STAR OF THE MONTH: Bette Davis

Bette "the Diva" Davis

I think I first heard the name Bette Davis from my mother's lips. Ma loves Bette. For certain, the first of Bette's films I saw was Hush, Hush Sweet Charlotte. Thus, at tender age, I was able to derive two things about her: she was awesome, and she was scary. The first verdict was based upon the fact that what was all right with my mom was all right by me; the second, by the fact that I had watched this brassy, caustic, and intense female push a stone onto Olivia De Havilland and Joseph Cotten's heads with a smirk on her face. As you can see, I was introduced to the Bette of later years: withering, bitter, tough, and a bit unsettling to look at. What is interesting is, despite her hostile outward appearance and demeanor, I still loved her too. Bette Davis didn't take sh*t from nobody! At least, that's the persona she projected. It would take me a long time to unlearn the cinematic, boastful tricks she used to deflect from her true nature. It would take time to undo the caricatured performances she gave from All About Eve onward-- which were both self-congratulatory and self-lacerating-- to find the supreme and gifted actress underneath. The conundrum of Bette Davis is her own seemingly willful undoing, as if she chose to go from an accomplished artiste to a hell-bent monster. If we can agree on anything about Bette Davis today, it is usually that she was a total "Bitch." But this is more than the result of a post-WWII reaction to her ambitious, self-serving tendencies-- far from what men were looking for when they came home. It turns out that 'bitch' Bette became the greatest and longest-running performance she ever gave.

The romantic beauty in her youth.

Ruth Elizabeth Davis was born on April 5, 1908. As a youngster, she changed her name to "Bette," because its sounded more glamorous. This was befitting, because in her youth, she was a true Yankee Princess. No, a Queen, who was doted on and always got her way-- or else. Her father, Harlow Morrell Davis was an extremely intelligent and successful law student who became head of the Patent Department at United Shoe Machinery Corp. Her mother, Ruthie Favor, was a passionate and artistic woman who had left a life of performance behind to become a wife and mother. Both adored "Princess Bettina." Everything was perfect in Lowell, MA-- until the divorce. Harlow's busy work schedule and his wife's increasing dissatisfaction with family life led to the male party's infidelity. Soon, Harlow was married to his former nurse, Minnie Stewart-- who had taken care of him during a bout with asthma-- and Ruth was raising two daughters, including the younger Bobby Davis, on her own. Bette never forgave her father for his transgressions, nor truly forgave her mother for losing him. Any mental proclivities that Bette had toward order and control were thus turned up full-throttle, as she sought to find balance and comfort in an undependable world. Her constant attention to detail and cleanliness make some believe that she suffered from an undiagnosed case of OCD her entire life. Such a theory is not unfounded, as both her mother and sister suffered mental and emotional breakdowns that led to their temporary stays in sanitariums. As she went through life with less money than her friends and the embarrassment of living in a broken home, the anger and resentment Bette felt manifested itself against her sister Bobby-- who was a shelled turtle beside Bette's she-wolf-- and her mother, who seemed to go out of her way to please her constantly emotionally distraught and insecure eldest daughter.


The result was a willful young woman accustomed to unquestionable appeasement. It was Bette who wore the pants in the family. Ruth worshipped her, and worked her fingers to the bone to give her eldest daughter whatever she wanted, as if to make up for her botched marriage and thus botched life. After she got work as a photographer, Ruth created in Bette a little Narcissus, taking romantic photo after romantic photo of the pre-Raphaelite-like beauty with large, intense eyes and glowing skin. As Bette blossomed, she became popular at school, where she used her feisty personality to win people to her side. She too enjoyed charming the opposite sex and pitting them against each other for her affections. It was her way of proving that, while she had lost Harlow, she could have any other man that she wanted. Revenge was sweet, but beneath the assertive, sensuously charged veneer was an insecure little girl putting on a great show. So intense was her need to keep the performance going that she never learned to relax, to settle down, to be herself. The world was her audience, and if she broke character for even a second-- if she let her vulnerability show-- she would lose her power and thus her sense of safety. The incredible stress she put on herself resulted in earth-shattering fits of anger and unstoppable crying jags. She once, in a fit of hysteria, even bit her own mother!

