Without lying down: Frances Marion and the powerful women of early Hollywood 9780520214927, 9780520921382

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WITHOUT LYING

OWN frances Wlarion and the Powerful ‘Women of Carly Hollywood

CAR] BEAUCHAMP

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA PRESS Berkeley » Los Angeles - London

WITHOUT LYING DOWN

COAUTHORED BY CARI BEAUCHAMP Hollywood on the Riviera

WITHOUT LYING

OWN frances Wlarion and the Powerful ‘Women of Carly Hollywood

CAR] BEAUCHAMP

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA PRESS Berkeley » Los Angeles - London

University of California Press Berkeley and Los Angeles, California University of California Press, Ltd. London, England Copyright © 1997 by Cari Beauchamp

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. First Paperback Printing 1998

Published by arrangement with Scribner, an Imprint of Simon & Schuster Inc. Set in Goudy Old-Style DESIGNED BY ERICH HOBBING

Manufactured in the United States of America

11 10 09 08 O7 06

19 8 7 6 5 4 3 The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (R 1997) (Permanence of Paper).

For my sons, TEO and JAKE—

with the hope that they may know the joy of women as equal partners and the freedom that comes from learning from history.

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“I spent my life searching for a man to look up to without lying down.” —FRANCES MARION

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aa Prologue

Wednesday evening, November 5, 1930, Fiesta Room of the Ambassador Hotel, Los Angeles, California

s Frances Marion rose to accept the Academy Award for Screen-

A\ wet for her original story The Big House, she became the first

woman writer to win an Oscar. Since 1917, she had been the highest-paid screenwriter in Hollywood—male or female—and was hailed as “the all-time best script and story writer the motion picture world has ever produced.”

Just forty and “as beautiful as the stars she wrote for,” Frances was already credited with writing over one hundred produced films. Her importance to MGM was reflected by the fact that films she had written were nominated this evening in seven of the eight award categories—every one but Interior Decoration. As she looked out from the podium at the six hundred people gathered at the Ambassador, she saw the faces of the friends she had literally grown up with in the business since first arriving in Los Angeles in 1912. There was Mary Pickford, who called Frances “the pillar of my career,” for she had written Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, Pollyanna, A Little Princess, and a dozen more of Pickford’s greatest successes. Frances was also her best

friend and had seen her through her divorce from Owen Moore and marriage to Douglas Fairbanks; Frances and Mary had even honeymooned with their new husbands together in Europe. Irving Thalberg was the “boy genius of Hollywood,” but Frances called him “my rock of Gibraltar” and he was the only man in the room whose opinion she truly valued and respected. He in turn “adored her and trusted her completely.” Greta Garbo still only spoke Swedish when Frances met her sitting on the sidelines of the set of The Scarlet Letter and tonight she was nominated for Best Actress in Anna Christie, adapted for the screen by Frances Marion. 9

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Norma Shearer was now the “Queen of the lot,” but she was still fighting for roles when Frances first knew her, long before she married her boss Irv-

ing Thalberg. Tonight, Norma was nominated for Best Actress in Their Own Desire, adapted for the screen by Frances Marion. Clarence Brown was nominated for Best Director for Anna Christie and had come a long way since being the assistant on The Poor Little Rich Girl in 1917 when he witnessed the “spontaneous combustion” created by Frances and Mary Pickford as they worked together. Marie Dressler had been a top vaudeville star when Frances was a cub reporter interviewing her in 1911, but Marie’s career was over and she was

facing dire poverty fifteen years later when Frances wrote the films that brought her to Hollywood to become MGM’s top moneymaker. The next year she would win the Best Actress award for the role Frances wrote for her in Min and Bill. Gloria Swanson was one of Hollywood’s most glamourous stars; she was

married to a count and spent a fortune on maintaining her fabulous wardrobe. Tonight, Gloria was only weeks away from learning that she too had been duped by a treacherous Joseph P Kennedy, just as Frances had been two years earlier. Hobart Bosworth was the éminence grise of the industry, having acted in over three hundred films, but in 1914 he owned the studio where Frances was first hired as an actress and assistant to the director Lois Weber at fifteen dollars a week. Conrad Nagel was tonight’s master of ceremonies and a popular star, but Frances had first seen him as a young man rehearsing on the Broadway stage in 1915. She had sat alone in the theater that day with the impresario William Brady, who hired her on the spot to write for his World studio in Fort Lee, New Jersey, where she spent over a year honing her skills. Sam Goldwyn had been the first to raise her salary to $3,000 a week in 1925 after she wrote some of his biggest hits, including Stella Dallas and The Winning of Barbara Worth.

Louis B. Mayer was now her boss at MGM, the largest and most success-

ful studio in Hollywood, but he had pinched Frances’s rear end the first time he hired her to write a script at his then small studio only seven years earlier.

George Cukor was still a young emerging talent at RKO, but they were

to become lifelong friends after making Dinner at Eight and Camille together. Cukor called Frances a “Holy Wonder—-so ravishingly beautiful and so talented.” And there was Adela Rogers St. Johns, her friend since their girlhood in San Francisco. Adela would also be nominated for Best Original Story in 10

CAR! BEAUCHAMP

1932, but lose to Frances when she won her second Oscar for The Champ. Yet Adela harbored no jealousy of the woman she claimed was “touched with genius. As a writer, she is the unquestioned head of her profession. . . . As a woman, she is a philanthropist, a patroness of young artists, and herself the most brilliant, versatile and accomplished person in Hollywood.” Few knew or loved the industry as Frances did, yet after she said her demure “Thank you very much” and returned to her seat, she studied the statuette and decided, “I saw it as a perfect symbol of the picture business: a powerful athletic body clutching a gleaming sword, but with half of his head, the part which held his brains, completely sliced off.” Privately, she was proud of her Oscar for The Big House because she had conquered a variety of obstacles to create a realistic film where for the first time audiences heard prison doors slam shut, inmates’ steps shuffle down the corridors, and metal cups bang on the mess tables.

Writing of that night, several historians called Frances Marion “the author of The Big House and just about everything else at MGM” but she called herself “a mouse at the feast” that was Hollywood. She habitually used self-deprecating humor as her armor against the professional and personal challenges and tragedies she faced. Eventually Frances was credited with writing 325 scripts covering every conceivable genre. She also directed and produced half a dozen films, was the first Allied woman to cross the Rhine in World War I, and served as the vice president and only woman on the first board of directors of the Screen Writers Guild. She painted, sculpted, spoke several languages fluently, and played “concert caliber” piano. Yet she claimed writing was “the refuge of the shy” and she shunned publicity; she was uncomfortable as a heroine, but she refused to be a victim. She would have four husbands and dozens of lovers and tell her best friends she spent her life “searching for a man to look up to without lying down.” She claimed the two sons she raised on her own were “my proudest accomplishment”—they came first and then “it’s a photofinish between your work and your friends.” Her friendships were as legendary as her stories and some of the best were with her fellow writers for during the teens, 1920s, and early 1930s, almost one quarter of the screenwriters in Hollywood were women. Half of all the films copyrighted between 1911 and 1925 were written by women. While Photoplay mused that “Strangely enough, women outrank men as continuity writers,” it wasn’t strange to them. Women had always found sanctuary in writing; it was accomplished in private and provided a creative vent when little was expected or accepted of a woman other than to be a good wife and mother. For Frances and her friends, a virtue was derived 11

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from oppression; with so little expected of them, they were free to accomplish much. They were drawn to a business that, for a time, not only allowed, but welcomed women. And Cleo Madison, Gene Gauntier, Lois Weber, Ruth Ann Baldwin, Dorothy Arzner, Margaret Booth, Blanche Sewall, Anne

Bauchens, and hundreds of other women flocked to Hollywood, where they could flourish, not just as actresses or writers, but also as directors, producers, and editors. With few taking moviemaking seriously as a business, the doors were wide open to women. Frances maintained they took care of each other and claimed “I owe my ereatest success to women. Contrary to the assertion that women do all in

their power to hinder one another’s progress, I have found that it has always been one of my own sex who has given me a helping hand when | needed it.” Today, names of screenwriters like Zoe Akins, Jeanie Macpherson, Beulah Marie Dix, Lenore Coffee, Anita Loos, June Mathis, Bess Meredyth, Jane Murfin, Adela Rogers St. Johns, Sonya Levien, and Salka Viertel are too often found only in the footnotes of Hollywood histories. But seventy

years ago, they were highly paid, powerful players at the studios that churned out films at the rate of one a week. And for over twenty-five years,

no writer was more sought after than Frances Marion; with her versatile pen and a caustic wit, she was a leading participant and witness to one of the most creative eras for women in American history. This is her story.

12

aa Chapter |

arion Benson Owens first publicly documented her creative talents

MY at San Francisco’s Hamilton Grammar School “when I was caught

drawing cartoons of my teachers on the blackboard and was

expelled from all public schools.” As a rule, she was very well behaved, hav-

ing been taught early “the hypocrisies of social graces.” Yet while others might see her dismissal as something to be ashamed of, Marion was always to view it with a sense of accomplishment. Just twelve years old, she had been set apart from those she considered “fastidious and dull” and that was definitely a step in the right direction.' San Francisco in 1900 prided itself on being a cosmopolitan city, but the

well-off and socially active Owens family at times stretched the limits of social acceptance. Her father was born in 1857 in Council Bluffs, lowa, where his parents had immigrated from Missouri when the Iowa Territory opened. Len Douglas Owens arrived in a prospering San Francisco at the age of twenty-four and quickly established himself in the advertising business. He was anxious to channel his ambitions and install himself in society, and Minnie Benson

Hall, almost ten years his junior, had the bearing and the background to

help him achieve his goals. ,

Born and raised in San Francisco, Minnie was the daughter of Charles and Aimee Grizwald Hall, who had “come around the Horn” to California from New York following the Gold Rush of 1848. Music was the foundation of the household. Charles owned a piano factory and played concert violin and Aimee was an accomplished soprano and pianist. Minnie was not yet eighteen when she married the twenty-seven-yearold Len Owens in 1884. Over six feet tall with carved Welsh features, Len was the extrovert, serving on the board of the Olympic Club and becoming a champion pistol shooter and all-around outdoorsman. Minnie prided herself on creating a household that was a center for artists and visiting musicians like Italian soprano Luisa Tetrazzini, the Australian soprano Dame Nellie Melba, and Enrico Caruso.’ 13

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Their large house on O'Farrell Street also became home for Minnie’s aunt

and uncle, George and Jane Benson, when they moved from New York shortly after the Owenses were married. George worked at a local lumberyard and Aunt Jane was a help as the children arrived; Maude in February of 1886, Marion on November 18, 1888, and Len junior in May of 1890. Len senior organized a bicycle club for men and they rode all over northern California on the weekends. He became an investor in Aetna Springs, a six-hundred-acre ranch in the Pope Valley, and by 1896 he was the sole owner of the property. He created the Aetna Springs Mineral Water Company to bottle the water from its natural springs, promoted it as a drink of

great “medicinal value” to those suffering from “neuralgia, indigestion, rheumatism, dyspepsia and many other ills,” and distributed it through his new drug and supply company south of Market Street.’ Len’s advertising business was also flourishing. He brought in Tom Var-

ney and Charles Green as partners and their firm specialized in creating and posting signs on fences and in trolleys and streetcars. While Minnie was most comfortable in her roles as hostess and mother, Len’s life now took him everywhere but home. In the fall of 1898, he assured his wife he would always support her and the children, but he wanted a divorce. Minnie and the Bensons stayed in the house on O'Farrell and the children continued to go to Hamilton Grammar School, less than two blocks from their home. Just before her twelfth birthday, Marion’s father told her he was marrying again. His fiancée, Isabel, was the eldest daughter of the celebrated and wealthy lawyer Edgar FE Preston. Eighteen years younger than Len, Isabel had never been married before and, unlike Minnie, was an outdoorswoman who shared his love of horseback riding and bicycling.‘

Len and Isabel were married in June of 1901 to what the newspapers called “the excitement of the exclusive set,” and in spite of its being his second marriage, they were listed in the bible of society, the Blue Book. Unlike those in eastern cities, San Franciscans were proud not to attach a negative stigma to personal preferences and took their attitude as an outward sign of their sophisticated nature.’

Marion responded to her father’s remarriage by adopting an “I don’t care” attitude that culminated in her dismissal from school a few months later.

She turned more than ever to her adored great-aunt and -uncle.

Aunt Jane, in her early sixties, was an amateur spiritualist and held weekly séances in the parlor. With the lights down low, up to a dozen elderly women held hands around the large round table and the sessions opened with a rendition of “Nearer My God to Thee.” Young Marion played the part of the channeler, using her free-floating imagination to give voice to historical figures and friends and relatives who had passed on. 14

CARI BEAUCHAMP

Uncle George was a retired seaman with a full white beard and a vocabulary honed by his years at sea. He barely tolerated his wife’s dabbling with the other world and disapproved heartily of involving Marion in it. To give their niece what he considered a needed balance in her education, George took her with him to visit his old seafaring friends in the saloons of the Barbary Coast, where she listened to their stories of shipwrecks and the voyages of their youth.°

A bout with polio kept Marion at home for several months and she became a prolific reader. Tutors for Spanish, French, and music were brought in, but most of her waking hours were consumed with reading and writing in her daily diary, which she kept hidden under her mattress.’ While the family encouraged original thoughts, it was made clear that they should be kept to oneself to avoid offending others. Many evenings, the dinner table was enlarged for her mother’s guests and Marion learned early to be comfortable in an adult setting and how much easier things were for women and girls if they simply smiled and kept quiet. At the end of the day, there was always the diary to record what she really thought. When Marion recovered from her polio, her mother decided it was time for her to be sent fifteen miles south to St. Margaret’s Hall Boarding School in San Mateo. With a reputation as an excellent preparatory school for the elite eastern women’s colleges, St. Margaret’s offered a strict academic curriculum, and the annual tuition of $500 assured economic exclusivity. Established by the Reverend and Mrs. George Wallace in 1891, St. Margaret’s advertised aim was “to prepare its pupils to adorn the family and social circle, not only with intellectual culture, but also with graceful manners, refined tastes and Christian character” and to “secure a foundation for the super-structure of a noble womanhood.” While christian character with a small “c” would always come naturally to her, the daily dose of Episcopalian liturgy failed to inspire her. “I belong to no established faith—I never have,” Marion would make clear to anyone who asked.’ While schooling society’s daughters in their simple white uniforms, St. Margaret’s itself was rather stark, consisting of several wooden buildings fronting a wide dirt road laced with fruit and palm trees. The girls wrote and staged plays and were frequently taken to local lectures, allowed to visit the stores of San Mateo when chaperoned, and invited to dinners and dances at the large estates nearby.

Marion took the train to San Francisco on occasional weekends and school vacations. She and her brother and sister were welcome at her father’s new home at 3232 Jackson Street, but the addition of two half brothers, Edgar, born in 1902, and Francis the following year, made Marion uncomfortable and gradually she reduced her visits.” 15

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In the summers, she traveled with her mother, going to Alaska one year and Mexico the next. Marion was becoming an astute observer of human nature and developing a radar for hypocrisy in all its forms. The stark con-

trast between the poverty of the people of Mexico and the riches of the churches seeded a lifelong resistance to organized religion, but she was thrilled to trek into the mountains with a group of Yaqui Indians, learning only afterward they had journeyed farther from the cities than any white women had previously dared. She took pride in improving her Spanish and

furthering her belief, first instilled by her mother in particular and San Francisco in general, that women could go where their interests led them, as long as they outwardly appeared to behave themselves.” In boarding school, Marion excelled at languages and music and blossomed as an artist under the tutelage of Charles Chapel Judson. When Judson, a respected painter active in the San Francisco Art Association, was asked to join the faculty of the newly created Mark Hopkins Art Institute, Marion begged her parents to allow her to transfer there. After three years at St. Margaret’s, Marion was chafing to move on. She was drawing constantly, sketching every face she saw, as well as writing poetry and short stories. Family friends like the writers Jack London and Ella Wheeler Wilcox encouraged her to send off samples of her work to

various publications and her poem “California’s Latest,” by Marion B. Owens, an ode to Luther Burbank’s daisy and illustrated with her own drawings, took up an entire page of Sunset magazine’s May 1905 issue.” That fall, the sixteen-year-old Marion was accepted at the Mark Hopkins Art Institute and the fact that it was housed in San Francisco’s most stately mansion and run in cooperation with the University of California at Berkeley gave it increased credibility in her parents’ eyes. She moved back in with her mother, Maude, Len junior, Aunt Jane, and Uncle George, where she was able to be a part of her parents’ society, spread her wings with her fellow students, and participate in the burgeoning Bohemian community. San Francisco in 1905 was the largest city west of the Mississippi. One third of the population of 400,000 had been born on foreign soil, one third

were children of immigrants. Almost 20,000 Chinese lived crushed into five square blocks and knew better than to go beyond Powell or Broadway.

Danish, German, Polish, and various other recent European immigrants were almost as densely packed into tenements south of Market Street. The rival Hearst and de Young families owned two of the three morning newspapers, and five weekly magazines provided a showcase for local writers. With its numerous theaters and urbane attitude, Will Irwin called San Francisco “the gayest, lightest hearted and most pleasure loving city in the western continent.”” 16

CARI BEAUCHAMP

The Mark Hopkins Art Institute, quickly earning a reputation as one of the finest art schools in the country, became a magnet for society’s children, students from the new Leland Stanford University and the University of California and the literary and artistic hopefuls who migrated west seeking kindred spirits in the city that would become known as Baghdad by the Bay. The art institute occupied an entire city block, its castlelike structure standing five stories high, topped by an elaborate tower with a magnificent view of the entire bay. Marion took her classes in the smaller rooms upstairs while the large first-floor salons were used as galleries. The murals on the walls, painted originally for Hopkins by the same Italian artists imported to decorate the saloons and brothels of the Barbary Coast, added a unique dimension to the decor and in the fall and spring, all of society flocked to the art institute’s major exhibitions. In her off hours, both with friends and alone, Marion explored the city.

She found the Italian area of North Beach provided reasonably priced three-course meals and bottles of table wine for twenty-five cents, and in the saloons and dining halls of the Barbary Coast, the buffet lunch was free when you bought a glass of beer for a nickel. Delmonico’s had a downstairs dining room, a second story with rooms for private parties, and a third floor with a discreet row of bedrooms for customers who couldn't or didn’t want to go home, but the grandest of all establishments was the Palace Hotel. Built around a courtyard with an interior sparkling with cut glass and marble, it boasted telephones and bathtubs in every room. And from the Ferry Building at the end of Market Street, boats crossed the bay to the small towns of Oakland and Berkeley or over to Marin where Marion sketched Mount Tamalpais and the Pacific Ocean.” Yet for all the wealth of intellectual stimulation and artistic inspiration,

Marion’s attention became increasingly focused on her tall, young art teacher. Wesley de Lappe had only recently moved with his parents to San Francisco from Santa Rosa and family pressure to become a serious businessman lessened when he was hired as the art institute’s youngest instructor.

At five foot two with chestnut hair and deep blue eyes, the pretty, accomplished seventeen-year-old Marion had many admirers. Yet Wesley didn’t seem to notice her at all. Determined to catch his attention, Marion selected an outrageous hat covered with huge ostrich feathers for San Francisco’s Easter festivities and gave it full credit for finally turning Wesley de Lappe’s head. Less than two weeks later, on April 18, 1906, she and Wesley were sitting on a park bench, delaying the inevitable return home, when a

loud, rumbling sound was heard throughout San Francisco that was to change their lives and their city forever.”*

Streets literally opened up, buildings shook and crumbled. Marion and L7

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Wesley were petrified, but close enough to her home to reconnect with her family and physical safety. Almost every brick chimney in the city fell or was in danger of dropping onto the masses of people as they fled into the streets, screaming helplessly or wandering in quiet shock. Everyone was clutching someone or something: clothes, family silver, irreplaceable photographs, or jewels. For Marion, it was her ostrich feather Easter hat and Wesley de Lappe. As devastating as the initial shock had been—later estimated to be 8.3 on the Richter scale—the fires that followed were what devoured the city. Gaslights crashed to the ground and electric wires short-circuited, sparking blazes everywhere. Water hydrants were useless; the underground pipes had been shattered by the quake. Dynamite blasts vibrated throughout the city as a quarter-mile firebreak was created at Van Ness Avenue. The flames continued for three days and

two nights and when they finally burned out, Chinatown, the Barbary Coast, the financial district, and the wooden tenements south of Market were nothing but ashes. More than 1,000 people died, 250 city blocks were devastated, and 300,000 men, women, and children were left homeless. “You have to forget the idea that there was a fire in San Francisco,” W. R. Hearst wrote. “There was a fire OF San Francisco.”” The impact of the earthquake was not only physical. An atmosphere of equality and community spirit akin to the aftermath of war resulted as tents were pitched in vacant lots and parks and among the ashes of the Nob Hill estates. Debutantes and shopgirls, stockbrokers and beer hall bouncers all lived side by side for months. Children stood in lines several blocks long for free fruit and milk and the Red Cross distributed tins of food. Looters were shot on sight and bottled water became more valuable than gold. Marion would later say that her family “lost everything” in the earthquake, but while their economic security was gone, their house remained

standing. The Mark Hopkins Art Institute was obliterated, as was her father’s drug company and his warehouses. Len Owens had sold his interest

in his advertising firm to concentrate on developing Aetna Springs as a summer resort, but now all available building materials were needed in the

city and the economic demands of recovery left few with discretionary income for vacationing.” Her mother was forced to forfeit any remaining hope of sending Marion to an eastern college. With her school and most vestiges of normalcy gone from the city, marriage became the next logical step, a way for her truly to be on her own. She openly enjoyed Wes’s “maulings,” as she called their lovemaking, and soon he was convinced that setting a wedding date was his idea. In California a girl under eighteen and a boy under twenty-one had to 18

CARI BEAUCHAMP

have parental permission to marry. Though Len Owens was furious that Marion would even consider marrying a poor, nineteen-year-old artist—

even though Wes had found work drawing for the San Francisco Chronicle—Minnie had been Marion’s age when she married and she resigned herself to her daughter’s determination. On Monday, October 21, 1906, Minnie accompanied Marion, Wes, and his father, Russell, to the

temporary county offices in a converted house on Sacramento Street to sign the necessary papers for a marriage license. Two days later, Marion’s older sister, Maude, recently married to Wilson

Bishop, an up-and-coming insurance man, returned home to spend the night with Marion and early the next morning Wes and his sister Amy Belle arrived at the house to pick up Marion and Maude. Unsure of what to wear, Wes had bought four new ties the day before but forgot them all and then lost the ring as well. The girls waited patiently as he ran out to replace them

and returned bedecked in his black wool suit, vest, and tie and witha new. ring in his pocket, ready, as Marion said, “to be led to the halter.” She had arranged for them to be married by her father’s former neighbor Reverend Bradford Leavitt, pastor at the first Unitarian Church. Yet as the

foursome arrived at the Leavitt house on Jackson just in time for their eleven o'clock appointment, Wes realized that the only money he had left was a twenty-dollar gold piece; he did not want to give Reverend Leavitt more than ten dollars but was too embarrassed to ask for change. So out the door he headed again, down the steps and up the street. Maude ran after him, screaming for him to turn around as there were no stores in that direction. Marion and Amy Belle watched from the porch, laughing and crying at the same time. The temperature was already in the seventies, and when Wes returned with the change, he was perspiring through his heavy clothes. Reverend Leavitt descended the stairs and tried to make the disheveled group comfortable, instructing Amy Belle and Maude to stand behind Wes and Marion, and proceeded with the brief ceremony in his downstairs parlor. As he asked, “Wesley, do you take this woman to be your lawful wedded

wife,” Marion looked up at Wes and saw what she thought was the “scardest, maddest, and percipitist bridegroom [sic]” she had ever seen and forgot her own whirling emotions for a moment. His forehead covered with sweat, his eyes darting in fear, Wes tried desperately to regain his composure and managed a very faint “Yes, sir.” Marion choked over her words as well. When they came to the moment he was to put the ring on her finger, the perspiration reached his eyes and he blindly grasped her hand.

“Marion... Marion, you... thee... with this wed... ring... I thee we...” 19

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Reverend Leavitt's smile broke the tension and Marion laughed out loud. Droplets were landing on her hand, but mercifully, the ceremony was over. Looking pale but grinning, Wes went off to work at the Chronicle and Marion, not giving up on all traditions, visited dressmakers to complete her trousseau with a new red suit and a selection of hats. For a honeymoon of sorts, they spent the weekend at a local hotel.!” Marion was selling occasional stories and paintings and Wes’s salary at the Chronicle was small but steady, yet economic realities mandated they live with their families. Four days after the brief ceremony, the newlyweds moved in with Wes’s parents and sisters on C Street in the Richmond district of San Francisco. After several months of restrained good behavior, Marion realized she had exchanged one set of watching eyes for another and, living with his parents, Wes seemed more of a son than a husband. Familiar with the constraints of sharing a roof with her own relatives, the couple moved in with her family.

Frustrated with what she felt were her limitations as a writer and an artist, Marion sought out her old family friend Jack London for advice. “If you expect to write stories pulsing with real life or put upon canvas compositions that are divinely human, you must go forth and live,” he told her. “Study human nature by rubbing elbows with the people. Go out and work with them, eat with them, dream with them.” Inspired by the dramatic seriousness of his words, Marion tried her hand at a variety of jobs. She pitted peaches at a local cannery until one slipped loose, hitting the woman working next to her on line. Accused of throwing it on purpose, Marion was given her walking papers ten minutes later.

She lasted an even shorter time as a telephone operator. Her head throbbed, her arms ached, and her ears rang from the callers’ “barbed wire voices.” Marion joked that she was fired before she could master any par-

ticular situation, but she turned the experiences into short stories and though most of them went unpublished, she consoled herself that she was practicing her art."

Marion finally found steady employment as the assistant to the acclaimed photographer Arnold Genthe. He had risen to fame and fortune through his informal poses of society matrons and their families, but he also chronicled the streets of San Francisco and was known in Chinatown as “the white man with the camera.” Genthe could not help but notice Marion’s beauty and she became his model as well. For a Baker’s Chocolate advertisement, he posed her with

another young dark-haired beauty named Hazel Tharsing, just out of Catholic school. Hazel soon would shed her convent restrictions, change her name to Carlotta Monterey, and eventually marry Eugene O’Neill. 20

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The photographer promoted Marion as “one of the ten most beautiful women in America,” but she was more comfortable on the other side of the camera. From Genthe she learned the art of layouts and experimented with color film. They discussed the philosophy books he loaned her and he introduced her to Minnie Maddern Fiske and other grandes dames of the stage, who always scheduled photographic sessions with “Ginky” when they visited San Francisco.” Marion and Wes finally found a small place of their own on Gratton Street near Golden Gate Park, and that meant depending only on each other when it came to the daily minutiae of life. Marion loved to cook and entertain, but planning, shopping for, and preparing dinner on a daily basis were something else again. So was dodging the landlord when the rent was due. And occasionally, Wes would “forget he was married,” as Marion politely put it, and stay out all night.” Wes was unhappy at the Chronicle, where he sketched trials and society matrons, and wanted to devote full time to his art. Marion’s work for Gen-

the was lessening as the photographer began spending more time in Carmel, where Jack London, George Sterling, and other established writers

and artists had small homes. With money too often becoming an issue between them, they moved back with Marion’s family.

In her letters written at the time, Marion is content but clearly in control of the relationship. Her real excitement was saved for her work and she describes her drawings with a passion that is missing when she discusses her marriage. She respected Wes’s talent more than she did her own, but knew

she was much more ambitious than he. She acknowledged her “marked ability at catching a small likeness of any one I sketched or painted,” but considered it “a small skill.”” Wes was becoming renowned for his use of colors, winning prizes and having his paintings published as magazine covers, but the recognition did not transfer into a large income. The romantic notion of two artists eking out an existence to pursue their dreams lost its luster in the reality of living from payday to payday and Wes and Marion agreed to separate. She publicly announced that two artists in one family could “not be a success” and on October 11, 1910, he filed for divorce on the grounds of extreme cruelty. When Marion was served with papers, she did not respond. From her own parents’ example, divorce was not something to be ashamed of and, since there were no children, she saw the experience as a “youthful indiscretion” and moved on.” Marion took assignments as a commercial artist for companies like the Western Pacific Railroad. She painted landscapes of the vistas seen from

the train, which were used as posters and dining car menu covers. She 21

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wrote poems to accompany the paintings and signed them Marion de Lappe: A magic web, a sylvan dream Where sunlit pale green waters gleam And rocks rise clear to guard the stream Oh the golden Feather River In cloistered canyons soft winds sigh And lavish lights from a summer sky Blue mirrored in the shallows lie Oh the golden Feather River.”

Hoping that writing under deadline would hone her skills, Marion went to work as a reporter for the San Francisco Examiner for fifteen dollars a week. However, her sympathy for victims prevented her from writing flamboyantly enough for William Randolph Hearst’s news desk and she was transferred to the theater department. Marie Dressler was billed as “the funniest woman of the English speaking stage,” and when one of the most experienced reporters gave Marion the assignment to cover the renowned vaudevillian’s opening in Tillie’s Nightmare in March of 1911, she couldn’t believe her good fortune.” “It’s the chance of a lifetime, kid,” he told her. “Dressler is news. Get some sketches, a signed interview and they'll give you a spread under Ashton Stevens’s review of the play.” Almost as an afterthought he added, “Of course, you'll get canned if you come back without them.” Taking his word as gospel, Marion joined the throng of reporters at the star’s door at the Savoy Theater. Miss Dressler greeted them with “Hi ya, pals,” and answered their questions with self-deprecating humor. Marion stood quietly in a corner until the famous comedienne looked directly at her and said, “Hello, little girl, Where’d you come from?” “The Examiner,” Marion replied—to instant silence. Everyone but Marion knew that William Randolph Hearst and Marie Dressler were in the midst of a fierce feud and as the reporters looked back

at Marie for a response, she ordered Marion to get out, then turned and stormed to her dressing room, sharply slamming the door. Backstage quickly emptied, but Marion stayed frozen in her corner. Sev-

eral times during the performance, Marie swept past her looking straight ahead, and when the show was over and the theater dark, the star emerged from her dressing room dressed in her street clothes, a plumed hat, and a fur coat. Marion, still in her same corner, called out, “Miss Dressler, if I don’t get this interview, I'll lose my job.” 22

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Marie stopped, turned, and asked, “Is that what those bastards told you? “Only a top reporter, but he said I’d be made if I got the story and fired if I didn't.” Marie shook her head in disbelief and took pity on the girl twenty years younger than she and half her size. “Let’s go into my dressing room child and I'll give you the golldarndest interview |] ever gave to any reporter.” Marie sent her maid to the corner to bring back coffee and “a couple of oyster loaves.” Marion started sketching and Marie explained her change of heart. “Child, I couldn’t brush aside a young girl struggling to get along. Believe me, I’ve had some tough breaks myself. Imagine starting out in the theatrical business with a face like mine when beautiful girls are all the vogue. | said to myself, ‘You’re going to make the whole world laugh at you’ and that’s exactly what I have done.” She had risen to become the star of Tillie’s Nightmare, running for a year at the Herald Square Theater, in New York and now she was traveling the country in a private train with ten cars and a dining room that never closed. Marion drew and wrote frantically for more than an hour, listening to the laughter that punctuated Marie’s stories but sensitive to the sadness

that underlay even her funniest tales. They left the theater together and Marie offered her a ride. As Marion started to get out, Marie patted her cheek. “I’ve always wished I had a daughter,” she said, and with a smile added, “T’Il see you again.”” Marion ran up the stairs to the Examiner offices, quickly wrote the story,

and turned in her drawings. Though Marie wrote Hearst a note the next day that ended their feud shortly thereafter and they remained friends the rest of their lives, at the time it was enough to keep Marion’s story out of the paper. It was widely known and respected that she had broken down Dressler’s resistance, but the experience increased Marion's self-doubts and her questions about what she was doing.” San Francisco was almost completely rebuilt and Marion agreed with the visiting Englishwoman Beatrice Webb, who called it a “veritable paradise” for anyone “who wishes to live unto himself without any pressure of law, custom or public opinion.” Marion had already seen and accomplished

a great deal and enjoyed her reputation as “The Wild Rose of Telegraph Hill” with her artist friends, who valued talent before commerce, but at the age of twenty-two she felt the need to escape. Escape from what or to where, she wasn’t sure.”’

Then along came a man offering to make the decisions for her. Robert Dickson Pike was a Stanford graduate, a member of the Bohemian Club, 23

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and a rising star at his father’s fast-growing steel firm. In many ways, he was

the antithesis of what Marion had been seeking for the past five years, yet Robert represented a level of economic security and social acceptance that was very tempting. The deciding factor for Marion was that her father and Robert’s traveled in the same circles and her engagement garnered Len’s approval like nothing she had accomplished before. And in place of her self-doubts and the often trying challenge of living on her own, Robert told her she was talented and beautiful and made it all seem so easy.” As Robert Pike’s fiancée, Marion officially entered the realm of the society women Arnold Genthe regularly photographed and it was one of his pictures of her, looking out from under a broad-brimmed hat, that appeared as her engagement picture on page one of the San Francisco Call. Marion was labeled a “philosopher, artist and society girl—to say nothing of being pretty” who had “decided between the bountiful life of a com-

fortable wife and the leanness that often attends the struggles of the ambitious.” While the article pointed out she had “achieved more than ordinary success” as an artist and “received flattering offers from the east,” Marion claimed, “All of my ambitions are laid aside. This, I hold, is substantial proof that I am truly and unreasonably in love.””

With her final divorce papers signed the week before, Marion’s and Robert’s families and a few friends gathered at six o’clock on Tuesday evening, November 14, 1911, at the Swedenborgian Church, where once again Reverend Leavitt, under more formal circumstances, performed the marriage ceremony. A reception and dinner followed at the Pikes’ luxurious apartments at the Fairmont Hotel. When Marion and Robert became engaged, they intended to spend their honeymoon abroad and live in New York, which, as the papers pointed out, “is so convenient to the capitals and art centers of Europe.” But by the time of the wedding, their plans had changed. Business at C. W. Pike’s was booming and Charles Pike needed his eldest son in Los Angeles to open a branch office. Charles had assured the East Coast steel and iron companies his firm represented of his ability to sell their products throughout California and Robert promised Marion that after a year or two at most in Los Angeles, they would move permanently to Paris, where she could study art at the Sorbonne.” It seemed like a reasonable compromise at the time.

24

a oo Chapter 2

hen Robert and Marion moved into their new home at 2600

\\// wis Boulevard in January of 1912, she stayed busy organiz-

ing the house while he opened C. W. Pike’s Los Angeles office. The demands of building his father’s business kept Robert downtown all day and into the night, and Marion failed to find domestic life particularly satisfying. It had been difficult enough to play the role of society matron in San Francisco where at least there was a society. This Los Angeles was another situation entirely. Los Angeles in 1912 was a sprawling flatland stretching between the ocean and the mountains. Within a thirty-five-mile radius, there were forty

incorporated towns, and it was close to impossible to know where one ended and another began. While the southern California land boom of the 1880s had not brought the number of people who swarmed northern California in the Gold Rush, it had induced a variety of characters to seek out the sun and a new life. Families determined to create their own little utopias bought several hundred or thousands of acres at a time, primarily from the Spanish land grants that still dominated the area, infusing the new communities with their Midwestern values. Pueblos, acres of orange groves, a few hotels, schools, churches, homes, and clusters of businesses were indiscriminately interspersed with lean-to refineries and thousands of wells, the result of the discovery of oil twenty years earlier. The region was tied together by a combination of paved and dirt roads and the Pacific Electric Company’s Red Car line, with tracks running from San Fernando down to Newport Beach and from Riverside out to the Pacific Ocean. To fill her hours and satisfy her natural curiosity, Marion

rode the Red Car, sitting alongside the tourists, workers, and cargo that depended on it as the only reasonable form of transportation.’ A new and steady outlet for Marion’s creativity was provided by the Los Angeles—based producer and theater owner Oliver Morosco. He had gone north to “raid his enemy’s territory” in search of actors, costume designers, and artists, and Marion had been recommended by her friend Waldemar 25

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Young, a reporter and grandson of Brigham Young who wrote the “Bits of Color Around the Town” column for the San Francisco Chronicle.’ Morosco looked up Marion upon his return and scanned her portraits of

Jack London, boxers Joe Gans and “Gentleman Jim” Corbett, Nob Hill debutantes, and local poets. “This is the kind of stuff I’m looking for,” he told her. “They catch the personalities.” He offered her the position of personal poster artist for his theater and promised that while “The job may not keep you busy all the time, I'll help you find plenty of work. We’ve got a booming city if those damned movie outfits seeping in there don’t ruin it.” When she gave him a questioning look, he explained there were “gangs” all over town “making what we used to call flickers,” adding that the more respectable citizens wanted to run them out of town.’ Los Angeles had first been introduced to the “screen machine” in 1896 when the lights were dimmed at the Orpheum and the image of a life-sized Anna Belle Sun danced for a few precious moments, projected onto a large white sheet. Since then, the technology had advanced considerably. Marion had been to the nickelodeons in San Francisco and watched the ten- to fifteen-minute “one reelers” shown between vaudeville acts. She found “the moving pictures” simple and awkward compared to live theater, yet she enjoyed the antics of a little blond girl known as “Goldilocks” and saw nothing at all offensive.’

Anything different was intriguing to Marion and when she went in search of a new home closer to Robert’s office and the Morosco Theater on South Broadway, she quickly came face-to-face with what she considered shocking provinciality. There were plenty of vacancy signs, but the small print often read “No dogs or actors allowed” or “No jews, actors or dogs.” The bigotry appalled her and her resentment was compounded as she faced

a barrage of questions at each door: “Do you live alone? Can you pay a month in advance? Are you in the flicks?” “No, J am an artist,” stated Marion proudly, but the distinction was not so clear to the inquiring proprietors. After several defeats, Marion rented a furnished home by telling the landlord her husband was a businessman and she was a seamstress; the easel she was moving in was to stretch and measure material. Yet if she found her new fellow townsfolk boorish, she was immediately comfortable at the theater. Oliver Morosco described his stock company as “one big happy family,” and she quickly became friends with fellow San Franciscans Lewis Stone and Bert Lytell and a sweet, husky boy who looked more like a college football tackle than a rising star, Robert Z. Leonard. She adored the tall comedienne Charlotte Greenwood brought out to star in So 26

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Long Letty but Marion was a bit taken aback by the regal reserve of Morosco’s newest star, Laurette Taylor.

Other members of the company were deferential to Morosco, but after reading the play, Marion walked right up to him and said earnestly, “Surely you aren’t going to put on an old wheeze like Peg o’ My Heart. Not after doing Shaw and Ibsen. It’s ‘Cinderella right out of the Dog Pound.’ ” Morosco warned Marion that it was a big success in New York and added, “Don’t you dare make any criticism about it to Miss Taylor. The play

was written by her new husband.” Laurette Taylor took the role of the young ingenue to heart and Marion’s job was to paint the essence of the character and, she reminded herself, not the lines of age that were already showing on the still beautiful actress who posed in front of her.® Peg o’ My Heart was a smash, playing for a over a year, and with his profits, Morosco expanded his empire by importing the New York actress Kitty Gordon, nationally proclaimed as having “the most beautiful back in America.”

Marion’s painting conspicuously featured Kitty’s famous asset, posing her glancing over her dazzling shoulders and down her bare back in a gown ending in a V at the waist. Morosco loved it, but when the lithographs went up, they were almost instantly vandalized. Letters protesting the poster poured into the newspapers and flyers were distributed in front of the theater. We must protect our innocent little children from seeing such obscene pictures of half-nude women. And we must keep them away from the evil influence of the nickelodeons and these lawless people who have forced themselves upon our beautiful city to make what they call movies. Only if we all unite can we drive them out.

It was signed “Conscientious Citizens.” The leaflets piqued Marion’s curiosity and she goaded a Morosco actor, Jimmy Gleason, into attending a “Conscientious Citizens” meeting with

her. They were greeted by a “bilious little man” announcing they were already a third of the way to their goal of 10,000 signatures on petitions “to tid our city of these hoodlums.” He introduced “the groups that are working the hardest to bring about this emancipation,” and hotel owners and

restauranteurs rose to promise not to allow anyone connected with the movies into their premises. A clubwoman explained why “legitimate” actors from the theater were different from these new hordes that cursed the city: “Stage folks keep their actions hidden behind closed doors, while those ‘flicker people,’ with their painted faces, perform shamelessly right out in the open.”®

Marion and Jimmy were so offended by the small-mindedness of the gathering, they dubbed them “The Constipated Citizens,” yet they too had 27

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seen cameras, men with megaphones, and costumed actors all over town. Fires or police chases of any kind were fair game to be used as backdrops, as

were horse races, sporting events, and parades. The participants were referred to as “movies” and Agnes de Mille remembered, “They were really outcasts. The Keystone cops would take over a street and do what they had to do before the real police arrived. It was fun, but it was socially unacceptable. I knew what racial discrimination was because I was a ‘movie.’ ” Even when The Los Angeles Times editorialized about the economic ben-

efits of the new business, they acknowledged the problem: “The motion picture people may be something of a pest, but their value to the community as national and international advertisers is inestimable.” Robert’s innate sense of respectability made him side with the Conscientious Citizens and Marion would later recall her second husband as being “years older,” even though he was only three years her senior. He spent his days in a conservative business milieu and the “differences in our social instincts”

became all the more apparent. He “felt uncomfortable with my artist and writer friends and wanted us to live a formal mid-Victorian existence.”"! What had once looked liberating from the position of the working wife of a poor artist now became confining. Marion was coming to terms with the fact she would never be happy as a society wife and that she worked because she wanted to, yet she managed to postpone most immediate conflicts with Robert because they spent so little time together. He was busy working and traveling and when Marion wasn’t painting or at the theater, she took to studying the history of the region. One of her favorite weekend haunts was the historic plaza designed 150 years earlier by the original Franciscan Mission settlement for the founding population of thirty-two people. The narrow cobbled streets that led from the plaza were sheltered by pepper trees and oleanders and on Sundays, devout Catholics and tourists mixed with the Mexican families who lived in the nearby adobes.” One Sunday afternoon in early 1914, Marion looked up from the bench where she sat sketching Mexican children at play to see a tall, hefty woman in a broad-brimmed hat and an unflattering, boldly printed dress walking out of one of the small shops, carrying a bag of popcorn. Marion watched as she tossed the popcorn to the pigeons and listened as the woman conversed with the birds, ordering them not to be so greedy. Then Marion’s heart gave a little leap as she realized the woman was Marie Dressler. Instinctively, she stood up, but immediately sat back down, sure that the famous actress would not remember “a silly young reporter.” Marion started to make a quick sketch, but Marie headed toward her as she emptied the popcorn bag onto the ground. 28

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“I’m not really off my trolley,” she said, glancing up from under her hat at

Marion, the only person sitting nearby. “I like birds. I talk to them. I have an old parrot, a regular...”

As Marion stealthily slipped the drawing back into the pad, Marie stopped short. “Say, aren’t you the girl who interviewed me in San Francisco four or five years ago?”

Marion rose again as she said, “Yes, Miss Dressler, but I didn’t dream you'd remember me.” “I’m not the forgetting type. ’'ve often wondered what became of you. Hate to lose track of anybody I take a fancy to.” Relaxing Marion with her easy charm, Marie reached out her hand and suggested they go into “one of these little Mexican joints and have a tamale.”

Marion’s familiarity with the area gave her the confidence to suggest Sefiora Martinez’s El Pajaro restaurant around the corner. Four tables filled the small adobe dining room, and Marie was impressed when Marion was welcomed like family by the owner and ordered for both of them in Spanish. The feeling of comfortable informality quickly fell over the two women just as it had that night long ago in San Francisco.” Marion talked about her work for Morosco and her second husband and

Marie said she too had left an early unhappy marriage and spoke of her childhood in Cobourg, Canada. She was born Leila Maria Koerber and by the time she was ten, she was larger than her fifteen-year-old sister and so responsible she considered herself as “born older.” Marie adored her “frail

little mother,” who, “gentle as she was, had courage enough to stand between me and my father. He was a tyrannical German musician who worshipped beauty and couldn't forgive me for being such a mudhen.”" Marie was in Los Angeles to film Tillie’s Punctured Romance for Mack

Sennett at his Keystone studio in Edendale, and her supporting players were Mabel Normand, a girl “with a complexion that makes you think of gardenias,” and a new rising star, Charlie Chaplin. ‘The English comic had just signed with Keystone after being discovered as he toured America with Fred Karno’s burlesque troop. Marie had first met Mack Sennett when she was an established comedienne and he, working in a Connecticut iron foundry, sought her advice on

how to break into show business. With her help he became an actor for David Wark Griffith, and rumor had it that his mentor was now working on a film of epic proportions. Mack was inspired to try something similar and, never forgetting Marie’s early guidance, signed her for the remarkable sum of $2,500 a week to create his first six-reel comedy.”

Marie entranced Marion with tales of making movies, comparing the process to “sitting in the middle of a cement mixer.” She thought a pretty 29

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girl had an easier time of it and asked if she had considered “going into the movies?”

“Do they use artists?” “I mean to play in them. Be an actress. You’ve got the looks.” Marion laughed at the thought, claiming she couldn't act “even if Svengali hypnotized me,” but admitted she would love to do more portraits of the actors. “Come on out to the studio anytime and ask for me. I’ll be happy to tote you around.” The sun was setting over the plaza as they left the restaurant, basking in the warmth of an easy friendship. Marie reminded her of what she had said in San Francisco years before. This time, Marion was secure in the knowledge that the phrase “I'll see you again” was a fact, not just a hope. “ll be repeating that promise if you come to the studio in about a week; our company will be in full swing by then and I'll introduce you to Chaplin.”

But weeks passed before Marion was free to venture out to Edendale. Because painting for Morosco was intermittent, she had arranged to be on call for an advertising firm and they suddenly were in need of several commercial layouts with immediate deadlines. When she finally arrived at the Sennett studio and asked for Miss Dressler, the guard informed her “Punctured is in the can. She left for New York yesterday.” Until she was turned away, Marion had not realized how much she was looking forward to being on the lot, if only for an afternoon. Just being at the gates of the studio electrified her with excitement. Then, within days of this disappointment, Oliver Morosco told her that because the cost of lithographing had recently tripled, he could not rationalize keeping her on salary."’ At twenty-five, Marion had already developed the philosophy to “take failure with my chin up and success, when it comes, in stride.” She took this news as a minor setback and leased a fourth-floor studio at 315 Broadway,

sharing the rent with fellow illustrator Hilda Hasse. Marion turned to working full-time for advertising men, whom she found “deadly serious and content in their narrow world,” and tried to lace her layouts selling bunion removers and pickles with charm and sex appeal. In her boredom, her dissatisfaction with Robert increased, but she refused to entertain the thought

of returning to San Francisco; her ambition remained intact and she was confident that Los Angeles was where she belonged." Marion spent many of her evenings with the woman who was becoming her best friend in Los Angeles, Adela Rogers. They had first met in San Francisco shortly after the earthquake, when the teenage Adela came to town with her father, one of the country’s most famous defense attorneys. Adela’s parents separated when she was still a child and with the exception of a few months at the Convent of Notre Dame in Santa Clara and 30

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traveling in Europe with her aunt and uncle, Adela had been raised and educated by tutors, her father, and her grandparents. She disdained her mother and worshipped her father, who involved her in his cases and took her with him in his travels. Adela adored San Francisco and would always claim she was from there because “it sounded much more glamorous and literary” than Los Angeles.” Being Earl Rogers’s daughter was a role Adela took seriously. In fact, she always assumed she would be a lawyer, but a brief foray into acting led her astray as far as Earl was concerned and he introduced her to William Ran-

dolph Hearst. The publisher hired her at the age of eighteen as a cub reporter for his Los Angeles Herald Examiner, where she thrived, using her

natural curiosity as well as the investigative techniques and storytelling abilities she had learned at her father’s knee. Marion had been raised to think independently and to be relatively selfsufficient, but she paled in comparison to Adela. Marion was several years older and she knew Adela well enough to see her insecurities, but Adela conducted herself with such an aura of sureness that she was always the one in charge. With opinions on absolutely everything, she was a close friend and an authority figure at the same time. Yet she put Marion on a bit of a pedestal as well. She had been impressed and just a little threatened when Earl Rogers pronounced upon meeting Marion for the first time, “That girl has genius. She’ll do something.””°

The two women were occasionally joined by the stars Adela met through reporting and the Keystone comedienne Mabel Normand became a favorite companion. They ventured out to the Vernon Country Club, the closest thing to the Barbary Coast south of the Tahatchapis, where Adela would drink créme de menthe, Marion a weak scotch, and Mabel whiskey “with apricot brandy added to kill the taste.” They danced until all hours and then crawled back into town, sometimes going straight to work or catching a quick nap at Mabel’s apartment at Seventh and Figueroa.”! Adela was also spending time with the Herald Examiner’s tall, goodlooking copy editor Ike St. Johns, but many nights she, Marion, and an eclectic group of friends gathered at Ivy’s, Al Levy’s at Third and Main, or the Ship Café down on the Venice pier. The regulars included Eric von Stroheim, a young man who claimed to have his fortune tied up in Europe so “he lived meagerly off what he could borrow from the rest of us.” Marion tolerated him because he was a friend of Adela’s and found “his stories amusing, his lies preposterous and he entertained us, even though we didn’t think he

had a chance to succeed.” They also enjoyed the company of Sessue Hayakawa and Tsuru Aoki, whom Marion had known and liked at St. Margaret’s Hall. The couple 31

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were engaged to be married and determined to be successful actors, so when Tsuru was cast in The Geisha along with their friend Frank Borzage, one of the few actors they knew who worked regularly, Adela convinced him to put in a word for Sessue with the director Thomas Ince.” Marion and Adela went together to watch The Geisha being filmed one afternoon at “Inceville,” the massive strip of land off Sunset bordering on the Pacific Ocean where film could be shot on the beach and in the mountains on the same day. Adela was “a walkie-talkie encyclopedia of intellectual and casual information” on the people and the techniques they were using, and Marion soaked it all in. She stayed in touch with her friends from the Morosco Theater, missing the regular contact with the personalities, the gossip, and the warring factions, all in equal measure. Few of the actors, excepting Charlotte Green-

wood and Bob Leonard, who had just “deserted” to act and direct at Universal, expressed any desire or even willingness to perform in front of the camera. Enticing as the money was, flickers were still looked down on by everyone who considered themselves serious actors. Jimmy Gleason avoided the temptation by writing a play that was to be produced in New York, and a farewell gathering was quickly arranged. Among the familiar faces at Jimmy’s party were several “movies” and Marion was introduced to Owen Moore. She knew he and his older brothers, Matt and Tom, had been acting since their teens and that Owen was married to Mary Pickford, known as the “girl with the golden curls.” Variety had started reporting on motion pictures as early as 1907 and

newspapers created sections for reviews soon after. But the boom in moviegoing had resulted in new magazines such as Moving Picture World and Photoplay, a lavishly colored monthly selling for fifteen cents a copy. With features like “Who’s Who in the Photoplays,” word quickly spread that the favorite known as “Goldilocks” or “Little Mary” had a full name; it was Mary Pickford and Frances had already noticed “the quality of her films were above the rest.”” A slight man about five feet ten inches, with deep blue eyes and dark hair slicked straight back, Owen struck Marion as almost too handsome.

