HALLOWEEN SPOOKTACULAR III

Mary prepares for the Holidays...

This year's batch of devilish dollops to whet your seasonal appetite fall into the category of "Psychic Stress." More than one illustrious celebrity has rubbed elbows with a preternatural force, tangled with a daunting premonition, or had a profound supernatural revelation that left him or her a little worse for the wear. These moments of human and spiritual meeting do not consistently end in profound terror, but a brush with the dark side of existence is never easy to shake off. Curiosity may not always kill the cat, but it definitely leaves a scratch or two. Here are a few members of the Hollywood Haunted:

Mary Pickford left a lasting impression on Hollywood. In fact, so strong was her presence, that more than one witness claims that she continued to hang around her former abode-- Pickfair-- after her death. The fact that she had lengthy conversations with her deceased ex-husband, Douglas Fairbanks, while she was bedridden late in her own life makes one wonder whether she was simply losing her mind or talking to the actual ghost of her beloved. She was definitely a woman who had trouble letting go. Interested in the supernatural realm during her own life, Mary would have more than one spooky encounter with the other side. One would give her the chills. Another... had a different effect.

As a woman who always liked being "in the know," Mary (left) liked to have a plan. She always had her bases covered. Unfortunately, not all in life is spelled out for the living. You have to make it up as you go. A type-A kind of gal like Mary had problems with this. Patience was one thing; being ignorant of the unknown was far too daunting and left her vulnerable. As such, she decided to confer with fortune tellers from time to time, just to keep her abreast of what was to come, not to mention quell her loneliness. She often had her tea-leaves read. This way, she knew when something "wicked" was coming along, and she was also able to take peace in the fact that something joyous was approaching. One particular day-- June 11, 1939 to be exact-- Mary's Irish maid was asked by her miniature employer to  scrutinize the remnants of her tea cup. The maid complied and made the following revelation from the dilapidated leaves: "I see someone stretched out lifeless... He is close to you, and he is not close to you. He is either dying or dead, but I don't see you crying." The next day, the body of Owen Moore, Mary's first and ex-husband, was found lying dead as a doornail on his kitchen floor. He had been there undiscovered for two days. (Pause for Mary's gulp).

Mary may not have been too upset over Owen's demise, as the two had long since parted-- and not on glowing terms-- but she was deeply grieved by the death of her good friend Marshall Neilan (right) when he passed away in 1958 due to throat cancer. (Coincidentally, he had been staying at the Motion Picture Country House, an establishment for former stars that Mary had helped establish-- one of her many charities). Losing her long-time friends in droves, Mary seemed to be outlasting everyone. The world she had once known was quickly disappearing, and the life she currently had seemed empty without her once trusted companions to reminisce with. That's why it meant so much to her when Mickey popped up from beyond the grave to give her a reassuring "wink" of sorts. She was part of a very small pack who had been invited to attend Mickey's wake at the Knickerbocker Hotel, where an open beer waited at the end of the bar bearing the tag: "Reserved for Mickey Neilan." He was a humorist to the end... and after. See, Mary was deeply grieved and found this last wise-crack in poor taste, so she opted not to attend the wake. But, when she tried to leave the funeral and head for the cemetery instead, her car died. Mary had the sneaking suspicion that Mickey was playing one last prank and begging her to have one last drink with him. She smiled to herself, caught a cab, and hit the Knickerbocker at his request.

Bebe Daniels (left) was another silent film beauty who was directly responsible for the advancement of cinema as a reliable art form. Co-starring with such luminaries as Rudolph Valentino and Gloria Swanson, Bebe's reputation as a professional actress and generous woman made her universally adored. To fans, she was like a gift from the heavens: a star. Bebe too would receive a "gift," and it would leave her simultaneously shaken and grateful. See, Bebe had a bit of what is known as a "lead foot." In fact, she once had to serve a jail term when she was caught speeding (yet again) in Orange County. A spirited girl, somewhat reckless, it was clear that despite her jovial, good-natured demeanor, she was headed for trouble if she didn't start paying attention. Aside from her automobile inclinations, there didn't seem to be anything wrong with the girl, who was able to make everyone from Harold Lloyd to Jack Dempsey fall for her. She didn't stress; she didn't fret. Until... she had a dream. Adela Rogers St. Johns would recall the story: Bebe confided that one night, she had a strange but peaceful dream about a deceased couple that she had known. She came upon them at an unfamiliar white house, and they invited her inside. It was a good dream-- like seeing old friends. An eternal optimist, Bebe probably felt her good pals were just popping in to say "hello" from the other side. They had a different agenda. A few days later, she was racing around in her roadster, yet again, when her scarf blew into her face before a nasty curve and blocked her vision. She nearly crashed! Thankfully, she was as sharp as she was speedy, and she was able to avoid the collision. However, when she looked up, she saw the same white house that had been in her dream. Her mouth most probably hit the floor. She got the message. As she told Adela, that was the last day she sped. She spent the rest of her life focusing on more important, less dangerous things (save for her involvement in WWII, in which she became one of the most decorated women in history for her heroic efforts overseas).

Linda Darnell (right) and Natalie Wood probably never met. Their careers in Hollywood did overlap, but Linda's 15 year seniority meant that they would never have run in the same social circles. Linda too worked primarily at Fox; Natalie was less exclusive, but did a large majority of her early and most successful work at Warner Brothers. The two women had a lot in common, however. Both were incredibly young when they began their acting careers: Linda 15, Natalie 5. Both were dark-featured beauties with angelic faces, yet they were equally capable of giving meaty and gutsy performances. Both were family breadwinners even in their tender years, and both had tempestuous relationships with their mothers. More eerily, both had an astonishing sixth sense about their own deaths. Linda had held a deep fear of fire since her early youth, and had a nervous presentiment about burning to death. This did not make her scene in Anna and the King of Siam, in which she was burned at the stake, all that pleasant. She too had a close call during the big fire sequence of Forever Amber, in which she actually was physically burned, albeit not badly. Cinematographer Leon Shamroy stated that she barely escaped death when the set's roof caved in, all aflame. The fear never left her. In 1965, she would be severely burned all over her body at the home of her friend Jeanne Curtis when it caught fire and she failed to get out in time. She passed away less than 2 days later.

