STAR OF THE MONTH: Mary Pickford Part 2

The brightest star in the universe, Mary Pickford.

By 1915, Mary Pickford probably had trouble remembering the little girl named Gladys Smith who had grown up in Toronto. Richer beyond her wildest dreams, more famous than royalty, and the best known woman on earth, she seemed to have the world on a string. Strangers recognized her and asked her for her autograph; people read her self-help columns and Q&A articles in the paper. Her career was soaring, particularly after she made the executive decision to team up with hard-edged studio magnate and cool customer, Adolph Zukor-- yet another man who was simultaneously impressed and appalled at Mary's hard-balling business tactics. Yet, the heights of stardom were bittersweet. Mary's marriage to the mentally, and perhaps even physically, abusive Owen Moore continued to crumble, and in addition, she had to constantly keep tabs on her alcoholic and shenanigan-prone siblings, Jack and Lottie, who seemed to be tag-teaming in a game called, "Let's get in trouble and drive Mary nuts!" She loved them, of course; they loved her. The public loved her. The crews loved her. Why didn't she feel loved?

The perfect opposite to Mary's constantly fretting, ever-working, overly depressed self was the ever-smiling, hopelessly manic, caution-be-damned Douglas Fairbanks. The duo would meet at a party thrown by Elsie Janis. In typical, heroic fashion, Doug had literally swept Mary off her feet when she had clumsily tried to cross a stream when walking about the grounds at the party. Owen's indifference and irritation during this episode only enhanced the attraction Mary felt for the charismatic (holy-biceps) Mr. Fairbanks. Doug was also immediately attracted to  Mary, though his interest at least initially probably had more to do with career ambition and mutual respect than romantic adoration. Doug walked with the swagger of a winner. A youthful underdog with a complicated relationship with his under-appreciative mother, Doug made up for any lurking insecurities by being larger than life! That meant living it up, staying fit, and conquering the world of acting. As Mary was the hottest ticket in town, Doug was more than eager to make her acquaintance, pick her brain, and perhaps even use her as an asset. He didn't expect to be so taken in by her intelligence, business knowledge, warmth, and surprising beauty. On the screen she was a little girl; in life, she made him hot under the collar. Mary too found herself thinking of Doug after their initial meeting-- of his attentiveness, his genuine interest in her, and how he was absolutely un-intimidated by her fame and popularity. (It is safe to say that it actually turned him on). Her original perception of him was that he was a brash, abrasive, man-child, who needed to take a chill-pill. Later, she would change her mind, saying, "To me, he was the personification of the new world."

Mary and Doug enjoy their honeymoon in 1920.

One hiccup: Mary was married, and so was Doug. The union to Owen Moore wouldn't seem too sinful to sever, but Beth Fairbanks was a genuinely kind and supportive woman, who was also the mother of Doug's son: Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. Both marriages were passionless, and Doug's was founded on more affection than love, but despite Doug and Mary's growing feelings-- heightened during the bond tour of the Great War-- divorce remained a dirty word. The scandal could forever destroy their careers. Would their love be enough? The rightness or wrongness of the act seemed not to matter. The two were driven together by a force seemingly greater than themselves, or perhaps that is just what they wanted to believe. After Doug's mother passed away, he was emotional and distraught-- very un-Douglike. He and Mary took a late night drive in his car, and he began sobbing on the wheel. At the moment Mary moved to comfort him, the clock stopped. It was fate! Or so, Doug believed. He swore that this was an omen passed down from his mother and that she approved of their union. "By the Clock," therefore, became their secret code phrase. Soon enough, the divorces were granted-- Owen stewed, and Beth graciously bowed out and started her life elsewhere with great dignity-- and Doug and Mary were wed. They expected boos. Hisses. Stones. They received cheers, adulations, and letters of congratulations! For two of the biggest personalities in the world to get together was... stupendous! They hunkered down at a little place called "Pickfair," spent their spare time entertaining royals and dignitaries, drank milk, set up their own studio, formed United Artists with Chaplin and Griffith, and slowly but surely took over a more than welcoming world.

