HIGH CONTRAST: Little Girls Lost (and Found)

Greta Garbo in Anna Christie. When Marilyn Monroe began taking

acting classes with Lee Strasberg, she performed this scene

(with Maureen Stapleton in Marie Dressler's role.) The 

result was said to have been breathtaking.

In studying the life and career of Greta Garbo, the last person I expected to draw comparisons with was Marilyn Monroe. Certainly, the differences between these two women are easier to identify. Yet, somehow, the more I got to know Garbo, the more I was able to find commonalities between Marilyn and herself-- both in the strange oddities of their behavior and in their mutual effect upon the public.

The greatest commonality between these two cinematic figureheads is their personal drive. Marilyn's determination to become the biggest star in the universe is more obviously recorded, but Garbo too had a hidden, unquenchable desire to become, not necessarily a star, but a success in her craft. Both were arguably found and formed, or aided, in their ascent by important men-- Garbo by director Mauritz Stiller, and Marilyn perhaps most importantly by agent Johnny Hyde (left). Where the two women are divergent is in the impetus behind their agendas. Garbo seemed to seek out acting as a way of transformation, a way of hiding in fantasy. She wanted to control the eye while being hidden from it-- you think you see me, but you don't. The cloak of her characters was a protection, and the emotions she experienced as the vessel of their passions and torments provided a cathartic personal release that she would never have revealed so openly in reality. Marilyn, on the other hand, sought the human eye full stop. She wanted to be swallowed by it. Acting for her was too a method of metamorphosis, but while Garbo alternated personalities in various roles while always maintaining her separate self, Marilyn mutated from Norma Jeane Mortenson into Marilyn Monroe and lost Norma Jeane in the process. Her quest for love and respect made her seek the spotlight, and only after she conquered the gaze of the camera was she able to begin her education in the art of acting in earnest. Garbo's ambition made her refuse all forms of compromise in order to get to her goal; Marilyn made the compromise and paid the forfeit. Thus, one woman enchanted the world by saying, "You can't have me," and the other by saying, "You can have it all." Objectively, one seems to be the User, the other the Used.

Their appeal to the public is thus equal in power and different in effect. It is hard to say who the bigger star truly was within their own timelines, nor who has maintained the greater allure, although the mythic, pop-cultural stature that Marilyn Monroe has reached at this point makes her sacrifice for eternal stardom seem the more obvious winner. Both, in their equal reigns over Hollywood, were considered the pinnacles of female beauty. Garbo, as a skinny, angular, and almost clumsy culmination of an art deco female, totally redefined beauty in her era. Her beauty was in her face, her eyes-- which were at once inviting and closed off. Her sexual enticement was a dare, which was only enhanced by her androgyny (right). Conversely, Marilyn was all woman all the time. She adhered to the general staples of feminine sensuality by possessing the voluptuous, curvaceous, come-hither figure that not only invited but begged for objectification. Her beauty was in her entire demeanor, including her coy movements and soft voice. She became, thus, an answered and expanded upon prayer to the male sex-- the mother, daughter, lover figure.

Both women, whether emotionally open or closed, were equal in their photogenic presences. The camera has loved perhaps no two women in history more, and both were geniuses in the art of being still and invigorating at once. Yet, again, the camera seemed to need to seek Garbo out, as if she was caught almost off guard and haphazardly-- in her perpetual state of gorgeousness-- whenever the shutter clicked. Marilyn on the other hand, used her charisma to charge at the camera, willfully pulling it to her and continuing a lifelong game of follow the leader. She more finitely determined the image she projected, including her approval or disapproval of her proofs. What the camera saw was what she wanted it to see, always and forever. Garbo, therefore, remains hypnotic for her always exhausted lack of effort and hint of disdain, and Marilyn remains hypnotic for her overzealous devotion to fulfilling the American sexual fantasy. The mind wonders when looking at both women, "What is pulling Garbo away from us?" and "What is pushing Marilyn so violently off the page" (left)?