For her part, Natalie (left) had a pathological fear of drowning. In fact, her sister Lana once stated that Natalie's mother, Maria, had foretold her daughter that she would die in dark water. The root of Natalie's supposed phobia is often traced back to the experience she had while filming The Green Promise. During one particular sequence, she was to rush across a bridge to rescue her pet lambs. Unfortunately, she was knocked off the bridge by the raging water and nearly swept under, had she not been able to grab a hold of the collapsing bridge. To make matters worse, the director William D. Russell, urged the crew to keep filming, while Natalie clung for dear life and her mother tried to quell her own desperate hysterics. Aside from being nearly drowned, Natalie also suffered a broken wrist. The terrified look on the 10-year-old's face in the final cut is no act. Her fear continued into her adult life where she would avoid her own swimming pool for fear of being eternally submerged. Her on-again-off again husband, Robert Wagner, managed to coax her into a trip aboard his boat with pal Christopher Walken in 1981, despite her fears. Natalie would never return to shore. It is claimed that she drunkenly fell overboard while trying to reach the yacht's dinghy (after a lover's spat). To this day, mystery clouds her death, for many assert that she was far too terrified of water to ever make such a brazen attempt as rowing herself ashore alone. Foul play or cruel fate? It appears death by fire and water were in the cards for these two tragic ladies.

Montgomery Clift (right) has been known to do a little creeping around. His trumpet continues to put on a concert at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel where his restless spirit eternally continues to pace the hallway in preparation for his role as "Pvt. Prewitt" in From Here to Eternity. Craig Chester, a modern actor and writer who authored Why the Long Face?: The Adventures of a Truly Independent Actor about his battle with a congenital disorder, had a lengthy and otherworldly connection to Monty, whose ghost seemed to maintain close contact with him in order to foster his own acting career and acceptance of his homosexuality. Craig's painful ordeal and metamorphosis from a child suffering from Long Face Syndrome to a surgically salvaged, handsome man, when contrasted with Monty's converse demise from a man of beauty to facial mutilation, also seems to strengthen the bond between them. Monty was always a fascinated and fascinating man in his life, but if he had any interest in the supernatural he kept it to himself. However, the "forces that be" seemed to have a deep need to communicate with him while he walked this earthly plane. In fact, he received an early warning that his years would be abruptly cut short. When stopping at a bar at the Camden Airport with his one time secretary Arlene Cunningham and friend Ned Smith, the trio encountered a handwriting expert, who must have recognized the movie star and offered his services. Monty scrawled out a little something or other, perhaps his autograph, and the graphologist diagnosed it: "You're the most disturbed man I've ever met-- you'll die young." True to form, Monty passed away at 45 years of age.

Mae West (left) is perhaps the last person that anyone would connect to the occult. However, Mae was a much more curious and open-minded person than many realize. By 1941, she had already made her major Hollywood films, including My Little Chickadee and She Done Him Wrong, which had made her a sexual icon, early feminist, and all-around business dynamo. After all the hustle and bustle of Tinsel Town, Mae was tired and looking forward to more time spent on the stage. First and foremost, she wanted a vacation. Always close with her mother, Mae was devastated when "Tillie" passed away over a decade earlier. Sitting on top of the world, Mae couldn't help but wonder if there were more "out there" to be reckoned with and more for her to learn. Always an eager student, Mae decided to dip her toe into the tepid pool of the afterlife. Wanting to be as legit as possible (she was as skeptical as she was curious), Mae sought the guidance of Rev. Thomas Jack Kelly, a psychic who was so well-trusted that he was often used as a consultant by the police during investigations. He became a spiritual coach to Mae, teaching her how to meditate, to block out the noise and light, make her mind a blank canvas, and commune with the other side. For days, weeks, Mae tried and tried, but a busy dame like herself had trouble sitting still and opening her mind. She finally decided to give up.

Then, one morning, she was awakened by a little girl's voice. "Good morning, dear," it said. Mae was a little surprised of course, but she was not easily rattled. The voice was pleasant, and Mae wondered if perhaps it came from some sort of guardian angel. She and the Reverend referred to it from then on as Juliet. Soon, more voices came... and presences. Apparently, Mae had "the gift," and her boudoir was often crowded with noisy visitors: spirits who seemed to just want a place to come together and gab. Not to Mae, mind you. In fact, she found it quite rude that these presences were only speaking to each other and not noticing her at all. Then, things turned dark. She woke one morning to find herself surrounded by dark, cloaked figures chanting in a foreign tongue. She tried to speak to them, but they ignored her. This was too much. Mae sat up and told them "Scram!!!" She would recall a look of sadness on the faces of some of the ghosts who were told to finally leave, as if they were hurt that they could no longer share in her earthly aura, but enough was enough. It wasn't that she was scared, mind you. She was irritated! It was one thing to ignore her; it was another to make a lot of gosh-darned noise and wake her up at the break of dawn! That's just bad manners. She never saw any of the entities again, though she had often though that she would revisit the spiritual realm eventually. At the end of the day, the experience made her feel better. She knew her Mama was out there somewhere... She just wasn't going to lose her mind trying to find her! (Mae defies intimidation, right).

When recollecting the masculine idols of the Golden Studio Era, it is easy to forget the short-stacked Mickey Rooney (left). However, when you weigh the evidence, Mickey is one of the most successful actors who ever lived, boasting a career that has spanned nearly 90 years. Over 90-years-old himself, the man is still working, most lately having a cameo in The Muppets. He won America over at a young age, using his unstoppable energy to propel himself up the cinematic ladder: from "Puck" in A Midsummer Night's Dream, to Love Finds Andy Hardy, to National Velvet. He was a bona fide box-office sensation who wed and bed some of the most beautiful women of the silver screen. There's no telling what a little fortitude and charisma can do for you, and Mickey never let his short stature short-change him out of any of life's blessings. However, when his career hit the skids after his notoriety as the energetic boy-next-door wore off, Mickey found himself lost in a sea of self-doubt. He would recall this harrowing time on an episode of "Celebrity Ghost Stories": He had always been close with his mother, Nellie, particularly after his actor father, Joseph, abandoned them. Mickey had, in essence, become the family breadwinner when he and Nellie hit Hollywood. Growing up without a father is rough, and during his later bout with depression, one can only imagine the conflicted thoughts going through Mickey's head. Never having a good man stand in as a father figure, Mickey had no idea what a good man was, or if he was even close to being one. He felt like a failure-- as if the best years of his life were over...

