Cowboy screen hero, William S. Hart
To borrow a saying: If the West hadn't existed, Bill Hart would have had to invent it. Some believe that is just what he did, at least cinematically speaking. The Western genre has been a part of American film culture since The Great Train Robbery of 1903, but it wasn't until William S. Hart hopped in the saddle over 10 years later that the myth of the cowboy and his place in this strange and wild country took shape. Today, with Ford, Hawks, Wayne, Autry, Cooper, and Eastwood providing the well-known and celebrated vertebrae of this branch of filmic history, Bill is forgotten, underrated, and underappreciated. His performances seem hammy; his stories seem cheesy and cliched. It is hard for one to put him or herself into the theater seats of his early, avid fans-- a people who cheered when his sturdy, eagle face appeared on the screen. A William S. Hart film was a promise. You would be entertained, you would be thrilled, and you would take something away with you. Hart, in his iconic, giant hat, atop his trusty pinto pony, Fritz, was a solid guarantee to people living in a world that is anything but consistent. He did not enter the film business until he was nearly 50-years-old and only remained in it for but a decade, but he changed the industry and the American ideal forever. His specific place in celebrity as the quintessential Western hero-- a man of open plains, horses, and bravery-- was a surprise to everyone including him. You see, this rustic, earthy cowboy was born in New York.
William Surrey Hart was born on December 6, 1864 (most likely) to Nicholas Hart and Roseanna McCauley. He was the first son to follow two daughters, Mary Ellen and Frances. He would also be the youngest, despite the fact that his mother birthed another two daughters and two more sons. Only the eldest three would survive. This is perhaps the result of the hard living the family had to endure. Nicholas was what Bill would later refer to as a pioneer of white gold: flour. The patriarch was born with itchy feet, and his ill-adept entrepreneurial wishes to set up his own mill led the family all over the country, providing for Bill memories of life in desolate and under-populated towns throughout the United States: Illinois, Iowa, Minnesota, Wisconsin, South Dakota, etc. Roseanna's ill health, exacerbated by her difficult births and her mental and emotional struggles in the open West, resulted in her temporary hospitalization. Bill remained traveling with his father, helping out his sparse neighbors with plowing and thrashing, and made friends with the Sioux Indians, who taught him to speak in their tongue and use their sign language. With a limited to non-existent education, Bill learned early how to sustain himself in isolated conditions: he used his imagination. His memory of his boyhood days, where he and his father traipsed all over the map, was inflated and exaggerated in his mind. He had only fondness for these pure, adolescent days-- days of playing games with the Sioux boys, whom he came to love and admire, of riding horses, and of roughing it in general. His recollections always poeticized his life; that was how he survived it. In truth, life was hard, lonely, frustrating... but then he knew no different. Being dirt poor, being constantly uprooted, was normalcy. When he was brought back to New York to rejoin his mother and sisters, and when his father ultimately gave up on his own dreams of a Western lifestyle-- much to Roseanna's relief-- Bill missed the peace of the frontier and the blue skies.
Bill in an early theater role in "Ben-Hur" as Messala.
You couldn't blame him. New York, though exciting, was a big difference from the free West. He was a "country bumpkin" as far as his new school chums were concerned. He dressed weird, he spoke Sioux gibberish, and he was an awkward loner. A life of isolation doesn't prepare one for social graces. Bill lacked his father's gregarious personality, possessing instead his mother's shier demeanor, but he did have his father's guts. When he was picked on for his manners or for his "girly singing voice," Bill was known to throw out a powerful slug that would silence his naysayers rather quickly. Still, his sense of not belonging and his fear of judgement, his social paranoia, and his mistrust, would never leave him. He would build a wall around himself for protection and decorate it with pictures of wild horses and rolling plains. While he found time for himself, entering in and winning several speed-walking races at the Manhattan Athletic Club for example, he did his duty to his family. His father was a hard worker but an unreliable one, and due to his failed business schemes, poor eyesight, injuries-- his hand was caught in a conveyor at one point-- and his early death, Bill at 30 was left to be the breadwinner. As he wasn't educated enough to really make much of himself, he took what jobs he could. Entry at his desired West Point was off the table, so he worked as an errand boy, a horse trainer, a cashier, whatever paid the bills. What money he earned went toward the family, though he did find time for himself to take a few dancing and fencing classes and even a trip to Europe. It had been his loving father's suggestion that he polish himself off a bit in the old world. See, Bill wanted to act. This was but another example of the dreamer in Bill retreating into imagination over reality.