In both cases, there is an inviting allure, although in Garbo's case it is far more dangerous in its temptation. Yet, both figures, in both still photographs and in motion, possess the same emotional quality that renders them somehow non-threatening and, in turn, likable: vulnerability. This word is used frequently in the descriptions of both women in terms of their work. Both are eternally projecting personas, but what they are projecting over is their frail humanity-- their personal weaknesses, their fear. Garbo, so stoic yet so full of emotion, is always the woman putting on a tough impenetrable act to protect her actually breaking heart. Her desire is her greatest weakness, and her passion is so strong that she seems forced to stifle it lest the world explode (right). For women in 1920s-1930s America, who were seeking liberation, the hidden she-wolf within coupled with honest feminine yearning was a quality easily identified and appreciated in Garbo. Her control of her sexuality spoke to them. She may have been a vamp, but she too had a little girl quality that just wanted to be loved. A woman, at last, could be powerful and emotional at once. Our annoying "hysterics" were for once not a malady but a centrifugal force of our character. 

Marilyn too had a bold face covering her inner complexity, though her projection is one of the utmost girlishness and passivity (left). She is the ignorant blonde, harmless in her sexuality, because she doesn't even know who she is. She's projecting what she thinks the world wants. And we do want it, particularly the male sex, who saw in Marilyn the perfect representation of the beautiful, appeasing, non-confrontational female. Yet, because we see the little girl peeking out from inside, we too sense her suffering. This is why she was and is equally embraced by the female population. Women identify with the great effort she put into her appearance, knowing first-hand the exhaustion it causes and the painful stakes one must endure to be an "attractive woman." They recognize the charade, because they all participate in it in the hopes of landing "the guy" who will love them for who they really are inside-- the mess beneath the facade. It is the internal "mess" of both women that still makes them more complicated and thus more fascinating. Garbo's vulnerability lay in the fact that she suffered under the weight of her rebellion, and Marilyn's lay in the fact that she suffered under the weight of her acclimation. Men were drawn to both figures because they represented the combination of both the virgin and the whore-- they were excited by the perfect extremities (whore) and attracted by the endearing internals (virgin).

It is actually the way Garbo and Marilyn's mutual but exclusive allure manifested itself in their private lives that indicates the greatest parallel between the two women. Their vulnerability, their eroticism, their fame... The culmination caused the same reaction. People wanted to be close to them, at first to worship and later to possess. Friends of both Marilyn and Garbo would talk about how "drawn" they were to the stars; how even off-putting behavior-- Marilyn's addictions and Garbo's eccentricities-- could not deter one from their company, at least not for long. Beneath their gorgeous exteriors existed a sadness that one wanted to quell. Everyone wanted to save Garbo from herself; everyone wanted to save Marilyn from herself. Lovers wanted to be saviors and protectors, in the likes of John Gilbert and Arthur Miller. Yet, total submission was never in the cards for either woman, whose independence was in constant conflict with their loneliness or desperation. No man could obtain them nor change them. One could only hope to forge a relationship by becoming somehow indispensable. Garbo came to lean on people like  professional confidante Salka Viertel and harmless friend Sam Green; Marilyn on acting coach Lee Strasberg and psychiatrist Dr. Ralph Greenson. Their uncertainties and little insecurities were played upon and used, most extravagantly in Marilyn's case, in order for the outside party to maintain proximity to their otherworldliness. Like moths to a flame, people were driven toward them, but strangely, it was most often Garbo and Monroe that were burned. In most cases, people flocked to these women not simply to experience excellence by association, but, in some perverted sense, to dominate and conquer the world's greatest star, thus becoming the greater and more supreme being. Their friendships became addictive, like "chasing the dragon" or pursuing the ultimate high.