And then, lying in bed one night, Mickey woke to the feeling of someone tugging on his toes. Half asleep, he ignored the sensation at first, but as the peskiness continued, and his consciousness became more alert, Mickey suddenly realised that something weird was going on. He opened his eyes, and there, standing at the foot of his bed, was his father. "Keep going," Joe said. "Don't stop." A series of similar phrases followed, Joe smiled, and then his image disappeared into thin air. Mickey couldn't totally wrap mind around what had happened, and he tried in vain to rationalize what had occurred. Perhaps it had all been an illusion, "an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese..." A dream!?!? Mickey pinched himself. He new that what he had just witnessed had been real. His father had come to him, finally, from beyond the grave, to do the best thing that he ever could for his son: offer the encouragement he had not given in life. MIckey did indeed pull himself together and 'go on.' He's still going. He hasn't seen his Pops again, but then, one visit was enough! (Mickey is back up to snuff, right).

Shirley ain't scared 'a no ghost.

That being said, don't let the boogey-man get you down this All Hallow's Eve. Enjoy the merriment and mirth, stick to the road, and try your best not to go down a dark hall alone! Happy Halloween!!!

HOT SPOTS in CA: The William S. Hart Ranch

Final abode of Hollywood's Western Hero

The major remaining artifacts of the first Western star William S. Hart are, of course, his films. But there is another far more tangible relic of this Hollywood celebrity: his home. Having lived in ramshackle homes and cramped apartments in his youth, he was elated when he finally had the money to build his dream home-- an oasis where he could escape from the rush and strain of the business and relax. He found the perfect spot in Newhall, CA, where he moved in 1918. With his permanent residence still in Hollywood, Bill rented a patch of land and its small ranch house while he filmed in the Newhall region. He fell in love with it and by 1921 had purchased the lot from its original owner (George Babcock Smith). As the years progressed, Bill purchased more of the surrounding land and began planning the mansion that he would name La Loma de los Vientos ("Hill of the Winds"). After his retirement from film, he permanently settled on the estate. He lived on the property for over 20 years, and after he passed away, he left his ranch to the people of Los Angeles County, with the understanding that they be given free tours and reign of the land. It was his way of saying "thank you" to the people who had spent their time and money seeing his movies and supporting his career when he ruled as the King of the Cowboys. The house still stands as a monument to him, his life, and career.

Bill's original, smaller ranch house.

Upon immediate arrival at the ranch, the guest will be met with glimpses of the petting zoo, the gift shop, and the park. Since rainy days are rare in California, it is a safe bet that the sunshine will make the lush green grass and the picnic tables look very inviting. The area is popular, but not busy, so a few families can be seen scattered about and enjoying the weather. 

The tack and saddle room.

Opposite the gift shop is the original, smaller building Bill used as his home. This modest structure is nothing much to look at on the outside, but as the initial seed that sprouted the later hilltop mansion, it is still interesting to peruse. The interior is bedecked with some remaining Hart fossils, including his game room, kitchen, his sister Mary Ellen's initial bedroom, the tack and saddle room, and a room devoted to early film artifacts. In the main sitting room, a Hart movie plays to introduce the deceased owner to his visiting guests.

First glimpse of the palace.

A shot hike up a dirt path will take you past the dog graveyard-- where Bill laid to rest all his treasured mutts-- the small bunk house, and a corner of land inhabited by bison-- most of whom were donated by Walt Disney. Following the path upward, you will come upon the modest mansion, gracing the top of the hill and overlooking wilderness views intercut only by the occasional passage of a steam engine. It is truly like stepping into the past. The exterior of the house is white stucco, painted vibrantly with turquoise trim, small colorful detail, and a red-tiled roof. It was designed by architect Arthur Kelly and completed in 1928.

Upward glance at the foyer-- notice the design and detail around the edge.

Upon entering, the eye immediately goes up the spiral staircase to the rustic chandelier hanging in the foyer. The decor and style dictate from the beginning that this is a man's castle. Though replete with vibrant works of art and occasional hints of the feminine touch, the earthy style and tones are in keeping with Bill's masculine image. His adoration of the Native American culture is also firmly established, even in the original and never duplicated Indian designs applied to the crossbeams, which run throughout the house. Bill's boots, leather cuffs, and one of his shirts are also proudly on display at the entrance. 

Entertaining and dining room.

In a little room to the side, the original bathroom has been converted into a theatre tribute room, where pictures of Bill in some of his theater rolls are on display. The dining room is to the left, complete with an elegant place setting, Indian blankets covering the floors, and silver film appreciation trophies-- given to him by the likes of Marcus Loew (before the days of the Oscar). The walls are adorned with original works of art, all with Western themes, most of which were painted by Bill's good friend Charles Russell. Bill was a huge art fan and an appreciative collector, which becomes only more obvious as the tour of the house continues. A collection of horseshoes also adorn one wall, with his beloved Fritz's crowning the group at the top.

Meeting place for Hart's guests, like Maurice Chevalier and James Montgomery Flagg.

Continuing on, next to the dining hall there is a smaller dining room used for more modest occasions, followed by the kitchen. The hallway, complete with a dumbwaiter, leads back to the main entrance, which takes you upstairs. The main room at this level is the sitting room, which during Bills' life was complete with a projector and descending film screen. Holes in the back wall still reveal where this projector once operated. Samurai swords, a wooden bumper Bill bought off a passing car, and a bear-skin rug gifted by Will Rogers are proudly still in place, as well as an expensive, early record player. This is where Bill would have entertained guests. The room is still occasionally used for intimate parties and special affairs thrown by the museum.