Mary's fame exploded. Her war propaganda film The Little American united politics and cinema as never before. Her dual performance in Stella Maris broke and warmed hearts at the same time. While Doug went on to become the swashbuckler extraordinaire, Mary continued cultivating her dependable girl-next-door with a swift left hook persona in films as varied as Little Annie Rooney, Pollyanna, and Little Lord Fauntleroy. Life was good. She and Doug, polar opposites and perfect partners, established at Pickfair a life of their own. Mary was still very connected to her family of course, who continued to annoy the bejesus out of Doug, but she was no longer as tethered as she had once been. In his castle, Doug could too rule on high with pride, produce epics of his choice, and come home to the woman of his dreams. Mary never hit it off with his BFF, Charlie Chaplin-- perhaps because they were both strong, assertive, and secretly insecure personalities in constant competition for Doug's affections-- but she accepted him because it made Doug happy, just as Doug accepted Mary and her alcoholic siblings and mother. The duo carried on, traveling to foreign countries, spending lavishly on jewels and cars, and living the American dream. True, it was an occasional nightmare. For example, Mary was nearly torn to ribbons by an "appreciative" crowd in England and saved only when Doug placed her on his shoulders and pulled her into their car. This terror was a rarity. Their mutual, determined work-ethic and impenetrable position in the business, their like-mindedness, made their marriage a match made in movie heaven. To watch cinema blend with life was, for America, like watching a dream come true.

The pint-sized Mary exerts her dominance yet again, head-butting Spec 

O'Donnell in Sparrows. Is it any wonder America lover her?

The Fairbankses ruled the roaring twenties, albeit in a less rebellious fashion. But as the decade came to a close, so too did their reign as Hollywood rulers seem to be coming to an end. The world of cinema was forever altered with the intrusion of sound in 1928. Many mistakenly believe that the fall of silent film idols is a result of their inability to translate, their lack of voice, or their lack of genuine acting talent. Erroneous. The trouble is that silent film is its own separate art. Telling a story in purely visual terms requires a certain kind of artist at the helm as director: one who was perhaps even more in touch with human psychology and how to use images in specific chronology to elicit emotion. Silent writers had to be quick and creative. They wrote 'scenarios,' not scripts; their partners in crime were the succinct, on-target 'title writers,' who summarized in title cards the dialogue that a generation of lip-readers rarely even needed. Silent actors? They had to be big. Their blend of naturalism and over-indication is misunderstood and misconstrued by the modern viewer. We worship real actors like James Dean and Gena Rowlands. Yet, if one imagines plopping either performer in a silent picture, they would struggle. Their slight insinuations, their subtle movements, would be missed-- glossed over. They would fade into the background. In this respect, silent stars were louder than their noisy followers. It was not sound alone that killed Mary Pickford's career; it was a changing world.

The romanticized, over-the-top imagination of the 1920s citizen was vastly different from a world shaken up by the great depression. The purity of Mary no longer had a place. The world turned dark. It called to gangsters' molls, prostitutes with hearts of gold (or not), deviant ladies, and good girls with a violent edge. The sound revolution certainly didn't help. Mary's voice wasn't poor, though it was clear that hubby Doug handled his dialogue much better in their first sound picture (and only co-starring film), The Taming of the Shrew, than she. Mary wasn't bad in the talkies, winning an Academy Award for Coquette (although many argued that this was more political than deserved). She had cut her long hair and was for the first time approaching mature female roles in earnest. She could still carry a film, she could still steal a scene, but her gift was not as strong with words as it was in the quiet. This is most vividly felt when one witnesses her quiet moments in her few sound pictures-- these are the only moments in which she doesn't appear to be acting. In this we see that she had to work too hard to undo the art that she had almost solely invented. After two decades of carving out a particular niche of entertainment and human interpretation, the rug was pulled out from under her, and she was forced to assimilate into a different kind of creator. It was like a oil painter trying to work with watercolors. The effect may be similar, it may be passable, but as Mary was no longer the expert in her field, her genius had diminished. She was also older. Too old to play little girls. She was still respected; her name still held sway. Yet, the era ended when the girl with golden curls was forced to speak. Some would say it was the end of cinema's brief period of, at least artistic, innocence.