This was not the most prudent decision, considering the number of mouths he had to feed. While his sister Frances eased the family burden by getting married and decreasing the household by one, and Mary Ellen found work of her own, Bill was still taking a great risk in setting his sights on such a temperamental career. The pay was not good, work was scarce, and a reputation was hard to build. This perhaps exemplifies a collision between Bill's more rebellious self and his dutiful self. His father had left him with a Hell of a burden. He was a young man, after all, and he wanted to live! It may have been a slim chance for him to accomplish his thespian dreams, but the gamble was worth it to him. The pull he felt for the stage was one so strong that he could not deny it. The road he chose was rocky; they don't have the phrase "starving artist" for nothing. Somehow, Bill managed to get work with different acting companies and troupes, build up his resume, and also his reputation. Starting with Daniel E. Bandmann's theatrical company in 1888, he worked his way through classic and contemporary pieces portraying everything from Iago in Othello to Messala in Ben-Hur. He found that he liked the complicated, darker roles more than the typical, heroic ones. His reviews grew better with each performance, and by the time he started on The Squaw Man, he was a theater star. This show was a big hit and acted as a bit of foreshadowing. The audience responded best to Bill in a Western setting, and he himself would enjoy any role relating to the West above and beyond the others, if only because he got to demonstrate his first-hand knowledge of cowboys and Indians.
Filming at Inceville
Despite his success, Bill always struggled between jobs. Though he had managed to support and buy a house for himself, his mother, and Mary Ellen to live in, the long breaks between gigs was at times terrifying. Not unaccustomed to poverty, Bill didn't fear the meager lifestyle, but he was not a young man anymore and needed more stable income to protect himself and the women in his life. Fatefully, he saw his first Western film. A light-bulb went on over his head. This was it! He would make motion pictures about his favorite thing, if only to correct all of the obvious blunders and inaccuracies he noticed in the genre. Bill was picky. He considered himself an authority on the West, as brief as his adolescent experiences on the plains had been, and he was personally affronted when stories didn't add up, costuming was wrong, or behaviors were inconsistent with his personal experiences. He was on a mission, and when the Klaw & Erlanger Co. went to California on tour with "The Trail of the Lonesome Pine," Bill went with them and stayed to check out the growing film scene. Fortunately, he had what every actor in Hollywood needs: a hook-up. No sooner did he arrive than he discovered that his old friend Thomas Ince-- whom he had met while traveling with "Heart's Courageous" in 1903-- was running the California branch of The New York Motion Picture Company, known as "Inceville." Tom was against the idea of making more Westerns. Being a shrewd businessman, he saw the fading audience reaction and tried to persuade Bill to pursue other projects. But Bill was stubborn. He returned to New York briefly, but came back West by the spring, determined in his agenda. After making a couple of two-reelers, he tirelessly coerced his pal to let him star in a feature-length motion picture, which Hart had developed and expanded from an original short. Tom finally conceded, and The Bargain hit theaters in 1914. It was a smash success! Hollywood had its first cowboy star.
William S. Hart as a cowboy hero is far removed from the icons we recall better today. He possesses the boyish bashfulness of Gary Cooper but lacks his seduction. He possesses the tough love moral compass of John Wayne but lacks his more intimidating masculinity. Bill was more of an experiment, though he claimed to be as authentic as authentic can be. Over time, his reputation as a real cowboy became exaggerated by his own publicity stories and his friendships with men like Wyatt Earp and Bat Masterson. There is disagreement about just how much of a "cowboy" he truly was. Some said he was an ace shot with a gun; others said that he couldn't hit a bull's-eye if it were inches away from him. Some recalled him as a great rider; others said that he was afraid of horses. In Bill's own estimation, as presented in his biography My Life East and West, he was a salt of the earth, true blue, prairie man, but this was probably more wishful thinking than fact. But, as embellished as his reputation may have been, his affection for the lifestyle he projected was never false. Hart's heart was the West. In the end, people bought him as a fact because he was real in his intention. He was no rhinestone cowboy; he was an every man. His stories of a conflicted, anti-hero turned good guy would speak to audiences who were both thirsty for Western nostalgia and looking for answers and direction in a topsy-turvy world. Bill's movies were moral lessons. He always found God. He always did the right thing. He always fell for the pure woman who taught him right from wrong. Parents wanted their children to go to Bill's matinees-- it was just as effective as sending them to church. And so, from Inceville to Triangle to Famous Players, Bill brought vivid and exciting stories to an America eager to witness a reproduction of their not so distant history: a day when saddle and spur were the order of the day, and rugged, rough, but conscionable men helped build the country into the more comfortable place of steam engines and flicker shows that they currently enjoyed.