A little treat from Doug, Buster, and Harold.

Also present in the rotating display for silent film buffs, was a collection of artifacts from some of cinema's favorite heroes. A saber used by Douglas Fairbanks in The Thief of Baghdad, Harold Lloyd's specs, and Buster Keaton's hat were a pleasant surprise to me on this particular day.


Moving on, a glimpse down one hallway reveals the room that used to belong to Bill's sister Mary Ellen, who was sadly bedridden or wheel-chair bound for the majority of her time at the ranch. To get to her room, one would pass the telephone: a novel possession at the time, particularly in this less populated region. Bill's phone number was 20! Mary Ellen's private tea room leads you down another hallway, past a few more rotating displays, this time showcasing early lantern slides-- a form of entertainment made arbitrary after pictures started to move.

This room once served as Bill's bedroom, but he quickly 

gave it to his oversized dogs.

Down this hall, which is decorated with various paintings revealing Bill in the middle of some of his most famous film stunts, you arrive at his bedroom. With more of the same style of decor, Bill's desk-- where he probably penned all of his enjoyable novels and even his biography-- and his lengthy bed are the major eye-catchers. A fairly modest space, the room where Bill laid his head at night was actually a later addition to the mansion, for his original bedroom was overtaken by his large dogs. Bill later moved into his second room and left the first space for his slobbery dogs to sleep in.


Out the door of the dog/sitting room, you find yourself back outdoors, enjoying the scenery of an elevated patio, and another outdoor tea room delegated to Mary Ellen. Further investigation of the property reveals the area clearly used as the garage for Bill and his visitors. Walking back down from whence you came, you pass the decorative tower bearing the name of Bill's palace, which now seems to separate and protect his happy haven from the noise and clutter of the modern world. One brief visit can leave you a bit enchanted and unwilling to leave. After experiencing the peace and simple beauty of the property, a life of traffic and smog is not all that alluring.

The entrance tower announcing La Loma de los Vientos.

If one has time to amble about, you can take time getting acquainted with the hogs, mules, and chickens, or perhaps take some time to peruse the gift shop, where proceeds act as donations toward the maintenance of the ranch. I purchased a copy of Bill's bio, a magnet, Hell's Hinges on DVD, and a first edition of one of his novels while I was there. (After such a lovely visit, I was on a high and easily departed with the dough). If you need a relaxed day away from it all, I highly recommend you giddy up to Bill's beloved abode. The tour is completely free, the guides are knowledgable and friendly, and even if you aren't a huge movie fan or Bill Hart fan, the interior and exterior of the ranch still give you the occasional gift of nostalgia we all need to remind us that life, indeed, is beautiful.

James Montgomery Flagg's portrait of Bill and Fritz.

To visit La Lomas de las Vientos and the William S. Hart Park:

24151 Newhall Avenue

Newhall, California 91321

Museum Information : (661) 254-4584

Park Information : (661) 259-0855

Email: information@hartmuseum.org.

Web Site: www.hartmuseum.org

Hours: 

Labor Day to Mid-June

Wednesday - Friday, 10 am to 1 pm (last tour at 12:30)

Saturday - Sunday, 11 am to 4 pm (last tour at 3:30 pm).

Summer- Beginning, June 20, 2012

Wednesday - Sunday 11 am to 4 pm (last tour at 3:30 pm).

NOW, THAT'S FUNNY: Part VIII

Edmund Gwenn and Clark Gable on the set of Parnell. Is it just me, or does

Clark seem underwhelmed by this experience???

 

Despite the fact that he won his only Oscar for a screwball comedy (It Happened One Night), Clark Gable hardly seems like the King of hee-haw. Yet, while his tough guy roles typically produced the ultimate identity of cocky male cynicism, he did have a good sense of humor in his private life, even when he was the butt of the joke. His dominating onscreen presence hid a sensitive and humble soul that had come up the hard way, and while he appreciated the benefits that came with his stature and movie star paycheck, he too was grateful when a kidding friend brought him back down to the earth he was much more comfortable in. Spencer Tracy was one of these guys. The two bonded almost immediately when they started filming on San Francisco, despite the fact that they had both just survived scandalous affairs with Loretta Young. Surprisingly, there was no competitive, macho energy about their former shared paramour. In fact, Spence once took a swat at a guy who had cracked about Loretta's "adopted" daughter's (Judy Lewis) "big ears," a jab at Gable, whom all Hollywood knew to be the true father. Over the course of a few movies, the duo got close. In fact, they once went off to lunch together and disappeared for two days. Even sober, neither could remember where they'd been. After Spence started the good fight to maintain his sobriety, his relationship with the still hard-drinking Gable grew less intense, but their sturdy respect and friendship remained. Clark admired Spence's talent, and Spence was envious of Clark's leading man power at the box office... which is why he so enjoyed bringing up Parnell.

Clark was no fool about his talent. He could do "intense." He could do "smoldering." But all of his characterizations were mere exaggerations of himself. He shied away from character roles or true life figures for fear that he wouldn't be able to carry them. When handed the role of Irish politician Charles Stuart Parnell in 1937, he was not surprisingly a nervous wreck. He had hoped that friend and lover Joan Crawford would too jump on board as a co-star in order to help him through it, but when she turned the role down, Clark read it as a betrayal. Joan would insist that this was the official end of their romance (though they would allegedly remain friends with benefits over the years). Joan wasn't wrong to back out. The film was a flop, Clark was panned, and his death scene was so thoroughly mocked that he would refuse to play dead again until 1958's Run Silent, Run Deep. But, while Clark was humiliated, Spence was thrilled! Spence had originally been offered the role of Parnell, but had turned it down, which made Clark's misery even funnier to him. While filming on Test Pilot in 1937 after Parnell's release, Spence continued to kid his friend about his failed venture in acting. When Clark and co-star Myrna Loy arrived to set one day, they were abruptly greeted with a coronation ceremony for the press regarding their recent status as the "King and Queen of Hollywood." Spence howled with laughter as publicity photos of Clark in a crown were taken. He then addressed his embarrassed friend as "Your Majesty." Clark got red in the face and retaliated by calling Spence a "Wisconsin ham." Spence stuck in the final pin with "What about Parnell?" End game. So it would continue over the years. Whenever Clark got a little boyishly cocky, Spence would shoot out a Parnell jab. In 1939, when Gone with the Wind went on to break box-office records, further cementing Clark's unbreakable reputation, Spence still wouldn't let it lie. He sent Clark the following telegram: "Gone with the Wind may be this year's greatest picture, but I still remember Parnell." Clark, as always, laughed. (The chums perform in their undergarments in Boom Town left).