Naturally, with all this attention cast upon them, both women could be wary of strangers and a bit frightened of fans. Marilyn had a much more open and inviting relationship with her "public," but she too was nervous around large groups of people. Though fans professed to adore her, they too often seemed to be almost out for blood. Marilyn took personal judgments and attacks in the press very personally and when fans became over-eager or predatory, she certainly learned the lesson behind "Be careful what you wish for." Garbo's reaction to this same phenomenon was to remove herself completely. She used her trusted friends as shields from fanatic trespassers, avoided large publicity fueled situations, and de-glamorized herself as much as possible in her private life to detract attention. Marilyn too had an on and off switch that she could flick at will, but she often struggled with whether or not she wanted it on or off. She needed the constant reaffirmation of her worth (Greta avoids the wolves, right).

Both women in turn were suspicious of the new people that entered their worlds, who were certain to have some sort of agenda up their sleeves. Most often, the starlets would find themselves pulled to people who professed ignorance or indifference to their celebrity. Both would also seek out surrogate parental figures to fill the places left vacant by their own absent or deceased parents. Internally, they were both sensitive women, an issue only exacerbated by their feelings that they were intellectually inferior. The more Marilyn tried to improve her mind, the more society seemed to laugh at her (left). Garbo solved the problem by remaining almost universally silent. Mistakenly, people assumed that these ladies were great powers and forces of nature, which in one respect they were, but in truth, they were both evasive and non-trusting, due to vast inferiority complexes. Occasionally, the walls would come down, and the great sadness and personal disappointments that they had would be revealed-- inside, they were outsiders, no matter that they seemed to rule the world.

Maurice Chevalier once recalled chatting it up with a surprisingly candid Garbo. She let her guard down with the debonair Frenchman and seemed at ease. She playfully suggested that they go jump in the ocean, to which the conservative Chevalier expressed confusion and politely declined. The course of their entire conversation changed. After his refusal, Garbo looked as if she had been slapped like a naughty child. She withdrew, became silent, and the girlish light of mere moments before vanished. She quickly left. An honest slight or mistaken insult to an already shaky sense of self would always seem to turn the ever-invasive Garbo back inward (right). Carroll Baker recalled a similar interaction with Marilyn. Marilyn had originally hoped to play the lead in Baby Doll, the role that made Carroll a star. At the premiere, Marilyn, with husband Arthur Miller, graciously congratulated Carroll on the film's success. Carroll, who had endured a great deal of controversy and a negative publicity storm due to the subject matter of the film, responded thoughtlessly, "Thanks, but I don't know if congratulations are in order." In a quick moment, the warm, friendly Marilyn was gone. It was as if she had stepped back deep inside herself. In shock that her kindness had been rebuffed, she too turned inward. Indirectly hurt by Carroll's comments, which the latter was kicking herself for, she simply shut down and compartmentalized, as if to keep her pain under wraps. Both Garbo and Marilyn used this survival technique. Thin-skinned and ever-uncomfortable, they seemed to find no solace but in their own isolation-- sacred cocoons.

So similar and so different, both women suffered and triumphed in their different experiences through life and celebrity. Marilyn suffered a much more tragic end simply because the little girl in her cared too much. She had never received the life lessons of what mattered most versus what was superficial. She learned these lessons, of course, on the way, but too late to be protected from the repercussions of her own early misdirection. Garbo was more blessed in this respect, having grown up in a more conventional household and family that instilled in her the values and confidences that would carry her through her most turbulent moments. Garbo had no problem saying "to Hell with it." "It" was all Marilyn believed she had to hold onto, and the weight of this need led to her ruin. Had Garbo not had a strong family unit in her tender years, her endings could perhaps have been just as tragic, since both women seemed to merely hold themselves together through the same tenuous force of will. (Marilyn objectifies herself yet again for our benefit, left).

Both ladies took a final swim in their last films: Greta in

Two-Faced Woman...