Part of Bette's genius laid in her ability to take chances. Her willingness to play
 the homely old maid in Now, Voyager is an example of this. Here she is with
Claude Rains prior to her character's astonishing make-over.

Finally, Bette found release. After Ruth had moved the family to Newton, she took Bette (Bobby remained always in the shadows) to see "The Wild Duck." Starring in this Henrik Ibsen play was none other than Peg Entwistle, the woman who would later end her life by leaping from the Hollywood sign. In this moment, Bette saw none of that despair nor the tragedy that was to come. She saw only Peg in all her glory: a fully fleshed-out, complicated, emotional woman who captivated her audience. Peg's acting transcended acting. It was being. This is what Bette wanted. Mostly she wanted to openly be emotional with the excuse of it being in character. She vowed to play the same role of Hedvig in "The Wild Duck." It was a promise she intended to keep, and then some. The pressure fell on Ruth to enroll her daughter in acting class. Since she had already encouraged Bette in artistic pursuits, including a tenure at the exclusive dance academy Mariarden, the idea was definitely not unpalatable to the senior lady, but the money was. As always, Ruth made it work. The idea of having her beautiful daughter succeed where she had failed was perhaps the only fuel keeping her going. Riding on an exultant high, Bette landed at the John Murray Anderson-Robert Milton School with a ferocious appetite that propelled her quickly to the top of the class. So lauded were her sensitive and courageous classroom performances that she was awarded a full scholarship for her second term. Despite her glowing status at the Academy, she took a risk and dropped out, pushing herself immediately into the world as a working actress. There was no question of failure, for Bette's mindset only received signals of success. This thinking, they say, is the thinking of winners. She went on to perform in stage successes like "The Earth Between" and, of course, "The Wild Duck." Then came the call to Hollywood that would change everything...

Universal and Warners struggled with how to cast Bette. They tried to 

glamorize her, not realizing that her "glamour" was 

her intelligence, singularity,  and strength.

It is possible, had Bette never come to Hollywood, that she could have gone on in this same brazen, inexplicably blessed fashion. Had she never come to Hollywood, perhaps she never would have started questioning or doubting herself. Her career may have soared continually instead of burning out mid-flight and ending in a battle of self-destruction. Hollywood breaks hearts, and indeed it would even break the unbreakable Bette Davis. Having spent her life as the toast of every occasion, lauded for her beauty and talent, she landed in Tinsel Town only to be told that she was "ugly," awkward, giftless. Her first screen-test for Samuel Goldwyn was a disaster. For any other girl, this would mean defeat. For Bette, it meant war. After David Werner called her back to Universal after seeing her perform in "Solid South" (this Yankee often found herself in Southern Belle roles), she landed a three month contract with the studio. The casting department fretted: What to do with her? She's not conventionally beautiful... She's not conventionally anything... Each snipe cut her to the quick, but more than ever, Bette needed to prove to herself that she was better than anyone else, if only to show her father-- who objected to her career decision-- that she didn't need him or anyone else. It was power that she was after. Though her ego was severely damaged by this un-Christian greeting from the City of Angels, Bette was determined to get to a place where she could tell everyone to go to Hell. She would find that place on her throne as the leading lady of Warner Brothers.

Bette takes the graceful, feminine ideal to school and wins

the world over with her earthy, real, and flawed 

performance in Of Human Bondage.

After a series of bit parts that took her nowhere, Bette was signed with Warners in 1931. After making over twenty films, she would finally reach success in what remains one of her finest performances. In fact, at the time, it was deemed "probably the best performance ever recorded on the screen by a U.S. actress ." Her elusive, selfish, and at times repulsive take on W. Somerset Maugham's anti-heroine Mildred in Of Human Bondage was a sensation. Never had acting been so raw or unapologetic. Other actresses had shied from the intense and unflattering material. Bette latched onto it with desperation, knowing that it was her last chance to prove her mettle. To stand out in Hollywood, she was thus agreeing to be just what they thought she was: ugly. It was a gamble that worked. Her stature on the lot and in Hollywood in general climbed after this film, leading to critically acclaimed collaborations (and an affair) with William Wyler in Jezebel and The Letter. Nominated five years in row for her work, after an initial snub for Of Human Bondage, Bette would take home 2 trophies for Dangerous and Jezebel. 