Clark's lady love Carole Lombard (right) too had a hand in the Parnell gags. As with Spence, Clark latched onto Carole's down to earth demeanor and humor, finding her better company than the majority of the pretentious hangers-on in Hollywood. The multiple ways that this romantic pair kidded each other over the years is, in itself, legendary. Carole too had no qualms about taking Clark down a peg or two when he started getting a little high on his pedestal or ornery, but her gags were mostly just an effect of her kooky sense of humor and meant to cheer people up, not poke fun. Carole understood Clark, and beneath his front-- where he was able to freeze people out and shut off internal emotions-- she knew that he was deeply upset by the Parnell blunder. Insecure about his acting in general, to have his performance universally panned was a hard thing for him to endure, especially after being crowned the "King." The King of what? With apparently no talent, it made him feel like a phony. So, one day, Carole decided to earn back a few points for Clark's self esteem. Thus followed what became known as Carole's "Rain" of Terror: Carole paid a pilot to fly over MGM and drop thousands of fliers over the studio with the following text: "Fifty Million Chinamen Can't Be Wrong!" You see, regardless of America's reception of Clark's Irish hero, his performance as Parnell was hailed as genius in China. When Clark-- and everyone in Culver City-- got the message, he flashed his old grin. The boy was back!

Moving backward a few years to that business between Spencer Tracy and Loretta Young (left)... The two met on the set of 1934's Man's Castle and quite quickly thereafter began a romance. It would be the first major relationship to threaten Spence's marriage to wife Louise. Loretta had a habit of falling in love with her co-stars, a result of growing up in front of the camera and never being able to separate fantasy from reality. Spence was taken by Loretta's great beauty and confused innocence. Ironically, the two also had faith in common and even attended mass together. For a time, it was discussed between them that Spence really would end his marriage and wed Loretta. The drama of the impossible love made it all the more enticing to Loretta, who was just turning 21. However, the tide turned when the teetotaling actress became acquainted with her suitor's bad side aka his alcoholism. The dating duo often went out on the town with John and Josie Wayne, with whom Loretta had been good friends since John's football days at USC. They celebrated Loretta's birthday together, took a vacation in Palm Springs, went dancing, the usual. As with Clark Gable, Spence kidded John: "It's a good thing you're good looking, because you can't act your way out of a paper bag." Duke would respond: "That's right, fats. I'll catch on, then you watch out!" Good times... But, as Spence's guilt-ridden conscience got the better of him for his latest dalliance, so too did his drinking increase. Duke could keep up pretty well with the bottle, but the ladies did not imbibe and thus were left staring in horror at their drunken, sloppy men making asses of themselves. Of the two, Spence was always much worse than Duke. Duke was a fun drunk, whereas Spence could become hostile. On one particular evening, the foursome was dining at the Beverly Wilshire's Gold Room, the usual chaos ensued, and Spence became so belligerent in his drunkenness that Duke had to escort him from the premises, against much protest. Luckily, Spence was blotto or he would have been quite embarrassed at the ruckus he was making before the likes of fellow diners George and Gracie Burns. Duke finally got Spence to his room, but even there Spence made trouble and tried to get back to Loretta. He was causing such a disturbance that Duke was left with few options, so... he decked him. After that powerful "Whop!" Spence was down for the count and spent the night draped over his bed snoozing like a baby. The relationship with Loretta ended soon thereafter, but Spence would still get a wistful look in his eyes whenever he saw her in public.

When one thinks of Hollywood horror, images of Frankenstein's monster, Bela Lugosi's Dracula, or the countless terrors of Vincent Price flicker in the brain. These anti-heroes were all born in the days of sound, however. In the silent days, there was but one film villain that could turn the blood cold: Theda Bara. Theda Bara's career is a flash-in-the-pan phenomenon that is both indicative of the power films have to both make a star and break one. Over the course of a career that spanned just a little over a decade, this actress from Cincinnati, OH was built up publicly as the pinnacle "Vamp": a man-eating seductress with dangerous sexual powers, at once threatening and alluring (see right). Films like The Tiger Woman, The She Devil, Salome, and-- of course-- Cleopatra, solidified her forever as cinema's favorite temptress. But, this version of Theda Bara, (an anagram for "Arab Death") was a far cry from the true Theodosia, who was an accomplished actress renowned among friends like King Vidor and Ethel Barrymore for her delectable potluck dinners. Theda gratefully played the part Hollywood, and Fox in particular, assigned her, but in time, both she and the public grew tired of the gimmick. Before she knew it, her career was over, and the caricature that she had created was left to the history of film. But, her identity remains a fascinating topic, if only to illustrate how powerful a cinematic persona can be. Particularly in the early days of film, when Hollywood was so mythic and its stars so revered, the line between fantasy and reality was not so easily tread by viewers. Thus, what Theda was onscreen was what people believed she was in life. Shop keepers actually had to ask Theda not to come to their stores for fear of the stampede of women that would follow-- grabbing at any piece of clothing Theda had touched in the hopes of collecting some of her magic aura. Not all in the public were fans. Adela Rogers St. Johns would recall a very telling story regarding this subject. A mother and child were wandering the streets of New York City. At one point, the child ambled off, and the mother noticed her son talking to a darkly garbed woman with a pale, ghostly face. As she drew nearer, she realized that the woman was... Theda Bara! The mother suddenly became hysterical. "Save him! Save him! The vampire has my child!" Certain that Theda was hypnotizing her babe and intent on sucking his blood, the terrified mother even went so far as to call the police for assistance! One imagines that, at this moment, Theda got a hefty reality check: "What have I gotten myself into?"