There is something fascinating about the parallels and perpendiculars in these artists' relationship to each other. Both are beauties: one hard and one soft. Both are strong personas: one cold, one warm. Both are sexual representatives: one evasive, one inviting. In their comparisons and their separations, there is much to discover about our own desire and what it craves and seeks in others. Would there have been room for Marilyn in Garbo's time, or room for Garbo in Marilyn's? Were their appeals specific to their personal eras, or was their universality equally timeless? Historically, these women are equal artists who were themselves the product of their own art and, in turn, became the artistic statements of their public. There is no best, no ultimate, no winner in the subjective game in which they found themselves the pawns-- the game of our watching. Both are one of a kind creators and creations. We remain enthralled because they were so distinct, quizzical, loved, and hated in their own lifetimes. We responded to their secret depths and continue to swim in them, for in both there is so much more than meets the eye, and so much more we will always want to know.

... and Marilyn in Something's Got to Give.

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).

STAR OF THE MONTH: William S. Hart

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.

MENTAL MONTAGE: 50 G's, or the Kid Gets it!

If Rita Hayworth were as handy with a gun as Elsa Bannister,

her private life may have been a little less frightening.

Fame is attractive. Perhaps too much so. The brilliant light of celebrity glows so brightly that it is bound to attract all kinds of insects. While being a movie star may, therefore, appear to be glamorous, all that swatting at intrusive pests can become quite irritating... even horrifying. Every cinema great has a story when it comes to seeing the dark side of fanaticism and fame. Some have been sent obscene letters, stalked, hounded, etc. But the worst of the worst is when the threat of death comes knocking at the mansion door; when the wealth and prestige one has worked to accumulate is suddenly used against him by the very public that originally built him up. Extortion, blackmail, ransom... You name it. When you have money, you are going to make a lot of "friends" fast and a lot of enemies even faster. The worst of it comes when a parent's own child is used as the bargaining chip. Most of the time, these vile threats are just that-- pathetic, get-rich-quick schemes connived by ill-adept con-artists. On rare occasions, the worst can happen, as in the tragic kidnapping and subsequent death of the Lindbergh baby. Here are a few examples of when the lifestyles of the rich and famous became nightmares of the sick and twisted. Greed knows no shame...

Rita Hayworth never went in for the whole celebrity lifestyle. While she had great pride in her hard work, she did not invite nor yearn for a place in the spotlight. If she was disenchanted with the pretentious, hoity-toityness of Hollywood initially, she became completely tormented after the hypothetical high-life threatened the peace of her home and the safety of her children. After she married Orson Welles and gave birth to their daughter, Rebecca(together left), the trouble began. She was already on emotional pins and needles as her marriage collapsed (after a brief reconciliation while filming The Lady from Shanghai together). Mostly on her own, with secretary Shifra Haran and Rebecca as her only company, she was completely blindsided and terrified when a fan letter was sent to her on Feb 2, 1947 from "The Scar Never Fails" of Cleveland, TN. The author demanded $2000 in a week's time, threatening to kidnap Rebecca if his demands were not met. In addition, he intimidated Rita by making violent threats against her own life, ignorantly asking her if she wanted to wind up looking like "the blue daliha[sic]," clearly referencing "Black Dahlia" Elizabeth Short, whose mutilated and bisected body had just been found the previous month. If Rita did not comply with the blackmailer, she was told that lye would be "thrown into those beautiful eyes of yours." Needless to say, she was panicked and frightened. Luckily, by the time she even became aware of the letter, blackmailer James Gibson was already in custody. Having dealt with the shock almost completely on her own, she decided it was time to give old Orson the heave ho', and she filed for divorce the next month. Unfortunately, this was not the last threat to Rebecca's life. When vacationing with her mother and Aly Khan, Rebecca was actually physically grabbed by a man on the beach at Deauville. Luckily, the nanny who was watching her was able to call for help and the culprit didn't get far.