“He overworked the affected charm and mannerism of the professional Irishman, but in a gush of enthusiasm I told him how clever I thought Miss Pickford was.” “Mary has an expressive little talent,” Owen responded. “Hardly what one could call cerebral.” Star or butcher, Marion could not abide any husband’s talking about his wife that way. Controlling herself, she smiled and walked away, but Owen gave her a moment to cool down and followed her to the punch bowl. 32

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“Can't you women learn to fortify yourselves against the truth, or do we

always have to lie to you? Would I have seemed more gallant had | endowed Mary with a greater talent than Sarah Bernhardt?” As Marion was debating whether to turn away again, he asked her if she

would like him to arrange a meeting with Mary. Her anger changed to interest, particularly when he added, “Charlotte Greenwood tells me you do fine portraits. Take some of your work along and maybe you can do one of Mary.”

The party was breaking up and Marion said her good-byes. She was excited at the possibility of meeting Mary Pickford and thought Owen Moore “was a very attractive Lothario, if only he hadn’t made that snide remark about his wife’s talent.”” Although three years younger than Marion, Mary Pickford was old beyond her years. She had been the family breadwinner since the age of eight, playing in stage roles with stock companies that took her away from her native

Toronto and her widowed mother; sister Lottie, and brother Jack for months at a time. She was all of fifteen in the summer of 1907 when she determined to make a career in New York. Sleeping on a friend’s chair and paying the “rent” by shopping and cleaning, she saved every penny she could to send home. Blindly ambitious, she bombarded the preeminent producer David Belasco with letters and photographs of herself and won the role of young Betty in his production of The Warrens of Virginia, written by William de Mille and costarring his younger brother, Cecil.” It was Belasco who decided that Gladys Smith needed a new stage name

and together they reviewed her family tree for one with marquee value. They stopped at her maternal grandfather, Jack Pickford Hennessey, and she proudly wired her mother, “Gladys Smith now Mary Pickford engaged by David Belasco to appear on Broadway this fall.” She never looked back and she was never a child again. As if to underscore their dedication to her future, the rest of the family adopted the name Pickford as well.”°

Mary had done little but work since then, and with her mother’s constant guidance, negotiated increases in pay with each new studio and contract. Insulated in her family and films, Mary had little time for friends, excepting the fatherless Gish sisters, with whom the family shared rooms in New York during the off season. But that spring of 1914 when Owen men-

tioned a woman who was an excellent portrait painter and someone he thought she would like, Mary was willing to make the time. Still, it had to be at the studio so she could cut the interview short if she wanted.

Marion was not about to repeat the mistake she had made when she missed Marie Dressler. As soon as she was summoned, she dropped every33

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thing and prepared for her audience, but that morning the Santa Ana winds were blowing hard, making it impossible to carry her portfolio. If she was to be on time, she had to leave her pictures at home.

A young man met Marion at the studio entrance and walked her through the dirt lot until he knocked at the door of a wooden building. A voice called out for them to enter and there in a darkened room stood Mary Pickford editing film with the cutter. She greeted Marion with a smile and a firm handshake and took her into a side room to talk. Marion’s first reaction to Mary was to sense “a strange watchfulness behind her steadfast gaze.” She was surprised at the vulnerability from someone she had put on a pedestal and she instantly developed a fiercely protective attitude toward Mary that was to be a hallmark of their friendship.”

Their shared sense of ambition united them immediately and although Mary was initially more reticent than Marion, they quickly established a shared sense of failure in their respective marriages as well. They had both married for the first time a few months short of their eighteenth birthday, and while Mary had seen more than most people twice her age, she had lived a very sheltered and disciplined life; nothing had prepared her for the first time Owen Moore put his arm around her. The physical sensations she felt were entirely new to her and she was swept off her feet. Moore was seven years older, known as a man about town and, perhaps most offensive of all to her mother, Charlotte, “a five-dollar-a-day actor.” Yet when he threatened to leave her if she didn’t marry him, they secretly wed in January 1911 and hid the fact from her mother for several months.”

When their relationship was written about in the press, it was all romance, sweetness, and fluff. Reality was a very different picture. Owen and Mary had their own apartment for a while, but Mary had no experience in relationships and, growing up on trains and in boardinghouses, knew even less about domestic skills. And her mother was always there; in their home, at the studio, and even traveling with them. Charlotte would check in to the suite, point to one bedroom, and announce with authority, “You take that room Owen. Mary and I will sleep in here.” Mary’s star was rising and Owen’s, if not descending, was standing still and his drinking did not help matters. All these factors, combined with ditferent shooting schedules, gave the marriage little chance at all.” In the fall of 1913, Mary was hospitalized with what some biographers claim were internal injuries incurred when, following the script, she carried a much larger girl from a burning schoolhouse. Mary herself would later refer to her condition as a ruptured appendix and the November issue of Photoplay reported that she was “convalescing rapidly” from “a serious attack of appendicitis.” But others ascertained that Mary was suffering 34

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from the afteraffects of an abortion performed in a New York hospital. Whatever the actual cause for her hospitalization, Mary was never able to have children.” By January of 1914, Mary was well enough to travel to California and resume filming. The press reported that “poor ‘Little Mary’ still looks awfully tiny and thin,” but by the next month they were “wishing that “Little Mary’s’ health will continue to improve and that no more horrid operations will have to be performed or horrid medicines taken,” a stiletto jab if she had had an abortion.” She looked wonderful to Marion when they first met only a few months later and she was relieved that Mary was not at all concerned that she had been unable to bring her portfolio. After over an hour of comfortable con-

versation, Mary assured her there would be plenty of time for portrait painting when she returned from New York in the fall. As Marion left the studio, the young man at the gate commented on his amazement that “Miss Pickford spent so much time” with her and she felt exhilarated. In a short few months, Marion had seen Marie Dressler again, been to Inceville, and met Mary Pickford. She was convinced fate was playing a hand and was more determined than ever to find work in “the movies.” Marie had offered to help, but she was in New York and Marion’s mind raced to think of who else would have suggestions. Adela Rogers would know.

Only the week before she had seen Adela at the Alexandria Hotel lunching with Lois Weber. While there were a good dozen women directors working in Los Angeles, Lois Weber at the age of thirty-two was the best known, most respected, and highest paid; it had just been announced that

she had signed a $50,000-a-year contract. As Marion left the hotel, she noticed Adela waving, but not wanting to interrupt, she smiled and walked out the door.” The next day, Adela told her Lois Weber had wanted to meet her. “She’s

always on the look out for new faces and you're the refined type that appeals to her.” Marion laughed out loud at the thought, but what days before had seemed like a ludicrous idea now struck her as a logical possibility, and she asked Adela to set up an appointment with the director.* Lois Weber had a reputation for supporting other women, and encouraged actresses such as Gene Gauntier, Cleo Madison, and Dorothy Daven-

port to direct. Lois also had a sense of purpose that went beyond the creative spirit that drew others to the business.

As a child in Allegheny City, Pennsylvania, she studied music and toured as a concert pianist until a piano key broke during a recital and she lost all nerve to play in front of an audience. Working as a Church Home Missionary in the poorer sections of Pittsburgh, she was frustrated by the 35

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seeming futility of one-on-one conversions and her uncle advised her to take up acting. “As I was convinced the theatrical profession needed a missionary, he suggested that the best way to reach them was to become one of them so | went on the stage filled with a great desire to convert my fellowman.”” Joining a Chicago stock company, she soon married their star actor and stage manager Phillips Smalley, the good-looking grandson of Oliver Wendell Holmes. Lois’s acting was praised for “radiating domesticity” and critics claimed she was “at her best playing the young matron,” but when she left the company to keep house for Phillips, she soon tired of not working and found a job with the Gaumont film company, where she was encouraged to write, act, and try her hand at directing. Her husband soon joined her and they quickly established themselves as codirectors, with Lois writing all the stories and acting in many of them.” They moved between a series of studios before signing with Universal in

Los Angeles, where Lois became known for her sophisticated camera angles and split-screen techniques. Universal supported the Smalleys with budgets that allowed for such luxuries as paying $1,200 for a small island that they then blew up for cinematic effect, yet they felt constrained by the demand for two two-reel films a month and the perceived “envious eyes” of their coworkers. Phillips particularly courted the attention of the press and Jean Darnell’s “Studio Chat” column in Photoplay barely let a month go by without mentioning the couple.”

In April of 1914 Lois and Phillips spent a month filming in Laguna Beach, where they met Hobart Bosworth, a respected Broadway actor whose tuberculosis had driven him to seek California’s recuperative climate. He had reluctantly become a motion picture actor five years earlier when offered $125 to star in The Power of the Sultan for Selig, filmed at a Chinese laundry because

the backdrops could be hung on the clotheslines. He moved on to producing his own films and, an ardent Jack London fan, he wrote, directed, and starred in The Sea Wolf, a seven-reel film made for $9,000. With the $4 million in profits it brought in, he created his own studio.” Bosworth’s conversations with Lois and Phillips turned to their desire to make films of whatever length and subject they chose and he invited them

to work with him. Wide distribution of their films would be assured as he was in the process of joining forces with Famous Players and Jesse Lasky to form Paramount Pictures.* By early summer of 1914, the Smalleys were at the Bosworth studios and Lois was directing her first film. When Marion arrived for her appointment, she was ushered past actors re-creating the French Revolution and into an

office to be introduced to “a tall woman, with classical features. She 36

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seemed to glide rather than walk, her head held high and tilted slightly backward, her ample breasts preceding her well-corseted body.” Marion thought she most closely resembled a figurehead on a sailing ship.” As Lois sat behind a large desk and looked through Marion’s portfolio of

drawings, she began the conversation by telling Marion how much she enjoyed finding new talent. Marion “told her how much | wanted to design costumes and sets in a movie studio” and their shared love of filmmaking permeated their discussion. Yet when Lois asked, “Would you like to come under my wing as one of my little starlets?” Marion was not sure she understood. She reiterated that her experience was as an artist and a writer; she was interested in working “on the dark side of the camera.””

Lois assured her that at most studios, and at Bosworth in particular, everyone did a little of everything. She was offering her a position as her assistant and protégée where she would work in every stage of production, including in front of the camera. When the director said, “I’m sure we can match whatever salary you are making now” and then asked, “How soon can you start?” Marion knew she had found a new home. Lois was cognizant that she was hiring more than a bright and talented young woman; she was also ensuring a connection with a close friend of Adela Rogers, the rising star reporter of the Los Angeles Herald. And while

this was a greater entrée into the world of filmmaking than Marion had dreamed possible, there were compromises to be made. She was to be listed on the studio books as an actress and with a new name. A few months short of her twenty-sixth birthday, Marion Benson Owens de Lappe Pike signed her contract with Bosworth Inc. as “Frances Marion, Actress, Refined type, age 19.”

37

a ee Chapter 3

he Bosworth complex on Occidental was, for its time, state of the art.

[k had been built from the ground up as a year-round studio, in con-

trast to the many other companies that used vacant buildings on the empty lots during the winter months. (The term “shooting on the lot” came about because that is exactly what they were doing.) The executive office building was two stories of steel and concrete and housed the accounting department, scenario writers, and editors. A theater was attached to the laboratory where thousands of feet of film were printed each day. There was a carpenter’s shop and a huge property room with a door designed so trucks could load up the sets and roll them directly onto the stage. A glass roof opened or was covered with canvas to allow for ventilation and a release of the intense heat from the lights that plagued other studios.* Lois Weber was in the middle of Traitor when Frances started working at Bosworth. She did whatever needed doing: writing press releases, moving

furniture on the sets, painting backgrounds, and mastering the art of cutting film. She learned to respect continuity and ensure that the same prop was held in the same hand when scenes were shot out of sequence. One of her first friends at Bosworth was a young man with a similar sense of responsibility, a fellow San Franciscan named Sidney Franklin, and Frances said, “No one would have been surprised to see us sweeping the floor.” Bosworth’s cameraman George Hill, the first cinematographer to see his name on the screen in the credits for The Sea Wolf, became enamored of Frances. He was tall, good-looking, and seven years younger than she, but Frances was not about to enter a serious relationship. Robert was spending more of his time in San Francisco and she was practically living at the studio so it was easy to postpone dealing with their failing marriage.’

In addition to her role as Lois’s assistant, Frances appeared in front of the camera, but for a reason she found acceptable: the sophistication of the moviegoing audiences was growing and word was filtering back that it was not only the deaf who read lips. Extras were being caught in conversations

totally unrelated to the action, and with Lois’s zeal for detail, she asked 38

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Frances to write pertinent lines of dialogue for the extras to say and then work among them in costume. Dressed as “a gypsy, barmaid, nun, prisoner and slut,” she consoled herself with the knowledge that she was actually writing for films, even if it was mostly one-liners.

Her every skill and experience were called upon, including horseback riding when she doubled for the star Winifred Kingston in Captain Courtesy, an action-packed “Robin Hood in early California” five-reeler. And when Lois asked her to create a stage name for her newest “starlet” from Kansas, Olga Kronk, she “suggested ‘Claire’ because she was a natural blonde with delicate features and light complexion and ‘Windsor’ because she suggested aristocracy.” Frances worked longer hours for less pay than she ever dreamed she would, loving most of it and continuously learning.‘

While other directors simply attached themselves to outdoor events, Lois approached the owners of lavish residences in respectable neighborhoods and arranged to “rent” their homes for a few days. These realistic backgrounds added authenticity and saved the company time and money by not having to create their own scenery, yet filming this way required that all the action set

against that background be completed at one time, often out of sequence.’ Frances developed a deep respect for Lois Weber’s abilities and a fierce loyalty to her. The responsibilities Lois took on were daunting to say the least; directing, producing, writing, casting, editing, and acting, all with a

determination and a dedication that went beyond mere work ethic. Although Frances was almost “irreligious,” she and Lois shared a strong compassion for the abused underdog. Ardent in her beliefs, Lois was often mistakenly taken to be a Christian fundamentalist, but she was more of a libertarian, opposing censorship and

the death penalty and championing birth control. The need for a strong, loving, and nurturing home was clearly promoted as well and if there was a single maxim that underlay each film it was that selfishness and egocentricity erode the individual and the community. Many of the films she made at Universal focused on a moral topic, such as prejudice in The Jew’s Christmas, and wife beating in His Brand, but it was at Bosworth that she became known for her “Big Theme” films. Hypocrites, a four-reel allegorical drama that Lois wrote and directed soon after Frances arrived at Bosworth, was the most controversial and, not incidentally, the most profitable. The recurring presence of “Truth,” portrayed as a naked woman, provoked a censorship debate and massive press coverage, but when it was eventually released throughout the country, her fame was cemented. “After seeing Hypocrites,” said Variety, “you can’t forget the name of Lois Weber.” To Frances’s surprise and pleasure, the studio was expanded to include Oliver Morosco. In spite of his protestations against the flickers only a few 39

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years before, it was a natural business move to turn his repertoire of plays into films. Charlotte Greenwood came with him and having the comedienne around the studio added to the fun. In the three years she had been in Los Angeles, Frances had witnessed significant changes. There were now dozens of studios and their ripple effect on the local economy could no longer be ignored. While there were still occasional outbursts from the righteous, most of the former “Constipated Citizens” were too busy counting their money to object further. The Los Angeles Chamber of Commerce proudly announced that over 15,000 locals “were supported by the industry” that brought over $15 million to the area. Hotels were booming, restaurants were packed, and new neighborhoods were popping up where only sagebrush had thrived before.’ New talent was always being sought and Elsie Janis, a popular young vaudevillian and Broadway comedy star famous for her impersonations, arrived at the Bosworth studios in the fall of 1914. She had been headlining at the Palace Theatre in London, but along with many other Americans visiting overseas, returned to the States when the European war broke out. Elsie made four films in four months at Bosworth and while she and Frances became friends immediately, it was harder to warm up to Elsie’s

mother, Josephine. Insisting everyone call her Ma, she rarely left her daughter’s side and, in a voice that reminded Frances of a honking goose, had her say about everything, including sets, costumes, and casts. But soon Frances saw that while some people were afraid of her or even actively disliked her, Ma was quietly generous and thoughtful to the extras, dressmakers, and musicians—people from whom reciprocity was impossible in any way except through gratitude and devotion.® Ma Janis decided that refined type or not, Frances should be cast as one of the cavewomen in “Twas Ever Thus. They trooped out to Chatsworth

Park, thirty miles north of Los Angles, to film, and with Elsie playing “Lithesome” and titles that read, “Fearless women of the Stone Age who fought and died alongside their men,” Frances was grateful that her small part called for her face to be covered with mud.’ Elsie was drawn to Frances’s ribald sense of humor and encouraged her to help write her comedies. Elsie made light of the work, but she openly depended on the discipline of people like Frances and Sidney Franklin, whom Elsie took to calling “George Detail” because he followed her around the set saying, “You had your handkerchief in your left hand in the last shot, Miss Janis.”"°

Owen Moore was hired to play opposite Elsie and Frances was appalled as she watched the young extras clamoring to be in scenes with him. He intimated to Elsie that his marriage was virtually over, but when Mary Pick40

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ford returned to California in November and caught them holding hands on the set, she was furious. Mary had known Elsie since they played Shea’s

Theater in Toronto together as children in 1899, but she didn’t trust her with her husband. Mary continued to drop by often to keep an eye on Owen and she and Frances began to solidify their friendship." In January of 1915, Elsie returned to London to entertain the English troops and Hobart Bosworth left the company that bore his name. He had been ill for several months and the doctors warned him that without com-

plete rest, his tuberculosis might return. The press reported that Lois Weber and Phillips Smalley “were not happy” at the studio without Bosworth and in early April they met with Carl Laemmle, the president of Universal, who was in town for the official opening of his new, sprawling Universal City.” The Smalleys returned to Universal with the assurance that they would be producing multireel “feature pictures,” a concession for Laemmle who

was devoted to shorter films. He claimed long features were doomed because “every exhibitor I talk to will be only too glad when they come back to one or two reels and once in a while a three reel feature.” In spite of the success of The Sea Wolf and the Italian film Quo Vadis? Laemmle’s attitude was shared by many, including William Selig, who was adamant that

“the single reel photo drama is the keystone of the motion picture industry.” Universal would continued to produce two-reelers into the twenties, but even their most dogmatic supporters had their assumptions challenged on February 8, 1915, with the premiere of D. W. Griffith’s The Clansman.” Soon to be known by its subtitle, “The Birth of a Nation,” The Clansman provoked so much discussion because of its length, epic scope, and photography, as well as its controversial storyline, that it became a “must see” even

for people who had never been to a movie theater before. To those who worked in the business, any residual tendency to apologize for their profession vanished. The film brought a sense of collective pride and accomplishment and suggested a new level of potential for creative fulfillment. Frances was among the multitude swept away with enthusiasm for the grandeur of The Clansman, yet as sure as she was of her love of moviemaking, she was still unclear as to how she fit in. Lois Weber offered to take her with her to Universal, but Frances decided it was time to strike out on her

own. She received an offer from the two-year-old Balboa studio in Long Beach, which was expanding its writing department and turning to women in its search for new talent." She understood why there were so many successful women writers; it

was a creative outlet achieved in private and required relatively little bravado. Women’s novels were best-sellers, short stories by women filled 4]

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popular magazines, and women writers were commonplace in the film industry. Yet no one knew the exact number because many stories were mailed directly to the film companies and a ten- or twenty-five-dollar check was sent back with a receipt and a release form. Seldom was there a writer’s credit on the screen. Alice Guy Blaché had started as a secretary for Gaumont in Paris and risen to be a successful director at Solax in New Jersey. While acknowledging “strong prejudice” still existed, she claimed that “there is nothing con-

nected with the staging of a motion picture that a woman cannot do as easily as a man.” Movie magazines ran scenario contests and writing advice columns. A scenario writer for Essanay in Chicago, one Louella O. Parsons, had just published How to Write for the Movies and it was selling briskly at a dollar a copy. Scenario writing was touted as “a new profession for women” and Marguerite Bertsch, Daisy Smith, Catherine Carr, and Josephine Recot

were highlighted in the press as names to watch. In fact, women were at every level of moviemaking, but an important reason they were welcomed and appreciated and even occasionally nurtured and promoted from within was that movies were not taken seriously as a business.” Yet once Frances was ensconced at Balboa, she found “the promise of a writing job was as empty as a blown egg.” She was paid all right—to play minor roles in westerns and costume dramas. She couldn’t understand it. When she watched herself on the screen, she saw “a tall, gawky girl whose waving arms looked like two busy windmills, a stranger who made a few grimaces and then dashed off again.” Her only solace was the new friends she was making, especially another scenario writer, Bess Meredyth.”® Bess had been precociously enterprising as a young girl in her hometown

of Buffalo, New York, where her father managed a local theater. Born Helen Elizabeth MacGlashin, she became a talented pianist in her teens and spent a year with several maiden aunts in Detroit. Her parents were pleased with her musical accomplishments, but horrified when one of the aunts began touring with a group known as The Ladies Whistling Chorus. The red-headed, vivacious Bess returned to Buffalo to play concert piano, but discovered her true métier by winning a writing contest sponsored by the local newspaper. She was paid a dollar for each of her daily columns and after what she called a marriage that lasted “five and a half minutes” she took her savings and set out on a national concert tour.” Arriving in Los Angeles in the winter of 1911, Bess found work as an extra with Biograph and took the stage name of Meredyth from her family tree. She realized she could make more money if she wrote scenarios in addition to acting and jumped between assignments for several studios, churning out one-reelers, serials, and action dramas. 42

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Bess and Frances shared a strong sense of humor and fierce ambition. Both women viewed their earliest marriages as minor indiscretions, but Frances felt a pang of jealousy over Bess’s freedom, living alone in a bungalow at the foot of the Hollywood hills, surrounded by her dogs, with a room of her own to write in. Engaged to Wilfred Lucas, a young actor and director with whom she shared her passion for films, Bess seemed so confident that the next job would always be right around the corner.*

And it didn’t help when Frances visited Universal and Lois Weber chided her for not coming with her. Her Morosco friends Lon Chaney and Bob Leonard were there as well as Hobart Bosworth, sufficiently recovered

to act in films and free from the burdens of running his own studio. It seemed that everyone but Frances was sure of the path they were taking.” Suffering from professional self-doubt only intensified Frances’s awareness of how little she had in common with Robert. They had hardly seen each other over the past year since his father closed his Los Angeles office

in 1914. Robert returned to San Francisco and they both admitted there was no reason to keep up the pretense of a relationship. Claiming responsibility for the failure of her marriage, Frances refused any financial settle-

ment. She told herself she should have known better than to marry someone to whom society and respectability were so consequential. Although her San Francisco roots would always be important to her, for better or worse, Los Angeles was home.

Knowing Frances was unhappy at Balboa and in her marriage, Mary Pickford offered her a job. Frances did not want to act, but if everyone was going to keep propelling her in front of the camera, she preferred to work

with people she liked and respected. “When Mary said, ‘We'll have fun together,’ all my resistance fled and I signed on the dotted line.” She would be paid to act, but Mary promised to let her work on the scenarios as well. Frances moved into a bungalow in the same courtyard where Mary and her mother were living. Charlotte Pickford viewed living on the West Coast as a temporary situation. Perusing the still developing neighborhoods of Los Angeles, she invested Mary’s income in land but not houses and insisted they continue renting. The poverty of their earlier years influenced every decision Charlotte made and she made all the decisions.

The rooms in the bungalows were small, the overhead lights were too bright, and the plaster on the walls looked like “an advanced stage of small-

pox,” but there were spacious vine-covered porches to enjoy on warm evenings. All in all, Frances considered the change a small price to pay for her freedom and at twenty-six with two marriages behind her, she was truly on her own for the first time in her adult life. It felt a bit precarious, but living near and working with Mary was a dream come true. 43

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Charlotte and Frances liked each other immediately. Whereas others saw Charlotte as an oppressive influence, Frances saw genuine love and caring and in turn, Mary’s mother welcomed her daughter’s having a real friend and confidante. And being with Mary every day deepened Frances’s appreciation for her discipline and experience.” Mary had been making movies since she presented herself as an experienced Broadway actress to D. W. Griffith at Biograph, a former mansion

turned studio in lower Manhattan, in April of 1909. A frustrated stage actor who had turned to directing a little over a year before Mary arrived on the doorstep, Griffith had already made more than one hundred films. Mary knew movies were a comedown, but it was the off season and money had to be made. The five dollars a day Biograph was paying would not be sufficient; “I must have ten,” Mary announced with such surety that Griffith agreed to pay. She was immediately put to work in Her First Biscuits, a three-quarterreel comedy, and in less than a year, she appeared in almost fifty movies.”

Under Griffith’s direction, and through working with his cameraman Billy Bitzer, Mary learned the technical side of moviemaking. During the filming of Friends, Bitzer physically moved the camera in toward the stage so that only Mary’s face and upper body filled the lens; the term “close-up”

was being added to the vocabulary and the distinction between the stage and film was being formalized. Cameras had been moved since early cinema, but Griffith “used it with such finesse and with such emotional power that it was easy to imagine he invented the close-up.”” Frances and Mary were at the Famous Players studio on Melrose by seven every morning and Frances devoted herself to writing and watching as she worked on the scenarios with Mary, her director James Kirkwood, and her costar Mickey Neilan. They quickly turned out Fanchon the Cricket, Little Pal, and Rags before Frances was cast as “the wicked sophisticate” Rosanna Danforth who has her eye on Mary’s beau in A Girl of Yesterday.” In her role as a vamp, Frances was called upon to woo a pilot and Glenn Martin, a local aviator, was hired. Flying a plane was an everyday occurrence for Martin, but once filming had started, he claimed “nobody told me

I'd have to kiss girls.” He refused to go through with that part of the plot “because my mother wouldn’t like it,” until the Famous Players studio head, Adolph Zukor himself, came on location to Griffith Park and insisted Martin give Frances at least a little peck.” Frances took it all in good humor and had a great time, especially when the cameras weren’t rolling. The huge yacht of the San Francisco multimil-

lionare John D. Spreckles was featured in some particularly luxurious scenes and she enjoyed their director Allan Dwan, who had been working in films for over five years.” 44

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Dwan sincerely liked people and was secure enough in his own abilities to include others in the process. The friendly atmosphere extended to his inviting everyone to his wedding to the actress Pauline Bush in San Juan Capistrano during a weekend break. Inspired by the church mission and in a burst of regret over the secret surroundings of their own wedding, Mary and Owen asked the priest to renew their vows in a Catholic ceremony. The service struck Frances as halfhearted at best. She knew how little time they spent together and had seen too much of Owen’s behavior and Mary’s unhappiness to put any faith in a ritual.” After shooting was finished each day, Frances worked on her own scenario for Mary, entitled The Foundling. She opened the story by establishing that twelve-year-old Mary, the cheerful favorite of all the other children in the orphanage, has been abandoned after her mother died in childbirth and her artist father is unable to face raising the daughter alone. Mary is soon adopted by the proprietor of a boardinghouse, who brusquely informs her, “I didn’t bring you here to mother you, I brought you here to work.” Mary runs away and through a twist of fate, goes to work for her real father as a maid. After more complications, the truth is revealed and the father properly chastises himself: “My poor little girl with the toil worn hands. I'll make

up for all my neglect if you will forgive me.” The camera fades out on Mary’s glowing face, smiling through her tears.” There were similarities in The Foundling to several of the films Frances had worked on at Bosworth, such as Lois Weber’s False Colors, where a child is forced into adoption under comparable circumstances. But if mistaken identities and rags-to-riches plots were overused, Mary knew that Frances’s scenario gave her a breadth of opportunities to display her comedic and dramatic skills. She passed the script on to Adolph Zukor and when Frances was paid $125 for her script, “I ceased walking on this earth.”” The Foundling was to be shot in New York, where Famous Players and many of the larger companies were still based. Mary encouraged Frances to join them, but she pled poverty. She had already developed the habit, after

paying the rent and sending money home to her mother, of spending the remainder on clothes, friends, and good times. Yet she regretted her decision when she saw Mary, Charlotte, and the crew off at the train station in late June, and promised to get to New York in time for the premiere. Mary kept her posted on the filming; Allan Dwan was again her director

and Frank Mills, Harry Ham, Gertrude Norman, and Donald Crisp rounded out the cast. She assured Frances that the best way to determine how a film was going was to watch the crew, and on The Foundling set, everyone was relaxed and enjoying themselves.” Frances continued to write short stories and several were published, 45

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including “The Fisher Girl,” which Equitable bought for their leading lady, Clara Whipple. It was a nice windfall and when Balboa offered Frances a costarring role in a Monte Blue western, she stashed what she could of the $200 salary and used the rest to buy a train ticket for New York City.

The five days it took to cross the country on the train gave Frances plenty of time for reflection, but she tried not to second-guess what was awaiting her. She arrived at the recently opened Grand Central Station and walked to her destination, a few blocks away. Mary had reserved a room for her at “the only place to stay,” the Algonquin Hotel on West 44th Street.” By the fall of 1915, the Algonquin was already known as a home for cre-

ative spirits. Frank Case had been running the hotel for over ten years, starting before the completion of what was originally designed as an apartment building. So few chambers were leased that they began renting on a weekly and then daily basis, creating a unique atmosphere. Renowned for his charm and friendliness, Case welcomed writers and actors above all

others. He called his love of show people a “progressive disease” first inflicted upon him as a young boy when he had worked at different times as an usher in all three of Buffalo’s theaters.” As Frances signed the registration book, she was suddenly intimidated

and told the clerk that the small bag she was carrying held only her overnight things. The trunks, she assured him, would follow. Yet she was bathed in a feeling of exhilaration and relief to be finally in New York. Instead of coming with Robert to study art, she had made it on her own and just two weeks before, The Foundling had received a rave review in Moving Picture World’s section on upcoming films. The article fawned over Mary,

“the world’s foremost motion picture star,” and while not mentioning Frances by name, the reviewer found that “the photoplay absorbingly unfolded, not however until a number of tense dramatic situations and a series of novel incidents have been developed.”»” She called Mary at the studio and learned she would not be home for at least an hour. Brimming with energy and “full of dreams, plans and kindled ambitions,” Frances decided to walk. Map in hand, she turned up Broad-

way and saw that even after six months of consecutive screenings, a line was beginning to form for the evening showing of The Birth of a Nation. Crowds were growing in front of another theater down the street where large posters portrayed Theda Bara with her hands on an older man in a tuxedo and top hat with the tag line “Kiss me, you fool.” Frances shook her

head in bewilderment; her love-hate relationship with the movies was already setting in.

When she arrived at the Pickford apartment on Riverside Drive, Mary opened the door with tears in her eyes and hugged Frances tightly. 46

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“Darling,” Mary said, “I have terrible news for you; the negative of The Foundling was burned in a laboratory fire before any prints were made.”™ A little before seven on the previous Saturday evening, a fire had broken out on the second floor of 213 West 26th Street. The flames quickly spread to the third and fourth floor, where the Famous Players studios, offices, and

prop department were housed. The three lone late-working employees escaped through the windows without serious injury, but it wasn’t until Monday that the fire department allowed Adolph Zukor and his laboratory manager Frank Meyer in to assess the damage and open the vaults where the negatives were stored. The entire property department of period furniture and costumes accumulated over the past three years was gone and ten of the eleven finished films being held for distribution were all or partially destroyed.

It was a major setback for the company, but they were recovering quickly. Filming was shuttled to a studio in Yonkers, offices were opened within days at the Columbia Bank Building on Fifth Avenue, and Adolph Zukor hired double shifts of workers to build a new studio on 225th Street.” For Frances, the loss was devastating. The Foundling negative was burned

beyond repair and she had counted on a successful New York premiere to help her obtain a writing contract. Mary assured her The Foundling would be remade eventually, and feeling responsible for her being in New York, offered her a role in her next scheduled film, Madame Butterfly. There was no doubting Mary’s sincerity, but Frances already felt in debt to Mary for taking a chance on her and was uncomfortable with any further favors. She knew it would be some time before The Foundling was reshot; Allan Dwan had left to work with another studio, so not only would time have to be found in Mary’s schedule but a new director as well. Besides, Frances didn’t want to act, she wanted to write. There was little or no public credit, but she actually found comfort in the anonymity and fulfillment from the accomplishment of telling a story well. She thanked Mary and promised to think about it, but vowed to herself she would not return to California. She was already captivated by the mix of theater, art, and films that New York radiated; even without a produced film to point to, she would figure out a way to stay.” Mary may have been her only real friend in New York, but Frances had brought several letters of introduction for insurance. The most promising of her potential contacts were Mr. and Mrs. Harrison Fiske—the editor of the Dramatic Mirror and his actress wife, whom she had met in Arnold Genthe’s studio. Minnie Maddern Fiske was an established star of theater and she would do anything for her favorite photographer, “Ginky.” When Frances called, their niece Merle invited her to lunch. Mrs. Fiske 47

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was in Washington rehearsing a play, but Merle and Harrison Fiske were enthralled by Frances’s stories of Hollywood and the movies. The Dramatic Mirror had been reviewing films since 1907 and Mrs. Fiske had reprised her Broadway role of Becky Sharp in Vanity Fair before the movie cameras for Kleine-Edison. The Fiskes viewed motion pictures as “an art form that has not yet found itself,” but believed that “its possibilities reach beyond the boundaries of the imagination.” Merle was the same age as Frances and they became friendly immediately.” Both Merle and her uncle were confident they could help Frances find a job in New York, but they were about to leave to join Mrs. Fiske in Washington. Frances knew she needed something right away, but tried not to appear deflated. To hide her concern, she assured them she had an alternative plan and as she was about to divulge that she could pass as a professional cook, the doorbell rang. As other company was being ushered in, Frances left, telling Merle she looked forward to seeing her again soon. Frances tried her luck with the various New York film studios, but after a long week of knocking on production office doors and fruitless waits for calls that didn’t come, she knew she had to conserve her resources. The Algonquin was two dollars a day and she had only thirty dollars left. She

moved to a cheaper hotel downtown and on the way, ducked into the Hotel Astor and slipped some of their stationery into her bag. In a burst of courage born of desperation, Frances wrote individual letters on the Astor letterhead to the prominent New York producers Daniel Frohman, William Fox, and William Brady. Introducing herself as an experienced scenario writer who had worked with Lois Weber, she informed them that since The Foundling negative had been burned and The Fisher Girl was only now being filmed, she proposed to prove her worth by working for two weeks at no salary. Assuming “the results are satisfactory,” she would be willing to accept a one-year contract at $200 a week. She closed by saying she would call in a few days to arrange a personal appointment.” The highest-paid scenario writer in 1915 was C. Gardner Sullivan, providing plots for cowboy star William S. Hart at $75 a week, so she was frankly amazed when both Fox and Brady agreed to see her. Frances waited an hour in William Fox’s anteroom with a variety of other aspirants, watching as his

stern-faced secretary, whom Frances mentally nicknamed “The Judge,” informed each of those leaving, “Don’t call us, we'll call you.” Finally it was her turn to be ushered in and Frances found a little man sitting behind a desk who seemed to methodically undress her with his eyes. Trying to ignore the implication, Frances poured out her meager qualif-

cations, mixing them with substantive suggestions for scenarios and productions. But Fox’s response was to tell her that such a pretty girl should be 48

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wearing beautiful furs and jewelry, not thinking about a lowly writing job. “Well,” he asked, smiling meaningfully, “what do you think?” In spite of a combination of nerves and irritation, Frances smiled back. “I’m paid to think, Mr. Fox; two hundred dollars a week. As a scenario writer.” He laughed as if he would dismiss her completely, then offered her eighty

dollars a week. Frances was simultaneously shocked and thrilled, but tempted though she was, it wasn’t on her terms. Unable to bring herself to say no outright, she demurred with “Thank you very much, Mr. Fox, Ill consider your offer.” But as she left the inner sanctum and heard The Judge’s “Don’t call us, we'll call you,” Frances had second thoughts. Fox had referred to writers as “poor schlemiels” and he was right. She told herself that any fool, especially a hungry one, who turned down eighty dollars a week was nothing but a “poor schlemiel.” She was sure William Brady would have the same reaction, and she had no one to blame but herself.” What Frances didn’t know was that William Brady proudly called himself “a born gambler.” Originally from San Francisco, Brady gravitated toward the theater, where he met another aspiring actor, James Corbett, at an amateur show. Convincing Corbett that the quickest route to recognition was as a heavyweight boxer, Brady became his manager. Leasing the sedate Drury Lane Theatre for “Gentleman Jim” Corbett’s London boxing

debut, they traveled all over Europe and America and Brady became known as the “veritable apotheosis of the word promoter” with “enough brass for an entire marching band.” He added other fighters to his management roster and took over the Metropolitan Opera House for a wrestling match. If it was on the stage, Brady loved it.*"

William Brady was fifty-three years old and had already made and lost several fortunes when Frances’s inquiry arrived. He had produced dozens of Broadway plays over the past twenty years and owned and operated several theaters in New York and Chicago. Introduced to moving pictures when he sold the rights to a boxing match in 1897, he quickly realized that producing was the only source of unlimited profits, so he had welcomed Lewis Selznick’s proposal to form a partnership to film Brady’s plays.” The Kiev-born Selznick was a promoter at heart, but his experience had been limited to selling jewelry when he talked his way into Universal’s New York offices in 1912. World was a distribution agency for independent films when he joined them as vice president and general manager in 1914 but by convincing theater producer Lee Shubert and then Brady to invest in the studio and put their plays on the screen, Selznick built World into a major player. The same week Frances wrote her letters, Brady, Selznick, Shubert, and

the board of directors of World had celebrated the company’s one-year 49

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anniversary. They were committed to releasing three feature films a week and announced expansion plans for their Fort Lee, New Jersey, studios that included a state-of-the-art laboratory for both black-and-white film and experimenting with “natural colors.” World Films attracted a relatively experienced stable of actors including former Vitagraph darling Clara Kimball Young and established Broadway stars Robert Warwick, William Farnum, and Alice Brady. Lillian Russell had made her screen debut in World’s production of Wildfire. Veteran

French film directors Emile Chautard, Albert Capellani, and Maurice Tourneur, along with art director Ben Carré, all joined World when the American branches of their film companies foundered with the onslaught of the European war. With the imprimatur of so many Broadway hits on their list of releases, World had built-in publicity for their feature films at a time when other studios were flailing for material. What they needed most at that moment were writers skilled at adapting plays into screen scenarios and creating original stories.” Frances knew little of the studio’s situation when she set her sights on World, but she heard William Brady was a tough Irishman from San Francisco who did not suffer fools gladly; she steeled herself accordingly. When she arrived for her meeting at the World offices at 130 West 46th Street, she was told Brady was expecting her, but he was still at one of his theaters rehearsing a new play. The young man on duty gave her a card of introduction and after walking two blocks down Broadway, Frances was led through the dark to a man seated alone in the fifth row. He never gave her a glance as he directed a rehearsal of The Man Who Came Back, starring a

tall, young newcomer named Conrad Nagel. For more than an hour, Frances watched what she thought was an exceptional if exhausting perfor-

mance and when the actors were finally dismissed, the man to her right turned as if she had just arrived and asked, “Who in the devil are you?” She started to fumble her words after introducing herself and was saved by Brady’s wide smile. He told her he had been amused and intrigued by her letter and he liked her style and faith in her ability. He had “a weakness

for sponsoring other San Franciscans” and the fact she had worked at a variety of jobs as he had was also in her favor. “Show up at the studio tomorrow. I'll see if you are as clever as you think you are.”

Stunned, she thanked him as she rose from her seat, but paused as he said, “There’s one more thing.” He thought the name Frances Marion sounded like “a whorehouse madame.” “Tl call you Pete.”

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rances took the 7:30 ferry across the Hudson River to Fort Lee the next morning and arrived at World studio’s front gate, where the solicitous guard assumed she was an actress. When she told him she was a writer, he unceremoniously pointed to a bench and said, “Wait for ‘Sternie.’ ” After an hour, a slight young man in his late teens, walking with

a confidence beyond his years, strode toward her with an outstretched hand and introduced himself as Joe Stern. He showed her to a row of small cubicles he called offices and told her to

make herself at home. For the next two days, Frances concentrated on being as inconspicuous as possible while staring at a blank sheet of paper. Reality set in and with it came a surge of self-doubt and consternation over

her audacity. Then her practical side took hold and as she pondered her past, she seized on one of the first lessons she learned from Lois Weber: “A

good editor can make even a mediocre film seem important.” Perhaps World had some movies that had been shelved as unreleasable that she could somehow doctor, and in desperation, she sought out Sternie.'

He listened sympathetically as she poured out her story of writing to Brady on a whim and their oral agreement for a two-week tryout. Sternie assured her that serendipity had played a role for almost everyone at the studio. He had begun his career repairing sprocket holes and lugging film cans, but when the head of the shipping department was caught taking kickbacks, Sternie was put in charge. He had risen to supervising editing and titles and while he was glad for the job, he was not a fan of the films being produced and was dubious of the possibility of Frances’s salvaging any of the undistributed pictures. “They’re tripe,” he stated authoritatively, but agreed to send the films to the projection room.’

As the last of four films unspooled in the vaultlike room, Frances felt as if she were “interred in her final resting place.” With no idea how to salvage them, she could only wonder why they were made in the first place as Sternie reappeared and pronounced the fifth and final film the worst of the lot. 51

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“How could it be any worse than the others?” Frances asked in despair.

“Because they spent a lot of money on it. Nine thousand dollars. You should have heard the boss.” Frances quickly realized another, unstated reason William Brady was furious about the film: it starred his daughter, Alice. Money he could lose, but Brady was not going to have his young progeny, an experienced stage actress just out of her teens, embarrassed.’ She laughed out loud as she watched the actors’ melodramatic antics like “a macabre dance in a madhouse,” but as the film unfolded, it occurred to her that if it were turned into a comedy, it might be saved. Dismissing a dream sequence as too predictable, she decided to try a prologue to set the story in an entirely new context.

Frances opened with Alice announcing to her fiancé that she cannot marry him because the novel she has just completed will bring her literary fame and fortune, and the original movie becomes the plot of her opus as she presents it to a group of publishers. Because of the introduction, the audience could laugh at the absurd situations and what had been gross overact-

ing became a farce. She wrote a closing scene showing the inevitable: chastened by the experience, Alice happily dumps the manuscript into the wastebasket and welcomes her fiancé into her waiting arms. William Brady read Frances’s revisions skeptically, but he knew that the

relatively minor cost of shooting new scenes was well worth the investment. She watched from the sidelines as the prologue and epilogue were shot in a matter of hours and within a week, the film sold for distribution at

a $9,000 profit. The next day, Frances saw her name in print in the New York papers under the caption “Highest paid scenario writer in America signs with William A. Brady for reputed salary of $200 a week.” She celebrated that night by ordering the most expensive steak on the menu, but Brady still called her “Pete.” She called Mary to share the good news and, her income and position assured, Frances moved back to the Algonquin but, not wanting to tempt fate, asked for the smallest available room. As she was whisked into the vortex of activity at the studio, a series of fortunate coincidences changed her life considerably. She ran into a San Francisco friend who was returning to the West Coast

but wanted to find work for her highly valued maid and seamstress, Margaret. If Frances took her for just two hours a day at twenty-five cents an hour, she was sure she could fill the rest of her time working for others. While Frances could now afford to buy fashionable clothes, she enjoyed designing and cutting her own patterns, and she needed someone to sew them so she agreed to the arrangement. 52

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Margaret was a very elegant young black woman and when she saw the size of Frances’s “postage stamp” room, she started to back right out the

door. In a proper English accent, Margaret told her it was not half big enough for her, let alone a maid, but Frances assured her she would be at the studio when Margaret was there. Frances next acquired a car and driver when, on the street one day, she met a man she had known as a chauffeur in San Francisco. He was working as a garage mechanic at night and as they continued talking, he told her he knew of a great bargain on a used car and would be glad to drive her to and from the studio at very reasonable rates. Frances conceded that it was a good idea, primarily because the streetcar and ferry connections out to Fort Lee were unreliable and time-consuming and she realized how much more she could write if she never had to look up.’ She added a secretary to her retinue, who sat on the bed and used the nightstand as a desk to type the scenarios Frances was churning out at the rate of two or three a week in addition to the columns she was authoring as a ghostwriter for Mary Pickford. Samuel Sidney McClure, known to his friends as $.S., had successfully created the idea of syndication—paying big money to celebrities and selling their stories to a variety of newspapers for simultaneous publication when no single paper could pay such prices individually. Mary Pickford was the perfect choice for a McClure-syndicated author and her column appeared on the women’s page of participating newspapers as “Daily Talks.” Through Frances’s pen, five days a week, Mary dispensed helpful beauty secrets, advice on friendships, and memories of her “happy girlhood.” Mary was paid a thousand dollars a week and Frances made fifty, but she claimed to “love the experience.” Her background in advertising helped her know what people wanted to hear and she knew Mary so well it was easy to find her voice. And it was a great excuse to get together at least once a week to review what had been written and discuss future ideas.° After completing Madame Butterfly, Mary remade The Foundling with veteran director John B. O’Brien and a new cast. It was released to popular acclaim in January of 1916 and affirmed that her fans loved her playing a litcle girl.’

There was no writer’s credit on the screen, vut that was normal and Frances knew it. Besides, within less than three months of her arrival in New York, she had firmly established herself. She realized the extent of the incredible changes when Merle Maddern called her at the Algonquin after returning from Washington and the phone was answered by the very proper Margaret.

“Miss Mahrion’s apahtment. Her personal maid is speaking.” When 53

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Merle asked if Frances was there, Margaret replied, “I think she is out. If you will wait a moment, I'll ahsk her private secretary.”

Believing in keeping up pretenses at all costs, Margaret waited the appropriate few seconds before saying, “Miss Mahrion’s private secretary tells me that Miss Mahrion has just gone out in her motorcah.” Merle jumped to the conclusion that Frances had turned to prostitution, as there could be no other explanation for her drastic change in economic

status. She ran to her uncle’s office with the news and Harrison Fiske promptly wrote out a check and sent her to save Frances from a life of sin.

She arrived to find Frances back in her “Lilliputian room” and the two women laughed until they cried over Merle’s misconceptions and the real story behind Margaret’s slightly stretched descriptions.* Frances worked six days a week and into most nights, but Marie Dressler was back on Broadway starring in Tillie’s Nightmare at the Keith theater, so they made a date for a late supper at the Algonquin. “Now start from the beginning and if interrupt like I always do, just step on my foot to shut me up,” Marie told Frances as she sank into a couch in the lobby. “I got a bunion that hurts if an ant walks on it.” Marie was unique and Frances loved her for it, but before she could say much of anything, Marie started telling her about her latest Tillie film for the Lubin studios in Philadelphia and then began reliving the night’s performance in the theater. In full voice, she broke into the final stanzas of the show’s hit song, “Heaven Will Protect the Working Girl”: Stand back there, villain, go your way, Here I will no longer stay; Although you were a Marquis or a Earl. You may tempt the upper classes, With your villainous demi-tasses, But Heaven will protect the working girl.’