Ginger Rogers loved to throw a good party. As she wasn't a drinker, she knew that she had to create a certain over-the-top environment to make her get-togethers enticing to those chronically parched individuals who only considered a party a party if there was plenty of swill. One of her outrageous shenanigans was contrived with the help of her boyfriend at the time-- some guy named Alfred Vanderbilt. I hear he was "loaded" in another way. After filming the superb roller-skating dance sequence with Fred Astaire in Swing Time, Ginger enlisted Alfred's help in staging a roller-skating party of their own. So, on March 6, 1937, they rented the Culver City Rollerdome and invited a few pals along-- you know, every day folk like Joan Crawford, Kay Francis, Franchot Tone, Chester Morris, Harold Lloyd, Simone Simon, Cary Grant, Cesar Romero, and the "battling Bogarts," Humphrey and Mayo Methot. Everyone was having a swell time, cavorting like children and sucking down hot dogs, hamburgers, and Coca-Cola. It was nice to see people dressed down, away from studio mayhem, and having pure unadulterated fun (emphasis on the un-adult). Ginger was pleased with her party's success, but at one point, in the midst of the laughs, she noticed some commotion going on in the center of the rink. She approached Joan Crawford to ask "What's the haps," and Joan indicated Bogie lining up a row of chairs. He was about to perform a dare-devil feat of jumping over one chair after the other. Ginger and Joan exchanged the "uh-oh" look, but before anyone could stop him, Bogie was up and rolling. Against George Murphy's warning, "Ah no, not again," Bogie cleared one chair... Two... He prepped to somersault over chair number three... Oof! Ow! He landed right on his keister and kept sliding. Half the audience howled, and the other half slapped their foreheads in "Oy vey" fashion. The movie tough guy didn't seem embarrassed, however. He simply dusted off his rump and defended his faux pas: "I used to travel with a circus... I just haven't done it in awhile." Even Sam Spade needs to play the little boy every now and again.

Franchot, Ginger, Alfred, Joan, and Chester suit up to skate down.



HISTORY LESSON: Art Imitating LIfe

Linda Darnell's too good to be true life story was the inspiration 

for one of her biggest films.

I have referenced multiple times in the past the fascinating mirror effect of reality and fiction. One such article, The Blurring of Violence, dealt with the way life has appeared at times to imitate art-- or at least claim to. Today's turn will examine the way art has imitated life in the movies, or more particularly how it has directly imitated the lives of its stars. Of course, there are a string of biopics about our celebrity favorites, from the Good, to the Grand, to the Ugly, (aka Man of a Thousand Faces, Chaplin, and Harlow), but while these direct tributes of celebrity life are fascinating-- a movie about a movie star making movies-- there too are examples wherein filmdom more indirectly borrows stories from stars' lives to spice up their scripts. Here are some occurrences when art has imitated the lives of its artists:

Linda Darnell's rise to fame and celebrity stature was just the sort of Cinderella story that made Hollywood the dream town of youths all over the nation. While "overnight success" is not really achieved overnight, the hard work and persistence that Linda put into her dream would pay off suddenly and shockingly to the 15-year-old when she signed with Twentieth-Century Fox in 1939. Suddenly, a switch was flipped-- Monetta Darnell was off, and Linda Darnell was on. After her breakthrough roles in Hotel for Women and Daytime Wife, Darryl F. Zanuck and company decided to capitalize off Linda's sudden appeal and "road to super-stardom" story. Thus, by the age of sixteen, a script was already being penned for the new starlet by Jessie and Ivan Kahn about her up-to-now life story... sort of. While the film did tell the tale of a small town girl turned movie gem, the old Hollywood spit and polish made things much more palatable to a glamour loving public, thus Linda's eccentric mother Pearl, for example, was not included in the plot. However, Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star-- as it was originally titled-- did include some facts in its fictions. When Linda first came to Fox, she rode on the train with two fellow discoveries: Dorris Bowden and Mary Healy. In the film, later titled Star Dust, these two supporting characters were rolled into one, and Mary herself took on the role of "Mary Andrews." In the film, Mary's character was made to be a flop in pictures who finds happiness in the real world. This made Linda's light shine a little brighter as character Carolyn-- one of the few lucky, "chosen" ones. (This plot point was somewhat premonitory in that Mary's career never did take off like Linda's, and she made few feature films). Director Walter Lang also replicated Linda's original Fox screen test of "Two Nuts on a Sidewalk," even using her same wardrobe, though Linda admitted that the fake test was better than her original one. John Payne was added into the mix as another movie hopeful and love interest-- with a constantly broken nose-- to give the film a little romance, though Linda had no such beau upon her Hollywood arrival. Strangely enough, she was falling for cinematographer Pev Marley behind the scenes on this project. When the film premiered, Linda's name was above the title, with Fox declaring that Linda was a star before she'd had any real time to prove her mettle. In a little twist of life imitating art, Linda would immortalize her hand prints outside Grauman's Chinese Theatre after the film's premiere on March 18, 1940, just as her character had at the end of Star Dust. For one so young, it was totally unprecedented and a living dream come true. (Ironically, the movie that declared Linda a star was the same one she watched the night she suffered the fire that claimed her life. Linda is with Mary Healy and John Payne, left).