The one positive during this latter episode was the attentiveness of Aly, who was a much more nurturing partner than Orson had been. However, it was Rita's relationship, or rather failed relationship, with Aly that would put her children in even further danger. Their daughter, Princess Yasmin (right, with mom), became a prime target for kidnappers after she was brought back to America. Due to her royal status and wealthy parentage, she looked like a pretty sack of cash to unsavory individuals looking to make some easy money. Just prior to her divorce from Aly, Rita received threatening letters that demanded a hefty ransom in return for Yasmin's life. Rita had tried to find a little serenity by taking both of her girls to Lake Tahoe for some respite. Imagine her surprise when the District Attorney showed up at her door with seven guards telling her that there had been a threat made against Yasmin's life! Apparently, D.A. Jack Streeter had serendipitously overheard two culprits bragging about how much Yasmin would be worth, then listened as they laid out their plan to approach by boat, snatch Yasmin, and escape across the lake. The morons had no idea that they were divulging their plans to the very man who would stop them. Thus, Rita and her children were surrounded by bodyguards as they waited nervously for danger to approach. Luckily, none did. Perhaps the two dimwitted gents had merely been describing a fantasy scenario; perhaps they approached, saw all the feds, and decided to back off. In any case, Yasmin was safe... For now. When Rita finally was able to escape with the girls to the Beverly Hills Hotel, she became irate when a reporter broke into her hotel room and started taking photos of her daughters. If it had been that easy for him to get in, imagine what would happen if a person with evil intent made a move!


The worst was to come while Rita was being squired by next beau, Dick Haymes, who had essentially set his sights on Rita to solve his own financial woes and too help him out of his latest debacle-- he was being threatened with deportation to Argentina. (When visiting Rita in Hawaii, which was then not a U.S. state, he had failed to notify the authorities). In the midst of this mess, Rita received the first of three threatening letters on Aug. 24, 1953. Rita was going through her divorce from the Muslim Prince when this poison pen author claimed that Yasmin would be killed if she did not return to Aly. Since Rita had been unfairly dubbed a "homewrecker" and a "whore" after she allegedly broke up Aly's first marriage, it was clear that a religious fanatic was invoking the wrath of God on her and her sinful ways. The second letter she received informed her that if Yasmin was not returned to Aly, someone would "beat you so that you will have to go to the hospilal and your career as movie star will be over [sic]." At this point, Rita became incredibly paranoid, fearing that perhaps it was father-in-law Aga Khan III himself who was orchestrating this whole thing as a scare tactic to get her to return to his son. Such was not the case, but the intimidation had reached such a level that even J. Edgar Hoover got involved. Everyone was on the lookout for more letters with the same postmark of Rochelle, NY. The third letter came mere days before Rita's wedding to Dick. It stated: "Yasmine [sic] will die unless her father is permitted to raise her as a Moslem." Then... silence. The money was never paid, and the villain stopped his correspondence. Luckily, the worst Rebecca and Yasmin were to suffer through the ordeal was the inconvenience of constant police surveillance. (Dick, Rita, and the kiddies left).


Marlene Dietrich was also a fiercely protective mother. Though her relationship with only child, daughter Maria Riva (together right), would grow complicated over the years, no one could deny her intense pleasure at being a mom nor her overpowering maternal instincts. This was never more evident than in Maria's earliest years, when Marlene took a brief respite from show-biz to play Mama. Yet, entertaining was in her blood, so it was only a matter of time before she returned to the spotlight. She was ecstatic about her sudden success with The Blue Angel and her American hit Morocco. However, when she crossed over to the United States, all was not all rosy. She would receive one Hell of a welcome when, almost immediately, Maria's safety was threatened. Just prior to filming Blonde Venus, Marlene received the first of several ransom letters. The extortionist demanded that $10,000 be placed in a box and left on the running board of a car, which was to be parked in front of her house. Marlene started shaking: "I have never known such fear in my life. I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep." She immediately went to husband Rudi (Sieber), who wanted to call the police, but since the letter insisted that the police not be involved, Marlene resisted the intervention of law enforcement. Instead, Rudi did the next best thing, which was to enlist the aid of Josef von Sternberg and Maurice Chevalier, the latter of whom just happened to call when the hysteria was setting in.