A moving image of Doug and Mary on the stomping grounds of the 

Pickford-Fairbanks Studios. He was shooting The Black Pirate and 
she Sparrows. The image of their disappearing bodies 

becomes tragic in retrospect.

Doug suffered too. He and his Queen were old hat. New talent was arriving in town, and their own days were numbered. Working towards a common goal, the duo were unstoppable. Once their goal was wrenched from existence, they no longer knew how to respond to each other. They drifted. Doug dealt with the loss of his youth and the position that he had fought so hard to attain by consequently disappearing around the world on various tours and trips. Mary struggled for the first time with time itself. It was now totally free, and the woman who never knew how to do anything but work, didn't know what to do with the empty hours. She drank. She had been drinking for some time in secret to deal with her inner stresses and her chronic guilt complex, but the drinking escalated. The family disease had gotten a hold of her, and it would not let go for the rest of her life. Doug and Mary divorced, at least legally speaking, but although both wed new partners-- he Lady Sylvia Ashley and she the handsome, wholesome, and loyal Buddy Rogers-- they never truly let each other go. Mary continued on at Pickfair, often calling Buddy "Douglas" by mistake. Doug would visit Mary and ask her longingly and yearningly of their parting,"What went wrong?" When he passed away in 1939, the best of Mary went with him. He represented to her life at its fullest. She carried on for four decades, increasingly secluding herself in her room, rarely accepting visitors, and waiting for her own final fade out. Depressed and at a loss, wondering what happened to her life, she could be bitter about her past work, ashamed of it, and afraid that it didn't measure up to the bolder, modern films being made by fresh young actors. She threatened to burn all of her old prints. Praise God, she didn't!

Still rolling...

Mary Pickford died on May 29, 1979 and was buried in an extravagant tomb at Glendale Forest Lawn with her mother and siblings, all of whom had preceded her. She came, she saw, she conquered, and then... She disappeared. She had watched Hollywood transform from a land of orange groves to the terrifying mini-metropolis where Sharon Tate was brutally murdered by the Manson family. It was as if her world had slowly irised out, becoming smaller and smaller, until it had become but one of the many grains of sand decorating the landscape of our cultural history. What is big, time will always make small.  Now, the early relics of the nickelodeons, the flicker shows, or the two-reelers, remain only as unfamiliar memories or bits of national lore. It is as though they never existed at all. They are myths from a bygone age, by a people long since deceased and blowing as dust on the wind. Yet to witness them in all their majesty is to witness a phenomenon so vivid, so glorious, that it can at times take the breath away. Although the life of silent cinema was so brief, Mary was one of the few who made it so timeless, so powerful, so necessary. Who can imagine life without moving images today?

When Mary Pickford lost her livelihood, she lost herself. She could no longer escape into the one world in which she belonged, because it no longer existed. As the years pass, and more and more silent films become available to modern audiences or are re-released to younger generations, the ghost of Mary Pickford comes forth and allows us to disappear with her once again. Safe in the light of the projector, in the land she built of heart and celluloid, she maintains her hold on us, entreating us to join her on whatever shenanigan, voyage, or life lesson that she deems worthy to pass on. We always leave elated. We leave better people. Most importantly, up there on the screen, Mary has too found her peace. She is finally safe at home in a world even grander than Pickfair, because it is intangible, indestructible, eternal.

STAR OF THE MONTH: Mary Pickford Part 1

Gladys Louise Smith aka Mary Pickford

The land of silent cinema is a place of dreams. It is a land of wide open spaces, the most human of beauties, and the fragile innocence of a new found frontier. Watching silent films is like watching children learn to walk and watching our artistic selves evolve into a powerhouse of emotional honesty-- in a medium that we had no idea how much we needed. The face of this bygone, almost mythic era most often belongs to Chaplin, but that clown of clowns and interpreter of heartbreak belongs in his own category. He represents all that cinema is or could be at its best. No, the true face of silent filmdom belongs to Mary Pickford, because more than any other performer or artist who made his or her claim on the rocky terrain of the flicker shows, she alone is the representative of that historical moment: cinema's birth, its infancy, its articulation, its soul, its hold on the public, and its limitless possibilities. It was little Mary who made the biggest impression with her gumption and charm; it was the girl with golden curls who enchanted America and warmed every citizen's heart. It is also little Mary whose always palpable sadness still haunts us; who makes us ponder, when brave enough, the loss of an intangible era that we can never get back. We have forgotten it; we have forgotten her.