An unlikely starlet, her appeal to women in particular-- who were craving an escape from societal expectations and gender shackles-- made her one of the biggest names in entertainment. She used her intelligence, abandon, and amazing understanding of physicality to inject pathos into her roles in Now, Voyager and Dark Journey. She was the actress other actresses wanted to be. With her strength, she was the woman other women wanted to be. The champion of "women's pictures," Bette's harshness projected a realism that gave her soul sisters comfort. Her atypical features too gave her a place with the common women of the world, who were elevated by Bette's uncommon ability to translate their secret pains, fears, and yearnings. One watches films like Old Acquaintance or Marked Woman today and still willingly absorbs the Bette Davis punch. She is solid in her shoes, unapologetic, authentic, flawed, human, and not to be trifled with. To see a woman take charge so naturally was a much needed breath of fresh air, making Bette the female answer to Warner's typically male-heavy gangster films. She was a social gangster.

Bette tests Henry Fonda's loyalty and her own sexual powers over

him, and suffers the consequences, in Jezebel, one of her 

greatest performances.

Yet, slowly over time, Bette's aim faltered. Her aforementioned 'punch' stopped smacking sense into the public and suddenly seemed to become self-inflicted. Some would say that the "actress" became a "star;" some could say money and not art became her agenda. In any case, Bette Davis seemed only to be playing Bette Davis after awhile. Always an unfalteringly strong performer, her technique dwindled and her characterizations suffered. Her formerly calculated mannerisms became little more than nervous ticks and old tricks. She wanted to maintain her power, but seemed to be surrendering it at the same time. Her well recorded disputes with Warner Brothers allegedly revealed a woman who wanted better opportunities, but in retrospect we see that she sabotaged every chance for elevation she received. She turned down interesting work and feigned illness to get out of compelling pictures, as if her faith in her talent was waning. She became a victim of her own internal battle: the pressure of staying on top became too much, and so she subconsciously started to jump the plank. 


Her personal relationships too give a key into her descent. Never trusting of the familial environment, considering her own broken home, she tried and failed to have marriages with every type of man on the list: sweet pushover "Ham" Oscar Nelson, social ladder climber Arthur Farnsworth, overbearing beefcake William Grant Sherry, and the abusive macho Gary Merrill. But no man would ever be as important to her as her career. Like so many of her film characters, she tried to be a woman who "had it all," only to find the push and pull between home and career to be far too abusive for her psyche. She wanted more than she was able to be a loving wife and mother. She lacked trust: trust in men and trust in herself. A great majority of her marriages became abusive, and Bette willingly seemed to instigate most of her physical punishments, particularly with Gary Merrill, who too beat her daughter, "B.D." Partially terrified and partly gratified at the bruises she received, Bette seemed to be seeking absolution for her failure as a woman. Then again, perhaps as a woman who had reached such great heights, she just wanted to feel pain to feel human again.

Bette makes history again as Margot Channing in All About Eve. She 

finally found a man to go mono-e-mono with her in Gary Merrill-- 

but their union cost her the last of her self-esteem.

Being Bette Davis, in the end, destroyed Bette Davis. As her career started dwindling, she made All About Eve-- which remains one of her classic performances-- then disappeared into maladjusted family life with Gary Merrill, daughter B.D, and her two adopted children Michael and Margot, who were essentially bought to be toys for B.D. Michael would be abused by his eldest sister as Bette had and continued to abuse her sister Bobby, and Margot would be ostracized after it was discovered that she was brain damaged and thus unmanageable. Bette assuaged herself the only way she knew how: in her constant cleaning and in booze. The result was a woman who appeared far beyond her years. It was no surprise, therefore, that she made her brief career renaissance in horror films. Her lipstick scowl still painted across her constantly disappointed face, Bette howled vengefully at the fading Hollywood moon with another never-say-die lady, Joan Crawford, in What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? It was a sleeper sensation and led to a reawakening in Bette's career. But glory was not to last. Age, poor health-- including a battle with cancer-- and a foiled sense of self-esteem would work against the icon.  Her last major triumph in The Whales of August is a great example of this. She spent the entire filming period ostracizing herself from the rest of the cast, including Vincent Price and Lillian Gish, who tried and failed to befriend her. She had become too isolated in her cocoon of self-doubt and desperately resorted to antagonism for a sense of control. Her final effort in The Wicked Stepmother was cut short when she dropped out after seeing her aged face in the rushes. It was as if she was finally forced to recognize the monster she had created, and instead of flaunting it and feeding it as she used to, she became terrified of it and let it eat her alive. Her death in 1989 was a sad end to a woman who had shined so brightly at her zenith. But then, Bette would never have admitted to this defeat.