Bill brings two swindlers to justice in Tumbleweeds.
Bill's career soared as he starred in The Aryan, Hell's Hinges, The Tiger Man, and The Toll Gate, but his personal isolation remained. Middle-aged when he became a star, Bill was still a bachelor. After burying his mother, his sister Mary Ellen was his only consistent companion, and their loving but co-dependent relationship was comforting and suffocating to both of them. Bill found himself unable to open his heart to anyone, so set was he in his ways, and Mary Ellen was loathe to let him go. Because she acted as his business advisor in many respects, Bill took care of Mary Ellen, mostly because he had no one else. His affection in life was devoted entirely to animals, particularly to horses and dogs, and he would contribute to charities that practiced the prevention of cruelty to animals. He had an unfulfilled love affair with one time fiance Jane Novak, wed once for 6 months to Winifred Westover, (their lengthy divorce would drag on for several years), and allegedly fell in love with and proposed to nearly every leading lady he ever had. Yet, he remained a lonely man, cut off from the world and living only in his dreams and illusions of boyhood fantasy. He put all of his time, energy, and passion into his work, and his cowboy persona did not stop when the cameras ceased cranking. Harry Carey, Jr. would describe Bill as being always "on." The insecure youth seemingly had matured into an uncertain and thus affected man, who often read as phony to his contemporaries. The real Bill remained hidden behind a mask of his own creations. While friends like Harry Carey, Sr. and the light-hearted Will Rogers left their work on set, Bill didn't seem to know how to relax and unwind. His work, building his Western empire in celluloid, was his life. And he had many followers. Fan mail poured in, big names like artists James Montgomery Flagg and Charles M. Russell considered his friendship an honor, and soon his name was in the same ranks of fame as his heroes Doc Holliday and Buffalo Bill Cody. He was a living legend of his own creation.
But, times change. Soon, Bill found himself rejected by the very studio that he helped build-- despite his loyalty to the men in charge, like Adolph Zukor-- and saw his films losing money instead of gaining. His stubborn refusal to alter his style or stories hampered his career, while new hot shot film stars like Tom Mix started riding away with box office receipts. Bill felt abandoned, betrayed... and though he had often spoken of retirement, he didn't want to leave until he was ready. After a final break with Paramount, Bill made his swan song, Tumbleweeds via United Artists, but it failed to draw in the crowds he had hoped. It was fairly well-received, and his fans still loved him, but with no studio backing its promotion, that ship sank as soon as it left the dock. With this, aside from a later cameo in Show People, Bill rode away from film forever. He spent his retirement writing his biography and books for boys, such as his Injun and Whitey series, and building his dream house-- "La Loma de los Vientos"-- in Newhall, CA where he had at first operated out of a small ranch. He entertained guests like Maurice Chevalier and Pola Negri, showed his old films, rode his trusty horse Fritz, and made occasional personal appearances. When Mary Ellen was bedridden and then restricted to a wheel chair after a car accident, her dependence on Bill only grew. He grew increasingly despondent, melancholy, and perhaps even bitter about an unfulfilled dream: a castle in the sky that never became a home. He had had success, but not a life of depth that true love could provide. He died a lonely man in June 23, 1946 leaving behind one son, William S. Hart, Jr, and a legacy that could not be surpassed but was indeed expanded upon by a new generation of filmmakers.
Bill and Fritz-- who was a small Pinto Pony, but strong as an ox.
