself for my audition, (for a druggie, by the way), and pulled out the directions I had printed out earlier. Scanning the list of rights and lefts, my eyes landed on one of the last turns... And I froze. The second to last street I had to turn down to reach my destination was Catalina Street.


Was I crazy?! Was the world this chalk-full  of coincidences?! Or was Bettie calling me from beyond the grave, beckoning me to the very place where she had met her death? My mouth hung open for what felt an eternity, and I am sure that the color had drained from my deer-in-headlights face. Shaking, I turned the key in the ignition, and drove out to my audition, which I made it to just in time to pull myself together. (Perhaps my quaking, nervous energy when I walked in the room enriched my reading as a drug addict).


As I left the audition, my heart beat loudly. I got into my car and decided I had to go to the site tonight! I turned onto Catalina, and followed it all the way to 835. As I drove, the streets around me changed. I felt as though I were seeing the Hollywood of 1947. The roads became smoother, the litter disappeared, and the bright lights dimmed to a softer, more romantic glow-- a haunting glow. Reaching my destination, fear began to take over. I parallel parked between the dirty, rusting cars lining the narrow street and looked out my window at Brenda Allen's former bungalow. I opened my door, and stood out in the cold, shivering more from nerves than from the chill in the air.

Peering up at the building marked 835, probably looking like a stalker, I saw the lights of a television screen dancing on the walls. Inside, someone sat enjoying the peaceful calm that comes at the end of the day, indulging in the fake lives on the blue screen. Some unwitting person sat on the same ground, within the same walls, that witnessed Bettie being beaten, sliced, and sawed in half. If those walls could talk, they would scream... but the oblivious occupant now living there heard only the dialogue cascading out of his television set. It seemed odd, how easily the past had been erased, hidden, and written over with such normalcy.


I uneasily moved forward, looking up the staircase that led to the dark alley between the little apartments. I was scared. I half expected to witness the past actions being reenacted by malevolent ghosts; I half expected to see Bettie's sleek, pale form emerge from the shadows and beckon me. I took one last look, closed my eyes, braced myself as the images in my head took hold... And then I let them go. Feeling Bettie with me, I turned around, got into my car, and pulled away from the abyss of the past and back to life.


On the car ride home, I again felt Bettie. I feared that if I looked into the rear-view mirror I would see a pair of pale, blue eyes staring back at me in sorrow. Thanks to my cell phone and an emergency call to my sister, Haleigh, I made it home safely. How I fell asleep that night I don't know. I was disturbed, undone, depressed... And yet I felt myself coming out of a long and tedious labyrinth. I awoke the next morning heavier, now carrying more knowledge than I'd bargained for, but my life slowly returned to normal.


I continued my research of course, though now my intermittent forays back into Bettie's world were done as a hobby and not as a vengeful quest for truth. I felt I had found my truth. Of course, I had chosen to believe Wolfe's theory, but then it felt right. The way things had fallen into place within the pages of his book, and the way things fell into place before my eyes in my own life... I felt like Bettie had guided me through her story, as close as I would ever come to really knowing it. I returned later to the location of her murder on Catalina (below), this time in the daylight. Perhaps the sun made it seem less terrifying, or perhaps my understanding now guarded me from the what I had once feared.

In between books on Greta Garbo or Gary Cooper, I would sometimes return to Bettie. I read The Black Dahlia Avenger, which I found intriguing but inconclusive, as the entire book hinges on a picture of Elizabeth Short that is clearly not Elizabeth Short. I too read Childhood Shadows, and aside from the head-scratching accusation that Orson Welles murdered Bettie, it was a good read, for it introduced Bettie as the girl she had been before Hollywood-- innocent, sweet, nurturing, and undeserving of the fate that awaited her in La La Land.


My year with Bettie ended, as I stated, this Halloween, when I dressed as her. It was a strange promise to make to her, back when I was in the midst of my bewildering encounters, but it somehow seemed appropriate. It was my way of commemorating her, and of introducing her to every stranger who approached and quizzically asked, "Who are you supposed to be?" Halloween now over, and black wig put into storage with the rest of my rarely used junk, Bettie has finally released her entrancing hold on me, but I know I shall never let go of her.

Forever, she will be in my mind, a subconscious presence that I conjure up every once in awhile. Though I have "found" Bettie, I will always be searching for her, for just as her face looks different in every picture taken of her, so the true Bettie seems to hide, evading and inviting at the same time the world that so cruelly turned its cold shoulder on her. Because of all the lies told to cover up the true reason of her demise, Bettie is still remembered incorrectly as a whore, a lesbian, a freak with infantile sex organs... all complete and utter B.S. Of course, the public buys into this because it makes it easier to cope with so devastating a death. If you believe the slanderous portraits painted of Bettie, then "She had it coming."


No one, no one, has that coming. Especially not a naive, albeit mysterious, girl from Massachusetts, whose whimsical dreams led her only to an inescapable nightmare. Though my experiences over the past months have left me shaken and a bit disturbed, I have found a sort of peace with what I have learned. I don't think the preternatural force I rubbed elbows with was meant to frighten me, but to instruct. What all of this means, and what I am meant to do with it, I do not know. Perhaps Bettie wants me to tell people her story; perhaps she sensed in me a soul mate-- a young girl, a hopeful actress, seeking answers in a place not to be trusted. I feel she has guided me to a safer place.


As I continue on my personal voyage into Hollywood history, I continue to see-saw between stories of grandeur and heroism, romance and glory, and stories of madness and self-destruction. All of these twisted truths grow and converge, filling my curious mind, which continues to question. Nothing else that I have researched has been, and I pray will ever be, as ghastly as the Black Dahlia murder, and though my little other-worldly coincidences continue to happen, no pull or embrace has been as strong as Elizabeth's.  All I can say in the end to her is, "Rest in peace, sweet Bettie. Your life is remembered, your beauty overcomes the ugliness said of you, and your martyrdom continues to open the eyes of a jaded and skeptical world." Elizabeth Short: July 29, 1924- January ?, 1947.