Fallen idols in a final triumph: What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?

While Joan Crawford was religiously devoted to her own 

preservation, Bette seemed intent on self-destruction. 

In retrospect, all of these hell-raising, intimidating qualities, which became exaggerated in her later years, only served to endear Bette to us more. We counted on her to be over-bearing, to be pushy, to live out a side of ourselves on and off screen that we were always too afraid or too polite to personally unleash. We sometimes need a devil to wreak havoc for us. Perhaps this was Bette's purpose, and why we continue to love her. Despite the aged caricature that seems to sometimes eclipse the slender, petite, beauty she once was, one cannot deny this woman's talent, nor the way she influenced an era of women undergoing another social renaissance. To watch the nuances she gave her characters takes the breath away. Her turn as Leslie Crosbie in The Letter expanded upon Jeanne Eagles's original villainess by eliminating Leslie's mania and making her a calculating woman one-card-short of a full-on sociopath. Her martyred Charlotte Lovell in The Old Maid reveals one woman living two lives-- one as a frigid aunt, bitter and overbearing, and the other as a secret mother who yearns for her beloved child's affection. Had Bette continued to trust her intuition, her natural scent for character, her downward slide after The Little Foxes wouldn't have been as rapid. Her need for control affected her ability to cooperate and collaborate. Instead she disappeared into overly manufactured characters, and became the woman of only one face: the Bette Davis face. It is a testament to her as the vital force she was that that face was the only one we needed and the one we continue to search for in all of her dangerous, uplifting, and life-changing portrayals. As "bad" as Bette was, she's still so good. Incomparable. Perfect. Beautiful... Especially when she gets ugly.

MENTAL MONTAGE: Little Known Tragedies and Scandals

It is time once again, I fear, to get a little dark. By featuring William Haines this month, it is hard to be negative, because the guy is such a fun-loving prince. Yet, even he had to suffer his share of burdens and heartbreaks. Every light casts a shadow, and Tinsel Town didn't get its reputation for being a haven for lost and lonely souls for nothing. Thus, here are a few of the sad tales endured by some of Hollywood's brightest and too-soon-forgotten talents:

Billy Haines (left) is remembered as a hero in many ways, if for nothing else than his enduring and optimistic spirit. Through all of life's changes and challenges, he seemed to come out swinging with determination and integrity in tact. Indeed, despite the fact that he was openly homosexual, there are minimal recorded accounts of him crumbling under the weight of bigotry or even being on the receiving end of malicious or ignorant onslaughts. Most occurrences of that sort had to do with the King of Hypocrisy himself, LB Mayer, but even in those few interludes, which left Billy more than perturbed, he seemed to brush the dust right off his finely tailored jacket as if nothing had happened. For the most part, perhaps just due to his congenial spirit, Billy attracted more friends to him than enemies. Unfortunately, no one is safe from cruelty, not even the charismatic Mr. Haines. In time, despite his obstinant grace in the face of small-mindedness, he too would suffer what he would recall as the most humiliating and horrific event of his life-- one that would change him forever.


By 1936, Billy's cinematic career was hanging on by a thread. Having already made his exit from MGM after a final confrontation with LB over his sexuality, Billy was freelancing in "Poverty Row," while building an impressive reputation as an interior designer. Still, he was not completely ready to give up the ghost of his acting ambitions; he loved his place in the spotlight, and didn't want to surrender it to the new breed of man rising in the Hollywood ranks, such as Robert Montgomery, Clark Gable, and James Cagney. Taking some time off, he and a group of his friends, including partner Jimmie Shields and director George Cukor, headed for a respite in El Porto, a bit south of the glittering and oppressive nature of Hollywood. Little did they know that even a mere 20-odd miles from the more socially accepting Los Angeles, ideals and standard of public and private behavior were much more regimented. In the nearby Hermosa Beach, for example, the KKK was still very much alive and active.