It is a tragedy when someone so worth remembering and honoring is so easily forgotten. While his steadfast fans remained true during his lifetime-- begging him to return to the screen-- the generations that followed would be less familiar with his work, which had acted as the foundation for the entire Western film genre. Acting in, writing, and in effect directing many of his own pictures, Bill was able to define what honor, manhood, and the freedom of open country represented to him, and in turn these things became the representations that America would hold onto and cherish as their own truth. Of course, particularly in film, it is often the integrity of the subject matter that is more beneficial than its authenticity. Bill may not have been the cowboy archetype that he pretended to be, but he presented to his fans an idea that was as necessary as their life's blood. We need heroes, we need sinners, and we need saints, to sometimes paint our realities in broader strokes and inspire us to dream, to have faith, to fight. We chose Bill as one of our favorite idols at a time when a fast-moving and fast-approaching future made us want to look back at a simpler era that was no less complicated by man's eternal struggles. This is a time that is every time. But in the early part of the twentieth-century, our leader wore a large hat, two guns, and a stone face. He delivered us from evil again and again and rode off into the sunset, leaving us only in his warmth. He gave us respect for ourselves, our land, our triumphs, and made us feel safe. A world where William S. Hart was in the saddle was a world that need not fret. Bill would protect us. Let us do him the same honor.
The first King and Queen of Hollywood, Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks, bridged this gap when they began entertaining the Duke of Alba, the Duke of Sutherland, the Marquis of Vienna, the King of Spain, the Prussian Princess, and the Prince of Sweden at their own illustrious, colonial style castle: Pickfair. Different curious foreign figureheads too began visiting the stars on the film set to see how they created their magic pull. Lon Chaney once entertained the Princess of Sweden in between shots on the lot (see his hamming here), and Russian government leader Premier Nikita Khrushchev later came to visit Shirley MacLaine on the set of Can-Can (right)-- he would memorably say, after watching the high-kicks, "The face of humanity is prettier than it's backside." (Can-can you believe it)? Some may have poo-pooed celebrity appeal, declaring that these newly appointed social rulers were not given their position through generational inheritance, as true royalty was, but the grit and determination of self-made American men and women somehow made their new, elevated status seem even more deserved. After all, true Kings and Queens were simply famous for being famous, wealthy, and guiding the general course of their nations. How were Hollywood idols any different? At least they didn't pretend to be entitled. They had worked hard, and publicly, to earn their places in adulation. They too were not chosen by a metaphysical God, but were chosen by the people and for the people. They were not creatures of tradition, but creatures of change: modern, alive, now. At the very least, they made things interesting... and much more aesthetically pleasing.
In no time at all, as if Hollywood had just discovered a great new plot, true royalty began romantically courting this new American royalty. Not surprisingly, the male heir to the foreign throne was usually the one who came to woo a beautiful American Princess back to his Kingdom. The movie starlet, after all, was the ultimate, two-dimensional sex object. A Prince was just a regular man in the end, and he saw marriage to a film goddess as the culmination of all his fantasies, just like any other guy. The only hiccup, of course, was that the perfection on the screen was an illusion, and these gorgeous screen creatures were actually three-dimensional, full-blooded women. Life with them would prove to be much more complicated off camera. Of course, the ladies too would make the mistake of getting involved with a real Prince as a result of their own yearning Princess fantasies. As such, more often than not, the glass slipper would prove to be a little too tight, and an alliance between the various Kingdoms and the world of America seemed not to be, if only because America's modernity is naturally averse to old-fashioned values and traditions. American movie stars are working women, not housewives nor the placid trophies and ornaments that the magazine covers make them to be. Nonetheless, more than one couple would defy reality, try to bring a fairy tale to life, and marry in the name of Love (aka delusion). Almost always, they would divorce in the name of War. (Marilyn Monroe tries to win Laurence Olivier's heart (and crown) in The Prince and the Showgirl, right).