Applause burst forth throughout the lobby of the Algonquin just as it

had hours before in the theater. Since the hotel was a magnet for the biggest stars of the stage, her presence had drawn little attention initially, but now diners grabbed paper from the writing desk for Marie to sign autographs and she basked in the attention without a hint of embarrassment. As the crowd thinned, Marie stuck out her foot again. “Now concentrate on my bunion and don’t let me interrupt again.” Frances regaled her with the story of The Foundling, the fire, and landing the job at World. That very day she had “hit the jackpot again,” selling her magazine story “Woman Against the Sea” to the Fox studios. 54

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“Tm going over tomorrow to sign on the dotted line.” “Soak them for it,” counseled Marie. “The more they pay for anything, the better they think it is.”

“I might lose the deal,” responded Frances, still taking her success as more of a fluke than a certainty.

“Sissybritches,” said Marie, as only she could. “Have you forgotten already how you landed the World Films job? Pull the trigger the moment you step into the office. They’re used to being fired on.”” The $5,000 Frances received for “Woman Against the Sea” was an enormous amount for the time and she took great pleasure in regarding it as ret-

ribution for William Fox’s condescending remarks of several months before. But the growth in her net worth also served as her only consolation

as she learned that her story, based on the true adventures of a strong young Norwegian woman who captains a ship and handles a mutinous crew, had become The Iron Man starring William Farnum. When she asked if they were somehow writing the woman out of the plot entirely, Frances was introduced to a tall, fine-boned, and very poised young woman in a tea gown who held out her hand with dignity and assurance. Elda Furry was the antithesis of the physically strong woman Frances had imagined and when her face registered her bewilderment, the star’s response was ice cold. “Tam an actress, Miss Marion,” Elda said in a feigned aristocratic accent. “I have been schooled by one of the greatest actors on the American stage, my husband, De Wolf Hopper, and I am not afraid of any role.” Frances had her money and her job at World and since The Iron Man or

Woman Against the Sea or whatever they were going to call it was to be filmed on the California coast, she wouldn’t even be subjected to hearing about it." Work was so all-encompassing that Frances paid little attention to the outside world, but she participated on October 23, 1915, when more than thirty thousand supporters of women’s right to vote marched from Washington Square up to 16th Street. Two hundred fifty thousand cheering and jeering bystanders lined the streets as bands played “Tipperary” and men and women on horseback carried purple-and-gold banners. Society women like Mrs. Otis Skinner and grandes dames of the theater like Lillian Russell joined in support of the crusade that had been creating a growing national sensation without the desired result for almost seventy years. Even the movies were paying growing attention to the issue, but usually

with plots that painted suffragettes as frustrated, zealous women whose families suffered because of their devotion to the cause. Still, newsreels helped spread the word of the ever-increasing support for women suffrage.” Frances and friends like Adela Rogers had marched in parades before, yet 55

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they nursed a nagging suspicion that women were “trading superiority for equality.” Women had been voting in California since 1911 and it seemed such an “obvious right,” it was almost insulting to have to convince others.” Elsie Janis was back in New York as well, starring in Miss Information on

Broadway. It was her first straight comedy show without the impersonations she was famous for and it folded after ten weeks. She had never faced anything less than a huge success and she and her mother, still so inseparable that Frank Case took to calling them “the Jani,” decided it was time for a change of scenery. Ma Janis found Phillipsburg Manor just outside Tarrytown in the Hudson Valley and the history of the house cemented the deci-

sion; George Washington had been in love with the original owner’s daughter and the bridge outside the house was featured in Washington Irving’s The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. Yet it was only an hour from Broadway and close enough for weekend parties." A few weeks after the suffrage march, Frances took Elsie up on her invitation to a Tarrytown party. The leaves had already fallen from the trees in November of 1915 and it was a particularly dismal day, but she bought a

guidebook and familiarized herself with the local history and was enchanted with the small towns and the estates that dotted the roads. As Frances arrived at the main entrance of the sprawling manor, she was greeted with a rush of hands and smiles, mostly from people she had never met before, and in the next room voices were singing “Won't You Come Home, Bill Bailey.” Elsie whisked her through the house for a quick tour: room after room with low ceilings that seemed like a labyrinth laced with a dozen fireplaces. When they returned to the drawing room, Ma Janis was

presiding over the huge buffet table and Frances looked around at the eclectic gathering she knew would congregate only for Elsie. Irving Berlin, William K. Vanderbilt, Frank Case and his fiancée, Bertha Grayling, Vernon and Irene Castle mixed with token English royalty and chorus girls. Mary Pickford and Owen Moore were already in their separate corners when Frances arrived. With a glass in his hand, Owen looked particularly sullen and Mary went from attempts at polite conversation to sitting in a corner thumbing through a fashion magazine. Some of the guests were starting to depart when Douglas Fairbanks and

his wife, Beth, arrived. The actor’s first film, The Lamb, had just been teleased and was such a hit that D. W. Griffith signed him to a three-year contract. Frances knew them by sight from the Algonquin, where they had checked in only weeks before but felt very much at home because it had been their residence off and on during their eight-year marriage.”

Frances had also noticed their young son playing in the lobby, but neither of his parents was the type of person she was naturally drawn to; 56

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Douglas literally jumped over the sofas in the foyer and she saw “no spark of life” in Beth, whose very existence seemed to revolve totally around her husband."*

Even by his own standards, Doug was particularly animated at Elsie’s and with a hearty “Hello,” he shook Frances’s hand so hard she thought her arm might come out of its socket. With a deep bow, he presented himself to Mary and Owen and she complimented him on The Lamb, which she had just seen at the Knickerbocker. Doug may have been used to the spotlight, but he was not so egocentric that he failed to notice Owen’s almost disdainful treatment of Mary, who was so clearly worshiped by everyone else in the room.

Elsie had known the Fairbankses from years on the road, sharing a history of overlapping performances and parties. She found Beth sweet, but a bit foolish for spending all her time “proving that to her the world was Douglas Fairbanks and Douglas Fairbanks was the world.” Frances thought that Elsie was acting as “awestruck as a little girl” in front of Doug, but even she had to admit Fairbanks was “the type of man who makes you look in the

mirror.” In fact, Elsie had been rather openly nursing what she called a longtime “pash” for Doug and seeking to get him off alone, she asked for volunteers to go for a walk.”

Mary Pickford remembered the incident somewhat differently. She thought Elsie had been overtly flirting with every man in the room all after-

noon and when she came bounding up to the group and said “Come on, Doug, Come on, Owen, Let’s the three of us go for a walk,” Mary was appalled. Almost as an afterthought, Elsie turned to Mary and Beth and said, “You girls don’t mind if I steal your husbands for a few minutes.” Mary had already caught Owen in compromising situations with several

women, including Elsie, and while she may not have wanted him herself, that didn’t mean anyone else could have him. Mary turned to Beth and said, “Let’s go for a walk too. We’re not going to let her get away with that.” Beth went with Mary down the back hillside, but the bouncing, athletic

Elsie had already determined that the steep inclines over her eleven acres, combined with the slippery logs that were the only bridge over the rolling Pocantico River, would discourage all but Doug and Owen. Beth quickly decided it was too cold and wet and turned back, but Mary, who could not have been dressed less appropriately for a hike in a tight black velvet skirt, white satin blouse, and white kid boots, was not to be deterred. When Elsie

pointed out that she would ruin her new boots, Mary shouted back, “What's a pair of shoes compared to losing a husband?”" The stubborn streak that served her so well in negotiations came to the fore and Mary scrambled down the hill, but the threesome was so far ahead 57

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of her they were soon in the woods. As she was halfway across the logs that forged the river, she froze in panic. Suddenly Doug reappeared at her side and asked permission to carry her. “Please do,” said Mary, taken aback by the pure chivalry of the gesture as she was literally swept up in his arms. It was something she had not seen in real life for some time. The four of them walked the rest of the way together and Elsie, resigned to the situation, noted, “The Russian boots were ruined but Mr. Fairbanks and Miss Pickford had become Douglas and Mary by the time we dragged

our weary bodies home.” That same November of 1915, Equitable finally released A Daughter of the Sea, based on the story “The Fisher Girl” that Frances had sold before com-

ing to New York. Her name was mentioned in the press as the original author and it received mixed reviews. One critic said the plot lacked depth and “fails to stir,” but she was so involved at World that words that would have crushed her only months earlier didn’t faze her now. She had quickly risen in prominence at the studio and they depended on her to write most of the films for Clara Kimball Young and Alice Brady, the

two stars around whom World “block booked” all their movies to exhibitors. Frances tried not to be intimidated by adapting classics like Alexandre Dumas’s La Dame aux Camélias into Camille for Clara Kimball

Young and joked about avoiding cliché titles like “Camille is coughing much better this morning.” Frances stayed close to the original story for Camille and laughed that Clara looked healthy enough to “enter the Olympics” though she was supposed to be dying of tuberculosis on the screen. Paul Capellani, who had played Armand in Sarah Bernhardt’s Camille on the Paris stage, repeated his role, and if there was any implication drawn that Clara was the same caliber actress as Bernhardt, so much the better. Clara was under personal

contract to Lewis Selznick and he carefully orchestrated her publicity, reporting she had “braved the wards of hospitals” to conduct a detailed study of tuberculosis.” In spite of Selznick’s heavy prose and his promotion of her as the aloof “Mona Lisa type,” Frances knew Clara rarely spoke in words of more than two syllables or spent even a day studying for a role. Fun-loving to a fault, Clara called Selznick “Old Smellstick” and resisted his attempts to keep her under wraps, wondering out loud what was the use of having all this money if she couldn't live life as she pleased. She told Frances that Camille was a dull role: “All I’ve got to do is cough, kiss a guy named Armand who’s supposed to be French, cough, kiss the same guy again, then kick the bucket.””’ 58

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Clara was a child of a theatrical family; her grandfather was the great English actor John Kemble and her parents had married on a New York stage after a performance. Clara was playing along with them by the age of three and when she signed with Vitagraph in 1911, she had performed in over half the states in the union. By her own estimation she had appeared in over one hundred films when she starred in My Official Wife, and it was such a box office smash that a bidding war for her services resulted; Lewis J. Selznick and World were the winners.”

Like Mary Pickford, Clara’s star had ascended while those around her remained static, but lacking Mary’s work ethic and her passion to succeed, Clara was happy to sit back and just enjoy the benefits of her fame. Her parents came with her to World, as did her husband of two years, James Young,

a fairly successful Broadway actor, and Frances found the similarity between their relationship and Mary’s and Owen’s disheartening.” The original stories and adaptations Frances wrote for Clara were usually designed around her dark-haired beauty: a Russian Jewish singer in The Yellow Passport and a Cuban aristocrat in The Feast of Life. She shared Clara’s boredom with the heavy melodramas, but with a week to turn out a two-reeler and only slightly more to write longer films, the stories tended to blur together. Still, she was disappointed when Selznick would not allow

Clara to branch out even after another dark-haired beauty with languid eyes, the accomplished Russian stage actress Alla Nazimova, was added to the stable. Selznick prided himself on his ability to sell and claimed, “I pick actors for their looks,” but that philosophy was close to blasphemy to William Brady. He believed actors should be trained in speaking their lines, even if they weren't actually heard, and told Selznick he was wrong to typecast Clara in heavy costume dramas because he was convinced that a long and prosperous career could be built only on playing a variety of roles. Yet those costume melodramas guaranteed money at the box office and Selznick saw no reason to alter the recipe for success. Frances enjoyed writing scenarios like Then I'll Come Back to You and Tangled Fates for World’s other major star, Alice Brady, because “she could play anything, tears or laughter, modern or period; there were few actresses comparable to Alice.”” Alice had been only three years old when her mother, the French dancer Rose Marie René, died. William Brady married the actress Grace George shortly thereafter and young Alice was sent to be educated at the Convent of St. Elizabeth in Madison, New Jersey, before entering the Boston Con-

servatory of Music, where she studied grand opera. Brady adamantly opposed his daughter’s desire to become an actress, but she was deter59

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mined. Using a variation of her mother’s name, Alice secretly joined a New England stock company as Mary Rose and traveled with De Wolf Hopper’s Gilbert and Sullivan troop. After a year on the road, Alice confronted her

father with her success and asked to come to New York under her real name. He reluctantly agreed and since starring in The Balkan Princess on Broadway in 1911 as Alice Brady, she had continued to work with him in his theaters and in film, equal to any role.” Frances wanted to write original stories for new actors like Milton Sills and Doris Kenyon, but World tended to operate as a stock company and she was already feeling the pressure of a new trend that would never let up: copying the successes of other studios. The Squaw Man spawned a cluster of westerns and The Birth of a Nation brought about a glut of Civil War films. Titles were also imitated—when Mary Pickford’s Tess of the Storm Country did well, World announced a film entitled Jess of the Storm Country. Frances reached for different eras, countries, and backdrops and wrote about the Balkans in The Gilded Cage, a Wyoming ranch in All Man, the European war in On Dangerous Ground, and Wall Street in Friday the Thirteenth. Poor motherless girls, rich young men, objecting families, lovers breaking up because of what others think or some loftier purpose, reuniting in the end, often with one of the romantic leads dying, were the grist for most of the plots. Occasionally there were hints of social relevance, such as preaching tolerance of illegitimacy in The Hidden Scar and exposing the price of marrying only for money in Bought and Paid For, but as a rule, the stories were the boilerplate—five-reel melodramas of love lost and found again that World spewed out at the rate of at least two a month.” At that level of production, World became Frances’s workshop to study how far characters could be pushed, what eccentricities could be developed and how actions, pantomimes, or even glances could tell a story by themselves. She tried to add quirks to her characters that would give them complexities and a depth that would distinguish them. She also was learning the fine art of studio politics, working well with most of the cast and crew and avoiding confrontations with her bosses whenever possible. Lewis Selznick’s title was vice president and general manager of World, but he was often on the road, promoting the studio and encouraging the sales force. William Brady stayed active on Broadway, but the fact that he and Selznick were seldom on the same lot at the same time did not prevent

outbursts when they were together. Frances was usually amused when hghts erupted between the ex—jewelry salesman and the Broadway producer, but not when she was caught in the middle. William Brady handed her Henri Murger’s Scénes de la vie de Bohéme to adapt, cautioning her to stay clear of Puccini’s opera to protect him from 60

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potential lawsuits and, as usual, to “cook up some of your own stuff.” With Albert Capellani directing Frances’s script, two assistant directors, and Ben Carré as the art director, Brady carefully supervised every foot of film and liberally reshot scenes when they did not meet his high standards. Selznick was convinced the film was destined to lose money at the box

office and saw all that talent on one project as a drain on the studio’s resources. He insisted on a title change, and Mimi, The Bohemians, Bohemians Must Pay, The Undying Heart, and The Price of Pleasure were all suggested. “Calling it ‘La Vie de Boheme’ alone will keep them out of the theaters,” railed Selznick. “And titles are what we depend on to get them in.””’

Frances decided that “no one can spew his contempt with better aim than an irate Irishman” and Selznick bore the brunt of it. And when La Vie de Boheme, released under its original title, was a financial success, Brady once again let Selznick know what he thought of his judgments in graphic terms. David Selznick would later say that, for a time, he thought his father “cared greatly” about the movies he was producing, but Lewis Selznick was first and foremost a salesman and “he was too concerned with empire building” to have time for the art form itself. With his love of the stage, the money was an affirmation of success to Brady, but theater was the motivation. Two very different outlooks, backgrounds, and experiences, exemplifying the variety of people the business was attracting. For the time being at least, there was room for both

of them in the industry, if not at the same studio.” Selznick left World and formed Lewis J. Selznick Productions, Inc., taking Clara Kimball Young, with whom he was rumored to be having an affair, with him. Frances was sorry to see them go, in part because she enjoyed the presence at the studio of his two young sons—David, then in his mid-teens, and

his older brother, Myron. They were personable and well mannered and seemed to soak in the politics of studio life, as well as the technical skills.” William Brady assumed active control of all of the studio’s producing units and after working at World for only six months, Frances, now twenty-seven, was promoted to head the scenario department. In the middle of March 1916 she had six separate scenarios at various stages of completion. Brady gave her

a three-week vacation for a trip to the Caribbean and that too turned into work. The Feast of Life was filmed on location in Cuba and she wrote several new stories during the journey for World’s latest star, Gail Kane.” Frances continued to write the “Mary Pickford’s Daily Talks” and occasionally found time to go to parties with Alice Brady and other friends. She

fed her love of music by visiting the apartment of pianist and composer Felix Arndt and his opera singer wife, Nola, who introduced her to new friends like Adolphe Menjou and Lillian Russell. Frances was reunited with 61

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Enrico Caruso, whom she had first met through her mother in San Francisco, and she also became friends with a woman who would influence her and promote her in the years ahead, Mary Roberts Rinehart.” To all outward appearances, Mary Roberts Rinehart was a classic Victorian woman, a doctor’s wife and the mother of three sons. But she was also a spectacularly successful and prolific author of more than one hundred magazine articles, a dozen books, and several plays, and had just returned from covering the European war for the Saturday Evening Post. Living in Pennsylvania, Rinehart had spent a fair amount of time in New

York since becoming friends with the theater agent Beatrice de Mille, the widow of the playwright Henry C. de Mille and the mother of Cecil and William. Beatrice connected Mary with producers to back her plays and

sold several of her magazine stories to the studios. The novel that had brought Mary to fame, The Circular Staircase, was being made into a film by Selig Polyscope and the amount of money the movie companies were willing to pay astounded her. Still, she had no interest in moving her family to California or working full-time for a studio.”

Frances was drawn to the older woman, who covered political conventions, marched in suffrage parades, and wrote while caring for her husband, sons, and invalid mother. Only gradually did she come to know the pressures Rinehart put on herself living as she did, rising before dawn and working late into the night in what she would call “that frantic search . . . for silence and freedom, not only from interruption, but from the fear of interruption.” In Mary Roberts Rinehart, Frances found a new friend and mentor, a complex woman of substance who lived life on many levels.”

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rances had been working nonstop for almost a year. As head of the scenario department, she reviewed all World’s scripts as well as writing her own. She helped cast the films, supervised screen tests for new talent, and often directed scenes. At night she watched films, both hers and those from other studios, and still she churned out five “Daily Talks” columns a week for Mary Pickford. Actors and directors started and then wrapped films, but Frances’s work

had no natural breaks. She still could not believe her good fortune and compulsively pushed herself, but even she could not keep up the pace. She was approaching her twenty-eighth birthday and had been supporting herself, with or without husbands, for over a decade. She still made heads turn, but the strain was showing on her face and she was losing weight. Under the best of circumstances it was an impossible schedule, and tragic news from home sent her over the edge. In the early evening of Friday, September 1, 1916, Frances’s sister Maude sent her seven-year-old daughter, Caroline, to play at the Moales”’ house

next door on Miles Street in Oakland. Maude called her husband at his office in San Francisco and suggested he have dinner in town because she

had nothing prepared. She then bolted the front door, went to the back bedroom, put a .22-caliber revolver to her head, and shot herself.

Caroline came home at seven and found the door locked; when her mother didn’t answer her calls, she returned to the neighbors’. Foster Moale came back with Caroline, broke down the door, and found Maude lying on the bed with a bullet hole in her head and a small gun on the floor. They rushed her to nearby Fabiola Hospital, where she died at 9:30 that night without ever regaining consciousness.’ No one could provide an explanation for Maude’s suicide. Just thirty, she had been married to Wilson Bishop for more than ten years and he was doing well heading the San Francisco office of the Royal Insurance company; the San Francisco Chronicle went so far as to label him “a rich broker.”

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He claimed their marriage was a happy one and told the family he knew of no cause for Maude’s depression. The combination of physical exhaustion and the devastating loss of her older sister drained Frances of what strength she had left; she collapsed and was hospitalized. She had not been home for over two years and she was riddled with guilt, thinking senselessly that if only she had written more often, stayed in closer touch, taken the time to visit, somehow her sister would be alive. Maude’s funeral was private and held three days after her suicide and even if Frances had been physically able to travel, the five-day train trip made it impossible to be there.’ Frances was more exhausted and malnourished than anyone knew, and after a week in the hospital, Marie Dressler took her to her Vermont farmhouse to convalesce. Marie cooked for her, sang, danced, and generally cajoled her back into living. Yet as she slowly recovered, Frances found the quiet peace of the farm a bit unnerving and she began to worry about Marie. The improvements she had made to the farm, including all modern appliances, two guest houses, and a swimming pool, had to have cost a fortune. Animals were everywhere because Marie thought they were “cozy,” but she refused to kill or sell any of them. Frances was concerned Marie had created a “city dweller’s idea of a dream farm” and she was most distressed when she finally met Marie’s love, Jim Dalton, a New Englander whose wife would not divorce him. He was younger than Marie and looked like a prosperous banker or businessman, but his “courtly manners” made Frances uneasy and she concluded they were carefully cultivated rather than “from the heart out.” When Marie said “How lucky I am to have him for my manager,” Frances found herself shivering at the thought. Marie was convinced “time will prove that I’m absolutely on the right track” about both Jim and the farm, but she admitted that every cent was tied up and she would welcome a movie offer.’ After a month of rest, Frances was back at World. Because of publishing deadlines, several weeks of Mary Pickford’s “Daily Talks” had been prepared in advance, but they would be the last. There was no one else Mary trusted to duplicate her thoughts and maintain her image and the syndicated column ended with Frances’s collapse. With Brady’s support, she tried working at a slightly slower pace, com-

pleting and supervising scenarios at the rate of one every three weeks instead of two or three a month. And one of the first was Tillie Wakes Up for Marie. Frances’s script featured her as the belittled wife Tillie Tinkelpaw, not be confused with Tillie Banks of Tillie’s Punctured Romance or Tillie Blobbs of Tillie’s Nightmare, but if the paying audience made that mistake, so much the better.’ 64

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Frances was too occupied writing and editing scripts to be the on-set supervisor for Tillie Wakes Up, but she and Marie saw each other frequently and enjoyed New York’s nightlife together. When Enrico Caruso appeared at the Metropolitan in Carmen, he invited the women backstage before the

performance and then insisted they stay, dressing them in costume and putting them both in the chorus. Caruso “sneaked up behind Marie and gave her a pinch on her bottom while he was singing an aria,” and Frances laughed over “the squawk she made, wanting to be heard.” Frances had been storing up ideas for an original story about the film business and used them in an innovative scenario called A Girl’s Folly, a behind-the-scenes look at moviemaking and a droll study of the powerful lure and inherent shallowness of stardom. Deference to the film industry is nonexistent—a black valet methodically signs the star’s signature to a large pile of photographs and the actors have no idea of the story they are in the middle of making. The film was ‘cowritten and directed by the French-born Maurice Tourneur and their individual contributions are discernible from the opening scene. A young girl from the country is sitting on a bench clutching a book,

dreaming of worlds beyond her reach. In her imagination, a handsome troubadour appears and as she makes room for him on her bench, she is brought back to the real world with the arrival of the love-besotted local farmboy, Johnnie Applebloom. The beautifully lit fantasy sequence exemplifies Tourneur’s work with cameraman John van den Broek and the art director Ben Carré, while the ability to establish immediately her character’s dreams and situation in a single opening scene was becoming one of Frances’s hallmarks.°

Her skill at revealing thoughts and reactions through pantomime is again illustrated when the handsome matinee idol offers the initially innocent Doris Kenyon another means to the pretty clothes and high life she craves after her screen test is a failure. She shakes her head no and leaves, only to see his long, sleek limousine. As she all but caresses the car longingly, she glances up to see a bent, laboring charwoman, her obvious alternative career choice—cut immediately to Doris in a beautiful gown being

fussed over by a.maid. No titles are necessary to explain that she has become his mistress.

To save the rather daring plot from the censor’s wrath, the heroine returns home to the waiting arms of Johnnie Applebloom, but the unique movie-within-a-movie structure, the fantasy sequences, and the sardonic humor that infuses the entire film make A Girl’s Folly much more than a melodramatic lesson.’ Tourneur left World for a better offer at Paramount a short time later 65

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and after making three films with Olga Petrova, he was assigned to direct Mary Pickford in The Pride of the Clan, a Scottish drama shot in Massachusetts. Mary was still smarting from her previous film, Less than the Dust, directed by John Emerson. Not only had it met with critical pans but the studio was flooded with letters; her fans wanted Mary as a little girl and not a grown woman.” More than her image was at stake. Mary and her mother knew that they had so far been successful in riding the crest of the wave that was to become known as “the star system.” Mary had been in the forefront of that revolu-

tion since 1912 when she became a well-paid pawn in the battle to break “the Trust,” the name commonly applied to the Motion Picture Patents Company controlled by Thomas Edison and the ten film companies holding patents on their movie cameras. In theory, all producers had to pay a license fee for the cameras and any exhibitors showing films made by nonTrust companies were threatened with having their supply cut off. But the demand for product had skyrocketed as theaters quadrupled in number and piracy thrived. Small companies proliferated and headed to California and Florida, in part for the sun, in part to steer clear of the vigilantes the Trust hired to maintain their lucrative control. Carl Laemmle was a theater owner suffering from the shortage of films when he formed his Independent Motion Picture Company in open defiance of the Trust. He methodically chose a star a Trust company had created and offered “Little Mary—the girl with the curls” $175 a week. A doubling of her salary was too tempting for Mary and Charlotte to resist and they said a tearful good-bye to Griffith, but not before introducing him to her two childhood friends Lillian and Dorothy Gish. Soon Mary was lured away from Laemmle, first by Belasco to return to the stage in The Good Little Devil and then in the fall of 1913 by Adolph Zukor to re-create her stage role on the screen for his Famous Players company. With each move, her salary and fame increased.’ The studio bosses knew that once the actors’ names were public knowledge costs went up, but in the rushed struggle to lure exhibitors away from the Trust’s films and then to compete with each other, the independent producers willingly paid the ever-increasing salaries, and the star system was born. And no star ranked higher than Mary Pickford. Sarah Bernhardt was reportedly paid $30,000 to appear on the screen, but one reason for such vast sums to “the Divine Sarah” and, to a lesser degree, Lillian Russell and Lillie Langtry, was to legitimize the movies for other stage

actors. And those were one-time, one-film arrangements, in contrast to Mary’s annual salary, which broke records with each new contract.”

With Charlotte at her side, Mary renegotiated her agreement with 66

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Adolph Zukor in July of 1916 to include a $40,000 signing bonus, $10,000 a week, and a percentage of the profits. Zukor told her, “Mary, sweetheart, I don’t have to diet. Every time I talk over a new contract with you and your mother I lose ten pounds.””! Mary found comfort in imbuing her relationship with Zukor with a fatherdaughter aura. When he merged his Famous Players company with Jesse Lasky

and his brother-in-law Sam Goldfish, she resisted dealing with anyone but “Papa” Zukor. Goldfish in particular became her “béte noire” and she quickly informed “Papa” when Goldfish made disparaging remarks about him.” Cecil B. DeMille had been Lasky’s leading director since the success of The Squaw Man in 1913 and with the merger he decided to take “an opportunity to help” Mary by directing her. Though Mary did not object to working with

him, she announced she wanted Frances Marion to write the scenario. “I put my foot down firmly,” DeMille said. He “respected” Frances, but adamantly refused to “divide responsibility with anyone else.” He too had an image to maintain and DeMille never had and never would allow “script approval or any other such major authority to anyone who works in any of my pictures.”” In spite of her enormous salary, Mary did not have the right to choose her own director, but she could be as unswerving as DeMille. She stood her eround and insisted on hiring Frances. Zukor listened to his star’s arguments: The Poor Little Rich Girl, chosen as Mary’s next film, cast her as a youngster similar to the one Frances had created in The Foundling. In addition, Frances had had a solid year of writing experience since then. Zukor knew that if the film was successful, everyone would make money and if not, he would have Mary where he wanted her—with tangible proof that

he was the better judge of her career—and he gave in to Mary’s demand. Frances’s mother arrived in New York for an extended visit, assuaging her guilt over paying so little attention to her family, and being with Mary and Charlotte again added to Frances’s contentment. When Maurice Tourneur was named the director, Mary and Frances looked forward to getting to work." The Poor Little Rich Girl was to be filmed in Fort Lee, so William Brady

loaned Frances for the picture, knowing she would be close at hand. Tourneur and Frances had shared a good professional relationship at World, but now Frances was the sole writer as well as the star’s best friend; with the change in dynamics, differences in style and dispositions quickly emerged. As Mary was putting on her makeup early one morning, she noticed that when one of her mirrors caught the morning sunlight, its reflection on her face made her look much younger. When she told Tourneur about her accidental discovery, she assumed he would be as thrilled as she was, but he was not interested in experimenting. Mary suggested a compromise. 67

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“Take my close-up as you usually do, then would you get me a little spot, and put it on a soapbox or something, and direct it at my face? Then you can see it in the darkroom and choose.”

He couldn't refuse her reasonable approach delivered with that backbone of iron, and Mary turned out to be right. The “baby spot” was used in The Poor Little Rich Girl and every film that followed.” “Tourneur shouted at you, he’d blow up and scare everybody off the set, but that was his temperament,” remembered his assistant director Clarence Brown. “He wasn’t malicious, but he did use sarcasm.”

Tourneur was unused to having his authority questioned, but the indignities he was to suffer were only beginning. Frances’s adaptation was based on a rather serious melodrama of wealthy parents who give their only child everything but love, yet through what Brown called “the Pickford-Marion spontaneous combustion,” comedy scenes were added literally as the cameras were rolling.” As the two women added bits of slapstick, Tourneur threw up his hands

in resignation, but when Mary extended an impromptu mud fight to include Frances and some of the crew, it was too much for the sophisticated French director: “But my dear young ladies, it has nothing to do with the picture. It is not in the play and I do not find it in the script. Mais non; c’est une horreur.”” The horror came for Frances and Mary after The Poor Little Rich Girl was privately screened for Zukor, Lasky, and bosses at Paramount. Not a single

laugh came from the all-male group of executives. The women were solemnly informed that the film was “putrid” and the company “would rather face the loss and not release it rather than jeopardize Mary’s career.” Frances rushed back to the cutting room “groping blindly to sharpen the

comedy,” but the pronouncement that they had created a disaster remained unchanged. She was devastated, convinced she had personally

ruined Mary, and Minnie had never seen her daughter so distraught. Frances returned to World as head of the scenario department with her faith in her own abilities severely shaken.” Mary was called before “Papa” Zukor and made to write a letter of apology to Cecil B. DeMille, meekly agreeing to work with him. It was not only DeMille’s growing reputation for total authority that depressed her; she had played her hand with Zukor and lost. She was still the highest-paid actress in the world, but her marriage was a sham and she had lost control of her career. The “marathon of work” that had been so rewarding suddenly looked like a prison. Mary, who had always clung tenaciously to her belief in herself, now signed the letter to DeMille, “Obediently yours, Mary Pickford.” Alone in the hotel room she was again sharing with Owen that January 68

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of 1917, Mary felt “a deadening weight on my spirit” and thought “that snow covered pavement looked very enticing” from the ninth-story window. Something stopped her and she called her mother. As soon as Charlotte heard “Mama, I need you,” in a tone she had never heard before, she made Mary promise to do nothing and rushed out the door. Charlotte immediately sent for the doctor, who declared, “Unless you get this young lady out of here and away from her husband, the least you can expect is a complete nervous breakdown—the very least.” Charlotte consulted Zukor, who agreed, but used Mary’s momentary collapse as a per-

fect opportunity to send her to California to start her film with DeMille. Within two weeks Mary was on the train, but not before Douglas Fairbanks had thrown her a farewell party at the Algonquin.”

In spite of having her entire family with her in California—Charlotte, Jack, Lottie, and Lottie’s baby, Gwynne, by her brief marriage to a car dealer named Alfred Rupp—RMary was petrified of DeMille and did not have a happy moment filming Romance of the Redwoods. As soon as it was completed, Mary used her two weeks off to come to New York, finding the ten days on the train a small price to pay for four days of fun and freedom

with Frances. During her visit, with little of the usual advance publicity, The Poor Little Rich Girl opened at the Strand on Broadway. Zukor was forced to release the film because it had been presold to the-

aters and there was no other Pickford film to replace it. Frances had no desire to relive her humiliation by watching it on the big screen, but Mary insisted on dressing incognito and seeing the film with an audience. From the opening scene on, their comedy blended with Tourneur’s unique dream sequences to inspire the packed house to laugh in all the right places. From the back balcony, it slowly occurred to Frances that the segments she had

seen over and over in the editing room were being greeted as fresh and clever. Mary started to laugh and cry, hugging Frances with delight, but in her sobs of relief, Mary was soon recognized and their joy turned to terror as they fought a mob of fans to escape the theater. Police were called in and when they finally reached a taxi, Mary’s hat and coat had been ripped to shreds. Frances genuinely feared for their lives, but there was no denying the exhilaration of Mary’s fame and success. Rushing to share the news with their mothers, Frances and Mary realized they had allowed their confidence in their work to be eroded by the studio bosses and vowed to each other that they would never again trust the reaction to any film,

particularly a comedy, screened in private without a real audience.” Mary and Frances were more than vindicated as The Poor Little Rich Girl met unprecedented financial and critical success. In May 1917, Famous Players Lasky announced that Frances Marion was being signed at $50,000 a year 69

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“to prepare special features for Mary Pickford,” starting with Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. Her contract specifically stated, “Throughout the production,

Miss Marion will continue by the side of the star and the director.” The entire press release was printed verbatim in Moving Picture World and it was better than any formal apology. After a year and a half of honing her skills at World and credited with writing fifty films, Frances happily returned to Los Angeles, where she was played up in the press and the movie magazines as a gorgeous blue-eyed beauty with brains and a growing bank account. She was twenty-eight, but the trades called her either “very young” or in her “early twenties,” and Photoplay announced that the Hollywood “highbrow colony has been augmented by the arrival from New York of Miss Frances Marion.”” Even though she had been gone for less than two years, Frances found the transformation in the landscape and the industry immense. There was still the aroma of orange blossoms, but new tall buildings actually created a downtown skyline and while events or parades were still occasionally used as backdrops, the growing popularity of films had made onlookers a problem for the moviemakers. Studios were being fenced in and location shooting had become a planned outing. Carl Laemmle turned the fans’ curiosity to his advantage at his new 230-acre Universal City in the valley—for twenty-five cents each, five hundred people a day toured the studio and were given a box lunch while they sat on bleachers watching movies being made. Films were becoming so socially acceptable that the internationally acclaimed poet Vachel Lindsay wrote a book of praise entitled The Art of the Motion Picture comparing movies to great paintings and sculpture.” Hollywood, incorporated fifteen years before with a population of 166 by a prohibitionist from Kansas, now boasted almost 30,000 residents. Still unconvinced about which neighborhoods would increase in value, Charlotte counseled Mary and Frances to rent and they leased houses two blocks from each other on Western Avenue between Sunset and Hollywood Boulevards, 1519 and 1748 respectively. Both houses were two stories high with expansive yards and Frances chose a white clapboard with a visible brick

foundation and a porch that reached all across the front entrance and around the sides. She added accoutrements like rocking chairs under the palm trees for relaxing and always kept a lap board handy so she could write anywhere inspiration seized her. Minnie helped her move in and stayed for another month before returning home to San Francisco.” The address of Frances’s studio was the same—201 North Occidental— but almost everything else had changed. The name over the old Bosworth

gate now read “Famous Players-Lasky-Morosco Studio” and it had increased in size and scope. A new large bungalow was being built just for 70

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Mary with a kitchen, a dining room, a bathroom, a dressing room with walls of mirrors and lights, and a huge closet. It was designed in an Oriental style, complete with a Japanese garden. “How pretty,” beamed Mary, charmed by the little house as if it were a complete surprise and not a contractual obligation. “It’s the first time I have ever felt like a star.””

_ With her new contract that put half of each film’s profits into her own pocket, Mary wanted to be surrounded by those she considered peers and equals. Her best friend was her scenario writer and now she told Zukor she wanted their old pal Mickey Neilan signed to a two-year contract as her director. Mickey had been working around movies since Griffith had spotted the good-looking Irish charmer working as a chauffeur in 1910 and put him in front of the cameras. He spent two years bouncing between film companies

with Allan Dwan, traveling throughout California and Mexico making a picture a week and two a week when they wanted time off, sharpening his skills while maintaining his cavalier outlook toward work. He had been directing for Selig and then Famous Players—Lasky for the past year and had just completed several films starring Jack Pickford. Mary’s brother’s con-

tract with the studio may have been because of her, but his lightweight comedies held their own in box office returns. Mickey and Jack shared a tremendous capacity for alcohol and the attitude toward life that accomplishment was one thing, responsibility another. Mickey’s first order of business after signing Zukor’s contract at a huge increase in salary was to take a monthlong vacation in New York.”

Before the new team could start filming, Mary had to finish DeMille’s The Little American. With Mickey in the East, Frances went to work with another Famous Players—Lasky star, her old friend Sessue Hayakawa. Sessue had worked steadily since their days at Ivy’s, but after playing a rich Japanese playboy in DeMille’s The Cheat, he could carry his own film.” Frances wrote The City of Dim Faces with Sessue as the son of a Chinese merchant who falls in love with a white woman while at college and brings his flancée home, with tragic results. She set her original story in San Francisco’s Chinatown in order to film it on location, for she had not been home for over three years. No one would have known there had been an earthquake and fire only a decade before. Downtown glistened with tall buildings and flower stands

stood on every corner. Chinatown had been completely rebuilt, but the location shooting was encumbered by armed guards assigned to stay with the crew because of a still smoldering tong war. Only days before they arrived, snipers had attacked in broad daylight and several dead Chinese had been pulled from the bay. 71

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Frances was slightly offended when none of her old friends inquired about Hollywood or moviemaking, and when one woman who had never been south spoke with disdain about Los Angeles, Frances was surprised to find herself defending her adopted home. She was troubled by the small world outlook of a city she had once considered so sophisticated and consoled herself that had her old Bohemian friends not scattered all over the globe, they would

have been interested in her work and this new art form. San Francisco was still beautiful; she would always love it and consider herself fortunate, at times almost superior, for having been born and raised there. But it was never quite the same place for her after The City of Dim Faces.”

As Mickey, Mary, and Frances reunited in Los Angeles in July of 1917,

American troops were just landing on the battlefields of Europe. The United States had declared war on Germany in April and Mary’s The Little American had a war background. Both of her DeMille films featured her as a mature woman and while they had resulted in some profits, her fans clamored to have her play a young girl once more.” Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm cast her as that child again and Frances saw the effect that the lack of a real childhood had had on Mary. She reveled in clowning in the circus scenes, not reliving past adventures but experiencing them for the first time. Frances put vignettes from her own childhood into the script, such as when at her father’s resort she and her friends created a

zoo and needed a zebra—the one available horse was too mean so they painted the cow black and white instead. When she shared these tales with Mary, her initial laughter turned to tears as she sobbed that she had been “the most miserable kid in the world,” for all the shows she had been putting on as far back as she could remember had been on the stage.” In becoming Mary Pickford, she had accepted the role of provider and

all the responsibilities that went with it. When asked about their childhood, her sister, Lottie, simply responded, “We had none.” But then with the touch of resentment that would always tinge their relationship she added, “Mary has always been ‘Little Mother’ to the whole family. She was constantly looking after our needs. I always used to think that she imagined Jack and I were just her big dolls.”” Mary and Frances were inordinately disciplined, arriving at the studio early every morning and staying until long after dark. They reviewed the work of the night before, went over that day’s script, and checked the cos-

tumes and the sets. It was the hardest work they had ever done, but the freedom they felt was exhilarating. There was no one they had to cajole to get their way and Mickey Neilan became more like a partner in crime than

any director either of them had known before; casual, relaxed, and unthreatened. Even though Frances had carefully scripted Rebecca, they 72

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created as they went along and Mickey happily layered in their “spontaneous combustion.” They were working with a new cameraman, Walter Stradling, and the baby spot Mary had discovered during The Poor Little Rich Girl was used to the extreme in Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. Yet overall there was an atmosphere of equality and their genuine affection was reflected in their nonsen-

sical nicknames for each other; Mickey referred to Mary as “Tad” and Frances started a lifetime habit of calling her “Squeebie.” They had the time of their lives and with Mickey twenty-six, Frances twenty-eight, and Mary all of twenty-five, they were the kids who had taken over the candy store.” If the threesome ever wanted to be reminded of what “normal” filmmaking was, they only had to look over to the next set, where Cecil B. DeMille

was directing the Metropolitan Opera diva Geraldine Farrar as an Aztec princess in The Woman God Forgot. Pyramid temples and gilded, feathered costumes made their gingham dresses and the barnyard set pale in comparison and DeMille looked on them with disdain tinged with pity.” It is difficult to imagine two directors more different in style and content than Cecil DeMille and Mickey Neilan. While both men began in the business as actors, DeMille created a flamboyant air that included dramatically capitalizing the first letter of his last name, in contrast to the rest of his family. His official title at Famous Players Lasky was “Director General” and his office featured stained-glass windows and a beamed roof reminiscent of a

cathedral. DeMille stomped around his sets in knee-high boots with his megaphone, used up to a dozen portable telephones, and an entourage followed in his wake to meet any need that might arise.” Mickey would often first appear on the set after lunch suffering the effects of a bender the night before. If Mary and Frances were initially irritated, he soon had them laughing at his excuses and in one short afternoon, he could accomplish what would take another director days. “Mickey was one of the most delightful, aggravating, gifted, and charming human beings I have ever met. There were times when I| could cheer-

fully have throttled him,” Mary claimed forty years later. “But I can truthfully say that no director, not even the great D. W. Griffith or Cecil B. DeMille, could wring the performance from me that Mickey did.” Mary would always respect DeMille as a great craftsman and he admired her as a “good trouper,” but the choice she had made was obvious.”® Frances decided DeMille was “either intensely disliked, with an element of fear thrown in, or looked up to with blind loyalty.” If she was in awe of

anyone, it was his scenarist Jeanie Macpherson. Five years older than Frances, Jeanie had been born in Boston and studied opera in Paris before acting on the stage and in films for Griffith. It was suggested at the time 73

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that the love letters she sent to him were the cause of the breakup of Griffith’s first marriage. A dark, red-haired beauty, Macpherson had acted in and directed several films for Universal when DeMille cast her in The Rose of the Rancho in 1914. She started writing for him shortly thereafter and her

affair with the married director was common knowledge, seemingly accepted, if not condoned, by everyone, including DeMille’s adoring wife, Constance. Jeanie and C.B. had adjoining suites at the studio and unlike other writers who worked on the lot or in unadorned offices, hers was paneled in redwood bark to resemble the seclusion of a mountain cabin. Yet there was never any inference that Jeanie was hired because of their affair and not her talent; DeMille would have many mistresses, but few scenario writers.”

Frances was unlikely to condemn any relationship. Besides, when it came to affairs with married men, Mary Pickford was almost glowing with happiness over her relationship with Douglas Fairbanks.

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y the summer of 1917, Douglas Fairbanks had skyrocketed to fame. It

-< had been a year and a half since he had met Mary and while he had been immediately taken with her, she was attracted slowly as they saw

each other at various functions, often in the company of their respective spouses. They shared a unique experience in their mutual stardom and Doug sought Mary’s advice about dealing with Zukor and Lasky, but it had not been until Doug’s mother died in December of 1916 that the relationship changed from friendship to intimacy. Doug was heading east on the train when his mother passed away in New York. They had been estranged at the end and he walked numbly through the funeral, unable to express any grief or emotion. Mary sent him a sympathy note and he called and asked if they could talk. They drove through Central Park and during their conversation, he broke down and sobbed in her arms. How much this experience with Douglas, as Mary always called him, had to do with her burst of suicidal depression a few weeks later is speculative at best, but Mary had now seen this strong man vulnerable and she was enraptured. She would soon learn he too was the product of a fatherless family with a desperation for the limelight.’ He had been born Douglas Elton Thomas Ulman in Denver, Colorado, in 1883, the fourth and last of Ella Marsh Fairbanks Wilcox Ulman’s sons. He was her second son by her third husband, H. (for Hezekiah) Charles Ulman, the lawyer to whom she had turned while seeking a divorce from husband number two, Judge Wilcox of Georgia. Ulman left a wife and a law practice in New York to move to Denver and marry Ella, but he had traveled and drunk his way out of her life by the time Doug was five. Ella took back the last name of her first husband, John Fairbanks, who had died of tuberculosis shortly

after the birth of her first son, and gave all the other boys his name as well. Relatively dark-skinned at birth and an embarrassment to his mother, Doug learned early the joys of the attention that resulted when he recited verse, showed off his athletic abilities, or took parts in school plays. At the 75

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age of sixteen, he signed with the Frederick Warde stock company and toured the country for almost two years. In 1906, Ella joined her youngest son in New York, where he was an established actor with his name on marquees. That same year he met nineteen-year-old “plump, pretty, blonde” Beth Sully, who, as the daughter of “The Cotton King of Wall Street,” lived

the lifestyle to which Doug aspired and Ella had always believed they deserved. A year later, Doug and his shy, adoring Beth were taking their honeymoon in Europe, a wedding present from her parents.’ Doug was working successfully on the New York stage when he was approached by Harry and Roy Aitken to appear on the screen. The Aitken brothers had taken the fortune they made financing The Birth of a Nation and formed the Triangle film company, uniting the popular directors D. W. Griffith, Mack Sennett, and Thomas Ince all under one roof. They combed Broadway for talent and had already signed De Wolf Hopper, Billie Burke, and Weber and Fields when they approached the lesser-known Fairbanks with an offer of $2,000 a week for ten weeks.’ He had made a dozen films since, most of them directed by John Emerson from scripts written by Anita Loos, and there was no denying his star quality. Loos and Emerson created situations that allowed him to jump and run and swing, giving vent to his natural athletic abilities and buoyant per-

sonality. In January of 1917 Doug formed his own company under the Lasky-Zukor banner and when Mary and Frances returned to California that spring, they were working at the same studio.’

At first, Frances was content to see Mary so happy. Frances thought Owen put Mary down to build himself up where Doug saw being with her as a verification of his own worth. He listened to Mary and valued her opinion. Owen was attractive, almost pretty, but slight in contrast to Doug’s strong physical presence. Although he was only about five foot eight, Doug radiated a charisma and sureness of his manliness that captivated Mary.’

As their affair blossomed, much of their energy went to keeping the romance a secret. There was, as always, the image to be maintained; they were both married to other people and Doug had a young son as well. Although only eight at the time, Doug junior clearly remembers the first time he met Mary. He was playing with his train set on the living room floor

when his father brought Mary home to tea. His mother introduced this young woman as “America’s Sweetheart” and he wondered “how did such a little girl, only a little bit taller than I, get to be so important and go places alone?” Yet when she bent down on her knees and asked if she too could play with his trains, “Mary had made another conquest.” From that point

on, Doug junior might be estranged from his father or clash with his mother, but he always viewed Mary as a friend and a “co-conspirator.”° 76

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As enamored of Mary as Douglas was, he was not anxious to make any outward changes. Beth Sully Fairbanks was as much a mother and a manager for her husband as she was a wife—qualities he was not quick to discard. He thought it proper that to Beth the sun rose and set on him, but he needed even more. He “thrived only on the unbroken popularity of every-

one,” says Margaret Case Harriman, daughter of the Algonquin owner, who knew Fairbanks all her life. She liked him enormously, but was clear about his limitations.

“Douglas Fairbanks was a man who never read anything. Even his method of deciding on scripts was to glance over them rapidly and then hand them to someone more fond of reading than he... . It was not a lack of intelligence or intellectual curiosity that prevented him, simply the fact that he couldn't bear to sit still long enough. Father once said to me, in a bewildered kind of way, ‘I don’t know how I can be so fond of a man who has never read a book.’ ”’ So for those who knew Doug, it was amusing when a monthly column appeared under his byline in Photoplay in 1917, laced with self-deprecating humor and advocating “clean living.” Then he published a book entitled Laugh and Live, preaching optimism and “useful advice” such as to marry young and stay faithful.’ Frances found the blatant hypocrisy offensive and wondered if his insincerity extended to his relationship with Mary. But when she raised the possibility that she was being used by him, Mary was more than annoyed. “You have yours,” she retorted, “why shouldn’t I have mine?” Close women friends knew Frances frankly enjoyed “jumping into bed with a man” she found particularly attractive and chided her for her “weakness,” but she defended herself by saying, “If you do the wrong thing at the right time you'll have no regrets about having missed a snitch of fun.” Still, she cautioned Mary, “sin was not recognized as sin unless you were caught in the act” and with the complications of having a husband and a very public image, she was more likely to get caught. Her words brought only a frosty response from Mary and she knew she should keep her mouth shut until she was asked her opinion.’ Frances had to admit there were benefits to the affair: Mary was more cheerful than ever and while she had always thought of Mary as pretty, when “she was with Doug she actually looked sexy.” The situation also brought Frances in closer contact with Doug’s scenario writer, Anita Loos. Their paths had crossed in New York, but in their active participation in keeping the romance hidden, they became friends. They used a variety of ruses, such as Mary and Frances making a public point of going horseback riding together and then as prearranged, secretly

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meeting Doug, who was riding with Anita. Doug and Mary went off, usually to his brother’s house nearby, and Frances and Anita rode together for an hour or two, then reunited with Doug and Mary before returning to the stables.’ Anita and Frances shared a variety of sensibilities, including their mixed emotions about Mary and Doug’s relationship and their belief in their own good fortune for being a highly paid part of this movie business. Anita too had spent her formative years in San Francisco, moving there from Shasta when she was four. Her father held a variety of jobs related to the theater and Anita took to the stage at an early age. The family moved on to Los Angeles and then San Diego, where Anita watched the one-reelers shown between the live acts at her father’s theater and quickly ascertained a difference in their quality: the ones labeled Biograph were almost always superior. Copying the address from the film can labels, she sent off several story ideas to 11 East 14th Street in New York and to her everlasting joy and pride, back came a check for twenty-five dollars. The third one she sold, The New York Hat, was to be Mary Pickford’s last film for Griffith.”