A view of beach life in 1930s California-- Huntington Beach.

The inhabitants of El Porto were not inviting of Billy and his crew from the moment they arrived. This was not because the boys were noisy, intrusive, or disrespectful, but because they were a) Those hoity-toity Hollywood People and b) Gay. Certainly, the troupe of gentlemen could feel that they were swimming in unwelcome waters when they got such a chilly reception, but the nonchalant Billy probably convinced them to ignore it and not let the up-tight locals inhibit their fun getaway. Easier said than done. On the night of May 31, Billy et al were leaving a local restaurant and returning to their rented beach house when they were accosted by a gang of residents, both male and female. They were told, in no uncertain terms, to leave the city in the next hour "or else." Billy naturally laughed the threat off at first, but when one of the angry crowd threw a punch at Jimmie, Billy lunged at him, only to find himself beaten to the ground. Shaken, Billy-- now bearing two black eyes-- and his retinue quickly raced back to grab their belongings, jump in the car, and drive out of town, all while the locals shouted insults and slurs, pelting them and their vehicle with tomatoes. To his dying day, George Cukor would refuse to even speak about the incident. (The situation was later sensationalized when it was claimed that crosses were burned outside of the rented beach house, but this was not true-- yet another reason why you should take the biographical information of such sources as Kenneth Anger's Hollywood Babylon I and II with a grain of salt... and probably a shot of Tequila).

It was later alleged that the mob rebelled against its Hollywood guests because Jimmie had been accused of molesting a local boy, Jimmy Walker. However, this had all been a complete concoction built up as an excuse to unleash unfounded hostility against the unwelcome visitors. Witnesses claimed everything from seeing Jimmie buy the boy a hotdog or hamburger, allow him to pet his purple poodle, then invite him into his house where the sexual assault supposedly took place. Billy and Jimmie did not, nor did they ever, have a "purple poodle," which was an obvious and cliched attack against them and their sexuality. Nor was there ever any evidence in Billy or Jimmie's past of anything resembling pedophiliac tendencies. Friends who knew Jimmie defended him adamantly, saying that he would never, ever do anything to hurt a child. Indeed, the young boy failed to even identify Jimmie as his assailant in court. What grew from Jimmie probably innocently saying "hello" to Jimmy Walker on the beach was a malicious and disgusting lie designed to oust Billy and his friends from town. No charges were ever brought against Jimmie nor Billy-- who was innocent by all counts anyway-- but the event left him shaken and much more press shy for the remainder of his life. He had seen the dark side of his once adoring public, and he no longer trusted the safety of his star stature. His charming bravado had been unmasked, and for the first time in his life he was truly scared. Though this event did not kill Billy's spirit, it did change him and make him take stock of what was important in life. It wasn't long before he bowed out of cinema completely and embraced a life behind the scenes in the world of fashion and decor, where he enjoyed more privacy and safety from a disloyal public.

Interestingly enough, there was another celebrity scrape not far from Billy's feud in Manhattan Beach. This time, the star caught in the middle of it all was Lila Lee (left), starlet of such silent classics as Cecil B. Demille's Male and Female and the sound version of The Unholy Three. Lila Lee was staying at the home of author Gouverneur Morris, whose dark and twisted works were often immortalized onscreen, (such as in The Penalty). In 1936, Lila's world would be turned upside down when the body of her boyfriend, Reid Russell, was found limp and bleeding in the garden swing. Reid was an out of work salesman and a good friend of the Morrises, with whom he often played bridge. It was initially suggested that the death was a suicide, for Reid was discovered clasping a gun in his hand.

Lila unsuccessfully tries to woo butler Thomas Meighan

(center) from the glamorous Gloria Swanson (left) in Male and Female.