Katharine Hepburn (right) was superbly represented by another Kate, Cate Blanchett, in Martin Scorsese's The Aviator in 2004, but Kate actually brought a little of her true life to the screen over 60 years prior in the film Stage Door. When still a struggling thespian, Kate had performed in the play "The Lake" in the early '30s. It was a critical disaster that resulted in one of her most scathing reviews a la illustrious drama critic Dorothy Parker: "Hepburn ran the gamut of emotions from A to B." The negative reviews were certainly devastating to the young actress, who took her work very seriously. Having had previous raves for "The Warrior's Husband," the sudden change in mood was hard to swallow, especially since "The Lake" was basically her Broadway debut. Director/Producer Jed Harris was little help, having pushed her in his direction against her natural instincts, thus instigating a flawed performance. He too blamed her for the play's failure. As per usual, Kate took the lumps and pressed on chin up. Fast forward 4 years to Kate accepting the role of the socially oblivious but goodhearted actress Terry Randall in Stage Door. Kate would poke a little fun at herself, and perhaps at Dorothy as well, during an important plot point. Having snagged a role in "Enchanted April" from another actress, Terry finds herself underwhelming in her performance and unable to deliver the following lines with conviction: "The calla lillies are in bloom again. Such a strange flower. I carried them on my wedding day. And now I place them there, in memory of someone who is dead." These were actually the self same lines that she delivered on stage in "The Lake!" However, in Stage Door, as in her life, she was able to prove herself. After learning that the actress she had inadvertently wronged had killed herself, her performance in "Enchanted April" became jaw-droppingly honest and poignant. Terry could act after all! So could Hepburn. In later years, Dorothy Parker would recant her earlier assessment, saying that she believed Hepburn to be one of the finest actresses in the biz and that her original, infamous quotation had been a "joke." Good recovery, Dot. (Use of the play "Enchanted April" was another inside joke, as a film of that name had been an RKO failure a couple of years prior.)

Kate's co-star in Stage Door, Ginger Rogers, also indulged in a little game of live and tell. After Ginger won the "Texas State Charleston Competition" at the tender age of fourteen, she and her mother, Lela, rode across the enormous state in a continuing performance circuit. Immediately after this, she began an engagement working with bandleader Henry Santrey, which meant that she and Lela would continue traveling all over the United States. Needless to say, there were a lot of train rides. Because the dough needed to maintain one's career-- affording hotels, wardrobe, and food-- often made the cost of living higher than the rate of pay, the dynamic duo had to find ways to cut corners and save cash. One way was train fare. Mother and daughter came up with a scheme pretty early to have Ginger pretend to be two years younger, making herself twelve and thus eligible for child rates. To complete the illusion, along with her acting skills, Ginger carried a large Egyptian doll named "Freakus" around to both cover her face and make herself appear physically smaller. The plot worked like a charm until, fortunately, Ginger got far enough in her career to afford lawfulness and avoid a life of little white cons. However, she got a pleasant surprise when Billy Wilder sent her the script for The Major and the Minor, since Ginger's character pulls the exact same stunt as in her youth: she pretends to be a child in order to afford cheaper train fare only to find herself trapped in the illusion after meeting the handsome Ray Milland. Freakus, however, was substituted with a balloon (see left). Though feigning an eighteen year age difference was more difficult than a mere two year one, Ginger still pulled off the feat flawlessly. If it ain't broke... don't grow up.

Hollywood storytelling is not always a laugh, as our continuing subscriptions to rag-mags and website tell-alls can attest. The poster boy for movie star breakdowns in 1923 was America's favorite playboy, Wallace Reid (right). Having just lost his battle with morphine addiction, Wallace was cremated and put to rest at Glendale Forest Lawn cemetery, but his memory and untimely passing remained quite palpable in the public. His sad end would inspire a film, spearheaded by his grieving widow Dorothy (Davenport), about the devastating effects of drug abuse on family. Left alone with two young children, Wally Jr. and Betty, Dorothy became totally devoted to educating the nation about drug use. She equally wanted to finance a hospital in her husband's name that would care for addicts seeking mental and physical redemption. Wally's mother, Bertha, was opposed to the idea, not wanting her son to be remembered for the way he died, but Dorothy was adamant. She joined up with Harold Lloyd in forming the "Anti-Narcotics League of Los Angeles," which she too hoped to finance with profits from the movie, which was originally titled The Living Dead. 

Compiling a screenplay with C. Gardner Sullivan and signing on friend Elinor Ince as a producer (wife of Thomas), the movie got underway with the acting talents of luminaries such as James Kirkwood, Bessie Love (shooting up, left), and Dorothy herself. Jesse Lasky and the boys at Paramount had no hand in the film, which is perhaps emblematic of their guilt-- they were at least partially responsible for Wallace's dependence on morphine. Despite all of the intention, the plot was a bit over-dramatic and convoluted, involving the corruption of a taxi driver who becomes a substance abuser and, thereafter, a thief to support his habit. He then inexplicably pulls his lawyer down into the bowels of addiction with him, and the families of both men suffer as a result. However, while the lawyer finds absolution, the taxi driver does not and is killed in the end. The film was imperfect, but few critics would throw stones knowing that it was a legacy of love for Dorothy and a commemoration of one of their favorite, fallen soldiers. Some did argue that Dorothy was simply trying to profit off Wally's name-- in the film's opening she had credited herself as "Mrs.Wallace Reid"-- but with two kids to feed, who could blame her? Ironically, while the film was meant to save lives, it nearly ended two. Actors Harry Northrup and George Hackathrone were nearly killed in a collision when they had to jump from a car before being hit by a speeding train, (Oh, the days before special effects). While the end product of Human Wreckage had little to do with Wallace's life, it was a testament to what he had suffered and was notorious for its honest depiction of drug use, down to the painful realizations of withdrawal. If the story was able to save even one life, Wally certainly would have been proud.

Norman Maine (Fredric March) tries to balance his love of his wife, Vicki Lester (Janet Gaynor), 
with his jealousy over her career, as Adolphe Menjou looks on in 1937's A Star is Born.