When Frank Dougherty of Biograph in New York wrote that he was coming to Los Angeles in January of 1914 and “would like to have a personal interview” with her, she was enthusiastic at the prospect. She took

the two-hour train ride up the coast with her mother, but when they arrived at the makeshift studio, D. W. Griffith was in the middle of filming Judith of Bethulia and Minnie Loos was so convinced it was a den of iniquity, she returned Anita posthaste to San Diego. Although not quite five feet tall and looking much younger, Anita was twenty-six years old and had already proven herself capable of supporting herself. Yet the times and her own attitude mandated her obedience to her mother’s rare ultimatum: “I'll never let you go back into that studio.”” Anita found comfort at the local library, where she was influenced in equal measure by Spinoza, Kant, and Voltaire and the society sections of East Coast newspapers, and she used the nearby Hotel del Coronado, already famous as a winter resort for the rich, as a laboratory for experimenting with relationships. She had a series of wealthy boyfriends, including the heir to a Detroit fortune and the son of a United States senator, but she quickly realized men bored her as soon as they proclaimed their interest in her and she realized she was a complete failure as a gold digger. She continued to send off her scripts to Biograph but kept her paychecks secret after several of her boyfriends made it clear they were threatened by her accomplishments. While her opinion of men in general and the rich in particular went down a few more notches, she began to plot her “escape by an archaic method that belonged back in the generation of my poor help78

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less mother.” In retrospect, Anita said, “I separated the men from the boys and purposely chose a boy” and recalled trying to back out of “the larce-

nous arrangement” at the last moment, but her mother wouldn’t budge because “I’ve already ordered the cake.””

When Anita retold the story in later years she claimed her marriage lasted all of one awful night in a bungalow at the del Coronado and then she ran home to her parents. In reality, her marriage to Frank Pallma, a five-foot-tall composer and musician, lasted several months. When Anita did return to her mother, however, Minnie’s attitude was primarily one of relief that her daughter had lost her virginity in a respectable way and she saw no further impediment to her working in the movies. Griffith was now at Triangle, busy building the sets for Intolerance, but welcomed Anita as a full-time writer. She quickly found her niche writing for Doug Fairbanks, confident that she was finally where she belonged.” Like Frances, Anita made light of her scriptwriting, saying that once the plot was developed, “it was a breeze” and she had so much fun, it was almost a crime to be paid for it. But also like Frances, Anita got up before dawn to write and agonized over the words she chose. Frances preferred dictating, in part because the secretary was an audience whose reaction she could gauge, but most often she and Anita wrote by hand on long yellow pads. Both also claimed never to learn to type, as if the skill would make their careers and success appear premeditated, but in reality they were seen using typewriters on occasion.” Their similar outlooks extended to their sensitivity about their lack of extensive formal education, and both were prolific readers. Anita worked at being a natural wit and might have been a little more confident about her work than Frances and Frances was a little more comfortable in her own skin than Anita, but they were both uniquely disciplined workers in a Hollywood full of diversions and their friendship flourished. Marie Dressler returned to California in the fall of 1917, forced by eco-

nomic necessity to give up her farm and go to work. The newspapers reported she had formed her own company in partnership with “her manager and husband,” James Dalton, and signed with Goldwyn to make eight two-reel comedies. Frances was troubled by the turn in her friend’s career and didn’t laugh when Marie joked that in these new short films, based again on a character named Tillie, “plot would be replaced by pies.” As always, Marie protested that she had never been happier."® Frances tended to be so loyal to her women friends that she didn’t trust the men they were with, and Jim Dalton was no exception. Despite the press accounts that he was Marie’s husband, Jim had yet to get the divorce he kept promising, but after Marie’s cold response to her warnings, Frances 79

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knew that whatever Jim turned out to be, nothing she said would make the slightest difference. All she could do was hope for the best." And Frances was reminded once again that she was in no position to make judgments about relationships when on August 21, 1917, she was

served with papers informing her that Robert Pike was suing “Marion Owens Pike, also known as Frances Marion Pike,” for divorce on grounds of desertion. When she did not respond, Robert was granted an uncontested interlocutory decree in Superior Court in San Francisco in early November.* That same week, Photoplay hit the stands with a four-page spread called “Frances Marion: Soldieress of Fortune.” This was the first major piece just

on her in a fan magazine and the coverage marked a new plateau for her career. The article featured glamorous photographs of Frances, played up her San Francisco background, praised her writing and artistic abilities, and featured several self-deprecating quotes. It presented a composite picture of a beauty with humor, brains, and an awe-inspiring salary. No mention was made of any marriages.” In the midst of this publicity, Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm became the

smash success she and Mary had hoped for and with it Mary said she “sained back the ground I had lost.”

As Frances was writing the script for Mary’s next picture, A Little Princess, a young man from the casting office called to say he was bringing over “a maiden fairer than Aphrodite” for her consideration. He walked in a few minutes later escorting a thin, awkward teenage girl with enormous eyes and Frances’s first reaction was that her fluttering hands and pinched face made her look like “a trapped little animal.” But when the man said, “beauty like this should not go unnoticed,” Frances threw him out of her office and admonished the young girl, now with tears in her eyes, to “pay no

attention.”” “Tell me about yourself,” Frances said in an effort to make her comfortable. Without any evidence of self-pity, the visitor talked of her early child-

hood in Kansas, her father’s death when she was five, and her mother’s decision to move the family to Santa Cruz, a small beach town on the northern California coast. Her mother and her two older brothers were now running a boardinghouse in the summer and she was in Los Angeles looking to work as an extra. She had appeared in the background of the circus scene in Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm and was hoping for a small part in whatever Mary was doing next. She had tried the casting offices of every studio in town and while she had found a few small parts, the highlight of her experience so far was actually meeting the great Griffith himself. He had told her she looked too much like Lilian Gish to be in any of his pictures and it was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her. Her mother 80

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had created an appellation in honor of her two maiden aunts, Eliza and Susan, and named her ZaSu Pitts. As Frances watched and listened to the young ZaSu, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry and it occurred to her that others might be touched the same way. There was a key part in A Little Princess for a young maid called a slavey and when Frances told Mary the full story, ZaSu was given the role.” Frances’s scenario for A Little Princess was sixty pages of detailed stage

directions, camera angles, and titles utilizing fantasy sequences a la Tourneur to illustrate the stories from the Arabian Nights Mary’s character Sara Crewe uses to entertain the other girls at boarding school. Premiered on November 5, 1917, A Little Princess packed the Strand theater and once again the rave reviews poured in for Mary’s “flawless” acting. Moving Picture World was not the only one to make special mention of the actress playing the young slavey; “Watch ZaSu Pitts, for she is a coming star.”” While having over a month to work on each scenario was a new luxury

for Frances, she was on a constant lookout for script material. In the evenings she often read out loud as Mary spent the obligatory hour washing

and setting her hair; always sensitive to her lack of education, Mary was

comfortable having Frances read to her without fear of being condescended to or judged.” It was during one of their informal sessions that Frances read the novel The Star of the Sea by William Locke about two polar-opposite teenage orphans: the rich but crippled Stella Maris, “a figure of wondrous beauty,” and Unity Blake, “a victim of cruel fate, deformed, but equally beautiful of soul.” Stella lives in luxury, protected from the realities of the world by her titled aunt and uncle. Her reason for living becomes the handsome journalist John Risca, who visits her daily, and it is not until she is operated on and walks again that she learns John is “burdened by a drink-crazed wife” who is in jail for beating the orphan who worked for them, Unity Blake. Out of pity and guilt, John adopts Unity, who also comes to love John and she knows that when his wife is released, his happiness with Stella will end. Unity commits the “ultimate act of sacrifice” by killing the wife and then herself, leaving John a note explaining, “You was the only one as was ever kind to me. God bless you and Miss Stella Maris and make you happy.” It was fairly strong, serious material and Frances was surprised when Mary announced her determination to play both roles. Closeting herself to dress in her Unity costume, Mary appeared with her hair greased down, a slumped shoulder, and little makeup and it took even Frances a minute to recognize the pathetic little figure standing in the doorway.” Adolph Zukor came to the set and “the look of dismay on the poor man’s 81

WitHouTt LyInc DOWN face was something to see,” Mary said. “I had to pacify him that I died early in the picture.” Zukor replied, “The sooner the better!” Stella Maris brought a new pinnacle of acclaim for Mary’s dramatic talents, particularly for her role as Unity Blake. Without padding or props, Mary maintained the limp, a slumped shoulder, and a twisted mouth throughout all her scenes, and the fact that a beautiful actress willingly slicked down her hair with Vaseline to look so plain brought unprecedented praise. “Stella Maris should prove a turning point in the history of America’s favorite star,” Photoplay proclaimed. “The public will never again be satisfied with plays in which Miss Pickford is not given an opportunity to act.””°

Mickey Neilan came in for his share of plaudits and the cameraman Walter Stradling was applauded for his technical achievements in the scenes where Unity and Stella share the screen. Yet Frances’s name was mentioned rarely, even when the scenario was praised for “rising far above the novel through pure artistry of development.””’ Paramount put the full resources of its publicity department behind the film, and theater owners received sample postcards to send customers, suggestions for store tie-ins, and life-size cardboard cutouts of Mary. Alfred A. Cohn, who had written articles praising Mary, Doug, and Mickey for Photoplay, was hired as Mary’s personal publicist. Cohn prided himself in having friends in high places, such as President Wilson’s personal secretary Joseph Tumulty, and his contacts culminated in Paramount’s sending out pictures of President Wilson saying, “I have to thank you for the opportunity of witnessing Stella Maris, a production which [ am sure will hearten the nation at this time of crisis. Its theme of woman’s lofty ideals has an irresistible appeal and its portrayal of all phases of life must be an incentive for good

and loving deeds.” Even accepting that the president of the United States would allow himself to be used in publicity for a film, how murder and suicide were considered “incentive for good and loving deeds” is beyond comprehension. Still, the promotion underscored two facts: Mary’s image was unassailable and everything, even Stella Maris, was being tied to the war, or, as it was becoming known, “this crisis.” As American men began dying on the battlefields of Europe, attention to the war effort increased. Frances was shocked when the studio bosses expressed their enthusiasm for the war as a boon to business; people were in need of diversion and “our theaters will be packed to the rafters.” At first, they tried to balance the content of their films to keep their European markets open in spite of the war, but by late 1917 that was impossible. Support for the war had grown slowly and many of the studio chiefs were vulnerable 82

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to criticism as immigrants resisting the confrontation against their original homelands. As a result, Mary became a “super-patriot” and theaters were soon flooded with “Kill the Hun” movies. Audiences were urged to “Come and hiss the Kaiser! Everybody is doing it!” and scenarios started to lose all subtlety. With titles like To Hell with the Kaiser, The Kaiser’s Finish, and The Kaiser—The Beast of Berlin, Hollywood had a new villain.”

The exception was once again D. W. Griffith, who was approached by

the British government to make a film promoting the Allied cause. “Despising the pro-war propaganda,” Griffith went to England in the spring

of 1917 aiming to make “a much more elevated kind of film.” The result was Hearts of the World, focusing on the effects of the war’s devastation on civilians, and it became one the most popular films of the year.” The press and the movies were the only major outreach mechanisms to

the citizenry; the government knew it and the producers knew it. Studio heads had gathered in New York within a month of America’s declaration of war to organize their efforts, and William Brady, as president of the National Association of the Motion Picture Industry, was named chair of the group’s executive committee. Working hand in hand with the government, Brady said, would lead to “the advancement and widespread influence and power for the good of the screen in a common interest.” Adolph Zukor was named to head the committee on bond subscriptions and immediately pledged Famous Players Lasky to buy $100,000 worth of bonds. Who could question the patriotism or the purity of an industry so behind its government in time of crisis?”'

While actors were privately assured by their studios that they would receive deferments, the pressure was felt just the same. Paramount’s heartthrob Wallace Reid received his deferment because he had a six-week-old son, but Doug Fairbanks’s stardom was based in large part on his heroics— how could he excuse himself from serving? He consulted Mary and became actively and very publicly involved in the war effort. He bought $100,000 of bonds himself and after completing Reaching for the Moon, he gave his staff a vacation while he took off with his wife and son on a coast-to-coast train trip to sell bonds. He spent two days

in New York making dozens of appearances and by the time the train returned to Los Angeles, it was reported that he was personally responsible for selling over a million dollars’ worth of liberty bonds. The government announced that Fairbanks was more effective serving at home than abroad and no one could doubt his patriotism.” Mary “adopted” an entire battalion of six hundred soldiers from the California Field Artillery. She announced that she intended “to see to it that

the boys receive plenty of tobacco and candy” and when the men went 83

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overseas, they were each given a locket “containing a picture of their petite .

protector.” Charles Chaplin was an English citizen, but it was reported that he was “unable to serve” because he was “under sized” with a twenty-six-inch chest. Instead, he joined Doug in his bond selling and other charity events and Mary was the referee when Fairbanks and Chaplin staged a burlesque fistfight in Los Angeles to benefit London’s French American Hospital.

When the three highest-paid and most popular film stars appeared together, records were set for bond sales.** For a while, it worked well for everyone; the stars got the publicity, the

government raised unheard-of sums of money, and the movie industry looked like the most patriotic business in the country. Marie Dressler was another popular attraction at the bond rallies, alone or appearing with “The Big Three.” When Frances accompanied them, she was troubled to see Doug snub Marie, “acting as if she was a has-been” and

unworthy of sharing the same platform with them. His snobbishness seemed almost innate and he was heard referring to his fans as “boll weevils.” Frances knew that Mary was very much in love with Doug and wortied that their joint public appearances would spur the growing rumors about their relationship.” Charlotte Pickford agreed with Frances and had not wanted Mary to go on a bond-selling tour at all. First, she was afraid of the crowds, remembering their brush with disaster at the opening of The Poor Little Rich Girl. And she did not think Mary’s image needed polishing. “Our Mary’s” picture was everywhere and her films were making a fortune.

Charlotte went along as chaperon on the bond tours, but when Mary told Owen she was going, he viciously accused her of caring only for herself: “You don’t fool me, Mary, with your patriotic palaver; it’s only a clever pub-

licity stunt to attract more attention to yourself.” Frances believed that Mary truly “felt it was her duty to serve,” and listening to Owen’s sneering remarks, she knew she was witnessing “the last tendril of feeling that Mary had for the man she had married in her teens.”” There were other effects of the war beyond Charlotte’s control. When Jack Pickford was drafted as a citizen of Canada, he immediately joined the United States Navy, where he was “assigned to the intelligence division and given the task of censoring films for export.” Before he left for Washington, Jack announced his plans to marry his latest good-time girl and the newest Triangle star, the beautiful Olive Thomas.” Olive had come to New York with a girlfriend on vacation in 1913 and found it so much fun she couldn't stay away. Still in her teens, she left a husband and a three-dollars-a-week job at a Pittsburgh department store to try 84

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her luck modeling. She quickly rose to fame as a Ziegfeld girl and with her long brown curls and a flashing smile, the artist Harrison Fisher dubbed her

“the most beautiful girl in America.” Overnight, Olive Thomas could name her price, and Triangle made the best offer.* Olive and Jack were two of a kind; he had reportedly started collecting lovers at the age of fifteen when he was taken in by the Ziegfeld beauty Lillian Lorraine. Olive’s experiences included her boss Flo Ziegfeld and she had accumulated a substantial jewelry collection as mementos.” Charlotte and Mary were not at all enthusiastic about Jack’s plans for marriage. His mother said, “You’re too young to be married,” and Mary added, “Please wait until you have built up your career.” As talented as some friends genuinely believed he was, his career was hindered by the Pickford name and his utter lack of discipline. Jack just wanted to have fun and sister Lottie was all for it. “Go ahead,” she said, the only familial voice to encourage the wedding. “Love is all we can expect out of life,” and Jack went off to Washington a married man.” Poor eyesight prevented Mickey Neilan from enlisting in the aviation corps, but after M’Liss was completed in the spring of 1918, he decided to return to New York to direct George M. Cohan. The five films he had made with Frances and Mary constituted one of the longest professional relationships in his career and marked a level of success that was never to be seen again.” There were changes in Doug’s film unit as well. His chief cameraman,

Victor Fleming, was drafted and in October, Fairbanks announced that Ruth Allen, a writer who had been working with him for several months, was being promoted to head the scenario department, which included Anita Loos. Mary’s old director Allan Dwan was to alternate with John Emerson in directing and shortly thereafter Emerson and Loos left Fairbanks’s company to produce their own Paramount productions.” Emerson had cultivated the press and he and Anita were played up as the brains behind Fairbanks’s success. Emerson believed in hiring his own

publicity agents, fairly uncommon for directors at that time, and while Anita claimed to be “appalled,” she willingly posed for pictures. A six-part series ran in Photoplay under their byline and Doug tired of seeing himself billed with Emerson and Loos as equals in a “a triple alliance.” John Emerson complained of throat problems in the first of many physi-

cal ailments that flared up whenever situations were not to his liking. Anita, in love with the seemingly indifferent director fifteen years her senior, went with him to New York to see medical specialists.” With everyone else on the move, Frances filled in writing He Comes Up Smiling for Fairbanks and The Goat for Donald Crisp, and when her friend 85

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Sessue Hayakawa formed his own company, she wrote him a melodrama, The Temple of Dusk. She finished adapting Captain Kidd, Jr. for Mary and saw her through the transition to a new director. William Desmond Taylor had started in the business as an actor with Thomas Ince, and then moved to directing, first with Balboa and then American in Santa Barbara, where he had worked with both Lottie and Jack Pickford. Taylor was never to be the close friend Mickey was, but he was experienced, had worked with the family, and was welcomed accordingly.“

But for Frances, the joy and the challenge of being on the set each day with Mary and Mickey were gone. Her frustration over her own lack of patticipation in the war effort was building and she wondered how she could criticize the bosses’ attitude if she wasn’t actively involved herself.

Elsie Janis wrote from France, where she was entertaining the troops, and urged her to “get out of that artificial Hollywood atmosphere into life that is real, ghastly, forbidding, terrifying and magnificent,” and Frances’s desire to go overseas was cemented by reading Mary Roberts Rinehart’s latest novel, The Amazing Interlude. The story of a young American woman volunteer in a Belgian soup kitchen moved Frances to investigate the possibility of working with the Salvation Army in France. She even made contact with her old employer the San Francisco Examiner, suggesting that as a correspondent she could cover the activities of the women in the war and performers entertaining the troops.” She talked to Mary about her new ambitions and Mary offered to help

while asking for a favor. The government was encouraging movies that would inspire enlistments and she proposed filming Rupert Hughes’s short story “The Mobilization of Johanna.” If Frances stayed just long enough to write it, she would ask Al Cohn to use his Washington contacts to get her an appointment as an official government war correspondent. Frances never could say no to Mary.

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ary Pickford was married to one man and in love with another, but

MY she still had an eye for a handsome face. In her position as their honorary colonel, she reviewed the troops of the 143rd Field Artillery and blew a special silver whistle to start the camp football game.

On the field and at the dinner at the Hotel del Coronado that February evening in 1918, Mary spotted a six-foot-two, blue-eyed, sandy-haired full-

back whose chiseled features stood out even in a crowd of good-looking men. She was careful to position herself next to him for the team picture. Mary returned to Camp Kearney with Frances a few weeks later to finalize the arrangements for the 143rd’s appearance in Johanna Enlists. The two women toured the base hospital because Mary’s “find” from the previous

visit was recovering from a broken leg. Frances had to agree that Fred Thomson was something to look at and while Mary went on with her “colonel’s duties,” Frances stayed behind to talk with the handsome patient. The lieutenant had just turned twenty-eight when Frances, almost thirty, met him at Camp Kearney and she soon realized he was no ordinary

man; Frederick Clifton Thomson was the chaplain of the 143rd and a world champion athlete.’ Frances went to church only to get married or to witness someone else

doing the same and while she still rode horses occasionally, she had no interest in sports. Had she ever read the sports section, she might have recognized Fred, for he had run, hurdled, and thrown his way to the title of All Around Champion Athlete of the World at the National Amateur Athletic Union’s Field and Track Championship in Chicago in 1910. Since he was a

native of Pasadena, the local papers often ran articles under his byline about the virtues of clean living.’ But as Fred and Frances spent the afternoon talking, they realized they

had met their respective match. He was wellyread and a musician and mathematician by avocation with a breadth of knowledge she had rarely encountered—certainly never in someone so good-looking. 87

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“No one had written more satirically about ‘love at first sight’ than I,” Frances admitted, but that night she told Mary it had happened to her. She knew that if she had penned such a scene it would have been discarded as too far-fetched, but the truth was that the experienced and sophisticated writer had fallen in love with a straitlaced, God-fearing Boy Scout.’ Behind the smiling, competent, and assured veneer, there was a complicated man who, as the third of four brothers, had been beaten by his minister father, “always in the name of God.” He had grown up aiming to please, watching and then weaving his way through the patterns of behavior that would result in peace, yet developing his own moral compass, a strong backbone, and a list of very real accomplishments.’ Fred Thomson’s mother, Clara, was a four-foot-eleven-inch powerhouse, the only survivor of thirteen children after her father caught tuberculosis and fatally infected all her brothers and sisters. Clara had married a medical student, James Harrison Thomson, on what turned out to be his deathbed and, a young widow overnight, she went on to Wooster College in Ohio. She earned her master’s degree by cataloging their library, then she and her mother, Anna, joined fellow Indianians in a group purchase of property in southern California. There Clara was reunited with her dead husband’s younger brother,

Williell, a brilliant, troubled man who had attended Hanover College, taught school, and studied law before graduating from Presbyterian Seminary in Danville, Kentucky. He continued his studies at the San Francisco Theological Seminary and reencountered his sister-in-law while serving as the minister at Santa Monica Presbyterian Church. They were married in December of 1882.° The Thomsons built a large house on the comer of Columbia and Fair Oaks in Pasadena. Their widowed mothers lived with them, and Clara and Williell

became active in the community, circulating antisaloon petitions and helping found Sierra Madre College. Clara read Greek and Latin and taught school, but her immediate focus was on what she called her “four stairsteps”: Henry Lyon Thomson, born in 1885 when Clara was thirty-five, followed by Williell junior in 1888, Frederick Clifton in January of 1890, and Samuel Harrison in 1895. Williell continued to work as a pastor, and also as a surveyor, civil engineer, teacher, and a superintendent of the Pasadena Street Railway Company. He wandered from job to job, never particularly successful at any of them, and it was Clara’s strong will that held the family together. Every-

thing and everyone was expected to function and behave within very strict guidelines to be worthy of her attention, let alone her approval. Entering first grade at the age of four, Fred set himself on a steady course to win approval at school and avoid punishment at home. His mother’s idea 88

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of high praise was to tell him that he was “fairly obedient and never obtrusive,” yet he flourished academically and excelled in everything athletic. Acclaimed as the star fullback of the Occidental Academy High School football team, he was accepted at Occidental College as a sixteen-year-old freshman and played all four years for the varsity team. He won event after event, local championship after local championship, and the Los Angeles Herald declared “Thomson was practically the Occidental team,” but good erades and athletic awards weren’t enough for Clara Thomson.* Musical instruction at home was a daily occurrence and Fred was also active in the YMCA, played in the college band, joined the literary society, worked on the staff of the college yearbook, and served as student body president his senior year. After graduating from Occidental and a brief stint as the director of the Long Beach YMCA, Fred decided to follow his father and older brother Williell in becoming a Presbyterian minister. It was the summer before he entered Princeton Theological Seminary that Fred was first heralded as “the All Around Champion Athlete of the World,” winning the AAU National Championship by accumulating the

most points in a series of events—the 100-yard dash, the shot put, high jump, 880-yard walk, hammer throw, 120-yard hurdles, pole vault, throwing a fifty-pound weight, the one-mile run, and the broad jump.’ He played football for Princeton and represented the college when he defended his title as National All Around Athlete at the AAU meet of 1911, again held in Chicago. He scored a total of 6,709 points, exactly 500 more than his nearest competitor, yet after completing his second year of seminary, “the red blooded divinity scholar” announced on his return home to Los Angeles in the spring of 1912 that he would not enter the Olympics.’

Although he was “almost certain to make the team,” Fred was morally | opposed to competitions held on Sundays and the Olympic schedule in Stockholm would have challenged those convictions. Still, he claimed the primary reason for his decision was that “I have spent two of my summers at athletics and will not give up all my time to sports again this year. While I would very much like to make the trip, I cannot see my way clear to do it. I will spend the summer practicing my profession, preaching.” Fred served as pastor at Peck Memorial Chapel in Washington, D.C., in July and August of 1912. He stayed in training during his final year of sem-

inary and competed in various AAU National meets, beating not only his

own record but those set by Jim Thorpe in the Olympics only months before, and then won the National Championships one more time when they were held at the University of Southern California in July of 1913. As the three-time champion, he formally ended his athletic career, turning all his energies to his ministry. 89

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His father had died that spring and Williel! junior, who had served as a missionary in Chile for a year, now left the ministry to teach Spanish at Occidental College. Fred replaced him as the pastor at Hope Chapel in Los Angeles, more dedicated to his calling than ever and writing a fourteenweek series of articles in the Los Angeles Evening Herald advocating training, dedication, and, as always, “clean living.” Fred also resumed his relationship with his college sweetheart, Gail DuBois Jepson, a pretty, soft-spoken young woman who had become a teacher after graduating from Occidental. His father had expressed concern that with a history of tuberculosis, Gail was not physically strong enough to keep up with Fred, but the couple were formally engaged on August 1, 1913, and within the next two months, he was ordained by the Presbytery of Los Angeles and they became the Reverend and Mrs. Frederick Clifton Thomson.” Gail fell into the role of preacher’s wife, playing the piano and teaching Sunday school. They were assigned to the Presbyterian Church of Goldfield, Nevada, a remote mining town on the edge of Death Valley halfway between

Carson City and Las Vegas. Fred preached in the local Presbyterian and Methodist churches and his work throughout the state as Nevada’s commissioner of the Boy Scouts of America, an organization created only a few years earlier, demanded much of his time and gave him the most satisfaction.

In June of 1916 they were called home to Pasadena because Williell junior was ill and dying. He had been diagnosed the year before with leukemia, but the death of his adored older brother at twenty-seven was a shock to Fred. Gail stayed on with her family to recover from a flare-up of

her tuberculosis and soon after Fred was notified it had developed into meningitis. He just missed the train that stopped at Goldfield only once a week and frantically borrowed a motorcycle to ride to Pasadena, but lost his way in the desert for a day before finally arriving almost twenty-four hours after Gail had died at home in her sleep.” Fred returned to Goldfield, but within months the United States entered

the war and he quickly decided to enlist. He visited his mother for a few days before heading for the Los Angeles recruiting office. He had been gone from the area for over a year, but he was still a popular personality and

his picture headed a two-column article in the Los Angeles Tribune announcing “Fred Thomson to Act as U.S. Army Chaplain” and his enlistment was used to recruit other young, athletic men.” Fred was commissioned as a second lieutenant and assigned to Battery F of the 143rd Field Artillery, stationed first in Arcadia and then Camp Kearney. He served as chaplain to 1,200 men and ran the Regimental Exchange, organized sporting events, conducted religious services, served as general 90

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counsel for the enlisted men, and helped in determining “whether or not the soldier is receiving just and fair treatment from the officer.” It was as the

regiment’s star fullback that he broke the leg that put him in the hospital when Frances came to visit and decided to change her plans. She had agreed to write the scenario for Johanna Enlists, but after meeting Fred “T became so conscientious about my work that I decided to stay and supervise the entire production.” Rupert Hughes’s original story begins, “Johanna Renssler is a homely spiteful stupid lazy young girl of nineteen who lives with her pa and ma on an isolated farm. They are ashamed of her and never allow her to meet any men.” Obviously, changes had to be made for a starring vehicle for Mary Pickford, and Frances’s version introduces “Johanna, pretty little daughter of a backwoods farmer who sighs for romance for all she knows is drudgery.”””

Just as in A Girl’s Folly, the heroine “prays for a beau to be sent to her,”

but this time an entire regiment arrives to encamp at the family farm. Frances has a mischievous Mary smiling serenely as she sits on the fence “reviewing the troops,” certain they are marching only so she can make her choice. After the obligatory complications and comic misadventures, Mary tides off into the sunset with her captain, played by Douglas MacLean, and the regiment in the background is the 143rd. When his leg healed, Fred managed a brief leave and visited Frances at the studio in Los Angeles. They had known each other less than a month, but were already making plans to marry as soon as the war was over. Fred claimed not to care about her past, but insisted on following his own moral code; he would not sleep with her until after they were married." With Fred as added inspiration, Frances was more determined than ever to be assigned overseas. A government commission offered her the greatest opportunity to travel unimpeded, so with Mary’s and Al Cohn’s help, she headed to Washington and an appointment with George Creel, head of the Committee on Public Information [CPI], the same week Fred began his trip to France. Neutrality had been the official American position for so long, the CPI’s challenge was to shift popular sentiment to support a state of war. Wilson’s reelection the previous November had been due in large part to keeping the country out of international conflicts and as late as January of 1917, he was advocating the possibility of a negotiated end to what was still called the European War. When increased German submarine attacks against American ships

threatened the flow of trade and endangered the boost the war had brought to the American economy, the opinions of the powers that be shifted, but declaring war alone did not bring support from the population at large. Enthusiasm for the war effort was so lackluster that although it was esti91

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mated that 1 million men were needed to fight, only 73,000 had enlisted after the first six weeks. The draft was instituted and the CPI went to work “disseminating information designed to sustain morale in the United States and in the Allied and neutral countries and administering voluntary press

censorship." Thousands of speakers called “four minute men” were organized to give short talks, often in movie theaters, in 5,000 cities all over America. The Division of Syndicate Features was established and over fifty prominent writers and journalists, including Samuel Hopkins Adams, Booth Tarkington, Wallace Irwin, and Rex Beach, were given the responsibility “to make clear why we are at war and to explain the ideals for which we are fighting.” There was the Division of Women’s Work to encourage women to support the war in tangible ways as well as accept the fact that it was their husbands and sons who were going to do the fighting. There was even a Bureau of Cartoons “to sell the war” and weekly bulletins stressing government priotities were sent to over 750 cartoonists throughout the country. And while official newsreels were distributed to theaters and daily news bulletins were issued to the press, censorship was always carefully and calculatingly called “voluntary.” The Committee on Public Information quickly became a quintessential part of this new America—a leader in world affairs, no longer isolated from the intrigues of Europe—and in the name of national unity, the government actively promoted one way of thinking and suppressed dissent as well. There were sporadic objections from a variety of quarters, but this cooperation between the government and the press was seen by many as the nat-

ural result of patriotism at a time of national crisis. And with 200 employees, a budget of $5 million, and more than 25,000 volunteers working under his auspices, George Creel, dubbed “America’s Super-Publicist,” had become a very powerful man.” Frances was familiar with George Creel as a reporter, editor, and populist reformer. In Kansas City, he had helped focus attention on local corruption and in Denver he gave national coverage to the killing of mine workers. His analysis of ten states that had “given” women the vote proclaimed the benefits of women’s suffrage so convincingly that it was reprinted in pamphlet form by the National Woman Suffrage Association. He endeared himself to the administration with “Wilson and the Issues” in 1916, and in “A Closeup of Douglas Fairbanks” for Everybody's Magazine, Creel created out of whole cloth a Fairbanks who had never existed before: a youth with enviable choices who intended to go to Princeton but picked Harvard instead, a grinning optimist, and a one-man band of moviemaking, facing deathdefying feats with a constant smile.” 92

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Frances knew the real Fairbanks too well to have any illusions about George Creel and she arrived at his office to find a short man in his early forties, dressed in flashy clothes and clearly very full of himself. His opening

comments reflected his amazement at her attractiveness and youth. He had expected a much older woman since he knew her only by reputation, from letters of recommendations, and from her résumé, which emphasized her years as head of a scenario department, Mary Pickford’s writer, and her experience as a reporter and artist.

Creel told her she was pretty enough to be an actress like his wife, Blanche Bates, who had just made her screen debut in The Border Legion with Hobart Bosworth. His wife had come from the New York stage and he regaled Frances with stories aimed to impress her, but failed miserably.” She tried to keep her irritation to herself until Joseph Tumulty, the president’s personal secretary, joined the meeting. Although he clearly “had an. eye for the ladies,” Tumulty took her seriously and talked about the assignment. Still he told her he hesitated to approve her appointment because it was dangerous at the front and women of experience and substance, such as Mary Roberts Rinehart, were needed to serve in these positions. Frances informed him that she was a friend of Mary Roberts Rinehart; if Mrs. Rinehart personally recommended her, would he reconsider and sign her commission? Tumulty reappraised the young woman, made note of “the resolve behind her eyes,” and concluded that she was “a rare, rare person, possessing a divine flame.” He assured Frances that he would look upon her appointment favorably with such an endorsement.”! Mary Roberts Rinehart’s husband was stationed as an army physician just outside Washington and Mary happened to be in town visiting him when she and Frances literally ran into each other at the White House. Mary had trained as a nurse before taking up writing and she wanted to return to France in that capacity. Even though she reached 2 million people through her articles in the Saturday Evening Post, she craved the tangible feeling of accomplishment that nursing the wounded brought and she was in the process of trying to cut through the red tape that forbade a woman with two sons serving overseas to go over herself. Rinehart was enthusiastic about Frances’s being a correspondent and agreed to speak to Tumulty, whom she had come to know as the man who

stood between President Wilson “and the men who would use him,” respecting him as “staunch, shrewd, and loyal.” She personally visited him and Creel to vouch for Frances’s ability and tenacity and when her official appointment came through, Frances thanked the “generous, warm-hearted woman” profusely and went to New York to await further instructions.” Frances’s assignment was big news. There was a full-page spread in Mov93

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ing Picture World, two pages with pictures in Motion Picture Magazine, and a smattering of articles in the newspapers. Mary Pickford was “tearfully refus-

ing to even discuss the necessity of getting another scenario writer” because “I am losing my best friend, the dearest chum I ever had.” Frances was painted as brave and spirited for being willing to serve and it was noted that she was relinquishing a $50,000-a-year salary in order to volunteer.” Finally, on the cold, rainy morning of September 18, 1918, Frances joined more than nine hundred men of the 543rd Engineers Service Battalion on Pier 57 at the New York Harbor to board the Rochambeau, converted into a transport vessel and destined for Bordeaux with a convoy of other ships. Frances thought the Rochambeau looked like “an old tub” and her fears proved justified when after two days at sea, “we hit a storm and the storm hit us back.” Waves poured across the deck and the ship was slapped from side to side by the raging ocean. Everyone was told to stay belowdecks, and Frances was lying scared and alone in her tiny cabin when from down in the hold, where the nineteen “colored troops” were housed, she heard “majestic voices rising in spirituals.”” The Rochambeau had been forced so far off course that they landed on

the northern coast of France at Brest instead of Bordeaux as planned. Everything about the transport was supposed to be secret, including Frances’s presence, so as she walked down the gangplank, “I was thunderstruck when I saw Fred Thomson standing there.” He had been in France only a week, but when he heard that a ship was about to dock unexpectedly in nearby Brest, he asked Colonel Fanoff, who had met Frances at Camp

Kearney, for a one-day pass based on “a strange premonition” that she might be on board. Frances did not know if she or the colonel was more surprised when Fred brought her back to camp, but it reconfirmed to her that fate was indeed playing a hand in this relationship. Fred seemed so sure of

her presence, and the comfort they had felt with each other in California was further entrenched.” The next day, Frances headed for Paris to report to the CPI headquarters. She was made a lieutenant in the army and given her papers, including a pass signed by General Pershing, an officer’s uniform, a steel helmet, and a regulation belt with a gas mask attached. She was assigned to work with

Harry Thorpe, one of Doug Fairbanks’s former cameramen, and Wesley Ruggles, a fledgling director from Hollywood now in the Army Signal Corps. She had known them slightly in California and Wes’s brother, the comedian Charles Ruggles, was an old friend from the Bosworth studio.”® Their task was to film the work of the Allied women. More than 20,000 American women served overseas during the war—10,000 as nurses in the army and navy and a few thousand under the auspices of the Red Cross, the 94

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YMCA, and the Salvation Army. Several hundred women were telephone operators with the Army Signal Corps and still others served as doctors, entertainers, canteen workers, interpreters, dentists, therapists, decoders, and in a myriad of other roles.”’ Most of the one thousand professional entertainers who joined the war

effort were connected to either the Overseas Theater League or the YMCA and over half were women. Cobina Johnson sang opera, the artist Neysa McMein sketched the soldiers, and Eleanor Robson gave dramatic readings. Frances just missed Elsie Janis, who had left France after more than three solid months of several shows a day and was now in London, heading the cast of Hello, America. In between performances, Elsie visited the injured in English hospitals. Even though she had been in France off and on for over two years, Elsie

was unable to sign up for the usually obligatory six months of service because of intermittent stage commitments. Since she never officially enlisted, Elsie was one of the few entertainers allowed to travel in “street clothes” instead of a uniform and she picked up the nicknames “The Regular Girl” and “The Sweetheart of the A.E.E”” Her popularity with the troops was unrivaled and she appeared before as many as 5,000 soldiers at a time, singing songs, telling her stories, and doing

impersonations from the top of a shed, the caboose of a train, or whatever elevated, flat surface was available. Her astute sense of mimicry combined with several intense weeks of language lessons gave her a fluency in French with a “superb accent” that helped spread her renown to all the Allied soldiers. Almost always accompanied by her mother, Elsie Janis was credited with seeing more of the front than any officer.” When live entertainment was not available, women delivered the film and ran the projectors for the hundreds of movies that were shown to the soldiers. Frances witnessed the popularity of movies time after time; they were shown in warehouses, airplane hangars, on battered portable screens, or projected against the wall of a building in the village square where townsfolk crammed in around the soldiers. “Charlie and Doug” were the two favorites, but anything showing familiar sights from home—the Statue of Liberty, a Chicago department store, or San Francisco’s Golden Gate —created a sensation and bolstered morale. Toward the end of the war German propaganda films left

behind by the retreating army became a prime attraction.” Frances traveled to and from Paris for a few days at a time, usually arriving on or near the front after a battle to witness doctors and nurses doing what they could for the injured in the shattered villages and burying the dead. She was struck by how thoroughly exhausted the Europeans were after four devastating years of war. 95

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“The vastness, the immensity, the awfulness of what I saw as I kept moving along with the front line engagements was utterly beyond my powers of

comprehension, let alone my ability to describe or scenarioize [sic]... . I could not write of the war, of the agonies, of the bravery of our boys or the things they endured—I simply couldn't do it.” Still, she continually worked on ways to shape their film into a cohesive story and whenever the truck wasn’t too bumpy or the candle still had a

flame, she took her notes and occasionally turned to writing comedy vignettes “for relief from the strain.”” More and more soldiers were being sent to the front, but the 143rd Field Artillery company remained in Brest. Fred’s frustration built as time and again his company was held back to train the new recruits that kept landing. He managed to visit Frances in Paris in the middle of October, but a massive air raid prevented them from enjoying the brief interlude. A Paris

school was bombed during the raid and dozens of French children were killed. This reality of the war hit Frances harder than hearing the guns of the front; nothing was sacred and she was learning it firsthand. She was preparing to leave Paris on the last day of October when Fred arrived with the news that his regiment was finally leaving for the front. She was relieved he hadn’t gone sooner and kept her worries to herself. For

several years, everyone had been saying that the war couldn't last much longer and now rumors abounded of German retreats and armistice, but still the war raged on.

The German occupation remained strong in some areas, but in the Alsace and Lorraine territories they had almost “melted away.” Her orders were to attach herself to the Signal Corps and the Red Cross units heading there to tend the wounded Allies abandoned in prison hospitals as the Ger-

mans retreated, but when she arrived at the caravan departure site, her division had gone. All the remaining trucks, ambulances, and cars were filled with doctors, nurses, and equipment. She was debating what to do next when an officer told her, “You'll have to turn back.” “As ‘turning back’ was not in my life’s pattern, I walked past the long line of trucks filled with supplies until I came to the only one where the seat beside the driver, a Sergeant, was unoccupied. At that moment, a bugle call signaled for the caravan to leave. Just as the driver of the truck was about to start his motor, I scrambled aboard. ‘You're in for a tough ride,’ was all he said.””

It was a nightmare of a ride. Once-prosperous towns were rubble; destruction was everywhere. Bomb shells had created holes the size of craters in the roads and made them a maze to maneuver. The heavier trucks fell behind as they passed the battlefields where millions of young men had lost their lives. 96

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Fires set by the Signal Corps to protect the convoy from rats were blazing when they finally approached Verdun. The silhouette of the half-destroyed

walls of the town’s cathedral reminded her of a Doré illustration from Dante’s Inferno.

Mary’s latest letter had helped convince Frances that the end of the war was near because the studio bosses had told them to lighten up on the “Kill the Kaiser” plots and start making romantic comedies again. Still, it would be hard to turn the tide of the anti-German sentiment that had swept the country—what one journalist called “the ecstasy of hate that gripped the American people.”

Perhaps that was how some back home saw the situation, but in the ruins Frances found a small child’s shoe and she knew she would never see the world quite the same again.” She slept fitfully in the truck and, before dawn, the caravan was moving

away from Verdun. Downed bridges mandated creative detours and the rain that had been intermittent the day before was pouring now. The roads became impossible to traverse and truck after truck pulled to the side, waiting for the weather to clear. Frances and her sergeant kept going until late in the afternoon when a pothole broke one of their axles. Too impatient to wait for help, Frances decided to start walking toward Luxembourg. After

several hours darkness was descending and her initial confidence turned slowly to fear. She became acutely aware of the smell of death all around her that even a downpour of rain could not erase. Cold and soaked through to the bone, she was wondering why she had left the truck when the lights of a motorcade flashed behind her. Frances stepped out into the middle of road, holding out her hands so they do could nothing but stop. She saw a general’s star on the windshield and as apprehensive as she had been walking alone, she found herself with a new set of fears. A deep, angry voice came from the dark interior of the car: “Good God, an American woman. Let me see her pass.” She put her papers into the outstretched hand and a flashlight shining on her also revealed several shadowed men and the bristling eyebrows of the man who was reading her papers. “Lieutenant Frances Marion. Where do you think you are going?” “To Luxembourg, sir,” she replied with a salute.

“Not in this car.” But then came a small smile and resignation: “Damn fool women poking their noses into a man’s war. Get in.” Frances was in no position to argue and it wasn’t until she squeezed into a seat in the back that she realized how totally exhausted she was. She slept off and on for the next two hours, quietly hoping her presence had been forgotten and desperately grateful for the ride. 97

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They arrived in Luxembourg a little after ten at night and Frances immediately fell into conversation with some American soldiers. They told her that another carload of officers would be leaving for Trier within the hour and she managed to hitch a ride with them. There was talk of an advance guard moving across the Rhine and so when they parked outside the hotel where General William Mitchell, chief of the army’s air service in France, was meeting with other Allied officers, she sat up in the car the rest of the night hoping to catch his attention.

Wrapped in the spirit of adventure and a euphoric state of exhaustion, she spotted General Mitchell emerging from the hotel just before dawn. After his gruff reaction at finding her walking alone and giving her a ride, he said he was not going to be the one to stop her now and approved her accompanying his aide Major Louis Brereton into German territory. Frances and the major drove through the small villages, where Germans stared in amazement but no one tried to stop them. As they drove at full speed through one of the larger towns, people threw rocks and clods of dirt at their car and from then on, they stayed on the back roads. Finally, a little after five the next morning, they approached Koblenz. At first the town appeared quietly menacing, but as they crossed the bridge spanning the Rhine river, a small band was playing “The Star-Spangled Banner,” bringing tears to their eyes.

Major Brereton encouraged Frances to return to Paris without delay. There were rumors of riots in other parts of Germany and the only troops immediately following them into Koblenz were a small band of military police. But Frances stayed on for several days, working with the supply troops as they arrived and the doctors and nurses who tended to the prisoners and the wounded left behind by the retreating German forces.™* Frances was flown back to Paris on November 10 and the next morning, as word of the Armistice started to spread, the city slowly came alive. By

afternoon the crowds made the streets impassable and honking horns, beating drums, music, and song filled the air—“Yankee Doodle Dandy,” “God Save the King,” “Hail, Hail, the Gang’s All Here,” and almost constantly the “Marseillaise.” There were too many women in mourning for sons and husbands to have the joy be unabashed, but the relief was palpable. Frances made the rounds as best she could and ended the evening at Maxim’s, squeezed into a table with General William Mitchell.” A few days later, Frances learned that she had been declared the first correspondent and the first American woman to cross the Rhine. Mary Roberts Rinehart had finally made it to France only two days before the end of the war, but was happily reunited with her son Stanley and stayed on for several months to cover the peace conference that was to follow. 98

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As the war was ending, the international flu epidemic of 1918 hit. Frances was one of the hundreds of thousands struck with the virus, which killed so

many people that newspaper obituaries were divided into three sections: deaths, war dead, and “epidemic casualties.” Letters from home told her that everyone was wearing masks, theaters were closed, and some studios had stopped production. Troop movements were canceled. To go outside was to risk your life. Young and old were dying of the disease after only a few days of being afflicted. Her dear New York friend, the composer Felix Arndt, who had written Nola for his wife and Marionette for Frances, was gone at the age of twenty-two. Adela Rogers St. Johns’s beloved new stepmother had died as well. No one escaped being touched in one way or another.” Frances recovered, yet for a time it looked as if Fred Thomson might be home before her. Then on December 7, the day before the first contingent of the 143rd were to board the ship for the States, he received word from

the General Headquarters that he was being detached from his regiment and named the chaplain of the Bordeaux embarkation camp. He was to remain for at least six more months and be the coordinating officer for all

their educational, recreational, and religious activities. Before taking effect, the assignment allowed an extended leave in Paris and he arranged to meet Frances before her departure.” As Frances sat in the crowded lobby of the Ritz Hotel waiting for Fred, boisterous Americans dominated the throngs of people almost desperate to celebrate. She watched “the hunting pack out for the kill” as two Frenchwomen moved in on a tall American army captain and a shorter young man

in an Italian uniform. As the captain glanced in her direction, Frances locked eyes with Bosworth’s cinematographer George Hill. He said something quickly to his friend and came over to join het. “I heard you were in France, but I’ve been stationed in Italy ever since I arrived in Europe,” George said as he sat down next to her. “Somebody told me you were going to marry a sky pilot. Is that true?” He asked it with such incredulity that Frances laughed out loud as she nodded yes. “A preacher’s wife,” George said, shaking his head in bewilderment. “1 can’t quite see you in that role.”

Frances assured him he would understand when he met Fred, who should be arriving soon, and as they waited, they traded war stories mixed

with news from home. His Italian friend was still entertaining the two young women and George waved to him to join them.* “You'll get a great kick out of this chap. He’s the wildest coot in the Italian flying corps. He cracked up so many of their planes we called him the Austrian Ace.” 99

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“Does he speak English?” Frances asked in a whisper as the young man walked toward them. “Speak English? He’s American. His name is Walter Wanger.” Within minutes, Walter and Frances were comparing notes on their San

Francisco childhoods and determining how their families might have known each other. His father, Sigmund Feuchtwanger, had been a successful clothes manufacturer, but Walter’s mother changed the family name to

Wanger after his father’s death. Walter had gone off to Dartmouth and independently produced several plays, but was becoming intrigued by the movie business and wanted to work in Hollywood after the war.”

Frances was fascinated by this multifaceted charmer and, inclined to give the benefit of the doubt to anyone from San Francisco, volunteered to give him letters of introduction to Lasky and Zukor. Walter was holding her hand in thanks just as Fred Thomson walked though the door. Introductions were made and Fred and George, both well over six feet, dwarfed Frances and Walter. The two men stayed and talked for another half hour before Fred and Frances were finally alone. “T liked your friend Captain Hill very much, but where did you pick up

that American imposter who was holding your hand when I arrived?” Frances explained the situation, but while he and George would become close friends, Fred never did have much patience for the showman Walter Wanger.