However, there were still a great many unanswered questions. While many reported that Reid had been despondent, his mother refused to believe that he had taken his own life. Later, hostess Mrs. Victoria Morris claimed that a suicide note had been found, but that Lila had urged her to burn it. In addition, it was discovered that the body must have been sitting in its swing for twelve hours before it was reported. The fired shell was never found, which made investigating officers question whether the body had been moved from another location, and it was never corroborated that the "rusty gun" Reid held was the same one that killed him. The position of the body was also awkward, as Reid's arms were crossed. It was impossible for experts to recreate the phenomenon that could have resulted in such a post-shot posture. Still, no motive could be found, and the case was left unsolved. After the ensuing media frenzy, Lila-- like Billy-- became much more press shy and effectively retired from the biz. She would later return, doing modest work in the '40s and '50s, but her career never recaptured the steam of its untainted youth. It was never determined whether Reid was murdered or had committed suicide, but the story had a profound effect upon Lila's son, James Kirkwood Jr, (father was actor James Kirkwood Sr.), who would remember the event well and recreate it in his novel There Must Be a Pony. In fact, James was the one to find the body at the tender age of twelve. (Kirkwood would also famously co-author the award-winning A Chorus Line).

One of the saddest tales repeated down the line of Hollywood Lore involves Karl Dane, the Danish silent film comedian who contributed to a multitude of classics, including The Big Parade with John Gilbert and Slide Kelly Slide opposite Bill Haines. Karl (right) was known in the film industry as a sweet-natured and friendly man, albeit a private one. He often preferred doing wood-work in his carpentry shop to going out on the town. In fact, he was very good with his hands and had originally worked as a machinist in Copenhagen before moving to America for better prospects in 1916. Dane had dreamed of working as an actor ever since accompanying his father to a theater as a child, where the senior party had a job as a curtain puller. Trying his hand at the thriving new industry, he slowly ingratiated himself to some of the greatest directors of his time, landing plum parts opposite the likes of Rudolph Valentino and Renee Adoree. He used his good sense of humor to team up with George K. Arthur to form comedy duo Dane and Arthur, which was a big success. He was on top of the world, earning $1500/wk. Then as the talkie revolution inched nearer, things changed. It is remembered today that Karl's career came to an end because his thick accent didn't transfer well to sound films, though there have also been reports that his work on the screen was still solid in these early sound years. It seems that many factors contributed to the end of his acting career, for he too suffered a nervous breakdown that resulted in his leaving MGM. He struggled through various ventures, searching for work on the screen or in vaudeville, but he was never able to regain his stride.

Karl performs opposite Lillian Gish in The Scarlet Letter.

It is popularly recalled that Karl bought a stake in a hotdog stand that used to operate outside MGM, his old studio, and when a friend from his past recognized him, the humiliation drove him to suicide. However, history proves that it wasn't that simple. After the hot-dog venture failed, Karl pursued more work as a carpenter or even an extra-- a far cry from his co-starring days-- but he couldn't seem to catch a break. Sinking deeper into depression, and alone after three failed marriages, on April 13, 1933 he was robbed of his last $18. The next day, April 14, he was discovered by his friend Frances Leake in his apartment with a self-inflicted bullet in his head. He left behind a simple note saying: "To Frances and all my friends-- goodbye." Many in the industry, who still considered Karl a friend, were shocked and saddened by the turn of events that had left him feeling so alone that death was the only option. Jean Hersholt stepped forward on his fallen friend's behalf and insisted that MGM pay for Karl's funeral. Suprisingly, they agreed. His talent and contribution to film remains forgotten under the stigma of being "the hot-dog guy," but at least in this Karl has been able to find a way to etch himself into our memory and serve as a warning for those who enter the biz with naivete.