And so it was that dapper Frenchman Maurice (left) arrived with both a pistol and a shotgun. He and Josef stood guard at Maria's door while Rudi patrolled the house and grounds, being clever enough to constantly change his clothes, so the kidnappers believed that there were more people around. More letters arrived, with the ransom price jumping to $20,000. As Marlene grew more nervous, Rudi maintained composure. Finally, the letters came to a stop. No thieves ever showed. Maurice tipped his hat, holstered his guns, and went home. It seemed the whole thing had either been a hoax or an ill-performed attempt that the instigators failed to follow through with. Things slowly returned to normal, but Marlene insisted that life always remained a bit bittersweet after that. When she started filming Blonde Venus, she insisted that Maria accompany her to set and be placed just out of camera range, so she could keep her eye on her. She later asked Rudi how he had remained so calm, to which he admitted that he had actually called the police unbeknown to her from the very beginning. The entire time that she had been biting her nails, the house and her daughter were under complete surveillance. Rudi said that he was afraid if she knew, she would be unable to go about her business normally, thus alerting the kidnappers to the police presence. He didn't think she was that good of an actress!


In February of 1934, Spencer Tracy also got an unfortunate introduction to an extortionist who went by the name of "Rattlesnake Pete." By this time, Spence was receiving oodles of fan mail, but one particular letter, written in pencil, definitely stood out from the pack. It too arrived straight to his Holmby Avenue address, which was even more alarming. Rattlesnake demanded $8,000 in return for the safety of Spence, his wife, mother, children Susie and John, as well as his recent paramour Loretta Young (together in Man's Castle, right). This was unnerving, mostly because the person seemed to have intimate knowledge of all the people surrounding Spence and too seemed to be taking some sort of cocky revenge on his infidelities. Rattlesnake made sure to illustrate the gravity of the situation by referencing recent ransom victim, Minnesota banker Edward G. Bremer, who had just paid the highest price to date for his safety-- $200,000-- to the Barker-Karpis gang. He warned that if Spence didn't pay up on the allotted March 10th drop date, the price would only go up. Spence took every precaution he could, moving his children to his mother's place in Westlake Park and calling the authorities, despite the warning not to do so. Wife Louise was blissfully ignorant of the whole charade, since she was out of town, unreachable, and snowed in. Detectives watched the family constantly, which was a thorn in the 10-year-old John's side, though Susie was too young to be aware of the situation. When Spence was forced to tell John that if he wandered off, a "bad man" may take him away, the little boy got the picture sure enough and remained terrified throughout the rest of the ordeal.


When Louise finally received word, she rushed home as quickly as she could and stuck to her children like white on rice. The family (left) was at the end of their tether as the dreaded drop date approached. The police authorized Spence to go ahead with the exchange in the hope that they would be able to swoop in and catch the culprit. So, on March 10th, Spence rode out to Wilshire and Western with chauffeur Walter... and Detective Joseph Filkas crouched in the back seat! They were told that a man would jump onto the side of the car and grab the dough. Though they followed instructions, the blackmailer never appeared. After that, Rattlesnake Pete became silent, never sending another letter. Spence had a theory that his last chauffeur may have been the guilty party, since he had been bitter when Spence fired him. Yet, when police investigated, the evidence was too inconclusive to make an arrest. The handwriting didn't check out. Rattlesnake Pete was never found.