Fred and Frances spent Christmas together in Paris and with prewar guidebooks in hand, they visited Versailles, Napoleon’s tomb, and all the other tourist attractions. They welcomed in the new year of 1919 and in early February, she boarded the transport ship the Baltic and headed for New York.”

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rances was greeted at the dock by reporters eager to hear her war stories. The reception had been arranged by Pete Smith, the Famous Players Lasky publicity man she had known when he was promoting

Bosworth films. Frances used the opportunity to champion the talents of Wesley Ruggles and Harry Thorpe yet found it difficult to articulate the war's devastation. “What may come as an aftermath of all I saw and experienced is more than I can say right now, but when I think of all the scenes I witnessed, I realize how helpless I am, or would be, in attempting to include any of it in a scenario.” She was anxious to put the war behind her, catching up with old friends like Anita Loos and meeting new ones like the Vanity Fair drama critic Dorothy Parker. She also ran into Elda Furry, or Hedda Hopper, as she was

now calling herself, and they laughed about their hostile meeting years before during the filming of The Battle of Hearts. Several friends including Elsie Janis had told them both separately how much they would enjoy each other and they soon admitted their friends knew better than they did. Hedda was a natural storyteller and she laughed as easily at herself as she did at others. She amused Frances with tales of her Quaker girlhood outside Altoona, Pennsylvania, and her marriage to the much older Broadway star De Wolf Hopper. She was “Wolfie’s” fifth wife and he kept calling her by their names: Ella, Ida, Edna, or Nella. The artist Neysa McMein suggested she see her numerologist, and by combining dates and numbers, the seer arrived at the name Hedda. Wolfie was less than enthusiastic, but he never called her by the wrong name again.’

Hedda was thirty-four, the mother of a four-year-old son, and was already starting to drop several years from her age. Frances could be cynical

while Hedda crossed the line into judgmental, but they laughed without inhibition and Frances enjoyed Hedda’s rapier wit and even tolerated her constant flow of unsolicited advice. She had found a new friend who made her, even at her most honest, sound demure.’ 101

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After three weeks of vacationing in New York, Frances took the train west, stopping in Chicago to interview the heads of the several war relief organizations for her film. American Women in the War was soon released to exhibitors as a serial in fifteen reels.‘ Frances’s first order of business after checking into the Hollywood Hotel

was to see Mary. They had written often, but six months was a long time between face-to-face conversations, especially for best friends used to seeing each other every day. Mary’s affair with Doug Fairbanks had intensified and rumors were rampant. While they were still trying to keep their relationship a secret, Owen Moore knew exactly what was happening. Already resentful of what he saw as Doug’s “instant stardom,” Owen’s drinking and mood swings escalated to the point that he threatened to kill both Mary and “that climbing monkey.” Fairbanks cavalierly told his director Allan Dwan, “Your friend Owen Moore says he’s going to shoot me, if he’s sober enough to point the gun,” but he took the threat seriously enough to go to Arizona for a month to make A Modern Musketeer and even looked into the possibility of going to South America to make a film or two.’ While he knew his own marriage was a sham, Doug so hated confrontations that he kept the telegraph wires busy with cables to Beth professing his

love and denying any problems. She had remained blind to the affair; Doug’s busy schedule and her preference for New York over California made her fairly easy to manipulate, yet slowly her suspicions grew. During one of her California visits, Doug took off with Mary, thinking Beth was lunching with Hedda Hopper. Their friendship had developed when both their husbands were on Broadway and Beth had helped Hedda find a house when the Hoppers arrived in Hollywood. The two women often took walks together and this afternoon they wandered past Doug’s brother’s bungalow. The puritanical

Hedda had seen Mary and Doug sneak into the house for assignations before and while she would never approve of such affairs, she wasn’t going to be the one to tell Beth. To avoid any possible encounters, Hedda told her the canyon was infested with rattlesnakes and rerouted their walks from then on.° Doug feared facing the public scrutiny that would result from a divorce, but in his growing irritation at not having everything the way he wanted it,

he rhetorically asked friends, “Why shouldn't I divorce? Caesar did it. Napoleon did it.” Even Beth was already seeing someone else, an old friend from her debutante days, the Pittsburgh stockbroker James Evans. And when she finally went public and announced her separation from Fairbanks, Beth told some

reporters that she suspected Mary Pickford as “the other woman.” Yet while the divorce was covered avidly by the press, Mary’s name was never 102

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printed and when asked, she emphatically claimed her relationship with “Mr. Fairbanks” was a purely professional one.

Mary had sent Frances the newspaper clipping when Beth was granted an interlocutory decree of divorce in November of 1918. The process itself was relatively civilized, with Doug agreeing to a one-time settlement of all his savings. His brother John took the train across the country to deliver a suitcase with half a million dollars in cash and securities to Beth and she in turn named “an unknown woman’ as the cause of the divorce.* Beth Fairbanks made the next move by marrying Jim Evans just as Mary entered into a very public professional relationship with Doug, Charlie Chaplin, and D. W. Griffith when they formed their own production company.’

The liberty bond tours had given Doug, Mary, and Charlie the opportunity to ask each other the obvious question: Why were they splitting profits with their producers? After all, people came to the movies to see them, not Zukor or Lasky. Yet their complaints and dreams might have remained just that if the trades had not reported in January of 1919 rumors of a merger between the two major distributors, Paramount and First National. Mary

had thrived on playing one studio off against another to increase her income with each new contract and if such a merger occurred, she knew it would “clamp the lid on the salaries.” Chaplin always claimed that their initial public meetings and the press conference he held with Mary, Doug, and D. W. Griffith was as much a bluff to prevent the merger as anything, but the idea took on a life of its own and in the spring of 1919, they were formally signing the papers of their new corporation. They called themselves United Artists, but the trades called it a “rebel-

lion against established producing and distributing arrangements.” The four insisted their actions were “for the protection of their interests,” William McAdoo, the former secretary of the Treasury whom Doug had befriended on the bond tours, was named their general counsel, adding an air of prestige from outside the industry. McAdoo knew little about making pictures, but in these heady times, Doug, Mary, Charlie, and the Master himself represented the most successful and experienced combine imaginable." Busy with meetings and publicity, Mary still made time to shift her attention to Frances when she suffered a relapse of the flu and sent her doctor to the Hollywood Hotel to supervise Frances’s recovery. Flowers, bed jackets, and visitors arrived by the dozens and soon she was sufficiently recuperated to head north to San Francisco. She spent several days visiting her family and the Examiner covered her visit with a page one story, headlining her as “a war heroine.”” Frances’s contract with Famous Players had been in abeyance while she 103

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was overseas, and because Mary was no longer at the studio, Frances could have challenged the arrangement. Yet if there was any question that they expected her to return, it was answered by the presence of their publicity

man at the pier upon her arrival in New York. Not knowing when Fred would be home, Frances was comfortable working on a film-by-film basis and she wrote a scenario for Billie Burke and adapted four Anne of Green Gables books into one script for Mary Miles Minter, the new star Famous Players hoped would challenge the departing Mary Pickford.” Mary asked Frances to write for her once United Artists started producing, but that was still at least six months in the future. Fred’s letters told her he was helping organize the Interallied Games in Paris over the summer and he would not be home until September at the earliest. While he was frustrated with the delay, the games were second in importance only to the Olympics and brought together athletes of the Allied countries already holding records and developed new competitors in every field. Fred wasn’t yet sure if he would

compete, but he was working with a group of boxers and was particularly impressed with the winner of the light heavyweight championship of the American Expeditionary Force, “a young Irish boy named Gene Tunney.” Frances was wondering what to do next while she waited for Mary when a telegram arrived: “Would you consider contract as writer and director at Cosmopolitan Studio, New York? Salary two thousand dollars a week. W. R. Hearst.” William Randolph Hearst. The publishing baron and owner of the San Francisco Examiner who had paid her fifteen dollars a week less than ten years before was now offering her $100,000 a year. There wasn’t much to think about. Yet just the same, she checked in with Adela Rogers, who had been working for Hearst as a reporter for over five years. Adela adored Hearst and had nothing but praise for the man. She had been living a rather conflicted life since marrying the Los Angeles Examiner’s handsome young copy editor Ike St. Johns. She had resisted changing her last name, but her beloved father insisted upon it, “so not to belittle Ike’s feelings.” She compromised and used Rogers St. Johns, and joked she had married at the age of eighteen for fear of “being an old maid.” She was juggling her roles of being a wife to Ike and taking care of Elaine and Bill, the two young children she had wanted so badly, but Adela came

alive when she was reporting, especially covering murder trials. Her husband might complain, but Hearst had backed her at every turn and she was proud to have earned his respect." The only person Frances cared about who was negative about Hearst was her father. He was convinced “that Hearst alone was responsible for the sinking of the Maine, war with Mexico, our troops going to France, and 104

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the rising power of the unions.” Len Owens told Frances she was “going from bad to Hearst,” but his daughter was not about to be deterred. She understood working for Hearst meant writing for Marion Davies and she was intrigued by the prospect.’®

Frances had first met Marion when she was one of the four beautiful chorus girls backing Elsie Janis during the short run of Miss Information in

the fall of 1915. Marion was a stunning blue-eyed blonde, unpretentious and very funny. For all her flirting, Elsie was never jealous of pretty young women and she promoted Marion as “one of the most popular gals in town

judging from the coffin-like boxes of flowers that crowded the stage entrance nightly.” Marion’s bubbling personality, her genuine interest in other people, and her ability to make everyone feel good about themselves made her well liked by other chorus girls as well as the wealthy, bored, and usually married men of New York.”

That was before Marion had “settled down” with William Randolph Hearst. She had literally watched from behind the curtains as her three older sisters became showgirls, each taking the last name of Davies for the stage. “Mama Rose” ruled the roost, supported by a combination of relatives, her daughter’s salaries, their boyfriends, and later their husbands. According to Anita Loos, her mother and sisters schooled Marion in the “Gigi tradition” of pleasing a man, for catching the eye of a producer or a rich “patron” was one of the few avenues to financial security available to girls from families like the Dourases.” Marion was eighteen and Hearst over fifty when they became an established couple in 1916. The newspaper publisher’s anti-English and proGerman stance made him unpopular with many, but Marion never cared for politics or world affairs. He gave her a Tiffany watch after their first din-

ner together, the start of a stream of gift giving that would last for over thirty years.

W.R.—“the Chief”’—was born and raised in San Francisco, the only child of Phoebe and George Hearst. His father made his first fortune in the silver from the Comstock Lode and invested in real estate and newspapers and eventually was elected United States senator from California. Concentrating on the Harvard Lampoon and the Hasty Pudding Club instead of his studies, W.R. left college during his junior year and made his first foray into publishing at his father’s San Francisco Examiner. He expanded the family fortune by buying papers in twenty cities including New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles and purchasing a magazine combine consisting of Cosmopolitan, Good Housekeeping, and Popular Mechanics. Hearst served as a congressman from New York in the early 1900s, and ran unsuccessfully for mayor, governor, and twice for the presidency. By the 105

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time he met Marion, he had been married for more than ten years to another former showgirl, Millicent Willson, and was the father of five boys. The previously fun-loving Millicent showed an immediate affinity for the approval of society as soon as she married and W.R. was once again looking for diversion. Marion was hardly his first affair, but it became a serious one very quickly. He “favored fidelity in the abstract” according to his biographer W. A. Swanberg, and had “an enormous zest for life” and “an almost pagan worship of youth, energy, activity, sensation.” He expanded his empire to include movies in 1913 by producing newsreels and formed Cosmopolitan pictures as a showcase for what he was convinced were the great dramatic talents of Marion Davies. Anita Loos wrote

Getting Mary Married for Marion, but when she and Emerson signed to

work for the Talmadge sisters, she recommended Frances and W.R. embraced the idea.” John Emerson, Anita, and Frances left Los Angeles together and when they arrived in New York, Frances called Hearst’s office for instructions.

She was told she was expected at the Beaux Arts apartment building, where Marion Davies opened the door amid howls of laughter and blaring

music. There in the center of half a dozen Ziegfeld beauties towered William Randolph Hearst, over a foot taller and thirty years older than any of the other giggling and dancing participants.” “Hi, Fran-Frances,” said Marion. “Come in, we’re just tea-teaching W.R. how to shim-shimmy!”

Out of breath but not at all embarrassed, Hearst ceased shaking his shoulders and welcomed Frances. His large size and thin voice struck her as

contradictory, yet he seemed totally at ease. He looked at her with his piercing blue eyes and told her he considered her the brains behind Mary Pickford’s success and he expected the same stardom for Marion. Frances praised Marion’s talents and personality, but cautioned him that Mary’s position was unique and expressed reluctance to write for Marion. “Don’t you like her?” Hearst asked. “Very much,” Frances assured him. “That’s why I don’t want to do anything which could jeopardize her career.” “I don’t understand you! I’m willing to spend a million on each picture.” “Lavishness doesn’t guarantee a good picture, Mr. Hearst. Marion is a natural-born comedienne and she is being smothered under pretentious stories and such exaggerated backgrounds that you can’t see the diamond for the setting.”” Hearst was not used to direct criticism, but Frances had made her point and their mutual respect was sealed. They established that Frances would be given the freedom to finish her other commitments and be “loaned out” 106

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to make a United Artists film with Mary when the time came. All this and two thousand a week were worth a few concessions. They found a story they could both agree on in The Cinema Murders, a light drama that had been serialized in Hearst’s Cosmopolitan magazine. It allowed for plenty of the theatrical costumes so important to Hearst, but Frances wrote in dancing scenes and comic interludes to show off what she considered Marion’s strengths. Their compromise marked the beginning of a fifteen-year tug-of-war over what was best for Marion. Frances could write anywhere and Anita suggested sharing a house out on Long Island, since they were both making enough money to indulge in a “country home” for the season. They fell in love with the idea of a huge yard and growing their own vegetables. They hired experts, brought in soil, and dug

with their own hands, but their visions of an enormous harvest to be shared with all their city friends began to wane with an infestation of bugs and then the spread of mildew. One night as they were preparing to actually eat the little home-grown bounty that had survived, Norma Talmadge called to invite them to dinner, but Anita declined. “Tonight Frances and I are eating four hundred dollars’ worth of peas.”” They made the most of the weekend parties along the Gold Coast that E Scott Fitzgerald would soon immortalize in The Great Gatsby. The misery of the war seemed far away and Frances noticed how few in their circle of friends and acquaintances seemed to have been touched by it or any problems that affected the real world. Prohibition had arrived, but like Attorney General “Palmer’s raids” and talk of unions, it was a minor unpleasantry to be worked around or, better yet, ignored. As soon as a new speakeasy opened, the passwords were known to all

who mattered and the only inconvenience seemed to be that they were now drinking out of teacups instead of glasses.

Serious drinkers arrived at serious solutions. Anita claimed that Charlotte Pickford simply bought an entire liquor store, secreted the inventory in her basement, and padlocked it to keep others in general and son Jack in particular away from her stash. Out on Long Island, delivery trucks arrived with kegs marked “Pickles” and soon whiskey, rum, or champagne would magically be served.” Anita and Frances were both disciplined writers and they lived together

easily, but one of the reasons Anita had pressed Frances into sharing the house was so she would have “a chaperon” for the constant presence of John Emerson. The tiny Anita was always a sucker for a tall man and his claim that he “never had been, nor ever could be, faithful to any one female” made him all the more irresistible. She convinced herself she was “different from all his other girls” and that behind his stoic presence was a great mind.” 107

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Frances did not even pretend to understand the relationship. She thought Anita was a talented “dynamo,” smart and fun to be with, and found John a total dullard with a “constipated brain” who manipulated Anita. Yet Frances was learning to withhold her opinions and she was matron of honor when Anita married John Emerson on Sunday, June 15, 1919, in a garden ceremony at Joe Schenck and Norma Talmadge’s estate. Anita beamed in her long white lace dress, a large hat, and a huge bouquet,

all serving to accentuate her tiny stature next to her beloved Emerson, dressed in white flannel pants, a dark blazer, and a jaunty straw hat.” John and Anita left on a European honeymoon, a wedding gift from Joe

Schenck, and Frances happily moved back to the Algonquin. With Dorothy Parker, Robert Benchley, and Robert Sherwood all working at Vanity Fair only a few doors away, they and their friends who regularly gathered at the hotel at noon were beginning to be called the Round Table. The hame was acquired because other diners would point out Mrs. Fiske sitting

next to Alexander Woolcott or H. L. Mencken next to George Kaufman and Ruth Hale “at the round table” in the center of the room. It was a casual group at first, but they were united in their seriousness about themselves and their writing.

While Frances and Dorothy Parker enjoyed each other privately, Frances was rarely at the hotel at lunchtime, and even when she was, she hesitated to join the group even for a brief visit. Her writing was of the “sentimental” type they disdained and Frances found their “verbal fencing” more exhausting than exhilarating.” She was the first to agree that her stories were not up to their literary standards, but the money she was earning was staggering. The $2,000 a week she was receiving from Hearst was augmented by the Palmer Plan of Photoplay Writing when they paid her to endorse their correspondence school. A glamourous picture of Frances was featured in their ads and she was proclaimed the “highest salaried photoplaywright in the industry.” Frances joined Frank and Bertha Case and other friends of Elsie Janis on

May 31 when the Rotterdam brought “Ma” and her daughter home from England to a reception appropriate for a conquering hero. The band played Over There and a huge banner reading “Welcome Home, Elsie Janis” covered the entire side of the tugboat that greeted the ship. Elsie spent a month being feted and honored throughout New York and was approached by several studios. Her popularity with the troops and the press coverage of her travels gave her a natural drawing power for the screen and she signed a four-picture, $5,000-a-week contract with Lewis Selznick’s elder son, Myron.” Forming Selznick Picture Corporation was Myron’s way of celebrating 108

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his twenty-first birthday as well as getting back at the men he felt had betrayed his father. The senior Selznick had lost a power struggle with Adolph Zukor and been forced out of Select Pictures the year before. Myron had apprenticed with his father and then served as the studio manager for Norma Talmadge; by the time he signed Elsie Janis, he already had Olive Thomas and several other stars under exclusive contracts and was determined to put the name of Selznick back in lights.” Frances quietly supported the young Selznick and respected him for his intense desire to succeed. At the World studios, she had watched Myron work in the film examining room starting at seven in the morning making

five dollars a week and move on to other departments, learning every aspect of the business the hard way. And she sympathized with his father, whom she saw as another “victim of overconfidence or treachery.” Frances wrote The Flapper for Olive Thomas and continued to comb the theaters of New York for plays that would be appropriate for Marion Davies to film. With over seventy legitimate theaters, Frances saw a variety of possibilities, but Hearst preferred her to peruse the stories he had already purchased for Cosmopolitan magazine.

She agreed to write Everybody's Sweetheart for Elsie’s first film for Selznick, but the name was soon changed to A Regular Girl to capitalize on

Elsie’s well-known nickname. Frances brought in a new friend, Eddie Goulding, to help write the story, and she shared the screen credit with him. She had met the Englishman through Anita Loos and they both adored the witty young man who had acted and written for the British stage before serving in the war. When Goulding arrived in New York anxious to

work in American films, Frances knew Elsie wouldn't mind if she used A Regular Girl to give him his first break.”

Once the Armistice had been declared, “Kill the Hun” movies were dead at the box office. In fact, almost anything having to do with war was an anathema. When Frances adapted the play Billeted for Billie Burke, it was immediately retitled The Misleading Widow and the publicity was careful to spell out that the “farce comedy, contrary to what might be expected from the title of the original play, is about as far removed from war as can be imagined.” The studio heads were convinced that romance and laughter were all audiences were interested in. New villains were appearing in shades of red and antiBolshevik themes became the rage, but it was films like Don’t Change Your Wife,

Choosing a Wife, and Getting Mary Married that were packing the theaters.” Elsie and Frances shared the frustration that the very real problems con-

fronted by soldiers returning home were not being dealt with or even discussed. Anita Loos and John Emerson’s last Famous Players Lasky film Oh You Women was a satire about men back from war to find women in their 109

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jobs and the ads featured one petite woman and another grossly fat one, both dressed as men in suits, complete with false mustaches, giving the eye to a sheepish-looking soldier in uniform. The studio promoted the fact that there was a purpose behind the comedy: “It drives home the point that while it was all very fine indeed for a woman to take a man’s place while he went to war, it is all wrong to consider keeping it when he comes home.””

Frances and Elsie tried to deliver their message in a story about a girl from high society who is inspired by patriotism to serve as a nurse overseas.

When she returns home, she realizes her former life is meaningless and secretly goes to work in a boardinghouse helping former servicemen find jobs. Her employment bureau for “the boys” is a huge success; she is ful-

filled as she never was in the social world and reunites with her old boyfriend with the understanding that she will continue her mission. They used as many ex-servicemen in the cast as possible and the filming often turned into a party. The director James Young would find Elsie singing with the soldiers or down on her knees in a crap game, but she and Frances took seriously their attempt to remind people in a comedic way that soldiers had a transition to go through. Their memories of what they had seen in France filled the film with realistic details and “between us,” Elsie said, “we put everything in the picture but the delousing station.” Elsie never considered herself a film actress. She thought she was “too fast” for the camera, looking and acting “like a Semitic jumping jack” on

the screen, but making movies was fun, the money was better than she could earn anywhere else, and besides, an Equity strike had closed down the Broadway theaters.” Anita and John Emerson returned from their European honeymoon and he became deeply involved in the fight to unionize Broadway actors. Anita, however, was not very enamored of the theater and preferred, when she wasn’t churning out another film for Constance Talmadge, to dine with new friends like George Jean Nathan or H. L. Mencken. Mencken was a dedicated bachelor living in Baltimore who came to New York for a day or two at a time and Anita adored him. He was to become yet another in what would be a string of love affairs of the mind, jousting with one-liners and

all-night philosophical discussions, but they were rarely the intimate liaisons Anita might have hoped for. Mencken’s intellect and wit represented what she had hoped to find in Emerson, but once she had “landed” the formerly unattainable man as a husband, it became amazingly clear how little they really had in common. Anita and Frances genuinely enjoyed the company of smart, entertaining, and accomplished women who did not take themselves too seriously. Anita particularly relished spending the evening with Marion Davies, Jus110

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tine Johnston, and the Talmadge sisters when they were away from their men, free to talk without the need to impress or adore. Frances occasionally

joined the regular Tuesday night group in what they called their “cat nights,” usually gathering at the apartment at the Beaux Arts building Hearst kept for Marion.” United Artists was finally a reality and while Doug had already brought out a picture, Mary Pickford was just completing her contract with First National. Experienced as Mary was, she wanted her best friend at her side for her first United Artists film and Frances made immediate arrangements with Hearst to be “loaned.” To further ensure success, she and Mary chose a well-known story about a young orphan girl: Pollyanna.” Frances and Mary didn’t realize until they were too far along that they had been spoiled by stories with some depth and challenges, such as Stella

Maris. They had reverted to a formula that was almost a caricature of Mary’s previous “little girl” films and found the syrupy sweet Pollyanna frankly insidious; “I hated writing it and Mary hated playing it.”

With the nickname of “The Glad Girl,” Pollyanna dedicates herself to finding something good in everyone and everything. Frances admitted that “in spite of our indifference” she managed to “edge in some amusing scenes” and her titles at times verge on hilarious. When confronted with her mean Aunt Polly, Mary seems at a loss for a positive retort, but then brightly comes up with “I’m glad. . . she’s not twins.” Still, they took few risks and were more relieved than satisfied when filming was completed.” In October of 1919, Frances finally received word that after organizing

the Allied Games and setting a world record for the grenade throw, Fred was coming home. Mary told her to leave for New York immediately and she and Charlotte would follow as soon as the negatives were developed. Frances arrived only a few days before Fred’s ship docked, but her excitement was now tinged with doubts. It had been eight long months since they had seen each other and they had known each other only a little more than a year. During that absence, it had been Mary’s turn to advise against a relationship: “Fred would have to give up the work which had meant so much to him; in some ways the tenets of the Presbyterian church were as rigid as the Catholic church and it would destroy a preacher’s strong position to marry a divorced woman. What would Fred’s future be? Could she give up her career? Many professional women had made these promises while in love, but if a career is in their blood, they rarely settled down for long.” This time their heart-to-heart discussions brought Mary and Frances “even closer” and in a temporary burst of puritanical resolve, they both decided “we must renounce our loves.” Mary’s determination evaporated 111

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the next time she saw Doug, but Frances now “bitterly regretted my two marital indiscretions.” She also harbored the concern that her success might intimidate Fred.” After a joyous reunion, she confronted Fred with all her fears, but he was

adamant. Yes, he had loved preaching and had thought that was what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. Yet now, particularly after the war, he saw other ways to use his talent and experience. He could teach college or write a book on athletic training. Somehow, he could combine his skill in athletics with his desire to educate. She shouldn't worry about him. He was the lucky one. Before and after his brief marriage he’d had beautiful women fawn over him, but Frances was an equal, both intellectually and in terms of accomplishments, and unlike any other woman he had ever known. Frances would joke that she married Fred because “she couldn't get him any other way,” but he had showed her a strength of character and a refusal

to be cajoled by her that she had never confronted before. They both felt the excitement and potential of being two strong people together.” She knew how important it was to Fred to be married in a church and she found one that would not only marry them, but meet their esthetic and ethical requirements as well. The Romanesque Judson Memorial Church at Washington Square, designed by Stanford White, had been founded by Edward Judson to do “aggressive missionary work” in Greenwich Village, providing a gymnasium, a library, and a children’s home in a “crazy quilt” neighborhood.” She had thought it was ludicrous when Lois Weber took several years off her age when signing that first movie contract, but now Frances officially lopped two years from her birth date on the marriage license. She wrote in November 18, 1890, making herself six months younger than Fred instead of the year and half older that she really was. Frances kept the telegraph wires busy, cabling family and friends, “I wish

so much that you might be present at this moment of my greatest happiness,” and Mary and Charlotte Pickford arrived on the morning of November 2 to be witnesses. After a celebratory supper, Fred and Frances went back to the Algonquin, where he was decidedly uncomfortable. Not only was he too likely to be called Mr. Marion, he found the rooms small and the pretentiousness of the guests overwhelming. Yet there was no need to argue over where they would stay because there wasn’t time for it. They planned a European honeymoon, but first Frances had to return to Los Angeles to supervise the final titles for Pollyanna and Fred was anxious to see his family and have them meet his new wife.”

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lara Thomson had been hearing about Frances since shortly after

(Fe met her, but she had not let herself believe it was anything

serious. Fred had written, very matter-of-factly, about his pride in Frances’s work during the war and Clara knew they had spoken of marriage, but it wasn’t until February 12, 1919, that she realized the truth in the black and white of newsprint.' On page one, the Los Angeles Herald ran a large studio publicity picture of Frances with an inset of Fred in uniform. The headline read “Engaged, not Wed to Fred Thomson, says Scenario Star.” Datelined New York, the article was in response to false reports in the trades that Frances and Fred had married in Paris and it was the first full coverage of her return to America. She was praised as the “famous” and “prominent scenario writer,” while the lone mention of Fred labeled him the “noted Los Angeles athlete and chaplain.” To add to Clara’s indignity, a friend sent her an article from the San Fran-

cisco Examiner a month later announcing Frances’s heroic return to her hometown and recounting her war adventures. After listing all of the demands on Frances’s schedule, the very last line of the front-page story read: “And as soon as she finds a moment to spare, she will marry Fred Thompson [sic], America’s champion athlete, who was commander of athletics with A.E.E” His family and friends were so used to Fred’s being the focus, the handwritten note on the article asked Clara, “I wonder if this is our Fred or if there is another athletic Fred Thomson in America?” While the picture was of an attractive, sedate Frances in her army uniform, Clara knew that this “government war correspondent, authoress, playwright, and native Californian” was not the demure virgin fit to be the wife of her son. Clara Thomson was not at all pleased. No mere female would ever be worthy of any of her boys. When Fred’s older brother Henry brought home Janet Smart, an attractive college graduate from a well-off and socially established Santa Ana family, Clara let them know of her displeasure then and throughout their marriage, which was to last until Janet’s death fifty years later.’ 113

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If a wealthy, educated, and unmarried woman was not good enough for one of her sons, Frances’s sins were beyond pardon. In addition to her mar-

riages and her work for the movies, she was “bought and paid for by William Randolph Hearst.” No one of any principles or stature read a Hearst paper. “He was a Democrat.” When Clara and Frances finally met in Los Angeles, she and Fred were already married and he made it clear there was nothing to be discussed. He assured his mother he would find another line of work to share his love of God and would continue to support her financially. Fred would always revere his mother and be deferential in their communications, but she was no longer the number one woman in his life. Frances spent as little time with her mother-in-law as politely possible. The newlyweds checked into the Hollywood Hotel for a month’s stay and Frances’s mother came from San Francisco for a brief visit. While Fred

spent time with his family and friends, Frances finished the titles for Pollyanna and when it premiered:at Clune’s Theater on January 19, 1920, Frances’s name was not only listed on the credits, but before and in bigger letters than the director, Paul Powell. While she and Mary thought the film verged on insipid, the public and the critics loved it, praising Pollyanna as “the crowning achievement of her screen career.” Frances had successfully seen Mary through her first United Artists production and now made preparations to return to New York to finish her commitments to Hearst and Cosmopolitan, clearing her slate for a long

honeymoon. She recommended her old San Francisco reporter friend Waldemar Young to write Mary’s next scenario, returning the favor he had done for her when he told Oliver Morosco about her paintings eight years earlier. Yet there was one more personal crisis to see Mary through as well: Douglas was insisting that she divorce Owen and marry him. There was no question in Doug’s mind of how much he loved Mary, but, “Oh that family.” What would it be like when they married? Charlotte’s life was so entangled with Mary’s, and then there were Jack and Lottie. Doug

saw them as an embarrassment and feared he might be taking on four dependents instead of just one.* He liked to consider himself of the class with which he associated and it irritated him when Mary joked about being “shanty Irish.” The family’s drinking habits concerned him as well, although Mary would forsake the regular Pickford bourbon for the more refined “Pink Lady” when she was with him.’

Fairbanks himself was a teetotaler as a result of a dramatic family imbroglio. His father had returned to Denver and looked up the twelveyear-old Doug at school. His son urged him to come home and Charles 114

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Ulman agreed, but first fortified himself for the meeting with his ex-wife at

a local bar to the point that when they finally arrived at the house, Ella took one look at Ulman and ordered him never to return. She immediately took young Doug to the local Temperance Union, where she stood over him as he signed a pledge never to drink. From all accounts, he stayed true to the vow until much later in life. Doug convinced himself that once Mary was Mts. Fairbanks, he would be all-important to her. Even his own son would later say, “Dad wanted all of Mary—herself and her talent and her fame and her exclusive devotion. And he longed to be able to display their union to the world like a double trophy.” So Doug gave Mary an ultimatum: marry him now or he was leaving her. His divorce from Beth and her remarriage had not caused any discernible effects on his career and he was sure it would be the same for her. They had been in love for three years and he was not waiting any longer. While Mary was sure she loved him and was miserable living a lie in a marriage with Owen, she was petrified of making a mistake of such magnitude that it would wipe out everything she had worked for. Frances knew

that Mary had never reached a major decision without her mother’s approval, except for the disastrous one to marry Owen, and while others painted Charlotte as a puppeteer pulling her daughter’s strings, Frances believed she genuinely wanted what was best for her daughter. “Even when Mary’s mother found out Doug was half Jewish, she preferred him to Owen,” Frances told an interviewer late in life. “Owen was drunk all the time. The main thing was that ‘Mama’ loved Mary to be happy and Mary

was never lovelier than when she was with Doug. That was enough for Mama—if only they both weren’t married to somebody else.” Yet when Mary practically begged her mother for her blessing, Char-

lotte’s only response was to ask, “Will you ever be happy outside the church?” Even if Mary could manage to get an annulment, Douglas was divorced and that made the Catholic church’s approval impossible. Still, Charlotte was not about to repeat the mistake of forbidding her daughter to marty; this time the decision was Mary’s to make.

Mary turned to Frances and as they tried to gauge how “her public” would react, Frances decided they were too close to the situation. Aware that “even as a child, Mary had never experienced such fear and frustration,” Frances sought outside help. She needed someone who could be trusted as a friend and who, as a reporter, understood both the public’s perceptions and the business of motion pictures. Once again, Frances turned to Adela Rogers St. Johns." As difficult as it was for Mary to let anyone into her private circle, she agreed to invite Adela for tea. Like everyone else who went to the movies, 115

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Adela felt she already knew Mary, but the first thing that struck her as Mary

introduced herself was that she had never before heard the star’s voice. Adela was enchanted and, for once in her life, more than a bit in awe. “If ] get a divorce and marry Douglas, will anyone ever go see my pictures again?” Mary asked her directly. “Do you think they will forgive me?” Adela was taken aback, yet not totally surprised, for she had heard the rumors. Her mind raced as she realized Mary was facing a three-ring crisis— familial, religious, and professional—but before she could comment, Mary added something that would always echo in Adela’s mind as exemplifying how seriously she took her position: “Above all, there are my people to consider.”

“My people” meant more than a sense of noblesse oblige for those who depended on her. Along with the business acumen that served her so well, Mary had almost an innate understanding of this new phenomenon called stardom: the public’s sense of ownership of the personalities they took into their hearts. Adela empathized and, assuming Mary must be very much in love to have called for her, hedged her advice. “T think your chances are better than even if it’s handled carefully. All the world loves a lover.” Overall she was encouraging, and Mary thanked her for coming and excused herself. As soon as they were alone, Frances explained how difficult it was for Mary “trying to make an unalterable decision that might radically change her whole way of living.” In addition to everything else, her adored brother, Jack, didn’t approve of Douglas; he thought he was a charlatan trying to buy his own importance through his association with Mary. Frances and Adela both found Jack charming, yet also knew that was exactly the way many saw his relationship with his sister. Adela asked Frances about what she thought: “Do you understand why she’s in love with him?” Frances had long stopped trying to explain it to herself or anyone else and shrugged. “I don’t understand why I’m in love with Fred Thomson.”"! Mary made her decision. To the plea that she was “America’s sweetheart,” she declared, “I only want to be one man’s sweetheart.” She was willing to risk it all for what she saw as her one chance at happiness and

once the decision was made, Charlotte and their attorney Cap O’Brien started making the necessary arrangements to make the divorce a reality.”

First, a deal was made with Owen to buy his cooperation. Frances remembered that his price was $100,000, but that seems low considering Mary’s wealth. Whatever the actual settlement, Moore sped up the process by conveniently arriving in Minden, Nevada, with his attorney after Mary

and Charlotte had been in the state for only two weeks. He publicly claimed that he was scouting film locations, but his presence allowed him 116

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to be served with papers so Mary could go to court the next day. Nevada’s divorce laws were already liberal, but they required a three-month residency. Because she swore she was “seeking a quiet place to live” permanently, the time restriction was waived by the seemingly starstruck judge, who granted Mary an immediate divorce on grounds of desertion. The newspapers painted a sympathetic picture of Mary weeping as she told sordid tales of her husband’s drinking. The reports emphasized that the couple had long been separated and the only reason the divorce came as a surprise was “because of her religious faith.” Frances and Adela spread the word that Owen had asked for a large financial settlement and Mary was portrayed as a woman who had suffered beyond any normal standards of endurance. As soon as the hearing was over, the thought of a “permanent residence”

was forgotten and Mary and Charlotte returned to Los Angeles. Three weeks later, Mary and Doug were quietly married at his house, surrounded only by her family and a few of his closest friends. Adela had been right about the world’s loving lovers; the news was heralded on the front page of newspapers across the country as the closest thing to a formal coronation of the reigning king and queen of the movies.”

When Charlotte and Mary left for Nevada, Frances and Fred had returned to New York, where they subleased a spacious apartment from the

composer and pianist Sergei Rachmaninoff, hoping that by the time Frances’s work for Hearst was completed, Doug and Mary could join them for a European honeymoon." Frances immediately went to work on the first scenario that had genuinely excited her since her earliest days with Mary. From the outset, the sentimental tale of a Jewish mother’s love and sacrifice for her son set in New York’s Lower East Side was not the type of story William Randolph Hearst considered appropriate for the movies. Still, he had faith in Frances and when she was so passionate about the subject, he gave her a reluctant go-ahead to adapt Fannie Hurst’s Humoresque. Frances and Fannie became friends and though the literary types at the Algonquin called her a “sob sister,” Frances respected the writer for her prolific output, her personal determination, and her independent outlook on life. Only a few years older than Frances, Fannie was just moving in with her husband of five years, the pianist Jacques Danielson. Her parents had disapproved of the marriage, but the real reason she had kept it a secret from all but their closest friends was because she was confident that keeping the

relationship concealed and maintaining separate residences would help preserve their professional independence. The marriage was a happy and successful one by all accounts and Fannie, a supporter of the Lucy Stone League, kept her own name even after giving up her apartment. She laugh117

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ingly claimed that she began collecting rejection slips at the age of fourteen and had amassed quite a pile before publishing her first national story when

she was twenty-one. Now thirty-five, she was making more money than Somerset Maugham or Edna Ferber with her popular short stories.” Fannie took Frances to see the Russian-born Vera Gordon at the Yiddish theater to encourage casting her as the mother in Humoresque. Frances agreed, but in a bow to the need for star appeal, Alma Rubens was cast as the girl the son falls in love with and was billed above Vera Gordon in the publicity.”® Frances had another new ally in Frank Borzage, who she had known and liked since meeting him with Adela at Inceville. Now thirty years old, the good-looking Borzage had left a promising acting career to establish himself as a talented director at Triangle before being hired by Cosmopolitan. They used hidden cameras to capture the density and grit of the Lower East Side

community and that footage opened and was interwoven throughout the film. Joseph Urban designed stylistic interiors for the studio shots and Frances and Borzage grew more excited each day over what they called “our story.” Still, Adolph Zukor questioned Frances’s judgment: “If you and Fannie Hurst are so determined to make the Jews appear sympathetic, why don’t you choose a story about the Rothschilds or men as distinguished as they?”” Zukor and Hearst insisted on a happy ending and while Frances did not initially resist their demand, she was very concerned when Fannie Hurst saw the first rough cut of Humoresque and was “indignant.” She wanted her name taken off the credits because she had ended her short story with the young man going off to war, but Frances’s version had him returning to his mother and his sweetheart and recovering from his injuries to play his violin again. Frances valued Fannie’s friendship and it was important to her that she

understand movie audiences’ need for “optimism and hope.” Character development took on a different dimension on the screen. To establish Alma Rubens’s innate kindness, Frances created a few moments for her character as a child gently holding and burying a dead kitten. She would later say she was embarrassed by the blatant pathos of the scene, but it effectively established Alma’s sensitivity and set the tone for her attitude and actions throughout the film. To her credit, Fannie Hurst took up studying motion pictures and came to not only agree with Frances but to encourage her to adapt other of her works into films, using “the skeleton of those stories in new garb especially

designed for the screen.” Even though more and more studios were flourishing year-round in Los Angeles, New York and New Jersey were still major centers of activity. Joe 118

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Schenck was making his films with the Talmadge sisters on East 48th Street,

Hearst was operating Cosmopolitan out of a refurbished casino on the Harlem River and after becoming a partner in United Artists, D. W. Griffith decided to build his own studio in rural Mamaroneck, New York. Mary Pickford’s only other close woman friend was Lillian Gish and she

and Frances had become friends as well. Lillian had risen to fame as a heartbreakingly frail waif in films like Broken Blossoms, but Frances knew her to be “as fragile as a steel rod.” Lillian was much more personally secure than Mary and Frances admired her discipline and determination.” Unlike other stars who worked with Griffith for a year or two and then

left for higher salaries, Lillian had stayed with “the master” for almost a decade and moved with his company to Mamaroneck. When the director left for Florida to film exteriors for The Love Flower he put her in charge of

the workmen building his studio. Telling her “You know as much about making pictures as | do,” he gave her free rein to direct a film starring her sister Dorothy. Believing in Dorothy’s talent as much as her own, Lillian initially looked forward to the challenge. When she said she wanted to make it “an all-woman picture,” Frances and Anita Loos encouraged her to hire Dorothy Parker to write the titles.” Dorothy had just been fired as the Vanity Fair drama critic because after writing caustic comments about Billie Burke’s acting talents, her husband, Flo Ziegfeld, threatened to pull his advertising from all Conde Nast publications. Though Dorothy was pleased to be hired so quickly after this deba-

cle, she found title writing too similar to creating captions under photographs to be challenging. She was more right than she knew. Lillian later freely admitted “there was no story”; she and her sister had come up with the plot of Remodeling Her Husband from a magazine cartoon of a man telling his wife that she is so dowdy that no one notices her and their story revolved around her proving him wrong.”!

Lillian couldn't find a female cinematographer and her hope of making Remodeling Her Husband a smooth-running “all-woman picture” was exploded by the presence and the tantrums of her cameraman, Frances’s friend George Hill. He had rejoined Griffith after returning from the war and Lillian blamed his behavior on “shell shock.” “T got my main set, the living room, so big and not high enough at the back so that if he took the whole room in, he shot over the top,” but George became “hysterical” and “threw his hat in the air and stamped on it.” Always the lady, she rarely was negative about anyone, but of working with George, Lillian said, “Oh, it was terrible. And then I had to build the studio.”” She supervised the installation of electricity, but the unheated rooms at Mamaroneck were so cold that she was forced to move to another facility in 119

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New Rochelle. And while her sister had initially disagreed with her casting James Rennie, much to Lillian’s dismay, Dorothy proceeded to fall in love with him and they ran off to be married shortly after the film was finished.”

When Griffith returned to a completed studio, Lillian told him she thought he had been very unfair to leave her with such responsibility, especially while she was directing her first film. Griffith just laughed and said, “I needed my studio built quickly and I knew they’d work faster for a girl than they would for me. I’m no fool.” Lillian had brought the picture in for slightly over her $50,000 budget and it made a nice profit, but Remodeling Her Husband was Lillian’s first and last attempt at directing. Though the experience gave her a new respect for the profession and she now understood why directors viewed each foot of

film as their own, it had exhausted her energy and her patience and she happily returned to the other side of the camera.” As Lillian was coming to that conclusion, Frances was making her direc-

torial debut. Hearst had been encouraging her to direct a Cosmopolitan film with or without Marion Davies and Frances found a Fannie Hurst story in his Cosmopolitan magazine she was comfortable taking on. Just Around the Corner was a predictable but dependable heart tugger about the poor, widowed Ma Birdsong who tries to keep food on the table and her teenage children on the straight and narrow. As her health fails, Ma’s only wish is to meet the man who is to become her son-in-law, but her daughter’s corrupt and lazy boyfriend refuses to leave the poolroom for even a few minutes. In desperation, Essie tells her story to a good-looking stranger who agrees to pretend to be the boyfriend for the sake of her mother’s contentment; Ma is satisfied and Essie finds happiness with “the real man.” Frances tried filming on location in Central Park at 59th Street, where the snow was piled high and the winds were blowing, but the actors’ noses

turned red from the cold and when Frances viewed the rushes, she saw “sooty young faces blowing gusts of steam from their mouths every time they opened them.” She reluctantly moved the production indoors, used “frosted cornflakes” for snow, and admitted it looked “much prettier and much less distracting.” Everyone worked as a team and Frances took pride that no one complained about the long hours. The cast was made up of reliable and known

actors, but they were hardly star caliber. Margaret Seddon played Ma, Sigrid Holmquist is Essie, and Edward Phillips was cast as the heavy. Fred often came to work with her and when the actor who was scheduled to play the part of “the real man” failed to show, Fred was talked into “stepping into

the part rather than hold up production.” Fred’s stunning good looks had already given rise to the obvious sugges120

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tion that he become an actor. Mary Pickford may have been the first to spot him in a crowd, but Marion Davies and Hearst both thought he was a nat-

ural and the reviews noted that even in his small role, Fred “looked the part” of the hero. While he claimed he had agreed only because Frances needed him and “couldn’t have been less interested” in acting, Frances had come to another conclusion: “If I had any qualms, they were instantly dispelled as soon as I saw the rushes. I knew then I’d married an actor.”

She wondered about the veracity of the French saying “An actress is something more than a woman; an actor something less than a man,” yet she was proud to have such a handsome husband. Flora Zabelle and Raymond Hitchcock gave a dinner party to introduce Fred to their New York friends and Hedda Hopper remembered that “when Fred walked into the room, we all gasped. Here was America’s Greek God, who had youth, virility, and decency. Every girl in the room envied Frances.”” Just Around the Corner was listed as “one of the year’s best sellers” for

Cosmopolitan, and Variety said, “Miss Marion is to be congratulated on both her adaption of the story and the manner in which she directed it,” adding that “for detail, the picture is as near perfect as it can be.” She enjoyed the praise and the control directing gave her, but the all-consuming nature of the responsibilities took every waking hour and she decided that until they were sure of Fred’s new calling, she take only those assignments that allowed her enough time to concentrate on him.” “We had plans which had not quite crystallized, though we both knew we were on the right track.” Fred wanted to channel his need to encourage children, if not into a religious life, at least into one with proper values. As head of the Boy Scouts in Nevada, he had seen the impact westerns had on the boys. He was troubled by the emphasis on gunplay and what both he and Frances thought was the misrepresentation of the real West. They took history seriously and shared a love of the idea of bringing realistic stories to the screen that would grab children’s interest. “Fred wondered if stories such as Doug Fairbanks made could be converted into westerns, with the heroic feats intelligently and humorously worked out and climaxes built to thrill audiences without cruelty to men or horses.” Frances felt tht if Fred went into producing or acting, it would provide a perfect solution on several levels. If he were occupied with something he believed was for a larger cause, the guilt she felt over taking him from the church would be assuaged, and it would also supply a solid rationale for him to be with her at the studio learning every aspect of filmmaking.

“We talked about this at great length” and they were mutually convinced “here was to be Fred’s mission.” For the time being, he was content to study from the sidelines.” {21

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Frances quickly scripted The Restless Sex for Marion Davies and The World and His Wife for Alma Rubens and she was concerned that in spite of

her pride and confidence in Humoresque, it was being held back from immediate release. But this time she focused her attention on her private life; she and Fred had postponed their honeymoon long enough. They threw themselves a farewell party at the Rachmaninoff apartment

and Frances’s brother, Len, and his wife, Mary Margaret, arrived with Marie Dressler and a young man she brought along from “Tin Pan Alley.” Frances was taken aback by Marie’s conservative black gown with a string of pearls. Her usual attire was marabou feathers and sequins or at least big bows and lace, but Marie had “gone elegant.” Frances held her tongue until Marie brought it up. “You've noticed the change in me?” Marie asked eagerly, and Frances just nodded. “It’s not only for Jim, he’s so refined, but when I was selling government

bonds in Washington I met the créme de la créme of the Four Hundred and, my dear, I’ve become society’s pet. Now we’re back to England, where I'll produce several musical comedies. Jim is finally getting his divorce and we'll be married over there.” With a tinge of guilt over her hypocrisy, Frances said she was sorry Jim couldn’t make the party, and it was Hedda Hopper who said out loud what Frances was thinking. Listening to Marie’s affected speech, absent of all the former “ain’ts” and “damns,” Hedda said, “Ah, Lady Throckmorton, your A is broader than your rear. Come off that high perch, Marie. You're among pals.” At that, even Marie had to laugh. “Stinker. I’m bustin’ a gut to behave

like a lady and nobody appreciates the effort it takes.” The two women joined arms and went over to where Marie’s young man was playing the grand piano that graced Rachmaninoff’s living room. The room grew quiet as they all listened. Frances later wrote that “he played on and on; no one wanted to interrupt the flow of melodic sound that aroused varied emotions in us: gaiety, momentary sadness, then the

joyous warm feeling that we were alive and young at heart and could respond to beauty that came to us through so many creative sources.” He stopped suddenly and apologized for. playing so long. “No, no,” Frances told him, “you inspired us,” and Marie asked if it was all improvisation. “Not the last thing I played. It’s a composition I’m working over. I’m not quite sure,” said George Gershwin, “but I think I will call it Rhapsody in Blue.”

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n May of 1920, Fred and Frances sailed for Europe. They bought a car and

drove through Spain, along the French Riviera, and over to Genoa and Pisa. The road to Florence was particularly dusty and they were slowed by the muddy terrain on the way into town, but they spent several days enrap-

tured by the array of artwork, particularly the Raphaels and Botticellis. Fred began experimenting with a stereoscopic camera and color plates, taking pictures of the “unbelievable treasures” displayed in churches and open buildings. They shared a sense of privilege to be in the presence of such tal-

ent and beauty, feeling they had a foot in both the past and the future. When they drove on to Paris they were struck by the changes in the sutrounding area that had been battlefields only a few years before.’