Another forgotten lady is Marie Prevost, also notoriously remembered for her shocking demise. Marie (left) was a beautiful actress who got her start as one of the illustrious silent "Bathing Beauties." While under contract at Universal Studios, Irving Thalberg noticed her and saw great potential, but as a man of taste he wanted to get her away from those awful cheesecake roles. So, he had her publicly burn her bathing suit at Coney Island as a symbol of her birth as a genuine actress. The ploy worked and brought Marie a great deal of attention. After making some more of her token comedies, which she had an uncanny knack for, she was signed at Warner Bros, where she suffered her first major scandal: bigamy. She very nonchalantly married Kenneth Harlan, her The Beautiful and Damned co-star (a telling title) while she was still technically married to her first husband, Sonny Gerke. The marriage was quickly annulled so that she could obtain an official divorce, and she and Kenneth were legally and appropriately wed with much less pomp and circumstance later. She went on to star in the Howard Hughes picture The Racket, during the filming of which she was incredibly depressed due to her mother's death and her botched affair with Hughes. As her film work came to a crawl, resulting in emotional weight gain, her prospects looked worse and worse. Crash dieting impaired her health, and her poor finances left her in a desperate state. Alcohol was a chosen comfort, as is usually the case.

Marie with Monte Blue in The Marriage Circle.

As the life seemed to slowly drain out of the girl who was once such a vivacious riot, friends became concerned, but no one had any idea as to the depths of her true despair. Once hailed by Ernst Lubitsch as "one of the few actresses in Hollywood who knew how to underplay comedy to achieve the maximum effect," Marie's hopes at performing deterioated with her health. On January 21, 1937, at only 38-years-old, Marie died of heart failure as induced by alcoholism and malnutrition. She was not found until 2 days later, when her dog's barking become so obnoxious that the bellboy of her Hollywood apartment was finally forced to enter her room. He found her in bed, lying face down. Certain "historians" have recorded that Marie was found half eaten by her dachshund, but this is false-- (cough, Kenneth Anger, cough). "Maxie" had simply bitten Marie in attempts to wake her up. The sad tale of the washed-up former beauty touched every one in the community, most of whom called her "friend." The likes of Barbara Stanwyck, Wallace Beery, and Joan Crawford attended her funeral, which the latter allegedly paid for herself. Marie's sad end resulted in one major triumph: the establishment of The Motion Picture and Television Country House and Hospital, which cares for the ill and elderly veterans of the industry. No other lost soul would thus be condemned to the same fate as she. Marie's final place of residence remains standing today at 6230 Afton Place with an identical building mirroring it on the opposite side of the street. A beautiful old structure covered with lush ivy, it is hard to imagine that such an old Hollywood jewel ever housed one of Hollywood's saddest discarded gems.

The Knickerbocker Hotel in Hollywood is famous for its list of illustrious clientele (see Elvis entering, right) and infamous for the scandals they often carried in with their luggage. Frances Farmer was hauled through its lobby wearing nothing but a shower curtain for her 1942 arrest, Bess Houdini held a seance on the roof on Halloween evening in 1936 in attempts to contact her late and supernaturally obsessed husband-- who had apparently passed this trait onto his widow, D.W. Griffith collapsed in the lobby of a stroke in 1948, and I Love Lucy's William Frawley did the same (heart attack) not far from its front door, where he was quickly dragged in 1966. But for all of the ill luck seemingly associated with the once proud Hotel (it is now a residence for elderly living), one story stands out as being more tragic than the rest. Irene Lentz (Gibbons) was a well-respected costume designer who started out as an ingenue in Mack Sennett comedies. Her real talent, however, was in fashion, and in time she was popular enough to be referred to by her first name only, "Irene"-- thus, the Cher of the fashion world. She stitched her way into Ginger Rogers's heart when designing her gowns for Shall We Dance, and later in the 1960s she was a close friend of Doris Day, for whom she designed many stunning creations.

After a flourishing and fairly steady career, including 2 Academy Award nominations, the 61-year-old Irene (left) checked into the Knickerbocker under a pseudonym. Friends had noticed that she was melancholy and had been depressed for some time. Some chalked it up to her unhappy marriage to Eliot Gibbons; some stated that she was still pining for the recently deceased Gary Cooper, who was allegedly the only man she ever really loved. Whatever the source of her misery, she could apparently no longer endure it. On Nov. 15, 1962 at about 3pm, she slit her wrists in her hotel room, but while waiting to bleed out she found that death was not coming quickly enough. Desperate for an end to her pain, she flung herself from the bedroom window, landing on the roof over the lobby. She was discovered later that evening. Her death remains mysterious and saddening, with her parting words being almost too polite: "I'm sorry. This is the best way. Get someone very good to design and be happy. I love you all. Irene." Initially one might accuse her of being a drama queen, tossing herself from one of the most famous hotels in Hollywood, but her original attempt to kill herself by blood-letting eradicates this theory. She was clearly a woman who was deeply distraught and out of hope. The beauty of her designs, however, live on in films like The Postman Always Rings Twice, where Lana Turner's "hot pants" became the new hot item.