'Little Mary 'when she was truly little-- nine years old--
 during "Uncle Tom's Cabin," although the look in
her eyes already registers a startling maturity. 

It is strange to note that the woman who became synonymous in her lifetime with the majesty of the USA was actually  a purebred Canadian. Gladys Louise Smith was born in Toronto on April 8, 1892. Her father, John Charles, was a charming, lackadaisical, and undependable man, who left most of the family burden on the sturdy Charlotte Hennessy's able shoulders. Charlotte used her knack for sewing to keep the family afloat, and this talent came in handy when John disappeared to the local bars or disappeared period-- leaving his wife alone with three children: Gladys, followed by Lottie and Jack. The struggle for income, for survival, is a beastly thing that separates man from mouse. After John Charles died, due to a freak head injury, it was little Gladys who put on the family pants, as it were. Herein was established the incredibly close rapport  she shared with mother Charlotte. They were more than mother and daughter; they were partners, allies, friends, and a strange, obviously non-sexual pairing of husband and wife. Gladys vowed that she would get her family to a place where there was no more hunger, no more worry, no more scrambling to pay bills. As Jack was too young to understand these familial responsibilities and Lottie was too flighty and immature to carry them herself, Gladys bore them alone and too carried with her a continued guilt. Her duty was to her family, first and foremost, forever. It was a hefty burden for a six year old.

Jack and Lottie would complain that Gladys was a harsh taskmaster, calling her "the Czarina," but it was their eldest sister's fortitude that would save them from complete destruction. It turned out that Gladys, in addition to being a very lovely child, could also act. Charlotte did not begin as your run-of-the-mill stagemother. She hesitated about pushing Gladys before the foot-lights. But, the determined Gladys wanted to help. At the age of eight, due to a fortunate connection with the stage manager of the Cumming Stock Company, both Gladys and Lottie were offered small roles in "The Silver King." Charlotte, in addition, played the piano to give the audience mood music. The family never looked back. They were bona fide theater people. Slowly, Gladys earned more roles, which became increasingly larger and more emotionally demanding. Lottie and Jack participated when they could, but neither had the natural talent nor discipline that Gladys possessed. The family traveled with different troupes on various circuits, with everyone pitching into the family money pot. Mary, due to her own brief but poignant life experience, had a natural ability of empathy and translation. She easily felt the emotions of her characters and followed direction well. She liked the excuse of yelling, stomping her feet, or sobbing uncontrollably, as she usually had to keep her feelings under wraps in life. The more experience she gained, the bolder she became, and more than one director was approached by the pint-sized girl-- who never surpassed 5'--  who asked for a bigger role or a better opportunity. As such, she was soon playing "Little Eva" in "Uncle Tom's Cabin," then appearing on the Great White Way credited as "Baby Gladys." This was life and death, after all. She had mouths to feed, and shyness had long since flown the coop.

On stage in "The Warrens of Virginia" with Charlotte

Walker and Richard Storey.

Her greatest professional triumph in her youth was working with the infamous master of the stage, the ever-eccentric "Bishop of Broadway," David Belasco. The intimidating man was approached by the persistent Gladys who sat in his office and refused to leave until she was seen. The fresh innocence of her face mixed with the contrast of her fiery determination-- despite her later admitted inner nerves-- made her a tempting collaborator. Below him, looking up with big, hazel eyes was an angelic beauty with an astounding maturity and a head for business to boot. She declared that it was time for her to get serious about earning a real living, because she was "the father of [her] family." David changed her name to "Mary Pickford," and cast the fifteen-year-old young woman in "The Warrens of Virginia." Finally, she could consider herself a real actress! As with many of her future male directors and authority figures, she would butt heads with Belasco, who enjoyed indulging his God complex on many of the victims in his repertory. Mary wasn't immune, she would cry, but she would also stand up for herself and threaten to walk out if she were being mistreated, underpaid, or disrespected. Male figureheads were beguiled, irritated, and secretly enchanted by her unattainability. Yet, despite her growing resume, Mary hit a rough patch in her career when she entered her late teens. She was not yet old enough to portray a leading lady, and the roles of youth had now been outgrown. To continue working steadily, she glumly took a step down on the career ladder to enter the slap-shod, classless medium of the movies. Ironically, this venue would give her the opportunity to consistently earn a living by primarily playing little girls far below her age range.