Mary wired that she and Douglas were finally coming to join them. Charlotte had been ill and Doug was more than a little concerned that Mary had wanted to bring her along for the entire voyage, but now the newlyweds were scheduled to dock alone at Southampton on June 21. Fred and Frances headed for England and made arrangements to meet the Fairbankses at the pier. Mary had spoken of wanting to meander slowly through Europe, “stopping at all those quaint little inns I’ve read so much about,” but any hope of quiet wandering was thoroughly dispelled with the reception Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford received upon their arrival.’ Two small planes swooped down over the ship and dropped flower petals onto the deck as it entered the harbor, where a huge crowd was amassed to greet them. Cheering fans overwhelmed them and even though the train was only two hundred yards away, more than two dozen policemen were needed to hold back the throngs and allow the newly reunited foursome to get into their compartments. Their quiet time together was brief, for the crush of the

massive crowds at Waterloo Station made conversation impossible and when they arrived at the Ritz Hotel, wedding gifts of all kinds awaited Doug and Mary, delivered individually by hundreds of adoring fans. Word of their schedule was broadcast and the next day as they tried to cross town, Mary was literally pulled from the open car by fans wanting to 123

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touch her and then refusing to let go. There had never before been such a frenzied response from a nation renowned for its reserve, and The Times of London called it “appalling.” It was obvious that they would never be able to “meander” anywhere, so the Thomsons arranged to sell the car, and they accepted the invitation of the duke and duchess of Sutherland to stay at their country estate in Guildford. Yet the next morning Mary opened the curtains in her nightgown to find herself staring into the faces of dozens of fans who had followed them. Holland was suggested as a possible refuge where they would not be as well known, yet a welcoming committee met them in Amsterdam with plans for “Mr. and Mrs. Pickford.” Doug smiled, but Frances thought his laughter rang hollow and she watched as Mary froze, worrying that her fame overshadowed that of her new husband. It was Mary’s idea to find peace by

chartering a boat and drifting down the canals and across the Zuider Zee.

The Dutch authorities helped make the preparations and assured them they would have their time alone if that was what they wanted. To their relief, that is exactly what happened. They basked in the scenery, enthralled to find Dutch children actually dressed in white caps and wooden shoes, and the foursome enjoyed a genuinely relaxing few days.’

During the quiet moments, Frances told Mary about a story she was working on as a result of their trip through Italy. “While the villagers were still punishing the women who had harbored German soldiers, our Italian guide pointed out a girl who was looked upon as a heroine. She and her

father had been lighthouse keepers. He died while on duty and the girl remained alone. A German soldier was washed up on the rocks; she fell in love with him and kept him hidden in the lighthouse for months. Finally, when she discovered that he was using the light to signal German ships, love for her country triumphed; she betrayed his hiding place and watched the soldiers drag him away to be executed. “IT looked from the dark-eyed girl they called a heroine to the blond child she held in her arms and I said, ‘Make quite a movie.’ ” To Frances’s surprise, Mary insisted it would be her next film. The world

now knew her as a married woman and it was time to move on to more sophisticated and challenging roles. They both agreed they were sick of “Pollyannas,” but they also knew her fans’ expectations. Frances thought they should postpone any final decision, relish the time with their husbands, and talk about their careers again when they got home. Mary told her “a big bed is heaven after the hurly burly of the couch” and Frances saw Mary happier and more content than ever before. And she was

relieved Doug and Fred seemed to become friends so quickly. In part because Fred was an award-winning athlete, Doug welcomed him into his 124

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cadre of male companions. Fred was sensitive to Doug’s need to be front and center and secure enough in his own masculinity to allow him to be, but occasionally he too lapsed into showing off. Waiting for a lock to open, they watched a half dozen Dutchmen performing nearby on an athletic field and Fred joined them, “keeping on his hat and coat and still jumping six inches higher than they could in their track suits.” Then he and Doug got to roughhousing and Fred, a full half a foot taller, picked Doug up from behind by his elbows, and lifted him off the ground. Doug stormed off in anger, leaving Fred wondering where the fun had ended. Frances understood Doug’s fury at being in a physically indefensible position, but she was aggravated at his inflated ego’s operating at Fred’s expense. Even though Doug had visited Europe on his honeymoon with Beth, Frances was struck by his lack of knowledge. Yet if she started to correct or add anything, particularly in front of Mary, he would give her cold, hard stares. She knew that he would not tolerate Mary’s even looking at another man, but Frances found his rivalry with her ludicrous and these episodes started to take their toll, not only on the honeymoon, but on Frances’s relationship with Doug and therefore Mary.’ Mary later told her that the severity of his jealousy reached its peak when they were in Koblenz, Germany. The commanding general of the American occupation forces gave a dinner in their honor and when their host led Mary onto the floor for the first dance, Doug froze in anger. He stayed out all night and when he returned the next morning, he apologized for leaving her, but not for his reaction. She had promised never to dance with another man and now, aware of how serious he had been, Mary renewed the vow. She would not break it again during their marriage, no matter how socially embarrassing it was. When she turned down the future King George VI, the prince was sympathetic, telling her “one should observe the rules of the game,” but future hosts and hostesses were not as understanding when they had to make lastminute changes in seating arrangements because of Doug’s insistence that he always sit next to Mary, and she “often wondered if I understood this idiosyncrasy of Douglas myself.” Yet it was also in Germany that one of their strongest commonalities was

revealed. They had both worked hard for their celebrity status and hated anonymity. When Doug asked Mary if she liked being ignored in public, she

replied, “I definitely do not, Douglas. Let’s go someplace where we are known. I’ve had enough obscurity for a lifetime.”® Fred and Frances were more than ready to be ignored and arranged to go

home ahead of Mary and Doug. Fred was bored by the necessity to make 125

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time and room for the fans, as well as Doug’s and Mary’s seeming assumption that they were always center stage. Frances was used to it, but she grew irritated seeing it through her husband’s eyes and “felt like a lady-very-inwaiting to the King and Queen of the World.” In order to maximize the time they had left, the Thomsons decided to fly

from Amsterdam to England. When they saw the small plane, they both had second thoughts, but once aloft, they were enraptured. Never more than a thousand feet in the air, they had a crystal-clear panorama of Rotterdam, The Hague, and the coasts of Belgium and France from a vantage point few could even have imagined in 1920, and Fred concentrated on taking aerial photographs. In London, they spent their last few days visiting

Fred’s brother Harrison, who was studying at Oxford, and picked up the custom-made suits that Fred had ordered. After almost two months in Europe, they boarded the SS Rotterdam in Plymouth on the Fourth of July. Fred wrote his mother a long letter summarizing their trip, filled with adjectives such as “wonderful,” “beautiful,” and “marvelous.” They both felt “stored up” for a year’s work ahead and “adjusted some things which I suppose every two people on earth have to adjust.” Yet Fred closed his letter to his mother with a clear statement of a couple very much in love: “We are coming home greatly happier than when we left or were any time before. We have found happiness indeed.””® In New York, they again faced the decision about where to live; Frances preferred the Algonquin and Fred favored the New York Athletic Club. A compromise of sorts was reached by renting an old farm in Chappaqua in rural New York, near the Connecticut border. She would keep her room at the Algonquin for when work required her to be in the city, but hoped to spend a minimal amount of time commuting. The farmhouse included a barn and a corral and now Fred set his sights on finding a horse he could train for stardom. Frances’s friend Jane Murfin was successfully writing and producing serials starring her trained police dog Strongheart and they thought they might try something similar with a horse." They toured the countryside, visiting various stables and farms, and in

Vermont they found a dapple gray hunter seventeen hands high. The eroom called him “an outlaw horse” because he had been so unmanageable, but claimed he came from “fine Irish stock.” Fred was confident he could bring Silver King in line and within a few months Frances said “both man and horse were practically eating out of the same nosebag.” They kept their western dreams to themselves for the time being and decided against approaching Hearst as a potential producer. Frances was not going to be seen as pushing her husband or making his connections for 126

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him and besides, she knew that “though born in the west and a great admirer of the Zane Grey stories, Mr. Hearst had no interest in prairie or mountain backgrounds” for his films.” She was also feeling particularly sensitive to Hearst’s ego at the moment because, much to her joy but to his bewilderment, Humoresque was meeting with spectacular success. Zukor and Hearst did not understand the attraction of the story, but money had been spent and money must be made, so they quietly opened it in New York before releasing it nationally. The first review from Motion Picture News was positive, pointing out that

“one must not forget the adaptation by Frances Marion who has constructed her scenes with undeniable skill,” but it was followed by a devastating critique in Variety. In the very first paragraph the reviewer wrote, “The continuity in short, based by Frances Marion on the original story by Fannie Hurst, was inadequate, and unless Miss Marion soon values her reputation more than her profits she will have to look alive to preserve what’s

left of the former.” While praising Vera Gordon’s performance and Borzage’s direction as “at times illuminatingly careful,” Variety warned theater owners not to “bank too heavily” on the film.” Yet audiences connected with the story just as Frances and Borzage had and Humoresque packed the large Criterion theater at 44th and Broadway and hundreds of people were turned away daily. The film broke attendance records, playing for over twelve weeks to a full house, and the critics started becoming enthralled as well. The New York Commercial claimed Humoresque “stands unrivaled among motion pictures” and the New York Tribune wrote,

“It is doubtful if a better picturization has been placed on the screen in a decade.”" With great fanfare, Photoplay ran a contest in search of “a masterpiece of the screen” to be named the “greatest picture of the year” for 1920. A precursor of the Academy Awards, a Gold Medal of Honor was created by Tiffany and after the votes of thousands of fans were counted, it was presented to William Randolph Hearst as the producer of Humoresque. Calling the movie “the forerunner of all the ‘mother’ films,” Photoplay said the “overwhelming choice” of Humoresque showed “the fact that its chief characters were Jewish made no difference to the voters. They recognized that it was really not of any race or any religion; it was universal in its appeal.” Frank Borzage and Frances were both presented with certificates and played up in the articles announcing the award, and she resisted any temptation to tell Hearst “I told you so.” In the years to come, Hearst would try her patience and she would see him treat others abysmally, but the fact that he had respected her judgment to the point that it overrode his personal objections was an important factor in her lifetime of loyalty to him.” 127

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Mary and Doug arrived home from Europe at the end of July 1920, to be greeted by huge crowds at the West 19th Street pier. The welcoming committee included Jack Dempsey, William Brady, and several busloads of friends from the Friars Club. Six motorcycle policemen led Mary and Doug to their hotel in a long open car bedecked with American flags, and the

flurry of publicity surrounding their return rivaled their extraordinary reception throughout Europe." Over the next two days, Doug and Mary held court in their suite at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel. He performed gymnastic feats on the hotel roof for photographers and talked about their European trip. Mary very matter-of-

factly spoke only about business and took the occasion to announce, “Frances Marion is going to direct my next picture.” When she was asked if it was going to be anything like Pollyanna, she replied, “No. Every once ina while I want to do a picture that’s a little different.” The response they received alleviated any questions left in Mary’s mind about the acceptance of her marriage and she was determined to play not

only a more mature role on the screen but one that would call on her to have a child. Frances had finished her fictionalized script of the Italian war story and this time she felt free to focus all her attention on directing without slighting Fred because he was cast as the German spy that Mary’s character rescues and weds. With her own profits at stake, Mary must have had few doubts about Fred’s abilities. She rarely had the same leading man more than once and while the spy was a pivotal character, he was only in about a quarter of the film. Mary herself told Fred how much she wanted him for the part. “We must have an actor big and strong enough to handle those storm

scenes,” she explained. “Also handsome enough so the audience will understand why I fall in love with this spy.” “T’ve seen a hundred handsome leading men around Hollywood,” Fred said dismissively. “I’m interested only in producing westerns, not acting.”

Frances kept quiet even though she was convinced that “there was never a confirmed preacher who wasn’t a confirmed actor” and others joined in the crusade. Raymond Bloomer, cast to play Mary’s Italian boyfriend, told Fred he was “a natural” and encouraged him to take the part. A week later, Doug, Mary, Fred, and Frances were all heading to the cypress-tree-lined coast of Carmel and Monterey that would masquerade as the Italian shore.” Frances felt strongly that realistic exteriors were vital, particularly for the critical scene of the shipwreck, where Mary rescues her baby from a dead woman’s arms just as the boat is driven into the rocky coast. Frances kept 128

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her eyes on the horizon and finally strong winds and dark clouds promised the storm they were waiting for. Bedecked in rain gear, everyone headed to the boat, which was already being whipped by the waves. Frances was exhilarated as the scene looked even more ominous than she had hoped, but the cameras proved difficult to anchor and the winds reached such a velocity that the men urged Frances and Mary to return to the hotel. Not about to “show a white feather,” Frances was only concerned that the boat, tied to one of the large rocks, would be destroyed before the rain actually fell. Her assistant director Nat Deverich decided the only cinematic solution was to untie the ship and record it riding the thrashing ocean, with or without a downpour, but as soon as he managed to get onto the ship and sever the cable, the sky opened. As the storm almost pushed the boat on its side, Nat jumped overboard into the roaring waves and disappeared. Doug and Fred rushed down the rocks and jumped in after him and though they were both experienced swimmers, their wives watched in terror until all three men were dragged up onto dry land. They were taken back to the hotel for new clothes and hot drinks and Frances stayed with the cameramen to finish filming the ship’s destruction.” Most of the time, work and play blended together and the crew gathered mussels and made pasta sauce for everyone. Yet there were reports that Frances spent an inordinate amount of time focusing on Fred, and the film’s editor, Stuart Heisler, was quoted as saying, “There were quite a number of retakes that had to be made. Then there were quite a few places in the pic-

ture where I, as a film editor, had to play off somebody else when Fred couldn’t do something.” There is no question that Frances was ambitious for Fred, but there may well have been some discomfort among the male crew and technicians in working for a woman director. Having Doug on the scene added to the complications. Not only did he have problems with anyone but himself being an authority figure for his wife, he thought Mary’s meaningful looks at Fred went beyond acting.”

Hedda Hopper paraphrased Mary as saying that she was “in favor of women directors, especially when one was her best friend, but that at times during the shooting of the film, she felt neglected because Frances spent so much of her time making sure her husband was properly directed and well

presented on the screen.” Yet a viewing of the film shows that the light never leaves Mary. Though there are shots of Mary and Fred in profile, most of the time it is a full-face, well-lit Mary who commands the screen, performing self-deprecating slap-

stick routines, pantomimes of various moods, and moments of angst that showcase her dramatic talents. She is the one and only star of The Love Light.

Frances had been a loyal and, when she thought it necessary, deferential 129

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confidante for over five years, and switching to a director-actor relationship complicated their friendship. They were now two married women with new

loyalties and the late nights of reading and setting hair and mornings of arriving together early on the set were behind them. Though their intense loyalty to each other remained intact, their friendship was never again to have the unbridled closeness that marked those early years. Mary would always turn first to Frances in times of personal trouble, but it would be more than a decade until they worked together on another film. Mary was obviously confident of her ability to direct herself because for her next movie she gave the job to her brother, Jack, who had not worked since his wife, Olive, had died under mysterious circumstances in Paris six months earlier. Alfred Green was brought in as codirector and they turned to Marion Fairfax for the story. With the exception of her cinematographer, Charles Rosher, her entire crew was new to her. Through the Back Door did not break any box office records. And The Love Light was Frances’s last film as sole director. She had the

experience and technical ability, but not the strong desire and personal ambition required. She was never comfortable exerting more than quiet authority for an extended period of time, and the inherent tensions of directing her husband and her best friend had taken their toll. She was also a very private person, and though most of the reviews were positive, the negative ones stung her to the core. Mary had insisted on playing the role, yet Variety acted as if she had been victimized. “Mary Pickford as an Italian girl in a fisher village is an anomaly; as convincing as would be Fatty Arbuckle in Hamlet. ... Mary in mothethood is not Mary as the millions know—and want—her.” And when all supporting players were called “colorless,” Frances feared she had ruined Fred’s chances of success as well.” Still, she was furious when the reviews called attention to her sex. After Just Around the Corner was released, most critics agreed with Photoplay that

“Frances Marion once again proves herself an outstanding figure in out films.” Yet she took it very personally when another reviewer wrote, “I have a suspicion that the female director of this picture is a descendent of General Francis Marion, the Swamp Fox; the audience had to wade through a morass of gooey sentiment before it finally arrived at the usual unbearable happy ending.” Frances consoled herself by noting that the reproach came from a rival publication of Hearst’s and there was plenty of praise for the actors’ performances. And she always claimed that she appreciated criti-

cism that “intelligently pointed out mistakes which we would rectify in future scripts.” But when the shipwreck scene that had almost claimed the life of her 130

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assistant director was condescendingly criticized by a reviewer writing, “Only a woman director would use such an obvious miniature in that phony storm,” she was more than resentful. Fifty years later, Frances could still repeat that review and wondered how it might have been different “if only women’s lib had been active in those days.””

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hen they returned to Los Angeles in the fall of 1920, Fred and

\\/ tenes had taken an apartment at the Colonial House on Havenhurst and now they went house hunting. They soon found a large home at 744 Windsor Boulevard and put $3,000 down, agreeing to the asking price of $83,000. Their next-door neighbor was Harold Lloyd, with whom they became lifelong friends, but they still had to find a home for Silver King.

Frances introduced Fred to the cowboy stars she knew and they unselfishly showed him the lay of the land. Silver King was offered a stall at

Hoot Gibson’s stables, where he stood a full head higher than the pintos that were regularly used in westerns. Neither William S. Hart nor the slighter Tom Mix looked ungainly riding pintos, but Fred was over six foot two and weighed 200 pounds; if he was to look comfortable handling a horse over steep hills and rough ground, he needed one the size of Silver King. Some of the stablehands expressed their doubts, but as they watched Fred maneuver his horse and teach him to prance and jump, play dead, untie ropes with his teeth, lift bars, and wink on cue, their questions started to fade.’

Still under contract to Hearst, Frances felt she needed the freedom to

concentrate on Fred and their plans and looked for an opportunity to broach the subject of freelancing. She did not view her decision to write instead of direct as a defeat. Her reputation was established and she was comfortable and confident in the relative anonymity of screenwriting. W. R. Hearst was going through his own transition. By 1920 he acknowledged that he would never run for political office again and that decision allowed him to reassess his personal life. His relationship with Marion was well known and by all accounts the mistress had actually fallen very much in love with her keeper. Hearst had been devoted to his mother, who had

died during the flu epidemic the year before, and it is doubtful he would have made his next moves had she still been alive. He approached his wife, Millicent, for a divorce and even put a private detective on her trail to see 132

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if there were any grounds to bring about a suit, all to no avail. Millicent Hearst would raise their five sons in the East and even if it was in name only, the marriage was for life.’

Hearst commuted between the two coasts, overseeing his newspaper empire and film business as well as the construction of a massive estate at his family’s ranch in San Simeon. Marion, her mother, and her sisters all stayed at Hearst’s expense at the Hollywood Hotel and though Los Angeles had the advantage of being a continent away from Millicent, Hearst was uncomfortable leaving Marion where she was surrounded by interesting younger men. He moved her to a large estate and lemon grove near Santa

Barbara, conveniently located halfway between San Simeon and Los Angeles, and talked of building a film studio there.

Frances and Fred drove up to see them and when WR. tried to get a commitment for another contract, Frances bluntly confronted him about their conflicting views of Marion on the screen. She assured “the Chief” she did not doubt his love for Marion. In fact, it was the pedestal he insisted putting her on that was hampering her success. “Why do we all love her? Because she makes us laugh. She is neither Lit-

tle Miss Pollyanna nor Snow White. Let her have the thoughts and emotions of a grown woman.” And though Frances might be one of the few to be honest with Hearst to his face, others shared her opinion. Allan Dwan thought Marion was a natural comedienne with a “great smile. Half the time they didn’t pick stories with enough humor in them.” The “they” was Hearst and he only wanted Marion in glorious costumes or, his personal fixation, in pants or at least pantaloons.’ Successful businessman that he was, W.R. had a blind spot when it came to Marion and when he looked away and said, “I see the opening of the picture as showing Marion walking through a field of wheat wearing a sunbonnet,” Frances knew her words were falling on deaf ears. She had been more direct with Hearst than most would have dared to be and the result was his

continued and even enhanced respect for her, yet Frances would always think of Marion as “a butterfly with glue on her wings.” Marion soon tired of the isolation of the Santa Barbara lemon grove and returned to New York to begin her biggest epic yet, When Knighthood Was in Flower. And as Hearst was continuing to expand his Cosmopolitan pictures

to include other stars besides Marion, Frances agreed to write two more scripts for him as long as she could stay in California. Both of her next films starred Owen Moore’s brother Matt; Straight Is the Way was a comedic crime story and Back Pay was another Fannie Hurst tale directed by Frank Borzage. Typifying the films that were raising questions 133

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about the industry’s moral influence, Back Pay featured Seena Owen as the

country girl who knows she will never be happy in “her little gingham dress” because she has “a crepe de chine soul.” After six reels of living it up in the big city, she sees the light and returns to the country, but not before declaring at one of several drunken parties embodying the Jazz Age, “If sin has any wages, some of us are going to collect a lot of back pay!” Weary of the emotional roller coaster of directing The Love Light and

conflicting with Hearst over Marion Davies’s persona on the screen, Frances decided with Fred it was time to take an extended break. The AAU National Championships were held in Pasadena in the summer of 1921 and

they watched and cheered on Fred’s brother Harrison as he won the national all-around championship. Fred, Frances, and Silver King then returned East to spend several months in the relative quiet of the farm at Chappaqua. Fred worked with his horse and experimented with photography, and Frances turned to what always nurtured her: creative work over which she had total control. She painted, wrote original stories, and tried her hand at one-act plays.’ At Chappaqua, Frances’s initial assurances to Fred when they had met that she was “crazy about sports like fishing and horseback riding” caught up with her. In her “avid desire to please him,” when he asked about hunting, “I casually mentioned popping off a quail on the wing with a single shot. I didn’t tell him that it was an accident and that I wept for two hours after the bird fell to the ground.” But at the ranch she felt obliged “to live up to my promise of ‘the perfect mate’ ” and so she fished, climbed, rode, and swam her way through the summer.’

Back in Los Angeles in the late fall, Frances told Hearst she was signing to write several films for Norma Talmadge, who was quickly rising to be the

most popular dramatic actress on the screen. Frances was personally devoted to Norma’s husband, Joe Schenck, and found him generous to a fault. Yet though it appeared to many that Joe was the mastermind behind Norma’s career, Frances knew that the real power behind the throne was the Talmadges’ mother, Margaret, known to all simply as Peg.’ If there was ever a mother with the determination and tunnel vision to

rival Charlotte Pickford’s, it was Peg Talmadge. Short, dark, and with rather homely features, she had somehow managed to produce three attractive daughters who did not resemble her in the slightest. With a husband who was “so lazy” he was often absent and left their Brooklyn home for good “when the girls were still tiny,” Peg Talmadge took in laundry and boarders, sold cosmetics door-to-door, and taught housewives to paint on black velvet in order to keep her family fed." 134

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When Norma was fourteen, Peg took her eldest in hand and found her a

job modeling for the slides shown in nickelodeons. Over the next four years, Peg negotiated Norma’s career until she had appeared in more than one hundred films and landed her first starring role in The Battle Cry for Peace, resulting in a $250-a-week salary and two first-class tickets to Los

Angeles. Peg turned them in for four second-class seats and she and Norma—now all of eighteen—Natalie, and Constance headed to the California sun.” Peg recognized that National Pictures was risking Norma’s stardom with cheap lighting and no retakes, so she took all her girls to see the only man she considered worthy of their talents, D. W. Griffith. He gave both Norma and Constance roles in Intolerance, but overall Peg was disappointed in

Hollywood and returned her family to New York, this time bypassing Brooklyn and heading straight to Manhattan. None of the girls could ever bring themselves to take work too seriously, but as the oldest, Norma knew she was the breadwinner, one way or another.

And it was at a party at the Sixty Club, where chorus girls mixed with the powers of the New York stage like Flo Ziegfeld and Billy Rose, that Norma Talmadge met Joe Schenck. A child of the New York slums, Joe worked himself up from being a messenger boy to co-owner with his brother, Nick, of the

Palisades Amusement Park and an investor in Loew’s movie theaters. Joe boasted a long string of beautiful girlfriends and when he first danced with Norma at the Sixty Club, he was keeping Peggy Hopkins Joyce, who personified the times as the beauty who collected more men, jewelry, and accoutrements of power than any other “grand horizontal” in New York. Peg let Norma go out with Joe the next night, but gave her strict instructions not to “even let him hold your hand.” Whether that or another strategy was used, the nineteen-year-old Norma married the almost forty-year-old bachelor Joe Schenck less than six months later.”” Joe created a studio for Norma’s angst-driven melodramas out of an old building on East 48th Street and soon Constance had her own unit producing light comedies. Peg knew her middle daughter, Natalie, did not have the looks for stardom and after a few years of bit parts agreed that the best career move for Nate was to take care of her sister’s fan mail and marry Buster Keaton, who was filming his comedies on the third floor of Schenck’s studios.

Anita Loos thought Joe Schenck radiated “a power that’s governed by gentleness,” but that Norma did not appreciate “that rare combination.”

He wanted children, but Norma did not, and friends wondered at his patience and apparent acceptance of her family. The sisters were together so unremittingly that there was nothing strange when the press reported “Norma and Constance Talmadge, accompanied by Peg and Joe Schenck,” 135

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were all off to Europe together. Joe seemed to think that if he kept the rest of the family busy, his adored Norma would focus her attention on him, but instead she took to comparing her acquisitions to those given to Marion Davies by Hearst. Norma started calling Joe “Daddy,” similar to Marion’s “Pops” for W.R., and though Joe showered her with gifts, including a multimillion-dollar, eleven-story apartment building on Wilshire Boulevard as an “anniversary of their engagement” present, Norma thought she came up wanting.” Frances and Fred often joined Joe and the Talmadge family on Saturday evenings when they would open their house for a buffet supper and danc-

ing. The parties were famous for their informality, with Joe wearing an apron at the barbecue, a poker game going on in the library, music in the drawing room, and always a small group making themselves at home in the kitchen. Frances became closer to Peg than to any of her daughters, though she found them to be “without vanity” and among the very few actresses who did not seem to care at all about public acclaim. She admired Constance’s inhibition, but she was not pleased to see the genuine pain she inflicted on

Irving Berlin and Irving Thalberg, the serious young secretary to Carl Laemmle who was now practically running Universal. Both men would call on Constance adoringly, but her preference was to sneak out the back with Billy Haines, the good-looking, funny, and very gay actor starting to make a

name as a matinee idol. Billy and Dutch, a nickname she picked up as a child because of her blond hair and chubby face, would party all night in the clubs that were popping up all over Los Angeles and on several occasions barely escaped police raids." Frances recognized a predictable pattern: for every serious, hardworking relation, there was at least one unrepentant, good-time sibling. Lottie Pickford had divorced Alfred George Rupp and in early 1922 donned a white gown to marry the actor Allan Forrest in a church wedding for the second of what would be four marriages. Lottie’s servants gossiped about the wild parties she threw, laughing that when Mary’s car was heard “swinging up the gravel path, boy oh boy, did they put their clothes back on.” Within two

yeats of Olive Thomas’s death, Jack Pickford was married to another Ziegfeld beauty, Marilyn Miller.” Lillian Gish always adored her younger sister, Dorothy, but her carefree

ways and close friendship with Constance Talmadge caused Lillian more than a little concern. Still, all the older sisters gave their younger siblings plenty of room and regularly made excuses for their behavior."®

Frances concentrated on her own marriage, happy to be in such a relatively “normal” relationship, and enjoyed being reunited with old friends at 136

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Joe Schenck’s First National studio. Writing The Primitive Lover and East Is

West for Constance Talmadge brought her back to work with Sidney Franklin for the first time since they had moved furniture around the Bosworth studio together. He was now an established director after working with the Talmadges and Anita Loos in New York, and was pleased to acknowledge “we were lucky to have Frances” at First National.” Frances’s stories for Norma Talmadge played up her dark beauty with scenes that demanded long, meaningful glances verging on the erotic. Fans

and critics greeted each melodrama as “perfect motion pictures for a sophisticated audience.” Frances wrote Smilin’ Through, The Eternal Flame, The Voice from the Minaret, and Within the Law for Norma, and they were all

directed by Frank Lloyd, whom Frances had first met when he was acting

with Lon Chaney on the Morosco stage. The young Scot had quickly climbed to success as a leading man at Universal, began directing in 1915, and by the time he arrived at First National, he was credited with almost one hundred films.” It had been less than ten years since Frances, Sidney Franklin, and Frank Lloyd each arrived in Los Angeles, so young and so ambitious. Moviemak-

ing had been a wide-open enterprise, yet over the past decade they had seen more changes than just their own transformation into highly paid professionals.

The industry was becoming big business. Wall Street had started investing, “slowly seeping in and acquiring control,” and the resulting growth was phenomenal. Contributing to Hollywood’s success was the war’s literal obliteration of the European film industry, which had been competing or even surpassing American films before the assassination in Sarajevo. Los Angeles was now the undisputed center of worldwide film production, with over thirty thriving studios." The tremendous publicity machine that had evolved to sell the movies and their stars had created icons beyond their wildest dreams. With theaters in even the smallest towns, films were spreading everything from fashions trends to morality questions with a breadth and speed never before

known. Then, overnight, the entire industry was put in jeopardy by an event of potentially cataclysmic proportions. When Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle was charged with manslaughter in the death of Virginia Rappe following a San Francisco Labor Day party in 1921, it galvanized the attention of everyone who had ever blamed Hollywood for postwar cultural changes, loose morals, or sins of any kind. There had been rumors of “champagne orgies and cocaine” in the death of Olive Thomas,

but she was identified as much with Broadway as with Hollywood, and since she had died in Europe, distance helped diffuse the repercussions. 137

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Arbuckle was so popular he was making a million dollars a year and because he was a favorite of children, the charges against him brought a sense of betrayal that was absent from any previous scandal.” Adolph Zukor distributed the comedian’s films and he unsuccessfully sought to hire Adela’s father, Earl Rogers, to defend Arbuckle. Besides cit-

ing his own ill health, Rogers believed it was close to impossible for Arbuckle to get a fair hearing in the courts or in the press. “The idea of a man of that enormous fatness being charged with the rape of a young girl will prejudice them. . . just the thought of it.”” Frances knew Arbuckle as a man who “would never intentionally have harmed anyone” and saw him as a victim, “no different from scores of other successful Hollywood actors; drinking too much at times and spending too freely on the leeches that clung to him.” And she viewed the scandal as a

victory for her old antagonists the “Constipated Citizens” and worried about the ramifications when Universal started the trend of adding “a morality clause” in their players’ contracts.” Photoplay editorialized against “besmirching with lies the entire rank and file of a great industry,” but they were preaching to the choir. Within months, more than one hundred censorship laws were pending in thirty-six states. The threat of state or national censorship had been alive in a variety of forms since movies first moved out of the nickelodeons and into theaters. A watchdog panel called the National Board of Review was created behind the aegis of the Trust in 1909 to absorb the criticism, and during the teens,

censorship was a source of constant discussion in the trades and in the newspapers, yet for the most part, larger issues like the war and prohibition occupied the reformers.” The studio heads feared that the Arbuckle scandal could be the death knell of all they had built and while every other producer frantically tried to quiet the spreading stories, W. R. Hearst openly fanned the flames to boost his newspapers’ circulation. The crux of the industry’s problem was that they could not afford the

scandals and they could not afford to make only “clean” movies; both threatened to drive their audiences away in droves. As historians of the era

have pithily pointed out, what “they could afford—and very much needed—was an astute public relations campaign that would content Washington and strengthen motion picture securities. With Wall Street assured that the industry was stable, Hollywood would never have to choose between Fatty Arbuckle and venture capital.”” The only equivalent crisis in any other industry had been the Black Sox scandal of 1919, and baseball team owners had turned to Judge Kenesaw 138

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Mountain Landis and handed him all the power necessary to give them a clean bill of health. The studio heads looked around for a savior of similar magnitude.” Will Hays was first, foremost, and always a politician. His father, active in the Republican party in Indiana, named him William Harrison Hays after President Benjamin Harrison’s father. Graduating from college in 1900, Will Hays joined his father’s law firm and quickly rose through the ranks of the state and national Republicans, making an art form of cultivating contacts through his involvement in the Presbyterian church, the

Masons, the Shriners, the Elks, and the Moose. As chairman of the National Republican Party in 1918, he spearheaded the Republican takeover of Congress and while Hays was mentioned as a presidential candidate, no one was more supportive of the eventual nominee, Senator War-

ren G. Harding of Ohio, than Party Chairman Hays. Under the slogan “Back to Normalcy,” he masterminded the campaign that kept Harding in limited public view while raising $8 million, four times the war chest of the Democratic candidates, James Cox and Franklin Roosevelt. When Harding and Coolidge won in the biggest landslide to date, Hays was rewarded with the cabinet position of postmaster general.”® Hays expressed surprise when a delegation personally delivered a letter to him in the late fall of 1921, signed by ten of the top studio heads, asking him to consider the position of “czar” of the motion picture industry. He liked to tell the story that after being approached, he returned to his Indiana home and agonized. Then on Christmas morning, he overheard his son and nephews arguing, as they put on their new cowboy outfits, over who would be Bill Hart. “Not Buffalo Bill. Not Daniel Boone. But William S. Hart. To these little boys and to thousands of others throughout our land, William S. Hart and Mary and Doug were real and important personages and, at least in their screen characters, models of character and behavior.””’ Hays understood the power of the medium. He had watched the influence of films change the tide of opinion about the war and he had effec-

tively used newsreels in Harding’s campaign. And not only did the proposed position offer him a national forum, the salary was $100,000 a year for three years. He accepted the position as president of the newly created Motion Pic-

ture Producers and Distributors of America (MPPDA) in the middle of January and was busy sending out a flurry of press releases about films’ “pre-

destined place of importance in the civilization of today and tomorrow” from his New York office when on February 2, 1922, another shocking scandal hit the papers: the director William Desmond Taylor was found murdered.” 139

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While the case remained unsolved, many questions were raised and stories were spread: Was Mabel Normand the last person to see Taylor? Was he selling her drugs? Was he killed by dealers because he wanted her to stop using drugs? Did the nightgown found in his bedroom with MMM embroidered on it belong to little Mary Miles Minter? Wasn't her mother, Charlotte Shelby, also in love with Taylor? Or did she hate him for trying to steal her meal ticket? Or was the nightgown planted to make Taylor appear heterosexual? And where was his valet, who had been arrested on a morals charge only days before the murder?

The Thomsons knew Taylor well; he was frequently a guest in their home and they liked and respected him. Frances found him a “most attractive man;” cultured, distinguished and “very private.” She had made Captain Kidd, Jr. and Johanna Enlists with him and written Anne of Green Gables for Mary Miles Minter, the first of seven films the actress and Taylor would make together. Yet reasonable opinions such as theirs had no forum as Vari-

ety reported “7,000 Hollywood rumors have passed into thin air.” The trades tried to dismiss local reformers as “anti-vice society bugs,” but to the producers, the murder underscored their wisdom in turning to Will Hays.”

On April 12, 1922, after facing two hung juries, Fatty Arbuckle was acquitted. After more than a month of testimony from seventy witnesses, the jurors took only six minutes to reach their decision and issued an extraordinary apology: “Acquittal is not enough for Roscoe Arbuckle. We feel that a great injustice has been done him. . .. We wish him success and hope the American people will take the judgement of fourteen [two alternates included] men and women who have sat listening for thirty one days to the

evidence, that Roscoe Arbuckle is entirely innocent and free from all blame.””°

But the studio heads did not want to hear any apology and Will Hays stepped in to do what was expected of him: Fatty Arbuckle was banned from the screen by the MPPDA one week to the day after his acquittal. On the grounds that he failed to show up for work, Arbuckle’s salary had been stopped the day of his arrest.”! Will Hays had stayed in New York creating the new organization, releas-

ing “ten point programs” for the improvement of the industry, ~riting bylaws, and promoting himself with the press. It wasn’t until six full months

into his appointment that he came to Hollywood, or as he called it, “the front lines,” and when he arrived in July of 1922, he received a hero’s welcome. The streets were lined with bunting and American flags as he con-

ducted studio tours in a caravan of a dozen cars, accompanied by motorcycle policemen with sirens blaring to clear the path. Hays spoke to rallies of employees, giving the same basic message at each studio: censor140

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ship would be stopped, but only when clean pictures were made. For a man who had “come to learn,” he did almost all the talking.” Fred and Frances joined fifteen hundred of the industry’s luminaries at a banquet at the Ambassador Hotel in Hays’s honor. Mary Pickford, Douglas

Fairbanks, Gloria Swanson, Norma and Constance Talmadge, Harold Lloyd, Charlie Chaplin, Jesse Lasky, Cecil DeMille, and William de Mille graced the head table; everybody came to pay homage to the man who was to save them from themselves.” Frances had been in the business long enough to be all too familiar with hypocritical compromises, but to her this was the most self-deluding yet.

She thought Hays looked like a little mouse with big ears and that his “tepid manner” only served to “hide carving knives and sawed off shotguns.” She called the creation of the Hays office “the neatest double cross the Moguls ever met” and a “poison which they themselves had brewed.” Yet the studio chiefs were patting themselves on the back for what they saw as “the Hays solution.” To save all those jobs and profits, the demise of Fatty Arbuckle and Mary Miles Minter seemed a small price to pay—that is, to almost everyone but Fatty Arbuckle and Mary Miles Minter. Hays’s visit to Hollywood inspired more than 5,000 newspaper columns

of favorable coverage from that one week alone and it would be years before a formal production code was put into effect. He further earned his keep that fall when, with dozens of censorship laws pending, he beat back a particularly insidious referendum in Massachusetts. Hays was a master of organizing organizations; touching bases with church groups, women’s clubs, and civic leagues to make them all feel a part of the decision-making process. The three-to-one defeat for censorship was so decisive that most of the other state and local laws that were proposed over the next several years were rejected as well. Photoplay reported that “the Hays office costs the motion picture industry and therefore the public, about a half a million dollars a year. It is the biggest bargain since Thomas Edison spent $24,000 to invent the Kinetoscope in 1889,””

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he Hays office may have provided the industry with a buffer to absorb the blows of reforming citizens and headline writers, but the day-to-day work of scenario writers became more complicated. The studios hired their own in-house censors and synopses of proposed stories were submitted to the MPPDA. Yet many producers openly coached the writers on how to get around the regulations, and Frances laughed when she was told to “make your scenario sound awfully sweet and don’t describe your heroine as sexy,” but she submitted summaries that bore little resemblance to what ended up on the screen. Frances fell into playing the game, yet she found the process frustrating. She tried to become inured to criticism, but when a reviewer called a story of hers “imbecilic and fit only for ten-year-old consumption,” she sent him a few pages of the cuts that had been demanded from her original story.' She compared screenwriters to the young boy who cries out “when safely alone, ‘Come on out, everybody, I can lick you. I can lick the whole world if

I wanted to.’ He is whistling in the dark to keep up his courage.” She wanted to please everyone—Hays, original authors, stars, the public, and the bosses—but was able to come close only when she was “safely alone” writing.’

Yet she was more in demand than ever and making more money with each script. In addition to writing for the Talmadge sisters, she polished the six one-act plays she had started at Chappaqua to publish in book form. Her favorite was The Cup of Life, about a man who rediscovers the simple joys of living after being rescued from a shipwreck by the inmates of an insane asylum. It was produced at the new Writers’ Club Theater and her mother came down from San Francisco for its premiere.’ Minnie’s visit coincided with the Christmas holidays and she brought her granddaughter Caroline along with her. Together they delivered “a carload of presents” to the Children’s Hospital as well as to family and friends and Frances and Fred shared a new level of excitement having their niece with them. 142

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Frances had stayed in close touch with Caroline since Maude’s suicide and now she asked her brother-in-law to allow her to stay in Los Angeles. Wilson Bishop was still in the insurance business, living in Berkeley and working across the bay, but he was finding it a challenge to raise a child alone. Caroline, fourteen and already a beautiful young woman, adored her

Uncle Fred and Aunt Marion, as the immediate family always called Frances.‘

She assured Wilson that she would provide Caroline with the best education and enroll her at Westlake School for Girls, where she could board during the week, spend the weekends with them, and visit him on holidays. Caroline would also have an opportunity to get to know her cousins Jane and Helen, Len’s two daughters, who were also living in southern California. Fred shared Frances’s sense of familial obligations and loved the idea of having children around, even if it was an older niece. He was more anxious than Frances to start a family of their own and hoped having Caroline with them would encourage Frances’s maternal instincts. Yet new and interesting projects kept coming her way. Frances was approached by Metro to write what was to be only the second all-color movie. Color had been used in film since the nickelodeon days, but painting each frame by hand or a toning process that required each release print to be created individually was expensive and time-consuming. Years of

experimentation had resulted in a new method of photographing bluegreens on one film strip and red-oranges on another, then gluing the two together to create a final print. Frances enjoyed the different kind of thinking required in looking for a narrative to “best exploit the variable color tones.” Working with the men from Technicolor, she decided on a Chinese background and wrote Toll of the Sea to star Anna May Wong. Her story was billed as an original, but “T must admit that it was practically the step-daughter of Madame Butterfly.” She made light of her own contribution, saying “the story itself was of lit-

tle importance compared to the widespread interest in the potential of color,” but she was pleased to have the opportunity to be a part of the experiment. While Toll of the Sea met with success at the box office, special cameras and cameramen had to be used and there was no denying the awkwardness of the production process.° She was next intrigued by a call she received from Al and Ray Rockett, two brothers who had worked in and out of pictures, but made their money

elsewhere; Ray through the Missouri Pacific Railroad and Al with the American Smelting and Refining Company. The Rockett brothers knew Frances only by reputation and they told her it took all their nerve even to approach her. Their dream was to make a biog143

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raphy of their boyhood hero, Abraham Lincoln, and they had formed the Rockett-Lincoln production company to bring the president’s life to the screen. They had already spent over a year researching, but the script they envisioned “needed an expert mind and a sympathetic and sensitive imagination.” They knew Frances “was in a position to name her own salary,” but since they were putting all of their own savings into the film, they could not afford to pay her usual price. Could anything be worked out?’ Frances met with the Rocketts, looked over the research they had done, and was convinced of their sincerity. She was impressed with their passion

and her tendency to back the underdog was touched when they told her how many studio heads had refused to finance the film for fear it might appear to be “educational” or because “audiences prefer happy endings.” She agreed to take no money up front and to write the script for a portion of future profits. In addition, she invested $50,000 of her own money in the film. Because of the amount of time needed to finish the research, the scenario would take months to complete rather than the usual few weeks, so she continued on other projects, but she assured them she would always make whatever time was needed over the life of the production.* Frances appreciated participating in something larger than next week’s release, yet when Louis B. Mayer called and asked her to come out to his studio at 3800 Mission Road, she agreed to a meeting. One of the reasons she savored not being tied to a long-term contract was the sense of adventure she experienced feeling like a member of a “nomadic tribe.” She kept her finger on the pulse of the town and enjoyed the opportunity to see old friends and make new ones. Even though Mayer was a relatively unknown quantity, if the price was right and the project was intriguing, Frances was interested. She knew Hedda Hopper had made a movie for Mayer and that

gave her a good excuse to find out about the studio head and see her old friend as well.’

As usual, Hedda was full of news. She was in Los Angeles looking for work after living in New York, appearing in films by day and playing on Broadway at night. At thirty-seven, she was in the process of divorcing De Wolf Hopper after catching the now sixty-four-year-old actor in one too many compromising positions. He was already behind in his child support and she was paying the bills to keep their eight-year-old son, Bill, in an eastern boarding school." Hedda had been cast as a society matron in Virtuous Wives, Mayer’s first foray into film production. Born in the Ukraine in 1885, Lazar Meir immi-

grated to Canada with his parents as a young child. Starting as a junk dealer, he began in pictures by leasing an old burlesque house in Haverhill, Massachusetts, putting down fifty dollars and scraping up the rest of the six 144

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hundred due over the next three days. Mayer methodically bought more theaters and then took a risk that no one else in puritanical New England dared to: he bought the exhibition rights to The Birth of a Nation and made his first fortune.”

Convinced that the real money was in production, Mayer lured the actress Anita Stewart from Vitagraph with an increased salary, a production unit in her own name, and casting approval. In order to snag her role, Hedda had to appear before the star, and dressing in a plain suit with little makeup, she easily passed inspection. But Hedda knew the role was her chance to be noticed and she took her contract for ten weeks at five hundred a week straight to the famous couturier Lady Duff Gordon. Since she would have to provide her own dresses for the film, Hedda saw it as an investment when she spent the entire $5,000 on a massive wardrobe, concentrating on the tea and evening gowns that would earn her the reputation as one of the best-dressed women on both coasts. As the cameras were about to roll on location at a Long Island estate, Anita Stewart caught a glimpse of the tall, lithe Hedda dressed in waves of mauve chiffon. Knowing she was being upstaged, Anita refused to go on, but Hedda haughtily informed her that the dress had been made especially for this scene and it would take weeks to make something else as “I never wear anything ready to wear.” As she told the story to Frances, Hedda laughed at her ability to say it with a straight face, but it worked; within days, Anita Stewart gave in and made the picture. Of course Anita and Hedda had not spoken since, nor would they for over twenty years, but Hedda was quite proud of herself all the way around. She was convinced the investment paid off in getting her other work and Photoplay had just written that she was “much sought after by film directors, especially when they are casting the so-called ‘society dramas’ because she wears smart gowns with a air of belonging to them.”” During the filming of Virtuous Wives, Hedda noticed “a little round man who kept getting in our way just when we were ready for a take. Always the top sergeant, I'd say, ‘Hey, you’re in the camera! Mind getting back where you won't be seen?’ And that was how I first met Louis B. Mayer.” But it was no meek little man who “bounded out” of his office to meet Frances when she arrived at his studio. Mayer ushered her through the new administration building, which loomed over the thirty-five acres known as the Selig Zoo because of the caged animals kept there for the jungle films of the original owner, Colonel William N. Selig.” Mayer showed Frances every deference and she noted that while he was surrounded by “yes men,” he dismissed them quickly as he offered her a chair. He did almost all the talking, assuring her that these were only tem145

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porary quarters and detailing his grandiose plans for the future. The successful Broadway play he had bought and wanted her to adapt was The Famous Mrs. Fair, telling of a woman forced to choose between fame and her family and who, after hurdling several obstacles, of course returns to hearth and home. “T will make only pictures that I won’t be ashamed to have my children see,” Mayer boasted, and Frances couldn’t help but notice the large silver frame that held a picture of “Mama,” as he called his wife, Margaret, and his two young daughters. “I’m determined my little Edie and my little Irene will never be embarrassed. And they won't be if all my pictures are moral and clean.” Agreeing with a handshake on a handsome price for her work, Frances finished the scenario in a matter of weeks and was back in Mayer’s office shortly thereafter. He and “Mama” could not have been more pleased with her script and Mayer proudly informed Frances that not only would a check be delivered to her home that afternoon, but a bonus as well. “I’m the kind of fellow who enjoys giving surprises. Like I said, I’m a

sucker for humanity.” And then getting up from his desk he reached his hands behind her and gave her a pinch on her rear end as he added, “Especially if they are pretty.”

Frances left the office immediately, but when she returned home that night, the check was indeed waiting for her, along with the “bonus’—a glossy photograph of the man himself, carefully inscribed, “To a clever young writer from her friend, Louis B. Mayer.””