No, no. The true drama queen was the woman accredited with the most famous Swan Dive in Hollywood history, and I'm not talking about Esther Williams. Many have heard the story of Peg Entwistle (right), or are familiar with the nature of her death.  Peg (aka Millicent Lillian) was a Welsh actress who paved her way to fame and artistic respect on the Broadway stage. When still dreaming of her own career, Bette Davis allegedly liked to watch Peg perform, soaking in every nuance of her skillful portrayals. Like many before her, and many who would follow, "Peg" would move out to Hollywood in the hope of transferring her stage successes to the screen. Certainly, an actress who had conquered the complicated words of Henrik Ibsen could equally repeat the awkward drivel that passed as a screenplay! Starting out doing a play with Billie Burke, The Mad Hopes, Peg won her first creditable film role in the B-movie Thirteen Women, also starring rising leading ladies Irene Dunne and Myrna Loy, the latter of whom played the film's vengeful villainess. Peg's role was small and over in the film's first few minutes, but she hoped that it had at least gotten her foot in the proverbial door. However, the movie was a dud, and rightfully so-- watching it today, the only things interesting about it are the early performances of its future stars and, of course, the ill-fated Peg.

The famous sign as it once appeared.

When no other acting jobs followed, Peg's despair set in. Of course, this is all summary, and certainly there were more than career pressures weighing upon her, but whatever the source of her malcontent, Peg had reached the end of her tether. If she were unable to live a star, then she would die as one. It is assumed that sometime on September 16, 1932, Peg made her way up Beachwood Drive from her Uncle's home, where she had been staying, and made a slow and steady climb up Mount Lee to the "Hollywoodland" sign. Neatly folding her jacket, removing her shoes, and laying her purse at the base of the "H," she then used a workman's ladder to climb this letter. Reaching the top, she probably took a long, last look at the city that had once promised her such hope and left her only with heartache. She jumped, leaving behind her the sad note: "I am afraid, I am a coward. I am sorry for everything. If I had done this a long time ago, it would have saved a lot of pain. P.E." Today, the remaining "Hollywood" sign bears a dual significance because of her leap: the promise and the pain of a life in the movies. The bitterest part of this tale is the legend that Peg was to receive a film offer the day after her leap. If only she had waited... As such, she has become an idol and is often referenced as the "Patron Saint of struggling actors," who perhaps use her sad story to convince themselves to hold out a little bit longer and not let the insufferable blues make victims of them as well.

2428 Beachwood Dr, the house from whence

Peg would begin her infamous climb.

The scandals of Hollywood are its juiciest enticements. Many love to hear the trash-talk or the sensational rumors, which are usually more exciting than the fictional stories released in the theaters. However, these tales are always more appealing when one is the observer and not the subject, and resultingly the object of scorn, ridicule, or pity. While some stars occassionally find themselves humbled by the circumstances that bring them crashing to earth after flying too close to the sun, forgetting their own mortality-- their penetrability-- there are also those that are never able to rise back up from the ashes. Are there certain people who are naturally predisposed to depression? Would Peg or Irene or Karl have met a happier fate had they lived in these modern times when therapy and medication are the rule and not the exception, or does Hollywood truly breed a kind of sorrow that often cannot be cured? While the likes of William Haines and Lila Lee were able to crawl out from under the rubble of their own scandals, turn their backs on negativity, and start afresh, not all are so lucky. It can only be hoped that the fallen stars in this City of Angels have not forfeited their lives in vain-- the lessons they pass on are eagerly heard, but hopefully just as eagerly learned. It is, after all, pain-- the common denominator-- that unites as all in our fight for life. Sometimes it takes death for us to realize that our stars are human too.