In The New York Hat, her last short for Biograph.

The man to give her a leg up was Kentucky-bred director D.W. Griffith, whose reaction to her was much the same as Belasco's. The unknown, inexperienced teen came to Biograph looking for acting work and demanding a hefty paycheck because she was a "real actress who had worked with David Belasco." Griffith was hypnotized!  He tried ineptly to seduce her, assuming she was like all of the other desperate chickens who came tip-toeing through the Biograph door, but Mary was unaffected by his clumsy, arrogant charms. Plus, he was married. She was there to work, she declared, and that was just what she did. She was plugged in several shorts, in major and minor roles, until she grew in popularity. She was unlike the typical, demure Griffith prototype. He preferred delicate, angelic women-- infantile Southern Belles. Mary had a a feistier temper, and it was her strength and unconscious pre-feminist attitude that would so endear her to audiences. After Florence Lawrence left the studio for other ventures at IMP, the still nameless Mary, (as all performer names were kept under wraps in those days), was labeled "the Biograph girl." Fans looked for her familiar face incessantly in any new release. They loved her-- her sass, her sweetness, her hair!!! She too had fallen in love, both with the art of film acting and with constant co-star Owen Moore, a man possessing many of the attributes of her father, two of which were charm and alcohol.  Perhaps seeking escape from her dutiful daughter role and looking for a life of her own, Mary took a gamble on the man who had won her heart. The duo secretly eloped on January 7, 1911. Despite the romance of this tempestuous move, Mary, who was not yet nineteen, was immediately wracked with guilt. She returned home that evening to her oblivious mother and siblings, maintaining her dark secret, while her new husband spent his wedding night alone.

Eventually, the truth came out, Charlotte flew into hysterics, Lottie and Jack wept, and the Pickford-Moore wedding was consequently doomed. The union would putter on for nine more years, but it was basically a marriage in name only. The two spent little time together, and the times that they did were more tense than blissful. Mary's devotion remained with her kin and most specifically with her mother, who was essentially her business partner. In addition to the wedge of family between them, Owen also had to contend with Mary's growing popularity and public coronation as "America's Sweetheart." As her fame increased, so did his drinking. Mary's solution and safe ground was always her work. It was Flo Lawrence who was labeled the first movie star, but it was Mary who redefined the term. Once the name Mary Pickford was presented to the world, it seemed to be the only one worth knowing. Mary possessed a presence on the screen that people could trust. She portrayed young women who were chaste and virginal, pure of heart and darling, even if a little uncouth. She was diminutive, which rendered her non-threatening to the opposite sex, though there was a subtle sexuality underlying her performances. She was warm and vulnerable, which made her endearing to the older generation, who looked upon her as a lovable granddaughter. She too was an inspiration to women, who watched her fearlessly hold her own against various villains, hold the reins of her romantic relationships, and sometimes get mad as a hornet, kick, stomp, and even haul a shot-gun. 

Mary in 1914's Heart's Adrift, one of her first features for Famous-Players. 

Mary adapted the scenario from a magazine herself, as she often did in

 the early days when one wore many hats in the business.