Fred and Frances had developed a comfortable mix of working together and separately as he continued to train Silver King while picking up occasional acting assignments. Mickey Neilan cast Fred in a small role in Penrod,

starring young Wesley Barry, and Frances in turn wrote the titles for two other films Mickey was producing and directing, Minnie and The Stranger’s Banquet. Fred had gradually come to see himself as an actor, yet the compromises

he would have to make on his way to using films as “a world pulpit” were quite clear. After playing a German spy in The Love Light, he was cast as Dustin Farnum’s villainous brother in Oathbound. He was talked into that tole by Maurice “Lefty” Flynn, a football star at Yale when Fred was at Princeton, who was also in the film, and both men were called on to show

their physical prowess. One of the chases involved boat races and Fred began studying the engineering behind motorboats in addition to his continuing fascination with the mechanics of photography."® These were expensive hobbies and Fred’s frustration was growing at not 146

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finding a backer for his westerns. They considered making the films on their own and Alfred Cohn, the writer who had served as Mary’s publicity agent and helped Frances make her White House connections, was now working as a business manager and brokering plays and offered to coproduce with Frances as long as she wrote the original stories. George Hill was back in Los Angeles and working in radio production, but he was eager to return to films

and joined the discussions. Fred and Frances were convinced he would make a great director, but George felt he needed experience and so Frances arranged for him to be hired as an assistant director to Frank Borzage. Frances grew reluctant to put their own money into the productions as she watched friends like Clara Kimball Young, Alla Nazimova, and Charles Ray back their own films with catastrophic results. Even Mary Pickford was

not pulling in anywhere near the profits she and her partners had envisioned when they formed United Artists." A temporary solution appeared when Fred was approached by Universal to star in a fifteen-episode serial. Serials were a mainstay of Universal’s production and a new, two-reel installment was screened every week to draw regular moviegoers. The Eagle’s Talons would costar Ann Little, a veteran “serial queen” who had been working before the cameras for over a decade,

and the champion stunt pilot Al Wilson. Theodore Wharton, known as “the father of the serial,” was to write the episodes and Frances was encouraged that Fred was to be backed with such seasoned talent.” The Eagle’s Talons was billed as a “sky high thriller,” packed with stunt flying, car chases, train wrecks, parachuting, and leaps from high buildings. Fred received top billing as “The World’s Champion Athlete” and he drew on his natural athletic abilities to become an accomplished stunt performer,

using his mathematics and engineering background to plan out the feats with precise measurements. He resisted using doubles and, in spite of his calculations, he fell from a building in a mistimed jump. He was rushed to the hospital and Frances spent a frantic night while doctors “despaired of saving his life,” but Fred was home recuperating within the week.” Moving Picture World called The Eagle’s Talons “slam bang-bang, action-

packed,” and while theater owners reported a wide range of audience responses, Fred received consistently good marks as “a newcomer with a pleasing personality and natural manner of acting.”” Frances wrote The Song of Love for Norma Talmadge and Joe Schenck convinced Frances to try her hand at directing again. She knew Norma and the material well and there were no obvious complications like husbands or best friends in the cast. Yet if a woman director was accepted within Hollywood, the stereotypes from outside were exemplified by a visiting reporter from the San Francisco Chronicle. 147

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Rowena Mason wrote of being ushered through the studio and “told in an awed whisper, “There’s Frances Marion.’ I turned expecting a severe, com-

petent looking woman. Instead, I saw a microscopic person wearing an exquisite brown lace dress and hat and sables leaning back in a big chair and ordering the players about the set through a dwarf megaphone. She was calm

and gracious, as though she might be pouring tea instead of bearing the responsibility for the expenditure of thousands of dollars. How she kept so cool in the midst of all the confusion and heat has always been a mystery to me.” The reality was that Frances had just recovered from a bad case of whooping cough and a week after the reporter’s visit to the set, an arc light fell and knocked Frances unconscious. Sidney Franklin’s brother Chester replaced her

while she was hospitalized and they shared screen credit for direction.” With bewilderment and a trace of resignation, Frances knew “everybody expects to find a great big mannish woman, with spectacles and perhaps a tailored suit. Certainly they expect an authoritative woman who speaks firmly on every subject. And then they find me.” Only her closest friends like Adela knew how hard she worked at “holding her temper in leash,” yet occasionally the condescension got the best of her. After one particularly difficult day at the studio, she was pulled over for speeding and the policeman called her

“rattlebrained.” She took the ticket and drove on, but her indignation grew. She turned back, pulled up next to the policeman, and said, “For your information, these ‘rattlebrains’ make me over $50,000 a year.”

Hearst had “forgiven” Frances for her temporary refusal to write Marion Davies’s films and while he and his star were still in New York, he sweetened his next offer by naming Frances the head of Cosmopolitan’s West Coast productions. Under the nonexclusive contract, she wrote and supervised several productions for Cosmopolitan in 1923, including The Love Piker and The Nth Commandant, starring Colleen Moore, the young woman who came to personify the flapper of the new era in the film Flaming Youth.”

Colleen was among the new breed of actress who had been raised on movies and film magazines. Born Kathleen Morrison in 1902, she spent her

southern childhood so convinced that she would be a star, she kept room for her own picture in the scrapbook of fan magazine clippings she faithfully maintained. Yet while she and her fellow young actresses like Bebe Daniels and Patsy Ruth Miller arrived in Hollywood with role models, pioneers in the business were already being forgotten.” Florence Turner, the original Vitagraph girl, had gone to England during the war at the ripe old age of nineteen and she and her mother were living in obscure poverty. Her fortunes changed only when Marion Davies heard about her plight, gave her a role in Janice Meredith, and then put her on the 148

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Cosmopolitan payroll as a scenario reader. Cleo Madison, a Universal actress who had risen to acclaim as a director, was now playing “minor roles

in minor films” and Gene Gauntier, a peer of Lois Weber as an actress, writer, and director in the mid-teens, became convinced the business had “passed her by,” so she moved to Sweden, where she was writing novels.” Lois Weber herself was back at Universal, after a yearlong absence from

the screen. In 1917, she was heralded as the first woman director to own her own studio, taking over a large Hollywood estate and accomplishing her “long standing ambition” to work in surroundings where “it was actually a joy to spend ten hours a day.” She could make her films in sequence from first scene to last and vowed to use no temporary sets. She had her home there as well and at Lois Weber Productions, her husband, Phillips Smalley, was billed as “studio manager.””

Yet the studio cost a small fortune to maintain, and between her own

independent films she worked at Universal and then was hired at the “enormous salary” of $3,500 a week by Louis B. Mayer to direct Anita Stewart. Lois rented her studio out to Mickey Neilan, who was making his own independent productions, but she still could not accumulate the capi-

tal she needed to work on her own for an extended period of time. The “premier woman director of the screen and author and producer of the biggest money making features in the history of the film business” then signed with Paramount for “four super-specials” at $50,000 each.” Lois’s dream of independence faded with films like The Blot, shaming those who underpaid teachers and ministers, as she was unable or unwilling to change with her audience. She gave up her studio and after ten years of almost nonstop work, took a six-month trip around the world with her hus-

band. She returned to divorce Smalley in early 1923, keeping him as a friend and companion, and signed again with Universal.” Frances had maintained her friendship with Lois and as Fred was finishing The Eagle’s Talons on the same Universal lot, he was cast in a small role in Lois’s A Chapter in Her Life. Fred played the poor but loyal boyfriend in the melodrama about a young girl who brings affection back into the life of her lonely grandfather through the teachings of Christian Science. Lois was

still experimenting with camera angles and some of the photography is breathtaking, but her proselytizing was not appreciated by an audience steeped in the Jazz Age.” The surprise hit film of 1923 was Paramount’s epic western, The Covered Wagon. Westerns had been solid grist for the movies starting with The Great Train Robbery, and Bronco Billy Anderson and then William S$. Hart had been packing the Saturday matinees for over a decade, yet with few exceptions, the genre had not been taken seriously by adult audiences. The Cov149

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ered Wagon was voted Photoplay’s Movie of the Year and its success, combined with the growing popularity of the showman Tom Mix and his horse Tony, brought westerns back in vogue. After almost two years of training, Fred and Silver King finally got their

chance through Monogram Pictures, one of the dozen smaller studios churning out product for the constantly growing number of theaters throughout the country. On August 20, 1923, producer Harry Joe Brown and his silent partner, the actor Lew Cody (who also was an investor in Monogram), signed Fred at $300 a week and 5 percent of the profits. Brown and Cody in turn signed a contract with Dwight C. Leeper and Andrew Callaghan, president of Monogram, to produce six feature-length westerns starring Fred Thomson. A completed feature was to be delivered every five weeks on a budget of $10,000 a film. The contract included an option for six more films that, if exercised, would increase Fred’s income to $500 a week and 10 percent of the profits, half paid by Monogram and the other half by the producers. Fred’s salary was relatively low, but he and Frances were so confident of his and Silver King’s abilities that they were sure it was just the beginning. Best of all, he was not indebted to any of Frances’s friends or connections; he may have been starting slowly, but it was in a starring role and on his own.”' Harry Joe Brown had worked his way up to producing after acting with stage companies, and for director, he brought in his friend Al Rogell, who had risen from prop man and electrician to cameraman and director. Rogell in turn hired Ross Fisher as their cameraman and Marion Jackson, a young woman from Walla Walla, Washington, was their writer. ‘Together, the foursome epitomized the latest wave of creative talent drawn to the booming industry. Frances was the veteran and though she reviewed the titles and helped with the editing, Marion Jackson “got the credit and the cash.” Not only did Frances want to avoid any possible conflicts with her other contracts, but both she and Fred agreed that it was best to keep their professional lives separate.” The westerns were shot in Griffith Park, in the nearby hills, and at the Monogram studios at 780 Gower, near Melrose. Fred played a different character in each film—the trusted foreman in North of Nevada, the sheriff of Tombstone in Galloping Gallagher, and a secret service agent in The Silent Stranger—but every time he overcame a series of challenging obstacles to beat the bad guys and get the girl, always with dramatic stunts and the help of Silver King. Since Fred had signed with Harry Joe Brown, he and Frances still felt a sense of responsibility for George Hill’s career. He had directed Jack Pickford in The Hill Billy, but Frances saw that George was still “unsure of him150

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self, always doubting his own ability.” She had planned on directing The Daughter of Mother McGinn for Cosmopolitan, a crime drama featuring the Boston Blackie character and starring Colleen Moore as the girl who makes the crook go straight, but ever confident that George simply needed more experience to get over his insecurities, Frances wrote the scenario and gave him the directing assignment. As head of Cosmopolitan’s West Coast operations, she had the power to make the change and she didn’t hesitate to share or give away the credit. In her view, one of the benefits of being established was to help her friends and as usual, she had new irons in the fire.” In early 1923, she had received a call from one of the few producers she had yet to work with directly, Samuel Goldwyn. She knew his name was now officially Goldwyn, not the Schmuel Gelbfisz he had been born with in Warsaw or the Samuel Goldfish he had adopted when he immigrated to America at the age of twenty-one. In 1919, Photoplay ran his black-bordered picture with the tag line reading “Not dead, but legally annihilated,” explaining that the New York courts had granted him the right to use as his family name the same one he and Edward Selwyn had created when they combined portions of their surnames to form Goldwyn Productions. (The obvious alternative, it was pointed out at the time, was “Selfish Films.”)” Frances had followed with mixed emotions Goldwyn’s creation of Eminent Authors Pictures Inc. to have famous writers adapt their own stories for the screen. While the group included friends she respected like Mary Roberts Rinehart, Gertrude Atherton, and Rupert Hughes, Frances knew the great difference between writing for the page and for the screen. She was hard-pressed to believe the pronouncement that “the author will have the final power of direction and supervision over his picture,” no matter how famous or “eminent,” but phrases like “the best brains in the writing business” poked at her pride. Scenario writers were low on the totem pole, but she could not imagine they would be dismissed entirely by novelists. Sure enough, Goldwyn Pictures nearly went bankrupt with the milliondollar-plus expenses attached to the Eminent Authors project. Investment capital from banking interests and the DuPonts financed an expansion that included the purchase of the old Triangle studios in Culver City, but the investors insisted on new management and Sam Goldwyn was bought out for $600,000 in early 1922.” Goldwyn looked into joining United Artists as an independent producer, but Mary Pickford was still leery of him from their days at Famous Players Lasky. He thought Chaplin was a friend, but then learned the comedian did imitations of him as dinner party entertainment. After tallying the number of people who didn’t want to work with him, Goldwyn realized he was better off on his own, yet to begin independent production he needed either a 151

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star or a name director. He reached an agreement with George Fitzmaurice, an experienced director who came highly recommended after organizing

the Famous Players Lasky London studios, and for financing, Goldwyn turned to Joe Schenck and Cecil B. DeMille, who credited Goldwyn with supporting him during his earliest years in Hollywood. Filmmaking was now such an acknowledged component of the economy of California that both DeMille and Schenck were on the advisory board of A. H. Giannini’s Bank of Italy (soon to become the Bank of America). DeMille arranged a $200,000 loan and Schenck agreed to release Goldwyn’s pictures through First National.” For his first independent film, Goldwyn chose the blatantly ethnic comedy Potash and Perlmutter, a Montague Glass story that had been successfully serialized and produced as a play. Goldwyn bought the rights to both properties and then called on Frances to bring the story to the screen. Frances already knew Mary Pickford’s opinion of Sam Goldwyn and other friends told her she should study voice projection in preparation for what they warned would be daily shouting matches. But Potash and Perlmutter was to be filmed in New York and all Frances had to do was adapt it and send it off. And the producer was willing to pay her asking price.” She had over one hundred scenarios to her credit covering almost every genre, but she had never tackled an ethnic comedy like this tale of the misadventures of two Jewish tailors. Yet Goldwyn knew and admired her work,

especially Humoresque, and proudly made a point of hiring the best. He announced her signing with great fanfare, claiming, “I feel we have solved - one of the great problems of film production by securing her uninterrupted association. ”

“Uninterrupted,” but not exclusive. Frances signed to write three films for him at $10,000 each with the freedom to continue her other work.*® Goldwyn’s bet paid off and Potash and Perlmutter was a box office success, in part because the comedy was broadened to encompass the general emi-

grant experience. Next he turned to a story guaranteed to grab headlines and put Frances in the middle of a censorship squabble: Cytherea, Goddess of Love, the titillating best-seller by the popular novelist Joseph Hergesheimer. The tale of a bored businessman who takes up with flappers and falls into a passionate affair was a known quantity when Goldwyn purchased the rights and he fanned the publicity flames by claiming he received over 2,000 let-

ters denouncing the book as “too risqué” and “far too salacious” to be filmed. While promising the Hays office that a revised ending (the lover dying and the businessman returning apologetically to his wife and children)

would provide “suitable retribution,” Goldwyn publicly vowed that the “censors cannot cut one inch” of Cytherea.” 152

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Cytherea was filmed at the United studios in Los Angeles and Frances

initially took to heart her friends’ advice that she needed to wear “full armor plate” and have “her mental boxing gloves” ready at all times. Yet while she admitted that working with Goldwyn was exhausting, both physically and mentally, she found herself enjoying the challenge and developing a growing admiration for him.” Ben Hecht would later say that though Goldwyn respected writers, his impatience led to his “trying to get stories out of [them] in the same manner that an intemperate player shakes a slot machine,” but Frances defended the producer. “There was never any pretense about him. He always worked harder than anyone he ever hired and his appreciation for a job well done is always immense and completely genuine.” In spite of all she heard and sometimes saw, she came to respect Goldwyn as a hands-on producer with taste, talent, and integrity.” Cytherea reunited Frances with Lewis Stone and Alma Rubens along with the art director Ben Carré and this time she actually received credit from some critics for managing to keep the heart of the story while making necessary modifications. She also enjoyed meeting the novelist Joseph Hergesheimer and at his instigation, she joined him, Aileen Pringle, and H. L. Mencken for an outing to Aimee Semple McPherson’s “celestial vaudeville show.” When they arrived at her 5,000-seat Angelus Temple it looked completely filled, but Joe “hurried down the aisle with us reluctantly tagging along to where he had seen a half-empty row.” Despite the fact it was clearly marked for “pregnant women and nursing mothers,” Joe refused to budge and the foursome got a close-up view of the woman Frances decided “could out act any actress in Hollywood.” With only slightly veiled mockery, she proclaimed Aimee “attractive to look at, if you admired the full blown cabbage rose type, and the most compelling saleswoman you ever met.””

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n her “spare time” Frances was finishing the novel she had started during their summer at Chappaqua, The Rise and Fall of Minnie Flynn. It was a

fairly serious tale of a poor young girl from the New York tenements climbing to stardom through luck and fate without learning enough about herself and the world around her to maintain her good fortune. Frances called it a “tragedy of success” and meant it as a warning to the thousands of women she saw pouring into Hollywood full of optimism and without the slightest idea of what lay ahead. With self-deprecating humor edged with truth, Frances said, “I call it propaganda, but the publishers call it a novel.” Minnie Flynn dramatized the lecherous producers, naive girls going into debt to buy wardrobes required for roles that fell through, the hardworking crew, the creative cameramen, the steamroller effect of overspending, and bosses who were only out for themselves and their profits. Frances enjoyed the process of developing complex characters through dialogue, in contrast to the action and pantomime situations required for the screen, but when it came time to submit the manuscript, her basic insecurities surfaced. For almost a decade people had been coming to her with offers, and she faltered at doing the approaching. She hedged by sending the manuscript to both a book publisher and Pictorial Review, a magazine with a circulation of 2 million specializing in serials, short stories, and some nonfiction. When both announced they wanted to publish The Rise and Fall of Minnie Flynn,

it was mutually agreed that a shortened version would be serialized in four parts in Pictorial Review and the complete novel published by Boni and Liveright.’ Fred was concentrating on completing his first three Monogram westerns. Hazel Keener played the love interest and he was supported by veter-

ans like Chester Conklin and Wilfred Lucas, the actor and director who was married to Frances’s old friend and fellow screenwriter Bess Meredyth. Bess and Wilfred had run their own unit at Universal and shared directing duties on a series of Tarzan films, which she also wrote and he acted in. Australia had embraced moviemaking and Bess and Wilfred spent a year 154

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there with their infant son, writing and directing action films. When they returned to Hollywood, she literally hung out a shingle and hers was the only individual name listed in the Los Angeles phone book under Scenario Writers. She turned out scripts for dozens of small studios while Wilfred focused on his acting career. Frances took comfort in having his experience contributing to Fred’s films and enjoyed being surrounded by Bess’s enthusiasm and confidence.’ Filmed back-to-back and sent straight to the editing room, the westerns were being sold to exhibitors territory by territory, and to promote sales, Monogram ran a two-page announcement in the trades. A full-page picture of a bucking Silver King with Fred tall in the saddle advertised him as the leading man in The Love Light with Mary Pickford, Cosmopolitan’s Just Around the Corner, and the Universal serial The Eagle’s Talons. The second page offered a series of six Fred Thomson westerns packed with “action, thrills, suspense, stunts and romance.” Frances would have felt more secure about the new enterprise if Fred had been more cooperative in promoting himself, but he maintained the position that one’s work spoke for itself. Photoplay managed to produce a full-page article in their January 1924 issue announcing Fred as a new star under the headline “Athlete, Preacher, Actor” with a handsome profile shot highlighting his broad shoulders and chiseled features.’ Fred assumed everything was going along as planned until Harry Joe Brown came to him confessing he was temporarily “financially embarrassed” and suggested Fred “take a vacation” until he was able to fund the last three films of their contract. Fred agreed to the delay only after Brown committed to not exercising his option for another six westerns.° Fred was not pleased about the developments, but Frances was furious and all the little things she had resented about the business over the past decade came to the fore. She blamed herself for not following through on their plans to produce the films themselves and being so busy with her own projects that she had not devoted the attention she should have to Fred’s productions. In a rare public burst of pique, Frances announced she was “leaving the screen” to devote her time to writing books after her commitment to Gold-

wyn and other producers was completed. It was reported that she was “determined to devote her efforts to literature per se” and that the business “will thus be deprived of one of its most intelligent talents and a regular person to boot.” Privately she vowed to spend her time salvaging and promoting Fred’s career, but her retirement plans were soon modified to include “one or two special scripts a year,” for new financing hope arrived in the form of one 155

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Joseph P Kennedy, a Massachusetts banker who also served as an “advisor” to Film Booking Office, known in the business as FBO.°

The Thomsons found a casualness and familiarity in Kennedy that set him apart from anyone else they had met in their search for backing; at thirty-five, he was tall and thin, with sandy, reddish hair and a quick, effervescent smile. He radiated confidence and goodwill and shook hands with firm conviction. “He’s a charmer,” Frances thought, “a typical Irish charmer. But he’s a

rascal.” She had no idea how right she was. A calculating entrepreneur from his earliest days, Joseph Patrick Kennedy graduated from Harvard in 1912, where he helped pay his tuition by running The Spirit of ’76, a sightseeing bus ferrying tourists around the monuments of Boston. After his

father had interceded with the mayor and arranged “a choice route,” Kennedy put $300 into the venture and netted $5,000 by the time he graduated. Yet investing even a small amount of his own money was a tendency he resisted whenever possible, preferring to contribute his own expertise and guidance while using other people’s money to bring him profits.’ As early as 1919 Kennedy was convinced the movies were “a gold mine” and with the financial backing of the Boston attorney Guy Currier, he took control of the local franchise for distributing the films of Universal through the Maine-New Hampshire chain of thirty-one theaters throughout New

England. From this venture, Kennedy learned the same lesson of many before him: if real money was to be made it was in producing your own product, not in screening what others had made.” Kennedy billed himself as having been “the youngest bank president in the world” at the age of twenty-five. In truth, Columbia Trust was “a little East Boston suburban bank,” where his father was a member of the board of directors, when it was threatened with consolidation. “By combining the assets of relatives, drawing on uncles for help, Joe got together $45,000 to buy stock in Columbia Trust, collected proxies around East Boston to keep control of it and was elected President of the Board of Directors.” Very shortly thereafter, war was declared and with his brief foray as bank president behind him, he became an assistant general manager of Bethlehem Ship’s Fore River yards. Yet spinning a fleeting experience into a positive

turn of phrase, trusting that no one would look too deeply into it, was becoming just one of Kennedy’s areas of expertise.” His marriage to the former mayor of Boston’s daughter, Rose Fitzgerald, soon produced two young sons and a daughter, and Kennedy moved on to

the banking and brokerage firm of Hayden, Stone, where he learned the fine art of making small fortunes through stock pools, the then legal practice of joining with other major investors to push a stock’s price upward, 156

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selling at the top price, and leaving small-time investors holding the losses. It was also at Hayden, Stone that Kennedy first came in contact with FBO and Robertson-Cole when Sir Erskine Crum of the Graham’s banking concern of London arrived in the United States looking to sell their Americanbased film companies in 1921." The British import-export firm of Robertson-Cole specialized in automobiles, tea, and films, but Frances knew of them since they had also distributed Sessue Hayakawa’s first independent feature, The Temple of Dusk, which she had written. Even though the original owners, Rufus S. Cole and

H. E Robertson, resigned from the company in 1922, their names stayed attached to the production end of the business while FBO concentrated on distributing films to exhibitors in small towns and to theater chains not owned by the other studios.” Kennedy was introduced to Crum as the Hayden, Stone broker who knew the most about the movie business and after several days of meetings,

Crum gave him the assignment to look for a buyer at the asking price of $1.5 million. It was agreed that Kennedy would earn a $75,000 commission when he sold the companies, but in the meantime he was made an adviser to FBO at the salary of $1,500 a month."

Kennedy was convinced that the reason Graham’s needed to sell was their failure to secure dependable, ongoing financing. The cost of shortterm loans was prohibitive and they kept getting caught in credit squeezes far from their base of operation. Only a few banks were willing to issue lines of credit to film companies and Kennedy saw the potential for making huge

profits if the financing hurdle could be overcome. He shopped FBO relatively quietly and approached Hearst among others, but met with little interest. One of his biographers, Doris Kearns Goodwin, is confident that “all along, from his meeting with Crum, Kennedy had harbored the dream of buying FBO himself.””

Over the next few years, Kennedy contented himself with his advisory role (and monthly salary) and it was in that capacity he met with Fred and Frances. He knew of her reputation as a screenwriter, but as a passionate sports fan, he was most impressed with Fred’s career as an athlete and confidently put his faith in such a disciplined and determined man.

Kennedy appealed to them both with his enthusiasm. Frances had tremendous respect for Fred’s intelligence, but always felt she had to protect him when it came to dealing with people in the film business. She had seen too much not to be skeptical of promises with or without signatures, but Kennedy revived her husband’s confidence and excitement about filmmaking and for that she was grateful.”®

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out of fear of appearing like his Svengali and she would say that until they met Joseph Kennedy, Fred had wanted only to star Silver King in westerns and not act himself. The documentary evidence of Fred’s multiple acting appearances before their first meeting with Kennedy as well as the testi-

mony of those who worked with him says otherwise. In fact, Al Rogell claimed, “Thomson liked to act and the horse was incidental.” Yet there is little question that the Thomsons’ initial loyalty to and grateful friendship with Kennedy came from what they saw as his assistance at this low time in Fred’s career.” Kennedy arranged for FBO to pick up the distribution for the unsold territories of Fred’s first half dozen westerns. Those regions that had already been claimed, such as New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania as well as

Texas, Oklahoma, and Arkansas, were retained by those buyers. Fred agreed to make another set of westerns at a higher salary but without profit participation for Robertson-Cole with FBO distributing, after completing the last three films with Harry Joe Brown and Monogram.” With the financing crisis passing, Fred went right on making his films and it was Frances who took the brief vacation. In January of 1924, after eighteen weeks of shooting and several postponed release dates, The Dramatic Life of Abraham Lincoln was finally ready to be premiered. Al and Ray Rockett were still negotiating with distributing companies and, as they had

throughout production, were guarding their resources. They could not afford an extravagant premiere, but telling Frances her name was “a guarantee of excellence, like the word ‘Sterling’ on silver,” they asked her to come to New York for the film’s opening.”

Frances and the Rocketts “had put our hearts, our resources, and our almost fanatical enthusiasm” into creating the film so she agreed to go, but she also wanted to take advantage of being in New York to see the latest plays and meet with her editors at Boni and Liveright about the publication of Minnie Flynn.”

At twelve reels and with sixty featured players, Abraham Lincoln was over two hours long and covered the sixteenth president’s entire life: his birth, his romance with Anne Rutledge, his experience as a country lawyer and a state legislator, through his nomination to the presidency, election, and assassination. The vast panoramas and the use of hundreds of costumed extras, 114 different sets, and more than a thousand scenes put it on a scale with The Birth of a Nation.

Frances was careful to contrast the sweeping battle scenes and heroic speeches in front of cheering crowds with humanizing touches. She has Lincoln trying to charm Mary Todd, but stepping on her toes while he dances with her, and has him initiating a playful pillow fight with his two 158

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sons. She included touches of sensitivity and portrayed the loneliness of leadership in a scene where he thoughtfully forgives a sentry for falling asleep on the job. She had helped supervise the editing and the titles, and was optimistic about the film’s potential success. Several spontaneous standing ovations had greeted the film at a sneak preview in San Francisco and it opened in New York with great word of mouth. The unknown George Billings, cast

for his uncanny resemblance to the president, made his film debut in the role of Lincoln and his performance was unanimously praised, as was the film itself.

Variety claimed, “This picture will go down in history with the great books that have been written on Abraham Lincoln,” and Motion Picture Classic named it Picture of the Month because it was “the first visualization of a biography that has ever been recorded.”” The Dramatic Life of Abraham Lincoln went on to win Photoplay’s prestigious Picture of the Year award and to be, along with Humoresque and only a handful of others, one of the few films Frances was genuinely proud of.

Even though it was eventually distributed by Associated First National, Ray and Al Rockett carried over the hands-on approach they had used so successfully in producing the film to unfortunate results in publicity and

scared away audiences by calling it “the greatest motion picture ever made.”” The film did better in smaller towns than in big cities and while it eventually made a slim profit, it was up against more than just ineffective publicity. For the past year there had been a slump in movie attendance that the trades declared “the worst in the history of the motion picture industry.” Famous Players Lasky shut down for over two months in late 1923 and reduced their planned number of films by over a third, from eighty to fiftytwo. Universal closed for a short period and other studios announced lay-

offs and reduced production dramatically. First National was the only major company running at full strength. Theaters were flooded with “epics” that pushed production costs to new highs. Cecil B. DeMille’s The Ten Commandments cost a record $1.5 million and The Hunchback of Notre Dame starring Lon Chaney cost close to a million. Rex Ingram’s Scaramouche had a price tag of $850,000 and Charles Ray, after failing to interest a studio in backing him, had put half a million dollars of his own money into The Courtship of Miles Standish and was in the process of counting his losses.” While the Rocketts had spent less than a million dollars over the two years that went into bringing Abraham Lincoln to the screen, the competition from other extravaganzas reduced its drawing power. The only guaran159

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teed moneymakers seemed to be the low-budget films that drew a steady

audience outside the large cities, and Fred Thomson’s westerns were quickly proving to do exactly that. His first film with Silver King, The Mask

of Lopez, opened in small towns across the country the same week that Abraham Lincoln premiered in New York.

Even Mary Pickford films were not grossing the profits they once had. Her latest, Rosita, directed by Ernst Lubitsch in his American debut, had disappointed her in terms of both box office and her own performance. Frances had somewhat gingerly maintained her friendship with Mary and now, at her request, was helping to edit Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall without credit. Mary’s first foray into a full-scale period costume film was set in Tudor England, directed by Mickey Neilan, and written by Frances’s friend Waldemar Young.”

Mary had reduced her output to one picture annually and she and Douglas were spending several months each year in New York and Europe. She was quoted as saying, “As a woman I am contented, supremely contented, maybe too contented. As an artist, no, [ want to grow so much yet.”

She was still caught in a tug-of-war in her choice of roles. Lubitsch suggested she make Faust and Mary was intrigued with the idea, but Charlotte forbade America’s Sweetheart to play a role in which she would have a child out of wedlock and then strangle it. Mary and Doug spoke occasionally of making a film together and Romeo and Juliet was mentioned as a possibility, but while Doug was making grand action films like The Thief of Baghdad and Robin Hood, Mary ricocheted between doing romances like Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall and then playing a child in Little Annie Rooney. Simultaneously lionized and compartmentalized, Mary was in a battle she could not win.” The movie magazines called them “King Doug, Queen Mary and Dowager Charlotte” and Pickfair was the castle from which they reigned. Doug had bought the fourteen-acre estate north of the Beverly Hills Hotel with stables and rolling landscaped hills just before they were married. The English-style home included a bowling alley, a billiards room, and a small the-

ater. With a large portrait of Mary hanging over the mantel in the living room, Pickfair was designed around entertaining. A sense of “endless pageantry” was encouraged by releasing photographs of them canoeing in their swimming pool, and a total of fourteen servants assured that almost every need was met.”®

From the outside it looked like a fairy tale come true, but Frances agreed

with Frank Case’s daughter Margaret that Mary’s life was “undeniably dull.” Anita Loos went so far as to think Mary’s situation suffocating, saying “a tighter knot was never tied.”” 160

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Dinner was always prepared for fifteen people on the assumption that Doug would bring home “his trainers and the professional wits and yes-men who eternally clung to him.” Charlie Chaplin, who called himself a “lone wolf” despite his string of wives and girlfriends, said Doug and Mary were his “social salvation.” He raved about the “excellent service and excellent

cuisine” at Pickfair and was often there for dinner along with those who had dropped by the studio to visit during the day. Frances and Fred occasionally dined at Pickfair and if Fred was out on location, Frances would go alone, often finding herself the only other woman besides Mary at the table.

No matter who the guests were, cups of Ovaltine or bowls of fruit were passed out at ten o'clock as the signal that it was time to go home.” Even Charlotte Pickford had to admit that Los Angeles had grown to

the point that it was time for owning and building one’s own home and Fred and Frances joined many of their friends in looking for real estate neat Beverly Hills. The Thomsons sought out Fred’s old friend and Occidental classmate Alphonso Bell, who owned a huge section of hill property, but as they entered his office, Bell said, “I’m terribly sorry you became an actor, Fred, but I’ve made it a law—not one acre of my land is to be sold to actors or Jews.”

Frances was shocked into silence, but she was terribly proud of Fred when he let Bell know just what he thought of him in language more fitting “to a Western cowboy than a sky pilot.”” They continued their search and found four barren acres at the very top of a Beverly hill known as Smokey Mountain. With the exception of a few large homes starting to dot the land below, the area remained undeveloped and the road would have to be extended to allow cars and trucks to reach the property, but for a total price of $1,500, it seemed like a good investment.” As they discussed their dream home, it quickly became clear that they

had two distinctly different pictures in mind and what happened in the process exemplified the way Fred and Frances made their marriage work. They were two strong-willed people with unique personalities and opin-

ions, but a tremendous mutual respect cemented their relationship. Frances found Fred to be one of the few people she believed was quite hon-

estly smarter than she was, telling friends that with Fred around, she no longer needed a dictionary or an encyclopedia. Though his “strong silent” approach frustrated her at times, she admired the fact that time and again, he accomplished what he set his mind to.” She envisioned building a bungalow with a courtyard and a rose garden, similar to the Spanish-style homes with arches and bougainvillea clinging to the adobe walls which she had sketched in Monterey and in the plaza of old Los Angeles. Fred had eyes only for the stable and the riding ring and 161

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then, incidentally but necessarily, a place for the ranch hands to live. Frances knew he was right; men had to live nearby to guard the horses and to protect them from potential brush fires and a riding ring was necessary

for exercising and training the animals. Instead of arguing about their potentially conflicting concepts, they agreed that he would have carte blanche on the stables, landscaping, and all the outbuildings, and she would take charge of the main house. In April of 1924 she took a short trip to San Francisco to visit her family and spend some time at her father’s ranch to polish Minnie Flynn. When she returned to Los Angeles, she took one look at Fred’s plans and concluded that her original idea for a bungalow would look like a “wart on top of the hill.” Her main house had seven rooms and his building for the ranch hands called for eight rooms and a kitchen.” Frances found a young architect who, although only twenty-eight and in business for just a year, came highly recommended. A native Californian, Wallace Neff had spent his early years in Europe before studying under Ralph Adams Cram at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. He had just returned from his honeymoon in Cuba, where he renewed his ardor for

the architecture and the open courtyards of the homes in Havana. Neff pointed out the obvious fact that four acres were no longer sufficient for their plans and when Frances went to buy more, she found that in a little over a year prices had skyrocketed. She bought the twenty adjacent acres

for a total of $90,000. |

Soon the land was cleared and the side of the hill blasted to create areas of flat terrain. Excavators carved a steep driveway to circle the property, and the two-story stable, the four-car garage, and the house for the ranch hands became the first order of business.” Fred had quickly become accustomed to their lifestyle, but remained closer to his animals than to most humans and he thought of Silver King and his dapple gray doubles as members of his family who deserved the best. Along with the mahogany-floored stables, there were certain other necessities, like the waterfall along the side of the hill to keep the temperature cool in the summer, and fully grown trees brought in to provide shade. Fred was now making almost as much as Frances, so there was not an issue of spending her money, but it was pouring out as fast as it was pouring in. The house for the ranch hands was completed at three times the original estimated budget for the main house. Three dozen laborers cleared the underbrush and gardeners quickly followed, mixing the remaining eucalyptus and pines with magnolias, oaks, and palms. While the building was going on, Fred and Frances kept the house on

Windsor, but when the weather was good they camped on the hillside 162

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overnight. When the stable was completed, they moved into the top floor

on the weekends. There was a sink with running water and Frances brought in a hot plate for cooking soup and spaghetti for them and the visitors who trucked up the hill to witness the progress.” The plans for a bungalow were laid aside and Wallace Neff took Frances’s ideas and designed an “Andalusian farmhouse as it should have been.” The twenty-room, two-story white stucco estate with wide arches and red tile roof blended practicality with luxury and was to be Neff’s masterpiece in the California Spanish style of the period for which he became famous. Cars drove along a path lined with fruit trees and wild roses and passed through an arched porte cochere into an immense open cobblestone courtyard. Water cascaded from an octagonal, colorfully tiled fountain in the center. Bougainvillea climbed walls dotted with palms and gardenias in terra-cotta pots. On each side of the main entrance was placed an outward sign of their

combined interests; a coat of arms incorporating a movie camera, a horse’s head, a horseshoe, and a scroll of paper crossed with a quill pen.

The front door opened into a spacious, two-and-a-half-story drawing room, then an enormous beamed-ceiling living room with a stone fireplace.

Massive single-pane glass windows opposite each other allowed light to pour in with a view onto the northern garden and pool on one side and the rose garden, a large expanse of grass, and out to the ocean on the other. The centerpiece of the bay-windowed room off the foyer was an Aeolian pipe organ with speakers laced throughout the walls of the house. A library and a sitting room completed the south side of the main floor. Down the hallway, tiled in a basket-weave pattern, was the formal dining

room with built-in mahogany cupboards, a table that comfortably sat a dozen people, and a small fireplace curved into the corner. A large functional kitchen opened to a private, parallel hallway leading to three maids’ bedrooms and a bath. Upstairs, the master bedroom abutted a bathroom with a ten-foot-high shower for Fred, a sitting room, several guest bedrooms, bathrooms, and a photography laboratory and editing room. Indoors and out, the risers of the stairs were inlaid with hand-painted tiles imported from Spain. All the rooms were “big and easy” and everywhere there was a feeling of openness and light and attention to detail. As Ernst Lubitsch would say on his first visit to the house, “Only in Hollywood would a woman of taste be able to earn enough money to have such a home.” The entire estate took over a year to complete and when it was done, Frances freely admitted she and Fred had “gone Hollywood.” The terrace

on the northern garden featured an aviary stocked with finches, a large tiled barbecue, and a one-hundred-foot swimming pool with two freestand163

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ing dressing rooms. On the tier below the pool was a regulation-size tennis court. There was a large riding ring next to the stables that housed Silver King, his double Ranger, and Frances’s horse Prince. Moro the bull, whom Frances nicknamed Pansy because he would follow them so docilely, lived

there, as well as a dozen cats. They managed to cohabit with the dogs Frances adored; a Scottie, a Great Dane, and a wire-haired terrier named Wings. Fred’s trained cockatoo had its own separate cage, but was most often found roosting on an open swing in the rose garden.” Working in a business where she felt the constant need to compromise, Frances found it a joy to complete a project without making concessions. The writer Jim Tully remembered that when someone picked a quarrel with her over one of her films, “she shrugged her shoulders, the look of sadness more prominent in her blue eyes, as she said, ‘Oh well, it built the swimming pool.’ ” Dismissing the value of her own writing had become almost reflexive and Frances flippantly called the entire enterprise “the house that

bunk built.” In truth she was tremendously proud of the estate and they named it The Enchanted Hill. Yet even as it was being completed, it was being dwarfed by larger and more pretentious homes. Norma Talmadge and Joe Schenck were building a palatial residence in Benedict Canyon, and Mildred and Harold Lloyd’s thirty-room estate included a nine-hole golf course and a waterfall from a stream so long that guests actually canoed down it. Tom Mix’s walled-in

Beverly Hills mansion covered only six acres, but trophies and animal heads, Indian rugs and ornamental saddles mixed with Louis XVI furniture throughout the imposing interior. His “T-M” brand shone from a giant electric sign on the roof and just about everywhere: “on the huge electronically controlled front gate, on the doors of the house, over every fireplace, and on almost every piece of equipment he owned,” including his car, his guns, and his clothes.” Hearst had bought a white stucco mansion in Marion Davies’s mother’s name at 1700 Lexington, but that and all the other elaborate and expansive homes in the area soon were humbled by the massive $7 million Georgianstyle estate with crystal chandeliers from Tiffany, thirty-seven fireplaces, and a movie screen that rose from the library floor with a push of a button that

he would soon build for Marion on the beach at Santa Monica. He was finally moving his filmmaking to California and Frances was encouraged by what she saw as a breakthrough in Marion’s career. The year before, Frances had seen the Broadway opening of Little Old New York and thought the light comedy about a family trying to inherit a fortune from a lost relative would be perfect for Marion. She took the actress to a matinee later that week and

at their mutual urging, Hearst bought the film rights to the play. Frances 164

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considered Little Old New York the first real showcase for Marion’s comedic

talents and was pleased when the film was a financial and critical success beyond the normal raves from the Hearst press.” For Marion’s first California production, Frances scripted Zander the Great and with her nudging, George Hill was chosen to direct. She helped cast the film as well; Hobart Bosworth played the sheriff and she gave the role of Mrs. Caldwell to Hedda Hopper.” Hedda’s priorities were still her son and her clothes. She had just moved into a “tiny bungalow” that Photoplay called the “smallest house in the California film colony” and while she remained under contract to Louis B. Mayer, rumor had it that she wouldn't let the producer catch her when he chased her around the desk and her assignments were declining in quality and quantity.” Frances was on the set throughout the entire production of Zander the Great, quietly “suggesting shots and angles,” and was credited as “editorial director.” She loved having Hedda nearby and found her helpful in keeping George Hill “from being overly discouraged and threatening to quit during those tense moments a company faces on every picture, especially in the presence of an impressive overseer.” Their “impressive overseer” was spending more and more time supervising the massive construction at San Simeon, but Marion was pleased to be 3,000 miles away from Millicent Hearst. Marion claimed she “was very happy the way they were” and that W.R. was the one who wanted to “make me an honest woman, which was rather ridiculous.” Frances was convinced she “sincerely loved him” and “didn’t care if they lived in a bungalow.” Mar-

ion was secure in his love and only demanded that she be accorded the same respect he would give his wife. In fact, Hearst doted on Marion to an

almost embarrassing degree, rebuilding entire theaters to showcase her films and screening them for months on end.* The press walked a thin line in their coverage of Hearst and his mistress. W.R. and Marion were often in each other’s company publicly; she was the official hostess at his parties at San Simeon and on the Oneida, his 220-foot steam yacht he brought through the Panama Canal to the West Coast so they could occasionally take it out to entertain on weekends. And as far as the trades were concerned, Marion was the one building (and by inference paying for) the beach house. Even though Hearst’s Cosmopolitan films was paying Marion a salary of close to $10,000 a week, her income was still insufficient to underwrite the lavish lifestyle they led together.” When Zander the Great was released the following May, Photoplay called it one of the best films of the month. “The first reel of this picture marks a turning point in the career of Marion Davies. If Little Old New York was her 165

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first real hit, Zander the Great is a picture that puts her among the front ranks of the stars. It is a personal triumph for her.” Marion’s role as the orphan Mamie Smith is at first glance in the Mary Pickford mode, yet with her hair in pigtails, a lollipop in her mouth, and her natural freckles showing through, Frances introduces her in a slapstick routine on a bicycle that is more in the delightful tradition of a Sennett com-

edy. Zander was free of outlandish costumes or lavish sets and even the dramatic dust storm that Marion is caught in at Hearst’s insistence doesn’t detract from the light, bouncing comedy.” Yet even in the face of this success, Hearst put Marion back into another

role imitating a man in a setting full of period costumes and castles by choosing Beverly of Graustark for her next film. Frances dealt with her disappointment by working as furiously as ever on other projects. In constant demand, she was mentioned in the trades as often as some stars and always with tag lines like “the greatest of all scenario writers” or “the most famous

scenario writer in motion pictures.” She could pick and choose, but she chose to work at full speed.” She wrote two more films for Norma Talmadge in 1924, Secrets and The Lady, and Norma was voted top female star that year by 5,000 theater owners, coming in way ahead of Mary Pickford, Gloria Swanson, and the latest vamp to hit the screen, Pola Negri. Photoplay announced, “This was not, in any sense a popularity contest, but a straight forward question to business men of who meant good business and good profit.”* For Sam Goldwyn, Frances wrote Tarnish and A Thief in Paradise as starring vehicles for Ronald Colman and she was paid $10,000 for each. It was a great salary for a few weeks’ work, but searching for more creative control as well as a share of the profits, Frances was growing increasingly intrigued with the idea of producing.”

She met with a consortium of independent producers and contracted with Producers Distributing Company to supervise and write three films over the course of a year and a half. She turned out The Flaming Forties, adapted from a Bret Harte story, Simon, the Jester, directed by George Melford, and Paris at Midnight, starring Lionel Barrymore, from a Balzac tale. Yet she was hampered by small production and publicity budgets and quickly realized that producing, like directing, required a total concentration she was not willing to give for very long.” There simply was not enough time in the day; along with her producing commitments and writing films for Goldwyn, she was overseeing the scenarios and titles for her husband’s westerns. Fred had comfortably made the transition from Monogram to Robertson-Cole, keeping the same director, cameraman, and screenwriter. He had been making a film every four to five 166

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weeks for almost a year and he and Silver King were growing in popularity with each release, “crowding Tom Mix and Hoot Gibson for honors.””! Fred’s salary had increased substantially and he was gaining a reputation

for packing “enough stunts for several features” into each film. Variety called him “the dynamo that brings you to the edge of your seat and keeps you there.” He was also growing in confidence in his acting abilities, yet he maintained his reputation as relaxed and soft-spoken. When he was told by

an observer on the set that he was a good actor, Fred laughed and responded, “Stop kidding me, I’ve got a good horse.”” “Fred was always ready to go, always on time, very cooperative, a worker

with no temperament, a calming influence on everyone,” remembered director Al Rogell. New crew members were often initially intimidated by Fred’s having been a minister and were careful to watch their language and behavior, but after a few weeks, they joined in as members of “a fraternity that doesn’t exist today.”” Frances visited Fred’s set often and she mingled comfortably with the cast and crew, who called her “Mrs. T:” It was generally known she worked on the scripts, but on his set Fred was in charge and they noticed how she “radiated pride” in Fred and his accomplishments. Frances was proud not only of how quickly his star had risen, but of his serious approach to his work. “He planned each scene like a general mapping out a forthcoming battle” and then he was the first on location, “spotting every ditch hidden by underbrush or a rabbit burrow large enough to catch the hoof of a horse. Cliffs were closely scrutinized for loose shale and he personally checked all his equipment.”™ But even then accidents happened. Thundering Hoofs was Fred’s seventh western with Silver King and the action called for a runaway stagecoach scene to be filmed up on Mulholland Drive. Fred jumped onto the back of a galloping horse and was about to grab the reins just as the coach jumped. Thrown beneath the stage, he was run over by the wheels as Al Rogell and Ross Fisher watched in horror from behind the camera. Four men gently lifted Fred into the backseat of his Packard and tore off “with the horns blasting right down Hollywood Boulevard to the first hospital we came to.” Fred had suffered a compound fracture of his right thigh as well as internal injuries and while he would have to spend a month in the hospital, he was in such fine physical shape that the surgeon who operated on him said his “muscles were so tough we had difficulty cutting through them.” Fred’s hospital room was soon filled with a mix of film stars, friends, and family paying visits and when his brother Henry and nine-year-old nephew, Carson, stopped by and found Charlie Chaplin sitting at Fred’s bedside, they were suitably impressed.” 167

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The remaining portion of Thundering Hoofs was finished with Yakima Canutt doubling for Fred and it was released in October of 1924. Fred returned to work early the next spring full of confidence, in part because his several-month absence from the screen had only accentuated his fame. Moving Picture World said his popularity with theater owners “makes a sky-

rocket pale in comparison” and his fan mail attested to how sorely he was missed. Even though Fred had completed only two of the eight new films he had signed for, in April of 1925 FBO vice president J. L. Schnitzer renegotiated his contract to “outbid three of the largest producing companies” who had been approaching him.” After making a grand total of $8,000 in 1923, Fred’s new contract paid him $10,000 a week and made him the highest-paid western star in films, surpassing his only real competition, Tom Mix. The agreement also provided Fred with his own production unit. The first film under the new contract, The Wild Bull’s Lair, introduced their trained pet bull Moro to the screen and a new writer as well. Marion Jackson was credited with the scenario, but it was “based on a story by Frank M. Clifton.” Frances’s pseudonym was not too difficult to translate: Frank for Frances, M for Marion, and Clifton was Fred’s middle name. She had always worked on the stories, but a pen name allowed her to work on each production while publicly keeping a professional distance between their careers.”’ Even Silver King had his own contract and his own $100,000 life insurance policy “against death caused by fire, lightning, tornado and against accidental injury.”” Fred and Silver King were chosen to lead the parade when several dozen stars, including Alma Rubens, Marie Prevost, and Lew Cody went to San Francisco in early August of 1925 to promote “the Greater Movie Season.” Each of the major studios provided a float and the stars marched their way from the Ferry Building down Market Street and up to the Civic Center. Fred

and Silver King performed a few stunts for the crowd and then the entire entourage crossed the bay to Oakland for a lunch with community leaders and a repeat of the parade. The goal may have been to promote all movies, but it was Silver King, with Fred and Frances at his side, whose picture made the front page of the local papers. He was proclaimed the “first four footed guest ever registered at the St. Francis Hotel,” with special quarters arranged for him on the main floor and “a hay party” thrown in his honor.”

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rances had been talking about filming the popular novel Stella Dallas with Sam Goldwyn since one of their first meetings. “It’s a beautiful woman’s story,” Sam asserted confidently. “I’m starring Ronald Colman in it.” Frances was unable to resist asking, “As a female impersonator?”

“He looked at me sharply for a moment. When he laughed, I put the mental boxing gloves away.”

Frances always considered the conversation a defining moment in their relationship and they had worked well together on half a dozen films since. When Goldwyn finally secured the rights after more than a year of negotiating, she gave him credit for “choosing a simple story like Stella Dallas at a time when the public seemed to be clamoring for spectacles or lurid melodrama.”!