Rita Hayworth met Persian Prince Aly Khan in Cannes through Elsa Maxwell. Much like her second husband, Orson Welles, Aly was on a mission for Rita, in his case after seeing The Loves of Carmen (left). Rita wasn't a fool. She knew why men were interested in her: her stardom, her sex appeal, her screen persona. She knew too that it was all bull-hockey. Just as she had Orson, Rita initially rebuffed Aly's advances-- after all, she was already dining with the Shah of Iran and King Farouk-- but she finally agreed to meet him for an afternoon visit. Yet, to show that she was no easy sell, she showed up late from another date and dressed in a casual pair of shorts as if to say, "Look bud, I'm just a regular girl-- but not a daft one." Of course, her moderate attempts at self-preservation started to crack due to her natural, maternal nature and sensitive heart. Aly was persistent and charming. Most importantly, he was attentive. During the early days of their courtship, it was as if there weren't any other people in the world. Aly even proved to be a devoted father figure to Rita's daughter Rebecca, giving her much more affection than her own father (Welles). After Rita's recent divorce, heartbreak, and her growing, increased antipathy toward Hollywood, an escape with an exotic Prince seemed to be just what the doctor ordered. After a fortune teller encouraged Rita to dive into the relationship, that's just what she did-- although certain people believe that Aly paid the "psychic" in advance for every premonition she would foretell.
Despite their love for each other, matrimony wasn't going to be as simple as a swapping of vows. First, Rita had to win over Aly's father-- Aga Khan III, the head of Ismaili Muslims. A very shy person, Rita was afraid she wouldn't be able to impress him, but Aga was immediately enchanted with the American beauty, whom he deemed incomparably lady-like. Step-one completed, Aly had to clear up one final snafu- a divorce from his wife Joan Yarde-Buller, with whom he had already had two sons. The divorce was obtained after much effort and protest, and Rita was unceremoniously dubbed a homewrecker-- this despite the fact that the wedded couple had been separated for some time, and Aly had been unfaithful with a slew of women before Rita. Needless to say, Joan should have been grateful for the release and sumptuous alimony, and Rita should have been more skeptical of her suitor. But, as they say, love is blind. The wedding of Rita Hayworth to Aly Khan was held in May of 1949 to much ballyhoo, despite their attempts to keep it quiet and private. The paparazzi party-crashers and the chaos of the day was nearly enough to send super-shy Rita into a nervous breakdown, but she made it through the ceremony. Little did anyone know that she was already a couple of months pregnant with her daughter with Aly, Princess Yasmin, who would be born in December of the same year.
Almost immediately, the beauty of their love affair became one beast of a burden. Rita was not cut out for politics nor the party life, which is what Aly's somewhat immature existence was all about. Instead of a quiet life away from the cameras, she seemed to be even more scrutinized and imprisoned than ever. Aly would throw or attend lavish get-togethers, often leaving Rita surrounded by strangers or else completely alone at home. He too did not give up his wandering eye. After Rita had had enough, she smuggled her daughters out of Cannes and back into America, fearing that Aga Khan would try to stop her from taking his heiress granddaughter. Such was not the case, but once the divorce proceedings commenced, a great debate was waged regarding custody, as well as what religion Yasmin (with mom and sis Rebecca, left) would be raised to practice. The Aga wanted her to receive Muslim instruction; Rita wanted her to be raised a "normal, Christian, American child," although she probably used the religion issue as a bargaining chip to maintain U.S. public sympathy. Aly, for his part, tried unsuccessfully to win his wife back, but despite her vulnerabilities, Rita was not the shrinking violet that she was sometimes believed to be. She wanted her freedom back and hopefully a chance at happiness with a man who could give her the life she'd always dreamed of. Aly, nice guy though he was, was not it. He would return to his wayfaring ways, seducing Joan Fontaine, Yvonne De Carlo and Gene Tierney, all while still legally wed to Rita. Rita would endure two more failed marriages, never finding her Prince Charming. You go to bed with a Prince, and you wake up with a frog...