As shorts became features, Mary further cultivated her specific place in cinematic history by performing as the back-woods Tess of the Storm Country (in 1914 & 1922) to the less fitting Madame Butterfly. She played rich girls and poor girls, sweethearts and hillbillies, but the common denominator was always her spunk and her pathos. She had life and death. A gifted comedienne, she could bulge her eyes and purse her mouth like nobody's business, but it was more than mugging. Her acting, which certainly still bore the mark of the exaggerated, silent style of interpretation, was also ahead of its time. She was natural. Her emotions rang true. Her viewers could see the world in her eyes, whether they relayed softness, anger, or despair. She had charisma, something that even a modern viewer cannot ignore. She was a "star" before the world understood what that meant. Strangely, she is often portrayed by modern scholars as being backward or anti-feminist-- a representative of the male wish of passivity, youthful beauty, and complacence. Her legendary golden locks are sometimes viewed as chains and shackles, keeping women trapped under foot, rather than a lustrous extremity and symbol of feminine beauty. Such is not so. One cannot watch her use her intelligence to save her true love's life in Romance of the Redwoods nor witness her sludge a train of children through the swamp in Sparrows, among alligators no less, and not see a hero. When Mary stood, she stood alone. If a man happened to be nearby, good for him. Love was always secondary to her independence and spirit. She could and did consistently hold her own.

Even still, it would be nice if she could find a worthy man to go toe-to-toe with her one-woman-army...

STAR OF THE MONTH: Olive Thomas

Olive Thomas: "The Most Beautiful Girl in the World."

As are too many of our fallen idols, Olive Thomas is famous for dying. However, unlike all of the other Movie Town tragedies history has accrued over the years, unlike all other saucy scandals and continuing tales of human debauchery, Olive maintains the notorious position of being the First: Hollywood's first major movie star death and Hollywood's first major "Uh-oh" moment. At her death in 1920, she also served as our first glimpse into the true power of cinema celebrity: immortality. While Olive's body made the transport from Paris to New York City to be laid to rest, her movies were being shown in theaters across the nation. How was it possible? She had died, and yet she lived??? Audiences gasped at the sight of her face-- once remarked upon as the "most beautiful" in the world-- still laughing and smiling, still vibrant, though her skin was ice cold. This was the start of a whole other level of human fanaticism and adoration for the screen star: we had at last tapped into the fountain of youth, and none of us would ever be the same.

One of Olive's many costumes in the Follies.

But who was this girl who started it all? She was just that. A girl. The girl. Even at a young age, growing up in Charleroi, PA, Oliveretta Elaine Duffy marched to the beat of her own drummer, though she more likely skipped and twirled. Life was a sweet nectar she chose to savor to the fullest extent, and she made big plans for herself from the get-go. After losing her father, a steel worker, in a tragic accident at work, Olive was forced to step up and help take care of her mother and two younger brothers. The naive, bustling energy of youth convinced "Ollie" that she was ready for the real world anyway, and she promptly dropped out of school and got a job. But small town life wasn't enough for a girl with such huge dreams, especially with her drop-dead gorgeous looks. More than one head turned when she passed by, including that of clerk Bernard Krug Thomas, whom she promptly married. After trying on married life for a time, Ollie decided it was a bit too glum, and though she kept quite a handsome home, her spending habits often cramped Krug's style. Divorce was the next logical step. Armed with nothing more than courage, Olive left her husband and struck out on her own to pursue life in NYC, having decided that-- heck-- she was just as good-looking as those Ziegfeld girls she kept seeing pictures of. The world would disagree: she was better. After spending some time working as a salesgirl in Harlem, Olive blithely entered a beauty contest for artist Howard Chandler Christy-- who was looking for the "perfect model"-- and won. She was thus labeled as "The Most Beautiful Girl in New York City," only to top herself when Harrison Fisher would name her "The Most Beautiful Girl in the World"-- Not too shabby for a teenager from Pittsburgh.

Simply Ollie

Olive's gorgeous features made her a popular model, and soon her face was on magazine covers and advertisements everywhere. It wasn't long before Florenz Ziegfeld came calling with an offer, and Olive found herself in the Follies (though she would protest that she brazenly had  asked for the job herself). An affair between the gorgeous new muse and her notoriously womanizing patron began, despite his marriage to the long-suffering Billie Burke. Due to her public appeal and her natural charms, she soon became a featured girl in the act, participating in several numbers. Wealthy men from all around the world would lavish at her feet and douse her with jewelry. She would thus strut around bedecked in accoutrement that was worth more money than most people would make in a lifetime. Only thing was, while Ollie enjoyed the pretty stuff, she never took any of it seriously, and she was constantly losing these baubles. As her popularity grew, she was moved to the new and uber-risque Midnight Frolic. While she could have had her pick of any of the many swooning men left gasping in her wake, Ollie would finally succumb to ladies' man and scalawag Jack Pickford, whose irresistible charms immediately won her over-- much to Ziegfeld's chagrin. In addition to her incredible beauty, Ollie's general goodness, wit, and spirit, won Jack over as well. The two fell madly in love. Ziegfeld was about to lose his main attraction, but not just to Jack.