The idea of losing one's child is perhaps the worst feeling a parent can endure, but there was one single lady who had her share of scares as well. In 1935, Thelma Todd (right) was doing more than well for herself. A successful, beautiful comedienne, the "Ice-cream Blonde" too had a roaring business going with her Sidewalk Cafe, co-owned by ex-lover Roland West. However, despite the fact that everyone in America seemed to love her, Thelma continuously got a slew of evil letters threatening her life. She once had to call a bomb squad to the restaurant because an offender claimed he had planted one inside! None was ever found. Some of these hate notes were certainly from obsessive fans, or anti-fans, but due to the company she had previously kept, Toddy also had an idea that ex-flame Lucky Luciano and perhaps even ex-husband Pat DiCicco had something to do with it. Since Lucky was miffed that Thelma wouldn't allow him to use the upper level of her restaurant for his gambling purposes, there had been a violent rift between them. She often felt herself being watched and followed. The hate mail grew to such a level that her maid, Mae Whitehead, took a batch of letters to the police station as a part of her regular duties. No shrinking violet, Thel' wasn't about to let the abuse go on. She kept the cops well informed, bought a white bull terrier named White King, and purchased herself a pretty little handgun, which she kept tucked in her purse.


The most fearful letters came from a man called "The Ace," who decorated his correspondence with a drawing of the ace of hearts in the lower, right-hand corner. His mail started Feb. 2 and continued five times more through November. His letters were different than the others, since they each named different men that Toddy had been romantically involved with, including Roland and bandleader Abe Lyman. She too received strange, mumbling  phone calls from Ace. The instructions she received-- money for her life-- were confusing. She was told to send $10,000 to Abe Lyman in New York, while Abe was told in a separate letter to send $20,000 to radio man Major Edward Bowes (?!?!). None of the three involved could make heads or tails of it. Soon, Thelma's number was up to $20,000. She decided to take action. She was to make the drop at Hollywood, but instead, the feisty lady left a letter at the allotted space, which stated that she wanted to meet the blackmailer face to face. Another meet was set, and Thelma drove to the Warner's Theater, where she saw a fidgety man in a hat, who made sure to obscure his face. He came up to the car and gave her directions to a secluded place where they could make the swap. After tossing out a "Not on your life, pal!" Thelma put the pedal to the metal and sped off. She went straight to the police, who first scolded her for setting up this dangerous operation without them, and then instructed her to try again with them in tow. She obliged. This time, when Ace stuck his head in the car and reached for the money in her purse, he caught a sight of her gun and made a dash for it. He got away again, but not for long. (Thelma with White King in her last photo, left).


The police made an arrest in Astoria, NY. Hotel superintendent Harry Schimanski was a 34-year-old obsessed fan who had photos of the lovely Thelma (right) taped all over his apartment. Though he pleaded "not guilty," Thelma was glad to at least have the guy in custody. To make things more confusing, however, more letters started to arrive, this time from "A Friend." This guy demanded $50,000, or Thelma would be killed and her restaurant burned to the ground. Luckily, the police located 28-year-old Edward Schieffert immediately, and he made no protest. In fact, he openly admitted that he had been the author. He was proud of it! He said that Thelma was his "dream girl." Obviously, he was a bit confused about proper wooing procedure. The strange thing was that he too admitted to the Ace letters. Since he was quickly committed to Bellevue after being deemed mentally unstable, it is still uncertain if these were just more mad claims or if he was in fact some kind of maniacal genius playing two games at once. Thelma was just glad that the harassment was over. Her peace would be short lived. She would be found dead that December.

Ironically, Spence portrayed a man wrongfully accused of

kidnapping in Fury.

Oh, the negative side of fame... Countless stories could be told. Linda Darnell's attempted $2000 extortion by a seventeen-year-old from Salt Lake City; Gloria Swanson's attempted blackmail by ex-husband Harry Samborn... It seems that there is no rest for the wealthy. Fame has a price, and it is staggering. The emotional toll is often more damaging than the financial one, which is perhaps why, for matters of pride, the aforementioned individuals refused to pay up, even if it meant that they could wind up six feet under. In the end, it wasn't about the money; it was about dignity and smarts. Where you find one cockroach, there are bound to be more. Sometimes you have no choice but to squash 'em, especially when a threat is made against your offspring. If the natural world has taught us anything, it is that you don't come between a mother and her cubs. Not even in Tinsel Town.