She was the ultimate silent screen siren. He was a French nobleman who had inherited his title (Marquis de La Coudraye) from his grandfather. There was much appealing about Gloria Swanson-- diminutive but almost dangerously beautiful, glamorous, and noted for her embrace of a decadent lifestyle (see right). It seemed that she was only waiting for a like-minded man to make her healthy brand of business-savvy narcissism an official Queenship. Henri was equally intriguing. Born into privilege-- but not money-- he had to work for a living, which made him a rare, down-to-earth regal. The legendarily handsome man, who preferred to be called "Hank," became a war hero then set his sights on Hollywood. He served as a translator on the set of Madame Sans-Gêne (1925), where he met his leading lady, Gloria. Though he took on jobs as her assistant, he lacked the business smarts of his wife, and Gloria remained the family breadwinner. Clearly, she hadn't married him for money, so it must have been his title alone that she found so hypnotic. The marriage only lasted until 1931, by which time both were already thoroughly involved with their replacement spouses: Irish sportsman Michael Farmer for her and Constance Bennett, another actress, for him. But some believe that it was the appearance of business partner Joseph Kennedy in Gloria's life that put the final nail in the relationship's coffin. Joe sent Henri to France to work at Pathe simply to get him out of the way. Joe wasn't the gentleman Henri was, and he wouldn't stick around too long after Gloria's career took a dive after Queen Kelly, particularly since her financial woes were partly his fault. By this time, Henri had already written Gloria a letter suggesting that they amicably call it "kaput." Thus, Gloria turned to Farmer, whom she accidentally wed while still technically married to Henri-- thus instigating a bigamy charge. Oy. Vey. Henri and Gloria remained friendly, though, unlike her former two spouses Wallace Beery and Harry Samborn. Henri was a great guy, just not husband material.
Constance Bennett would disagree. Henri's marriage to Constance (left) would last a few years longer than his partnership with Gloria, and at first they seemed a good team. Constance was herself true "Hollywood royalty," having come from a family of esteemed thespians, including father Richard and sister Joan. Her beauty was as famed as Gloria's, as was her impeccable sense of fashion. A shrewd business-woman, she too had a love of controversy, which is perhaps why she jumped at the chance to wed a nobleman, and most importantly, a nobleman who was still married to Gloria Swanson! Always ambivalent toward the press, this royal wedding probably seemed like more of a game to her than anything else, and the fun-loving Henri simply enjoyed being along for the ride-- with beautiful company, of course. The duo had some successes as a couple, such as establishing a production company, Bennett Productions, through which they produced two films together, but by 1940, both their business and personal institutions hit the skids: too much flash, too little substance. Connie quickly moved on to actor Gilbert Roland (for awhile) before settling on army Gen. John Theron Coulter. Henri would marry again to a Colombian divorcee, but would die with no heir to pass on his notorious title. Just as well, for the moniker hadn't served him too well in the end. Heavy is the head the wears the crown... 
The noble Mdvani family hailed from Georgia-- not the American State, but the Eurasian country nestled between Eastern Europe and Western Russia (ironically, a Georgian Prince, Gregory Eristoff, would tutor Rita Hayworth in royal etiquette during her marriage to Aly). While the Mdvani name and their country are little familiar to the ears today, they caused quite a scandal in the 1920s that would make them, briefly, both famous and infamous. The family was understandably unnerved during the Russian revolution of 1917, which encouraged the five offspring of parents Zakhari and Elizabeth Mdvani to flee to Paris. Of course, woeful times of war were not going to knock this highbrow family off their pedestal, and the killer instinct-- or rather lady-killer instinct-- led to them all finding safe harbor through fortunate marriages-- emphasis on the "fortune." They were thus referred to as the "marrying Mdvanis." The three sisters Alexis, Isabelle, and Nina did well for themselves, the latter of whom married Denis Conan Doyle, son of author Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, but it was the two brothers, Serge and David who would make the greatest claims to fame by wedding Hollywood starlets. David found a paramour and partner in Mae Murray (right). The "girl with the bee-stung lips" was hit by Cupid's arrow, and the duo wed in 1926. Unfortunately, after David had bled the movie queen dry and bankrupted her, he abandoned her for better prospects.
For his part, Serge attached himself to drama queen extraordinaire and exotic film siren Pola Negri (left) in 1927, but after she too lost her fortune in the stock market crash, he quickly ditched her to find a more profitable union. This proved to be more than enough impetus for Mae and Pola to spend the rest of their lives single. Mae had already endured three prior marriages, including one to director Robert Z. Leonard, and her heart was officially finito. Her acting career would too become non-existent, and she ended her days in near poverty at the Motion Picture Country Home. Pola, memorably devastated (and overstated) at the funeral of lover Rudolph Valentino, had too suffered through a previous marriage to Polish Count Eugene Dambski-- oh yeah, she was married to a Count too, and thus was temporarily a Countess, which she happily publicized. Anyway, after the debacle with ol' Serge, she opted to forevermore avoid the sacrament of marriage... and allegedly men. She was rumored to favor only the fairer sex throughout the rest of her life (though indiscriminately). Temporarily, Mae and Pola were regal sister-in-laws; afterward, they were separately, equally, and thoroughly disenchanted.