Olive was a great animal lover.

The movies finally got a hold of Olive in 1916 when she appeared in an episode of the Beatrice Fairfax series: "Play Ball." That did it; she had a new obsession. Thomas Ince of Triangle scooped her up and put her to work in her first lead role in Madcap Madge. Olive was no great actress, and she knew it, but she wanted to be. Her ferocious energy was just as present in her mind as in her physicality. She quickly became known around the Triangle lot as "Miss Inquisitive" or "Miss Encyclopedia," for she asked endless questions about everything. Not just the filmmaking process-- EVERYTHING. She quickly learned the racket and mastered it, becoming as popular a personality on the silver screen as she had been on the Follies stage. Many friends predicted that with her temperament and knowledge, she would have gone on to direct pictures in the future. In the meantime, while honing her skills in films like Heiress for a Day, she secretly married Jack. She specifically chose to keep the nuptials from the public, because she wanted to prove herself as an actress without any help from the powerful "Pickford" name. After starring in film after film to great success, her popularity and box-office appeal revealed that she had paved her own way, and she finally announced that she was indeed Mrs. Jack Pickford-- though it is rumored that mother-in-law Charlotte and sister-in-law Mary never approved. 

One of many magazine covers she would grace.

On the surface, Jack and Ollie seemed to be the perfect couple. They both spent exorbitantly, buying expensive gifts for each other and for themselves. They enjoyed throwing caution to the wind and living loud and large. Both had "lead feet" and got into constant fender benders, both enjoyed the night life and party crowds, but only Olive seemed to possess the ability to keep it from affecting her work. There were strains: jealousy, fiery tempers, high-strung personalities... but these volatile qualities also amplified the duo's passions, and it honestly seemed that they were the only people who could keep up with each other. Distance was a contributing factor to marital discord: Jack was often making movies back West in L.A, always with Mary's help, while Olive was in New York. Her fame increased after she signed with the newly formed Selznick Pictures in 1918 as its first official star. With Myron Selznick at the helm, father L.J. and brother David  Selznick all put their faith behind Ollie and advertised her out the wazoo. She had the great honor of having her name up in electric lights for her film Upstairs and Down. In addition to being the center of the largest electric advertisement of the time, she had countless ads drawn up for her in magazines, and once had three billboards up in Times Square at the same time, setting a record in doing so. Not even Mary Pickford ever accomplished that. Of course, all of the attention may have had something to do with the fact that Myron, like many men, had fallen in love with her. She seemed to have that effect. Selznick Pictures certainly did its best to make her feel safe and loved, even sending her more cash when she (frequently) overdrew her accounts.

The Flapper

As a woman of firsts, Olive would also be the first "Flapper." Colleen Moore would later be credited with truly defining this version of feminine youth, but it was Olive who initially breathed life into one of the most notorious characters of the Twentieth Century. She still maintained her long, light-brown locks, no 'bob,' but what she possessed that would indeed translate to those eternal girls of the 1920s was her spirit. A new woman was about to be born in a new decade: one potently sexual, rambunctious, liberated, and independent. Her appearance in The Flapper seems like a far cry from what Clara Bow or Louise Brooks would later bring to the table, but the spark is still there, and the world would soon catch fire. After wrapping on the film, Olive decided to reunite with Jack, with whom she was still having problems, and the duo went on a well deserved vacation and shopping spree in Paris. Jack would return. Olive would not.

Ollie shows her fun side and goofs with a drum set.