There has been a great amount of controversy surrounding the back story of A Star is Born, a film that has been made thrice ('37, '54, and '76). The plot varies little between the different versions and involves-- similarly to Star Dust-- the meteoric rise of a young ingenue in the film business, as her lover/tutor/husband's career crashes and burns. The character of "Vicki Lester" is coached into her career by fading idol "Norman Maine," whose decent into alcoholism in response to his jealousy over his new wife's career leads him to suicide. Even today, rumors abound in Hollywood, but just who the true source of this tragic tale is remains a hot debate. Many pinpoint MGM's silent leading man, John Gilbert (right), as the inspiration for Norman Maine's tragic hero. This is somewhat understandable when one compares the downward slide of Gilbert's career with that of Maine's--  in addition to his unfortunate taste for alcohol. However, many differences suggest otherwise. Gilbert was much more a victim in reality, whereas on screen the Norman Maine character is pretty much assumed the culprit of his own downward spiral-- a mixture of changing audience tastes, his addiction, and self-loathing. Some too may draw comparisons between the relationship of Norman and Vicki and Gilbert and Garbo, but Gilbert's kind guidance of Greta during her early studio days is vastly different from Maine's complete metamorphosis of and public campaign for Vicki in the film. Too, Gilbert did not commit suicide but suffered a heart attack, so the two characters there also have a divide. Yet, the method of Maine's self-annihilation-- drowning himself in the ocean-- does bring to mind a story as told by Marion Davies. Apparently, John-- who would occasionally fall into bouts of despair-- once fell under the spell of his own melancholia while at one of Marion's beach parties. Dramatically and drunkenly, he declared to all within ear shot that he was determined to kill himself. Some onlookers called his bluff and dared him to drown himself in the ocean. In defiance, Jack dove headfirst into the waves. A worried Marion called after him to stop, but the less sensitive wisecrackers assured her that Jack would not complete the task. When he was indeed washed back ashore not much later, he began weeping at his own cowardice to the jeers of onlookers. Marion's heart went out to her deeply disturbed friend, and she balled the jesters out. Since John's life is still causing inspiration, as seen in the latest The Artist, it is possible that A Star is Born also absorbed some of his tragic tale. 

But these likenesses between John and Norman are not the only bases for the film. Another popular lovers' feud often referred to with Star is that between Barbara Stanwyck and her first husband Frank Fay (together left). Babs was a struggling young actress of twenty-one when she married 36-year-old vaudeville comedian Fay in 1928. Under the more popular entertainer's protection and guidance, Babs was able to kick-start her own career and soon had movie offers. This story alone has spawned rumors, including those that allege the marriage was one of appearance only. There is argument that both Barbara and Frank were homosexuals who wed to cover their sexual preferences and protect their careers. However, if this was the case, it makes the situation that followed somewhat nonsensical. Almost immediately after the nuptials, the young bride went to Hollywood where she began working at United Artists, while funny man Fay continued on the road. Eventually, he made the move to Hollywood and was signed at Warners, but he failed to catch on with movie audiences like his wife had. This led to envious arguments that often turned physical. Friend and neighbor Joan Crawford was witness to more than one brawl. Allegedly, Frank wanted Barbara to give up her career and join him on the road when his contract was canceled in 1931, but she refused. After the duo adopted son Dion, Fay's drinking only increased.  The battling couple was a well-guarded secret in the press, but the bruises that Babs often sported were common knowledge around town. When an inebriated Fay threw son Dion into the family pool, Babs decided enough was enough and pulled to plug. They finally were divorced in 1935. Barbara would go on to become one of the most beloved and acclaimed actresses of her generation, and Fay's name would slowly disappear from the limelight. The sadistic nature of the relationship-- with the male as the dominating force-- could well have been one more bone in the spine of the Star story, especially as the inverted careers of the man and wife were the same as in the film.

Yet, there is even another story that could have served as source material: that of everyone's favorite flapper, Colleen Moore and producer husband John McCormick (together right). Colleen was an old-fashioned but ambitious young woman when she decided that acting was "the thing" for her. However, even as a youth, she was business savvy, and she understood that her atypical looks and somewhat boyish figure did not make her the symbol of female eroticism the guys usually went for. Still, there was something about her--including the fact that her eyes were two different colors--that caught the attention of John, who met her one night when the duo went dancing with Mickey Neilan and Blanche Sweet at the Sunset Inn. Not used to flattery and a wise little thing herself, the cynical Colleen merely raised an eyebrow when John asked her to marry him after three measly dances. But, before she knew it, she was head over heels as well, and the two were wed a mere day before her birthday. At first, life seemed grand. With John's support and her own ambitious spirit, Colleen's career started gaining steam, but as in the case of Babs and Frank, John's jealousy of her rising star and taste for alcohol impaired what had at first seemed a match made in heaven. Colleen kept the facts of her personal misery a secret for many years, never being one for gossip, but she did finally unleash the truth. John had been physically abusive, once nearly throwing her out a window, and finally-- when she told him she was going to leave him-- nearly choking her to death. His angry words, "You can't leave me. You're nothing without me! I made you a star!" would echo in her ears for years to come... and quite possibly in the script of Star. 

Mrs. Norman Maine ( Judy Garland) takes a hit from her alcoholic husband 

(James Mason) in 1954's A Star is Born.

One particular factor that ties the factual and fictitious versions together is a phone call that Colleen made while still married to John. At the time, Colleen's career was thriving, but she received word that her husband was about to be fired from their home studio. Though the marriage was troubled, Colleen was loyal. She called up top dog Richard Rowland and stated loud and clear, "This is Mrs. John McCormick. I just called to say 'hello." The message apparently was heard, and John's job was temporarily saved. The marriage was not, and Colleen finally left John and never looked back. History did, for in A Star is Born, the famous ending line uttered by the grieving widow/superstar, which she delivers to fans, is: "Hello, everybody. This is Mrs. Norman Maine." (Strangely, this is not dissimilar from Dorothy Reid's credit as Mrs. Wallace Reid in Human Wreckage...). Whether the tragic romance of Vicki Lester and Norman Maine was based in part on one or all of these tales is still uncertain. It is quite possible that the age old battle of the sexes and the conflicts that arise when gender roles are eclipsed (in her case) or failed (in his) are enough of a starting point for any good screenwriter. In any case, the elastic nature of the silver screen continues to give and take with its stories and its stars, giving audiences a little truth mixed with the fiction. As long as the material is good, the pond from which writers reel in ideas doesn't matter. Keep 'em comin'.

(A friend just tipped me off to the story of John Bowers as well, who may very well have been a significant source in the A Star is Born story).