Errol Flynn had no shortage of women to choose from. While in his early Hollywood days, this was a welcome bonus to his celebrity, which only enhanced his already irrefutable charm, as he aged, he seemed to favor a quieter, less pretentious lifestyle. Of course, two failed marriages (to actresses Lili Damita and Nora Eddington) had certainly weathered him, particularly the first. After the notorious statutory rape trial that dragged his name through the mud and left his reputation forever sullied by the popular phrase "In Like Flynn," he felt that he had been through the ringer. Despite public perception, he was not proud of his reputation as, what he found akin to being, a gigolo. This was particularly embarrassing for him as a father, a job that for once he was totally devoted to. The skills he lacked as a faithful husband, he made up for as a loving dad. As he tried to leave boyish hijinks behind in pursuit of more mature aspirations-- a career in writing, an acting reputation of repute-- he too thought it time to man-up in the ways of matrimony. Perhaps in a further need to class-ify himself, he drew his attention to Romanian Princess Irene Ghika. The two became engaged (right), with Errol perhaps hoping that some of her royal blood would rub off on him. He, in turn, made suggestions about getting a career started for her in film. However, the nuptials never came to pass. It took one mere look at newcomer Patrice Wymore on the set of Rocky Mountain for Errol to forget all about that royal bird, Ghika. He would settle for being a mere Hollywood Prince by marrying Patrice in 1950. They remained married until his death, though at the end they had become estranged. All of the hard living in Errol's earliest years had fractured his chances at love and happiness, perhaps because he had never truly learned to love himself. But, as he would say, he had still had "one Hell of a time."
The one royal wedding that has gone down in history as a true fairy tale is that between Grace Kelly and Prince Albert Rainier III of Monaco (left). Having met on May 6, 1955 while Grace visited Cannes (strangely where Rita and Aly had met), Grace had not been interested at all in meeting the Prince, and was a bit miffed that she was expected to take time out of her vacation for, essentially, a publicity ploy to meet some guy who happened to be royal. She was still engaging in a fling with Jean-Pierre Aumont anyway, so romance was not on the agenda. Begrudgingly, she agreed to the meet n' greet, so imagine her annoyance when Rainier showed up late for his personal tour of the palace. Despite this, Grace made nice, and Albert was cordial, but no one would exactly say that sparks flew at this meeting. Still, something had been ignited. Unlike the fiery, passionate affairs that both had engaged in previously, this romance began slowly. The two found themselves still thinking of each other after they had politely parted, and a correspondence began. What could a little love letter or two hurt? After all, Albert had, from Grace's own lips, been "charming." While Grace began performing her role as the conflicted Princess Alexandra in The Swan, few people knew of her secret affair with a man who would in time make her a real life Princess!
After coming to know each other through their letters more than most people ever do, and meeting clandestinely when appropriate, they fell in love, and Albert proposed. He was under the wire and in need of bringing an heir to the throne. He saw his meeting with Grace, therefore, as fortuitous. Her natural aristocratic air, intelligence, and poise made her a prime candidate for a royal wife, which is why she said "Yes" and then "I do." Grace finished filming on High Society, then boarded the S.S. Constitution for her new home across the sea in April of 1956. The wedding was extravagant and the event of the season, not to mention one of the most memorable movie star moments of all time. As a woman of discipline and duty, Grace would fulfill her obligations as a political wife, including mothering three children (right) and enduring the snooze-fest schmooze-sessions she had to attend as Rainier's arm candy. There would be a tinge of regret in her choice to leave her career behind, and unfulfilled roles and opportunities must have hung heavy on her heart. Nonetheless, she remained Princess Grace of Monaco until her dying day and proved to little girls everywhere that impossible dreams do come true.