Just what happened to Ollie remains a mystery. What is known is that she and Jack went on the town on Sept 5, 1920, partying and dancing with the Dolly Sisters at infamous Parisian hot-spots like The Dead Rat, before returning to The Ritz somewhere between 1 and 3am. In the early morning hours, Jack claimed he went to bed and was awakened by Olive's screaming. She had swallowed a fatal dose of bichloride of mercury and was dying. For years, it has been debated as to whether the act was one of accident, suicide, or even murder. The truth may never be known, since the only man to witness it all, Jack, had his own reasons for distorting facts. See, the only reason that the bichloride of mercury was even present in the room was because Jack, who was now popularly known around Hollywood as "Mr. Syphilis," had been using the substance to topically treat his disease. It has been alleged that when Olive discovered her husband's malady, and equally the fact that he had been unfaithful-- and perhaps had infected her-- she had killed herself. It too has been suggested that in the midst of one of their many turbulent arguments, the oft impulsive Olive had defiantly taken the poison as a way to enact revenge against her husband and end her own personal suffering. However, the idea of suicide to many just doesn't seem to be in keeping with Olive's light-hearted demeanor. This leaves murder a possibility, but though Jack was imperfect, this too is often ruled out-- the only person Jack ever really hurt was himself. This leaves the theory that it was an accident, and author Michelle Vogel suggests that Olive  stumbled into the bathroom in the night to take a sleeping pill-- as she often suffered from insomnia-- and mistakenly ingested Jack's concoction in the dark. Then again, perhaps there were darker corners to this bright, young woman's mind that may have driven her to a desperate state. The mystery continues...

Olive with Jack, leaving for Paris.

It took 5 days for Olive to finally die, during the span of which she both lost her ability to see or speak. Early attempts that Jack had made to have Olive regurgitate the poison had only served in burning her vocal chords further and prolonging her painful death. It was unfitting for a woman so full of life, so beautiful... On the morning of September 10, with friend Dorothy Gish and Jack by her side, Ollie finally succumbed to acute nephritis. Ironically, Jack would pass away 12 years later in the same hospital, The American Hospital in Paris, at only 36 years of age. Olive's death was ruled an accident, and the incident sent shock waves across the world. The first Hollywood tragedy, society had as yet no idea how to handle the situation. For now, Hollywood itself was safe, pointing the finger at dirty, debaucherous Paris as the true villain-- a nasty city of depravity who had seduced a young girl to ruin! Magazine articles vividly depicted and exaggerated Olive's last night, painting her as an innocent woman tempted by drugs and booze who had taken her own life in shame. But, in almost exactly one year's time, the death of Virginia Rappe would bring the finger of blame back to Hollywood, and this time there would be no scapegoat except for poor Fatty Arbuckle. Olive became, thus, our first martyr; a symbol of the highest of highs, the most beautiful of girls, brought to the lowest and ugliest of lows. After Fatty came William Desmond Tayor; after WDT came Wallace Reid, and so on and so on and so on. The train wreck continues.

Alberto Vargas's "Memories of Olive," finished after her death.

But there is more to Ollie than her death. Her life is just as forgotten as her silent grave in Woodlawn Cemetery, where she rests alone without her Jack, whom was buried in the family crypt in Forest Lawn of Glendale-- again, the lovers separated by a continent. Olive will never go down as an amazing actress, but she was one of Hollywood's brightest personalities. What she brought to the camera wasn't her grand emotional skill nor her malleable abilities of characterization. She brought energy and fun. She brought her "A" game and left plenty of room to play. Too few of her films remain, with only The Flapper being available to mainstream audiences. But still, in just this one film, or any of the meager scraps and scenes that haven't been ravaged by time and decay, you catch a glimpse of Ollie's magic; as in her life, you can't take your eyes off her. And so, Olive Thomas, dead too soon at 25, continues to live forever, and we continue to drink from the great silver screen chalice of her eternal youth. Before Elizabeth Taylor, Olive was the first girl with the violet eyes. Before Marilyn Monroe, Olive was the first sex symbol, influencing Alberto Vargas even after her demise in one of his most famous paintings. Before David O. Selznick, there was just David, who added the "O" to his name in memory of the woman whom he said had helped cement his family's reputation in Hollywood. Before now, there was then; and then, Olive was very "now"-- present, alive, vivacious, always.