It was an archetypical tearjerker of “mother love”; Stella is “a gross, common” woman whose only sympathetic attribute is her unconditional love for her child. She gives her high-class husband, Stephen, a divorce as a way for her daughter, Laurel, to have a better life and when Laurel still refuses to leave her, Stella feigns love for the drunken oaf Ed Munn. Laurel goes to live with Stephen and his new wife, Helen, and becomes engaged to a rich, debonair young man of her dreams, just as Stella hoped

she would. On the day of their wedding the blinds and curtains are left open in the decorated parlor and as Laurel, exquisite in her wedding gown, uses the window as a reflecting mirror, Stella is standing outside looking in. With her hands holding the bars of the metal fence as if she were gazing from a jail cell, Stella watches as the ring is placed on Laurel’s finger. She is still smiling in satisfaction as rain starts to fall and a policeman prods her to move along; the camera fades. Frances adapted the story to not rely on flashbacks and agonized over finding that “thin line between convincing sentimentality and lachrymose melodrama.” She mixed comedy scenes with drama in such a sophisticated

way that her script was barely tampered with in a remake twenty years later,’ 169

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Casting was crucial to the film’s effectiveness and, as usual, Frances had

someone in mind. She was working closely for the first time with Henry King, an accomplished director who had risen to prominence with Tol’able David and had just returned from over a year in Europe directing Lillian Gish. Frances had written the scenario for the film Sonny, which King had directed several years before, but she approached him with diplomacy. “I don’t know if you have given any thought to the actress to play the mother, but if you haven't and before you settle on anyone, please think in terms of Belle Bennett. This woman has just what it takes. She is a mother, she has two children, and she has had everything on earth happen to her. Both on stage and off, she is Stella Dallas.” King recalled being impressed when he had seen the actress in a small part

in The Wandering Jew and he had quickly developed a faith in Frances. Publicity blurbs claimed that Bennett was cast “after 73 other actors had tried for the part,” but Henry King said he thought she “was magnificent” from the start and gave Frances full credit for “a great talent for picking people.”*

Sam Goldwyn had already found young Lois Moran to play Laurel, Ronald Colman was cast from the start as Stephen Dallas, and Frances had a suggestion for the young man Laurel marries. Douglas Fairbanks Jr., the boy Frances remembered roller-skating in the

lobby of the Algonquin, was now sixteen, athletic looking, and already taller than his father. Doug junior and his mother had spent several years in France, where she found the good life more affordable and instilled in her son a love of Europe that would stay with him for the rest of his life, but when a friend suggested Doug junior might find success as an actor, Beth jumped at the idea. “I think Mother saw at once a way that she would again supervise a career and involve herself in business,” Doug said in retrospect, kindly leaving out the obvious—that a source of income would be a welcome relief.’

Still harboring some resentment of Mary and Doug for forming United Artists, Jesse Lasky signed Doug junior to a Paramount contract in 1922 as a “sort of minor revenge on the senior Fairbanks.” Lasky was right; Doug was furious when his son told him about his acting plans, but Junior was more afraid of failing his mother than displeasing the father he rarely saw. In Hollywood, young Fairbanks made several films playing the juvenile lead, but more energy was given to publicizing his familial relations than teaching him how to act. He had been released from his Paramount contract when the call came for an interview with Sam Goldwyn. Fairbanks was one of the last of the featured players to be cast, to his great pleasure and his mother’s relief, for “she was anxious to get her better jewelry out of hock.”®

When Doug senior saw Stella Dallas he was taken aback by his son’s 170

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mustache and called Henry King to remind him “I’m still in pictures,” but he graciously praised both the film and his son’s performance. Fairbanks wired Goldwyn: “Few things have affected me as much in my life as did

Stella Dallas.” The producer took it as a compliment and did not read between the lines.’ Fairbanks’s admiration was important to Goldwyn, in part because dur-

ing the filming he was negotiating to join United Artists. Mary’s and Doug’s plans to capture all those profits the producers had been making had not turned out quite that way. Production budgets had skyrocketed, and while neither of them was generating the number of films they had been when they were under contract to others, their output looked prodigious compared to that of their partners Charlie Chaplin and D. W. Griffith. Their costs had been aggravated by poor management and their profits were hindered by a lack of films to distribute. Looking for solutions, Mary and Doug suggested a merger, but Chaplin

placed a high value on his independence and vetoed that idea. Instead, it was agreed to bring in Joe Schenck as a full partner and chairman of the board. He brought Norma and Constance Talmadge and his brother-in-law Buster Keaton with him as well as delivering Gloria Swanson and John Barrymore into the United Artists fold. Humbled by the challenge of holding their company together, Mary even agreed to allow Joe to approach Sam Goldwyn with a partnership offer.’ Stella Dallas was scheduled to be Goldwyn’s first United Artists release, but while Schenck found it “a great woman’s picture,” he doubted it was a strong enough attraction for the larger theaters. Frances, Henry King, and Goldwyn had worked well together throughout the filming and now they met to create “something big”: a spectacular scene around which Goldwyn couid sell the picture.

Frances wrote a delirium sequence for a drunken Ed Munn, played by Jean Hersholt, with flies and bees followed by monkeys and elephants all coming through the keyhole to haunt him. Everyone thought it was fabu-

lous, but when it was edited into the picture, the audience at the San Bernardino preview was “scared to death.” It changed the mood so com-

pletely that even the theater manager had the temerity to tell Goldwyn that he had a great picture “if you cut out that damn nightmare.” Sam turned to King and said, “Henry, I was wrong. Take every foot of it out.”

Instead of using “something big” to draw a broad audience, Goldwyn methodically arranged premieres and private screenings of Stella Dallas

that nursed overwhelmingly favorable reviews; even Hearst’s papers heaped praise on the film. Stella Dallas became Goldwyn’s highest-grossing movie to date, bringing 171

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in over a million dollars. The success was particularly gratifying to Sam in settling old scores, but Frances couldn’t help but think about the fact that she had asked him if she could forgo her salary for a percentage of the prof-

its. While he would later make that agreement with directors under the assumption that it would help lower costs, he had turned down Frances’s request.” Still valuing her freedom above the security of an exclusive contract, Frances wrote Graustark for Norma Talmadge and then in the spring of 1925 signed to write two westerns for Fox stars Buck Jones and Will Rogers.

The agreement turned into four films, but they were Lightnin’ and Thank

You for a former actor turned director named John Ford and Frank Borzage’s The First Year and Lazybones starring her old friend ZaSu Pitts. Since being cast in A Little Princess only eight years earlier, ZaSu had worked

consistently, but her biggest break came as the star of Greed, Erich von Stro-

heim’s epic film of Frank Norris’s novel McTeague. On the set one day, Frances casually asked von Stroheim, whom she’d known even longer than ZaSu, how he came to cast the comedienne as an avaricious and manipulative woman, and his harsh and contemptuous response shocked her. “Must I remind you that I have mesmeric power over actors? That J am the best director in this business? That I am no longer the poor boy you and Adela Rogers St. Johns fed when he was forced to row boats on Lake Tahoe to keep from starving in this country that took so long to recognize his genius?”

Frances told herself that “vanity had sealed his fate” and knew better than to smile in the presence of such egotism, but she was saddened to end what she had considered a friendship worth saving since those nights spent sharing their dreams together at Ivy’s and the Ship Café." Always receptive to broadening her base of contacts, Frances was interested when she was approached to work for another acquaintance whom she didn’t know well but who was one of the few men in Hollywood who genuinely intrigued het. She had first met Irving Thalberg back in 1921 at Universal City when she drove out to discuss a project with Carl Laemmle. The Universal chief

ran his studio rather chaotically from both coasts, but Lois Weber had praised him, he had a reputation for supporting women writers and directors, and Frances was “always interested in any proposition.” Used to being kept waiting and “cursed with inheriting my father’s passion for being on time,”

she habitually carried a book and her writing pad so a minute wouldn’t be wasted. But this time she spent over an hour talking with Laemmle’s secretary and her interest was piqued by this young man with “a sensitive face, a frail body and the dark searching restless eyes of the ambitious.”” 172

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Irving Thalberg had spent several of his teenage years bedridden with a congenital heart defect and used the time to devour the classics, histories, and books of philosophy carted home from the Brooklyn library by his dot-

ing mother, Henrietta. He had studied German, Spanish, and typing by the time he graduated from high school and at his grandmother's on Long Island he met her neighbor Carl Laemmle, who offered him a job at Universal’s Manhattan office. In less than a year, Irving was Laemmle’s personal executive secretary and accompanied his boss on what was to be a quick trip to California. Laemmle returned to New York but left his young secretary at the Los Angeles studio to “keep his eyes on things.” Thalberg watched, waited, and studied every aspect of production, and four months later when Laemmle came back to Los Angeles, he named Thalberg, all of twenty years old, the day-to-day studio manager.” What fascinated Frances was Irving’s breadth of knowledge and his comfort in discussing almost any subject. He moved from movies to art to philosophy with equal ease and, unlike most men she met in the business, was obviously very well read. Their mutual respect was seeded that day and on her next trip to Universal, she brought him an armful of books from the philosophy course she had just taken at the University of Southern California.

The project at Universal did not get beyond the proposal stage and through the Hollywood grapevine she heard that Irving was “engaged to be engaged” to Laemmle’s daughter Rosabelle. Yet the next time she and Irving met face-to-face was at Joe Schenck’s house where he was waiting for Constance Talmadge. He was obviously enamored and Frances was struck by their conspicuous differences: Irving, so small and somewhat withdrawn, and Constance, outgoing and flirtatious."

Professionally, Thalberg was feeling increasingly unappreciated and underpaid for what he thought were his contributions to the growth and quality of Universal’s productions. In February of 1923, Irving left “Uncle Carl” Laemmle to become vice president in charge of production for Louis B. Mayer. He started at $600 a week with a share of the profits and Frances thought she might have to reassess her opinion of Mayer if he had the foresight to lure away this young man “with an extraordinary personality.” So very different in appearance and style, Mayer and Thalberg quickly became powers to be reckoned with after the fates put them in the right place at the right time as Metro and Goldwyn merged their operations.” Marcus Loew owned Metro as well as one of the largest theater chains in the country and when he bought the Goldwyn company with its huge studio in Culver City, he needed an experienced manager to run his expanded operations. Through the prompting of his attorney, Robert Rubin, Loew decided Louis B. Mayer was his man. 173

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In April 1924 Mayer sold his studio to Loew and became the first vice president and general manager of the newly created Metro-Goldwyn with

Thalberg as second vice president and supervisor of production. They agreed to produce at least fifteen pictures a year or the contract could be terminated. The studio name was Metro-Goldwyn, but in addition to a block of stock to share with Rubin and Thalberg, Mayer was given the right to put on the first title of each film “Louis B. Mayer Presents,” “Produced by Louis B. Mayer,” or “Produced by the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Corporation.” After a little more than a year at the new company, Mayer and Thalberg had proven a formidable duo by building on the combined resources of the merged studios. With stars like Ramon Novarro, Mae Murray, Jackie Coogan, and Laurette Taylor and directors Rex Ingram, Frank Borzage, King Vidor, and Robert Leonard all under contract, Mayer added a new jewel to his crown by

signing Marion Davies and therefore William Randolph Hearst. Cosmopolitan’s releasing agreement had been with Goldwyn at the time of the merger, but Hearst looked around before accepting Mayer’s generous offer: he would finance the pictures, pay Marion $10,000 a week, and still give Hearst a percentage of the profits. But what Mayer got in return was impossible to put a price tag on; the salutary attention of the Hearst press for himself, his studio, and all his other stars along with Marion Davies.” In the spring of 1925, MGM won what Photoplay called “a frantic bidding war for the services of Lillian Gish.” After a decade of collaboration, she and Griffith had finally parted. Other actresses, like Mary Pickford, Blanche Sweet, and Mae Marsh, had learned from the director and moved on, increasing their salaries substantially along the way. Mary was in awe of how Lillian stayed, claiming “only a truly great artist who is willing to sacrifice all ego can get along with D. W. Griffith. Lillian could, I couldn’t.” Yet it was “the Master” who finally came out and said, “I can’t afford to pay you what you are worth” and ended their relationship." Lillian’s friends speculated on how hurt and saddened she must have been when Griffith chose the young actress Carol Dempster to replace her. Adela Rogers St. Johns claimed that in a moment of reflection Lillian told her, “I

think he just got tired of seeing me around,” but the hardworking and ever-practical Lillian moved on to a year of making films in Europe before arriving at Metro for $5,000 a week and 25 percent of her pictures’ profits.” She was finishing her first MGM film, La Bohéme, and according to the rumor mill, both her director, King Vidor, and her costar, Jack Gilbert, had fallen in love with her. Lillian was unique among film actresses of the day: respected by her peers, devoted to her mother and sister, and proud to take acting seriously as an art form. John Barrymore compared her talent to that

of Bernhardt and Duse and claimed Lillian “equaled if not surpassed 174

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them.” The word “cinema” was creeping into the vocabulary and her films like Way Down East and Broken Blossoms embodied the best of the term.

Lillian was determined that her next role would be Hester Prynne in Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter and assumed she only needed to find the right actor to play opposite her as Reverend Dimmesdale. Mayer informed her there was a much larger issue at stake; The Scarlet Letter was on the Hays office “blacklist” of books that could not be filmed. The very idea of a blacklist was ridiculous to Lillian and she took up the matter directly with Will Hays. While he would occasionally publicly chastise the studios, Hays never forgot that the full name of his office was the

Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America and worked to smooth the path any and every way he could. He told Lillian that the major

source of objection was “the Protestant Church, especially the Methodists,” and directed her to the heads of several church and women’s organizations where she forcefully presented her case. Even with Hays’s assistance, no other actress had the personal and professional reputation pure enough to garner the response she received: the ban would be lifted if she was “personally responsible” for the film.”

Lillian turned her attention to finding the consummate Dimmesdale and Mayer suggested she watch Lars Hanson in The Saga of Gosta Berling.

The studio boss had seen Mauritz Stiller’s film in Berlin the previous December and he immediately put the director and the film’s three stars, Hanson, Mona Martenson, and Greta Gustafsson, all under contract. Lillian agreed Hanson was “perfect” and was enthusiastic when Thalberg suggested the experienced Swede Victor Seastrom (Sjéstrém) direct, for she

believed he had “Mr. Griffith’s sensitivity to atmosphere.” 3 And so the ban was lifted from The Scarlet Letter, Lars Hanson was coming from Sweden, Victor Seastrom was assigned to direct, and now it was

Irving Thalberg’s problem. He had no script. Lillian would later say that Irving “told me that Frances Marion and | could adapt it,” but it was hardly that simple. Thalberg had already assigned the story out to three different staff writers, but after several months the results were far from satisfactory. Wyndham Gittens, Max Marcin, and Sergy Sergoff had all turned in completed scenarios, yet each in turn went farther afield from Nathaniel Hawthorne’s original and relatively simple story. Desperate to give Dimmesdale’s love for Hester and their child “legitimacy,” the writers had turned creative. One opened the story in England,

where Hester and Dimmesdale have known each other since childhood and are separated by a cruel act of fate “which drives Hester into a loveless marriage and Dimmesdale into the Puritan ministry.” Another proposed 175

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that Pearl was the child of a secret marriage between Hester and Dimmesdale when they thought Hester’s father was dead. It was even suggested that Pearl be Prynne’s child, whom he refused to acknowledge “to punish his wife for being unfaithful to him in thought if not in deed.”

The quintessential example of the length they were willing to go to please modern-day puritans was Wyndham Gittens’s suggestion that they get around the meaning of the letter A on Hester’s breast with another “term of reproach less shocking than adulteress or, failing a suitable word, by the changing the symbol to another letter which will permit of this envision [sic].” All the scenarios proposed happy endings with “Pearl happily walking down the street with both her parents” or “all three sailing away on a ship.”” Yet censorship was the least of Thalberg’s concerns. He did not usually

go outside his list of contract writers, but there was too much at stake and too much time had already been wasted. Lillian Gish’s $5,000 a week was worth it only if she was working, so he called Frances Marion. Half of the films being made in Hollywood were adaptations of books or plays and Frances was the unquestioned champion of successfully taking books

to the screen. She had adapted Dumas and Balzac and walked the tightrope of bringing the potentially censorious Cytherea to the screen. There was simply no one else of her caliber and experience. Frances was still under nonexclusive contract to Goldwyn and had several other commitments as well, but she liked and respected Lillian Gish and considered it an honor to write for her. And she was intrigued at the possibility of working with Thalberg, the man they were already calling “the boy wonder.”

She had learned through experience that adaptations were always a challenge, particularly when the story was well known, and found that “generally speaking, only one third of a novel” provided “suitable action” for the screen. “Everything not pertinent to the plot” had to be put aside and often she had to create new situations entirely to express the essence of the ideas. And it was a given that “the screen version must move at a faster pace” than novels. She carefully reread Hawthorne’s familiar story of adultery among the most strict and homogeneous society America ever pro-

duced. A tale of emotional and mental consequences, the novel begins after the “crime” of adultery has been committed and a child born out of wedlock; it is the evolution of Reverend Dimmesdale’s guilt, not the actions of the characters, that makes the book a classic. So much concern was given to how the story could be told without the censors interfering that little attention was paid to the fact that the structure of the book gives few aids to putting it on the screen.” Frances’s solution was to open The Scarlet Letter with scenes and camera 176

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directions to establish sympathy for the conflicts Hester faces. Focusing on a rosebush, the soft petals visually contrasting with the spikes of the prison gates, the camera pulls back and pans to the townspeople solemnly heading for church. Dissolving to the interior of Hester’s house, we see a young woman alone. with a spinning wheel in the corner as she prepares for church: There is something quaint and precise about her gestures. At first sight she is all Puritan, filled with firm resolves, pious, reserved. All this while she

buttons herself into her dove grey dress, then draws her flowing hair back and binds it into a tight, firm coil at her neck. It would be un-Christian if one lock escaped. But when she comes to her bonnet, the eternal feminine is revealed. A bonnet can throw a dreadful shadow over a face or it can be beautifully becoming. She places it on her head. Shall she wear it perched high or well down over her eyes? Or perhaps just a wee bit to one side? She really must see for herself. Cautiously she moves to the wall and stands before a framed worsted mat. On it is inscribed this warning from the scriptures: “Vanity is an evil disease.” Then Hester lifts it aside and sets it down. Behind it is a piece of polished metal which serves Hester as a mirror.””

Frances’s The Scarlet Letter is no longer an evolution of Dimmesdale’s conflicted path to confession; this is Hester Prynne’s story. A Salem set was created in its entirety on the MGM lot. Lars Hanson spoke only Swedish and Seastrom spoke both English and Swedish, but Lillian didn’t seem to care, deciding that it was “a thrill to play with a fine and

true professional in any language.” Frances found watching them act together so emotionally intense, she wasn’t even aware of the words they were using. After one particularly dramatic scene, the entire crew burst into spontaneous applause.”

An almost daily visitor to the set was Greta Garbo, her last name changed from the Gustafsson she had been born with and used in the Swedish films. She had arrived in Hollywood in the late summer of 1925 with the director Mauritz Stiller and he asked Victor Seastrom if she could stay on his set where she could be near her friend Lars Hanson and hear the Swedish language spoken to counter her homesickness. She watched the subtleties of Lillian’s acting and the two women cautiously came to know each other. Lillian felt sorry for Greta, thinking her tempera-

ment “reflected the rain and gloom of the long dark Swedish winters,” and sympathized when the studio subjected her to “publicity gimmickry.”” Frances agreed that posing Greta in bathing suits with a college athletic team “made her appear ludicrous” and she resented the studio men who called her “the Swede” as they pulled her from the set for photography ses177

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sions. If Greta protested, they “would come back with the derogatory reminders that she had been a salesgirl and a latherer in a barber shop before Stiller picked her up.” Frances thought the young actress was “clumsy at times, then again she had the grace of a fleeing deer,” and they discovered they shared a friend in the photographer Arnold Genthe. When Garbo and Stiller had first arrived in New York in July, the Swedish Belasco star Martha Hedman took them to the studio of Frances’s old San Francisco boss and mentor. Genthe found Garbo to have “an unusual mobility of expression” and took some casual

but stunning photos of her that helped convince MGM they might have something in “the Swede” after all.” Yet if she wasn’t being posed for publicity stills, she sat waiting “because

they didn’t know what to do with her,” recalls Jack Gilbert's daughter Leatrice. “Was she a glamour girl? A wounded innocent? The long suffer-

ing heroine? They didn’t know what they had.” So Garbo tolerated the photographers and used the time with Frances, Lillian, Seastrom, and Hanson to study the techniques of American filmmaking at its finest.”

Through the Hays office’s Public Relations Committee, the studio arranged for several ministers and heads of women’s organizations to tour the set, read the script, and generally feel consulted. Then in conjunction with the Federal Council of Churches of Christ in America, almost 2,000 clergy, women’s club leaders, and educators were invited to a special preview of The Scarlet Letter on a Monday afternoon in July at the Lexington theater. The Reverend George Reid Andrews, the chair of the Federal Council’s

Drama Committee, announced to the theater’s “congregation” that he gave the film his blessing, literally and figuratively. “The picture is finely and beautifully done. I can endorse it unqualifiedly.” Clearly taken with Hollywood, Andrews added, “The producers have carried out our suggestions to

my entire satisfaction” and closed his remarks with a classic observation: “And as for Miss Gish—well, she was born to the part of Hester Prynne.”” These comments were released to the press by the Hays office and more than sufficed to turn away any potential criticism of the film. All the studio heads appreciated that Will Hays had effectively absorbed and involved potential critics and shortly thereafter, Hays’s contract as president of the MPPDA was extended for another ten years. The Scarlet Letter was welcomed as a plea for tolerance and Lillian Gish was

played up as a Daughter of the American Revolution who saw the film as a tribute to her Puritan ancestors. Photoplay told readers to “take your handkerchiefs and the older children. All self-appointed censors should be ordered to sit through it” and Variety called it “gripping” and “a money winner.””! 178

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The New York Telegraph found “the story has been strictly adhered to” and “brilliantly adapted by Frances Marion,” but others were not as kind. While The Los Angeles Times assumed that the “slight changes in the story” were made to accommodate the censors, The New York Review lambasted the script. “Needless to say, the scenario which was drawn up by Frances Marion deviates considerably from the original. It seems that the first thing a scenarist says when a literary masterpiece is put in his or her hands is ‘How can I change this around?’ .. . Thank goodness they didn’t add a happy ending.” Frances had to wonder what they would have said if they had glimpsed the first three treatments hidden away in Irving Thalberg’s files.”

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ee — Chapter 15

n February of 1926, minor shock waves went through the business end of the film industry when it was announced Joseph P Kennedy had bought control of R-C Pictures Corporation and Film Booking Office of America. Wall Street experience was unique for a studio head; almost all the other

companies were run by men who had grown up with the industry after starting as junk dealers or salesmen. Marcus Loew summed up their surprise by saying, “A banker? I thought this business was just for furriers.”!

What Loew and the others didn’t know was that several years earlier Kennedy had said to a colleague at Hayden, Stone, “Look at that bunch of pants pressers in Hollywood making themselves millionaires. I could take the whole business away from them.” He would come very close to doing just that.’ After serving as FBO’s “advisor” for several years, Kennedy put together a $1 million offer for the company with the backing of his old friend Guy Currier and Filene’s department store owner Louis Kirstein. His bid was a

third less than their asking price of four years before, but after initially rebuffing him, the English owners decided they were weary of the financial drain FBO had become and accepted his offer.’ There was no one more pleased about Kennedy’s emergence as a studio head than Will Hays. He saw the man whose advice he had appreciated during the 1922 Massachusetts censorship fight as a boon to public relations for the industry. Kennedy was presented as “exceedingly American {read not Jewish], with a background of lofty and conservative financial connections, an atmosphere of much home and family life and all those fireside virtues of which the public never hears in the current news from Hollywood.” Wall Street money had become crucial to the continuing growth of the industry by 1926 and Kennedy played his role as efficient businessman to the hilt. He quickly moved to solve the company’s major problem of credit squeezes and high-interest payments every time there was a lull in the cash

flow. He created and sold stock in the Cinema Credit Corporation and established lines of credit to put FBO on a steady financial footing.’ 180

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Kennedy’s takeover had no immediate effect on the films being pro-

duced under the R-C/FBO banner in Hollywood and Fred continued shooting Hands Across the Border, based on a story by Frank M. Clifton.

Frances’s pseudonym might not have been popularly known, but many in the industry assumed her involvement in Fred’s films. Beulah Marie Dix, a successful East Coast novelist who had come to Los Angeles to visit her friend Beatrice de Mille for a few weeks and stayed to write films for her sons, Cecil and William, for thirty years, was one of Frances’s biggest fans. Beulah told her ten-year-old daughter, Evelyn, that “Frances could write a serious and poignant script with one hand and a roaring Oater for her husband Fred Thomson with the other” and Evelyn was so impressed with the concept that when Frances came to visit, she “peeked through the bannister to see how ambidextrous she really was. Alas, she handled a cup like anybody else.”®

Frances continued to put in very long hours and in addition to Fred’s scripts, she took on another western, The Winning of Barbara Worth. Sam Goldwyn paid a record $125,000 for the rights to the best-selling novel, rationalizing that since almost 3 million copies of the book had been sold, he was “buying an audience of 10 million people.” The epic tale of the reclamation of the Imperial Valley by harnessing the Colorado River brought out the showman in Sam Goldwyn. “The appeal of The Winning of Barbara Worth is as vast as the earth—this story of converting a hell of parched lands into a paradise,” Sam announced to the press. “This mighty struggle of man against nature. It’s drama in itself.”’ Will Hays came through for Goldwyn by securing “every assistance, official and unofficial” from the Department of the Interior. Hays assured Secretary Hubert Work that The Winning of Barbara Worth “will tell the story of the value of reclamation in a way nothing else can” and intimated that the film “was assuming very pretentious proportions.”® That was an understatement. Western Pacific Railroad built a new line into what was becoming Barbara Worth, Nevada, in the middle of the Black Rock Desert. It was a thirty-hour trip from Los Angeles, and almost 2,000 people were put on salary creating a massive tent city. Wells were dug and a mess hall, recreation center, and bakery were all erected on location. Temperatures varied from over one hundred in the daytime to below freezing at night. During the almost three months of location shooting, Henry King said, “the company underwent greater hardship than the people who had settled the Imperial Valley.” Goldwyn had raised Frances’s salary to $3,000 a week and now she faced the dilemma of turning this “drama in itself” into a love story for Ronald Colman and Vilma Banky. Goldwyn’s lovely blond Hungarian discovery 181

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had first played opposite Colman in Dark Angel, a huge hit written by Frances and directed by George Fitzmaurice the year before. Frances gave Goldwyn full credit for casting them together, for they created great chemistry on screen, but listening to them on the set with Vilma’s “mixture of pidgin English and Hungarian” and Ronnie’s deep stage-trained voice was somewhat disconcerting.” Neither Ronnie nor Vilma was particularly pleased with their role in The Winning of Barbara Worth and it was a challenge to develop three-dimensional characters out of Colman’s eastern engineer and Banky’s dual roles as Barbara Worth and her mother who dies in a sandstorm. Frances knew the scenery threatened to be the star of the film and Goldwyn agreed, writing in his instruction notes, “Many characters have to be eliminated and the love story has to be brought out before big picture can be made of it.””

Frances thought “there was only one good part in it, that of a young Westerner,” Abe Lee, the young man raised with Barbara and destined to have a brother-sister relationship with her. Because of the time needed to build the Nevada sets, normal procedure was reversed and the interiors of the film were shot first. Harold Goodwin had been cast to play Lee, but he was tied up in an Ernst Lubitsch film running over schedule at Warners and as they looked for a quick replacement, Sam Goldwyn’s secretary asked Frances to put in a word for her boyfriend.” At six foot four, with brown hair and chiseled if irregular features, the young man appealed to Frances immediately. Hedda Hopper claimed that

he was so “her type” of man that when Frances first saw him standing against the wall of the studio building, “she gave him a second look and as she went though the door, even risked a third.”” Twenty-four-year-old Frank Cooper was a judge’s son from Helena, Montana, who had so far succeeded only in landing a few jobs as an extra, but he “had his heart and soul set on playing Abe Lee.” He had paid twenty-five dollars to have his own screen test made, but it only showed him riding and dismounting a horse and neither King nor Goldwyn thought very much of it. Frances concluded it was because male stars still tended to be “pretty boys”; the director and producer didn’t think women would be attracted to what she was the first to admit was a “gaunt, slow moving self conscious young man.” But knowing how both she and Sam’s secretary reacted to him, Frances suggested organizing a screening of his and other actors’ tests in front of a group of female office workers at the studio. The immediate response from their collective libido proved that the two women were not alone and Frank Cooper, changing his first name to Gary so that he would not be confused with another

actor with the same name, was hired at fifty dollars a week.” Henry King spent hours with Cooper, explaining every detail and nuance. 182

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When the director told him “to keep your eyes” on Vilma Banky, Cooper

“stood there from eight in the morning until twelve. No matter where Vilma Banky went, his eyes followed her whether we were shooting or not.” Frances agreed that “probably no actor ever had greater difficulty mastering the technique of what was then known as ‘acting’ than Gary Cooper.””

Yet when she viewed the daily rushes, Frances suddenly realized they had a problem on their hands. “This guy is going to steal the picture,” Frances announced to King and Goldwyn after watching Gary Cooper’s dramatic portrayal of an exhausted man collapsing. “If you leave in the scene where he rides twenty four hours across the desert, you better give the part to Colman, because this guy will

be the hero of the picture.” She was absolutely right. King and Goldwyn agreed and Frances rewrote the scene so that Cooper was injured early in their ride and Colman alone arrives with the money to save the town from disaster. The new Forum theater on Pico was preparing for its grand opening and

Frances, Henry, and Sam all “worked day and night to get the picture ready” to premiere there. The Winning of Barbara Worth was an immediate suc-

cess and critics agreed that Henry King and his cameraman George Barnes, assisted by Gregg Toland, had captured the sprawling vistas of the Nevada desert as never before. Film historian Kevin Brownlow calls the film “extraordinary” and claims that “the documentary reconstruction of The Winning of Barbara Worth is of such a high standard that it places the film on a level with the other Western epics, The Covered Wagon and The Iron Horse.”™

The audience response to Gary Cooper was also immediate. Sam had

offered him a contract starting at $65 a week, but at the end of seven years, Gary wanted $1,000 a week, not the $750 Goldwyn was willing to pay.

“I don’t think any kid is worth a thousand a week,” Sam said, and Cooper finished the film without a contract. A Paramount agent was at the premiere and by ten the next morning, Cooper had signed with that studio. While Sam Goldwyn was winning praise for producing The Winning of Barbara Worth, everyone in town wondered how he let the actor “slip through his fingers.” Cooper was soon playing opposite the “It” girl Clara Bow, who took an off-screen interest in him as well, and Frances didn’t know if she felt sorrier for Sam Goldwyn for losing a star or his secretary for losing a boyfriend.”

Marion Davies was just completing Beverly of Graustark in early 1926 and Hearst insisted Frances write her next film. He promised it would be a light, simple comedy, but even though Frances knew it would be a challenge to

hold him to it, she felt tremendous loyalty to Hearst; he paid her asking price and The Red Mill offered a chance to work again with Mickey Neilan. 183

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Mickey’s unreformed ways were catching up with him and the tales of his drinking and working habits spread; what had once been amusing or tolerable because of the result became the grist of bad jokes. He had never had many friends among the bosses, but his relationship with Louis B. Mayer was one of the most openly spiteful in Hollywood. Mickey had developed an immediate dislike for Mayer while making two Anita Stewart films for the producer and left his Mission Road studio assuming he would never have to see the man again.” Neilan was in the middle of filming Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the D'Urbervilles

for the Goldwyn studio when the merger with Metro was announced and sud-

denly his old nemesis was his new boss. Mayer gathered the five hundred employees at a lunchtime rally complete with a navy band, the mayor of Los Angeles, and assorted dignitaries on a platform decorated with red, white, and

blue bunting to celebrate the new company. Mickey interrupted Mayer’s lengthy speech to the assembled congregation with a loud “Oh Shit, I’ve got a picture to make,” and walked off with the cast and crew of Tess in tow. Mayer’s revenge came quickly when he insisted a happy ending be substituted for the tragic ending of the book; even overwhelming preference for the orig-

inal conclusion during sneak previews did not sway him.”

Neilan escaped to Europe to make films for a while, but when he returned Mayer would not allow him inside the studio gates. It was no surprise that Mickey was replaced as the director on The Red Mill, but his successor was: the acquitted but still discredited Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle.” After a long vacation and a stint in vaudeville, Arbuckle’s return to Los Angeles was low-keyed. “Fatty has given up all hope of returning to the screen as an actor, but he is an excellent director of comedy,” Photoplay reported, and his friends were pleased he was “to have a chance to earn some money at last.” Still, he took a pseudonym and while the name Will B. Good is often attributed as his tongue-in-cheek appellation, for directorial purposes Fatty used his father’s first and middle names, William Goodrich.” While Frances was juggling assignments, including The Red Mill, she received a frantic call from one of Hearst’s Los Angeles editors that “the Chief” was desperately trying to reach her. The editor had been instructed in no uncertain terms to find Frances, pick her up immediately, and drive

the almost four hundred miles overnight to get her to San Francisco by morning. She dropped everything and they drove for twelve straight hours and Frances arrived, exhausted, at the St. Frances Hotel the next morning to be greeted by a smiling and unaffected Hearst.

“I heard yesterday that today would be a clear day and it is. So we planned a picnic—just you and Marion and me. We'll go up to Mount Tamalpais. The view of the city will be splendid.” 184

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He knew Frances shared his love of San Francisco and just assumed her enthusiasm would equal his own. A luxurious lunch including caviar and champagne had been prepared and the three of them went off to enjoy the day.

Frances knew better than to challenge him and instead “I silently marveled at the lengths to which Hearst would go to satisfy a whim and his own way.” One could not be around WR. for long, be it at San Simeon, the beach house, the entire floor he took over at the Ambassador Hotel, or in Marion’s bungalow, and not be aware that he was unique among men: in attitude, in stature, and in raw power. Adela Rogers St. Johns, claiming she was raised to show little deference to anyone and “awe was something I never felt,” suffered from “the worst case of stage fright I was ever to know” when she was alone with him. Even Anita Loos, whose flippant retorts served her well as she mingled with European monarchs, New York society, and the literati, admitted, “I entered his elaborate complex at MGM trembling as I had never done before.””

Hearst was often at the studio and even after the scenario was completed, he kept coming up with new ideas. With Holland as the backdrop, The Red Mill was based on a Victor Herbert musical comedy with Marion as a beautiful dishwasher and floor scrubber. On top of that incongruous concept, the story already included a scene of her being pulled across the ice by a large dog chasing a cat when Hearst asked, “Don’t you think it would be a cute little scene if we showed Marion milking a cow?” Frances bluntly told him, “Marion is no longer a little girl milking a cow, W.R. We can’t go on dreaming up these silly things for her.”” Frances could handle Hearst and keep “these silly things” to a minimum,

but Roscoe Arbuckle was just grateful for the work. Marion Davies had hoped to give him a new start, but he was totally intimidated and left before

completing the picture. George Hill was brought in briefly since he had done well with Zander the Great, but he too found it disconcerting to have the star he was directing calling the man who was paying for everything “Pops,” and the tension became palpable.” Adding to the acrimony was Marion’s costar, Owen Moore. Frances thought he was “so embittered since his divorce from Mary that he embarrassed everyone by his persistent ridicule of Douglas Fairbanks,” sneering to anyone who would listen, “I hope Mary’s happy with her Jocko. He’s no actor, only a monkey.” Hill left in disgust, King Vidor came in for a few days, and even the MGM executive Eddie Mannix directed a few scenes. After fifty-one days of shooting, The Red Mill was finally ready for editing.”’

Working for Hearst could be trying, but he was a generous host and Frances and Fred were frequent visitors at “the ranch” at San Simeon. Hearst’s father had originally purchased 50,000 acres for sixty cents each in 185

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1865 and as a child W.R. had camped in the woods with his parents. He added to the holdings so that it covered 420 square miles—an area roughly a third the size of the state of Rhode Island—and with the architect Julia

Morgan had created an estate of enormous proportions. The “Casa Grande” and three large guest houses accommodated over a hundred rooms built with ceilings, walls, and fireplaces brought from the castles of Europe. Marble-floored indoor and outdoor pools added to the luxury, as

did the collection of wild animals that eventually grew to become the largest private zoo in the world.” Hearst provided private railroad cars to bring his guests from Los Angeles to San Luis Obispo, where they would transfer to his fleet of taxicabs for

the remainder of the drive up the hill. As the ranch became a working headquarters for him, he added an airstrip. Telephone operators, on duty twenty-four hours a day manning the lines for the eighty phones that dotted the estate, doubled as air traffic controllers regulating the airport lights. More often than not, the Thomsons would drive their own car, enjoying the scenery and each other’s company, with Frances using the time to work on a script or talk out Fred’s next western.” Marion Davies was a natural-born hostess. “She was effervescent, she added the bubbles to champagne,” remembers Adela’s daughter, Elaine St. Johns. “Mother always said there was never a great courtesan who wasn’t a comedienne; that Cleopatra must have been a great comic.” Anita Loos’s theory of Marion’s success was that “she treated the whole male sex, no matter how eminent, with the tenderness one shows toward children and pets: the first requisite of a bona fide siren.” But whatever the fount of Marion’s mastery, Elaine St. Johns adds, “the mix of people was fabulous and every one always had a great time.””°

Miriam Cooper claimed that she and her husband, Raoul Walsh, never attended the parties at Marion’s Santa Monica beach house, a few doors down from theirs, because “he wouldn't let me enter a kept woman’s house.” But the rest of Hollywood’s elite seemed to covet invitations, especially to

the huge masquerade parties that gave rise to questions about alter egos when Marion bedecked herself in a Louis XVI gown, Irving Thalberg dressed as a schoolboy, Frances as a fortune-teller, Chaplin as Napoleon, Jack Gilbert as Red Grange, and Adela in a formal bridal gown. Marion’s parties always “overshadowed all recent film achievements,” Photoplay reported, “being as lavish as Ben Hur and as sightly as any Ziegfeld art collection.”

Still, Frances noticed that Marion was almost always the hostess and rarely the guest and only occasionally did she and Hearst come to dinner at the Thomsons’ or to small gatherings at Adela’s where they were sure of the guest list. Anita Loos learned the reason behind the disparity in their social 186

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activities when she offered to pick up Marion for a party, assuming she was going since “everybody will be there.” Marion demurred, saying she had no plans to attend, and Anita realized how truly awkward it was for Marion outside her own home where people could walk out on “the fallen woman.” “You see N-N-Nita, when I get among strangers I never know. . .””

The fans didn’t seem to care and the comings and goings, the clothes, and the lifestyles of the stars were reported on a level and magnitude never before known. The luminaries of the movie business became the aristocracy of Los Angeles, yet as Anita Loos noted, many of the newly wealthy stars “were the peers” of their servants “in everything but sex appeal. To place in the limelight a great number of people who ordinarily would be chambermaids and chauffeurs, give them unlimited power and instant wealth, is bound to produce a lively and diverting result.” Frances laughingly labeled herself and her friends who had attained such

sudden wealth “parvenus” and Lenore Coffee thought the “various indecencies” were the obvious result of “too much money and not enough taste,” but their sense of humor was not always shared by their colleagues. One night, Frances politely asked their actress hostess what her next picture would be, but “she stared at me stonily, with compressed lips, until the butler had staggered out of the dining room bearing aloft a silver platter that held the largest cut of beef we had ever seen off the hoof. ‘One does not speak about one’s private affairs before one’s servants,’ she said loftily.

‘The bastards tattle everything they hear to those bitches out in the kitchen. Then everybody in the whole goddamn town knows our business. What was the question you asked me, darling?’ ”™ Henry Ford may have built a car for “the everyman,” but with over fifty makes on the market and custom designs easily available for a price, automobiles were a growing status symbol, outward and visible signs of achievement. When he was on top, Griffith was driven around town in a Fiat so large his chauffeur complained that he couldn’t park it, rather “you have to dock it, like a battleship.” Even Griffith’s cinematographer Billy Bitzer rode in style in “a champagne colored Packard with a driver to match.” Charlie Chaplin’s rising station in life was reflected as he rid himself of the “$65 clunker” he started with in his Keystone days and worked his way up to a Rolls-Royce with a Japanese chauffeur. Mildred Lloyd was the proud owner

of a brand-new, dark royal blue Rolls-Royce, a gift from her husband, Harold, on the birth of their daughter.” The Thomsons were no exception. Fred used the rationale of living high on top of the hill to join the Beverly Hills volunteer firefighters and requisition a new shiny red fire truck to park next to the stables. Fred had been 187

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designing cars since college and he went to work with engineers and builders at the Walter M. Murphy Company in Pasadena to create a sports car with a canvas-topped front seat that became a sedan in the back and a larger Packard with a single belt line carried the entire length of the body. Frances’s side of their four-car garage housed a used Rolls-Royce, and Silver King was transported up and down the hill in his own upholstered horse trailer, also made to order by Packard.”

The Enchanted Hill was a natural setting for parties and Fred and Frances entertained extravagantly. It had not been that long since Frances

had dodged the landlord to afford the dinners she cooked for her artist friends and now that she had the means, any excuse for a party would do. She took a liking to Mina Braley, Wallace Neft’s niece, who was one of Car-

oline’s friends from school, and when Mina was making plans to be married, Frances insisted on hosting the engagement party for two hundred.” Joe and Rose Kennedy visited the house during a trip to California and Frances was charmed with Rose’s dignity and honesty. Frances hostessed a luncheon for “the boss’s wife” and invited a mix of women who she thought

would both impress and entertain Rose such as the comedienne Polly Moran, Colleen Moore, and Hedda Hopper.” With Joe’s move into filmmaking, the Kennedys had relocated their family, now consisting of six children, from Boston to New York, but accustomed as she was to her own wealth and servants, Rose was taken aback by the pretentious Hollywood lifestyle. She told Frances they had discussed

the possibility of moving to California, but while she thought their Enchanted Hill was “magnificent, she would never want to surround her children with such an overabundance of luxuries.” Rose laughed as Frances regaled her with the story of how they had been “horse drawn” into building what eventually became such a large expanse and Frances was struck that while Joe Kennedy might appear to be an extroverted leader, there was

no doubt that Rose “was the power behind the throne.” Fred always welcomed her friends and when Gene Tunney arrived in Hollywood to star in the serial The Fighting Marine for Pathé, Frances was happy to have him stay with them for several months. Their shared war and precelebrity experience united Fred and Gene in a lifelong friendship and

they both preferred a ride through the hills alone to performing “asinine gestures for publicity.” While Gene enjoyed “the good life” and wanted to be able to afford it, his unwillingness to endure the compromises he found that went along with acting predetermined that his career on the screen would be a short one. Fred and Gene also both resisted formality and Frances insisted on dressing for dinner only on rare occasions. She humored them by giving a dinner 188

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party where all the men sat at one end of the table and the women at the other. Fred and Gene both enjoyed themselves immensely and “agreed it was the best formal dinner party they ever attended,” but the female guests did not seem as amused and Frances decided not to try it again.” Boxing had captured the imagination of the film colony and they flocked

to follow the athletes. Sometimes they would all go to the Friday night American Legion boxing matches, but often the men went alone and Frances opened the house to a dozen or two of her women friends for what the press called “cat parties.” With little makeup and dressed in comfortable clothes, Bessie Love; Dorothy Reid; Norma, Nate, and Connie Talmadge; Adela Rogers St. Johns; Colleen Moore; Rena Borzage; Florence Vidor; and whoever else happened to be in town and free would gossip and catch up on each other’s activities. Instead of seeing a new release, they watched old films in which the current stars were extras, and they “laughed until their sides ached” as they caught each other craning for the camera’s attention. Away from the studio and with no need to impress anyone, the women were so honest with each other that Frances thought “no newspaper writer could be harder on them than they are on each other or on themselves.””

The large basement screening room at The Enchanted Hill was furnished with old couches and overstuffed chairs for comfortable, informal viewing. The household help often joined the audience and, like most of their peers, the Thomsons’ home was well staffed. Signe Carlberg, the “majordomo”; Emily Ames, who served the meals; Sigrid Carlson, who

cooked and ran the kitchen; and her husband, Ed, the chauffeur, were practically members of the family.” Fred continued to study biblical history and both he and Frances were

voracious readers. More often than not, their spare time was spent in the library or the music room. They did not even try to compete on the social circuit; when they entertained, their guests were friends from the studios mixed with educators, scientists, athletes, and artists. Still, Frances was careful to keep a record of what had been served at each dinner party and what she had worn to each event. Their favorite time of day was dawn. Frances had always been an early riser and if she wasn’t writing, she joined Fred and Silver King for a morning ride on her horse, Prince. Riding had become a popular form of exercise for

the film colony and bridle paths were created in Griffith Park and in Beverly Hills. Occasionally Fred and Frances would keep going down the hill over to Sunset Boulevard, where they let the horses go in a full canter. On any given Sunday, fans could spot Tom Mix, Florence Vidor, Constance Bennett, and George Fitzmaurice riding along the dirt trails.“

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arge estates began to proliferate around their hill and Jack Gilbert's

| new home was right opposite theirs in Benedict Canyon. One night

Frances went out to check on her nieces, who were supposedly taking a late-night swim, but instead found them congregated around the telescope that was to be for stargazing, now directed at the Gilbert home. The girls were taking in every detail of the “uninhibited parties on his terrace.”! The Thomsons’ newest and closest neighbor was more to their liking. Rudolph Valentino consulted with Fred on where to build a stable for his Arabian horses and once again the hillside sustained blasting to create flattened tiers. Rudy built his Falcon’s Lair by substantially adding on to the small house that was already on the land. Frances had first met Rudy through June Mathis, who had created a sensation by casting him in The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. In contrast to the impression made by publicity about his fur-lined bathrobes, the Thomsons found him to be shy and modest as they became friends riding the hills together and joining him for his homemade pasta.’

Frank Case confirmed Valentino’s low self-esteem after his daughter Margaret worked with Rudy on a Vanity Fair article and brought him to the

Algonquin for lunch. The dining room was more than used to celebrities

and the regulars prided themselves on ignoring them, yet “the buzz of excitement that ran through the room at the sight of Valentino, you could hear it vibrate from one of those ordinarily unimpressionable groups to the next.” When Margaret introduced her father to the star, Valentino quietly said, “I am grateful to be here.’I have often wanted to come, but I was told it was difficult to get a table unless you were known.” After their initial shock, the Cases realized Rudy’s comments were without a hint of sarcasm; it was “a genuinely modest statement from a truly modest man.” In spite of the obvious excitement he created in public, Valentino could never bring himself to believe he was worthy of the attention.’ In less than five years, Valentino had been through a variety of studios, 190

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two marriages, bigamy charges, hits and flops, but still his drawing power

grew. Rudy and his second wife, Natasha Rambova (born Winnifred Shaughnessy in Salt Lake City, Utah), separated after the financing for their increasingly lavish independent productions was pulled, and Rudy was deeply in debt by the time his Falcon’s Lair was completed.

He signed with United Artists at $10,000 a week and a portion of the profits and committed to make three films in a year. Joe Schenck offered Frances $30,000 to write the first script, and aside from the money, she welcomed the opportunity to work with the director George Fitzmaurice and the challenge of writing a part of substance for Rudy. He told her he was tired of playing “mawkish leads” and would appreciate an “offbeat role.” He

agreed with Frances and George on a romantic historical setting and she read through Gabriele D’Annunzio’s novels and plays to see what was appropriate and available for adaptation. They were settling on The Flame of Love, “a vivid and cruel revelation of D’Annunzio’s love affair with Eleonora Duse, Italy’s finest actress,” when Joe Schenck suddenly informed them the story search was over.’ Edith Maude Hull had written a sequel to her popular novel The Sheik, entitled, obviously enough, The Sons of the Sheik, and the studio had bought it sight unseen. Joe admitted and Frances agreed that “tripe was a refined

word for it,” but he told her he didn’t care if she adapted the material or wrote an original tale as long as the title was The Son of the Sheik, dropping the plural to put the total focus on Valentino. Still, she found that freedom frustrating and spent two weeks struggling to find new ways for a captive maiden to fend off “a fate worse than death” while creating opportunities for that very fate to occur. Frances decided to write an all-out farce of the original Sheik, but when she gave the scenario to George Fitzmaurice, he brought her back to reality. “It is one of the most hilarious satires I’ve ever read and I'd love to make it, but our hands are tied: Vilma Banky has been signed to play the lead opposite Rudy.” Frances respected Vilma’s acting talents and wanted to help Rudy and so, with George’s encouragement, she begrudgingly rewrote the scenario in

a more serious vein, trying to find a balance between the drama and the comedy. She remained far from pleased with her treatment and privately referred to the film as The Son of a So and So, but turned it over, trusting George’s taste and judgment to make it work. Rudy quietly accepted the role, disappointed to be playing what they all considered to be a repeat performance, and he spoke of making “a graceful exit” from films in a year or two. “I’m no fool,” he told Fred and Frances. “I knew from the beginning it couldn’t last forever. With the kind of stuff ve

been doing I’m surprised my popularity has lasted this long.” Frances 19]

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thought he was just too tired to fight and when she asked how he was feeling, he mentioned having “severe headaches” and talked of taking a long vacation. They tentatively planned a trip to Napa for the fall for Rudy to look for a new home in the wine country where he could rest and put his love and knowledge of agriculture to use.° But first he had to go to the Arizona desert, transformed into the sands of Arabia, where The Son of the Sheik shared extras, lighting equipment, and camping gear with Beau Geste, being directed by Herbert Brenon. The intense sun required filming to begin at 3:30 in the morning because Fitzmaurice found that by 10 A.M., “nothing but a horned toad could stand the daytime heat.” The Son of the Sheik was premiered in Los Angeles on July 9, 1926, and

Frances had to acknowledge that the film turned out far better than she had dared hope. Once again, Rudy captivated the women in the audience, even though Adela claimed his mesmerizing stare was the direct result of myopia. “He didn’t want to sweep you into a mad embrace, he just wanted to know who you were.” A few days later, Rudy, who had just turned thirty-one, left for the New York opening. Although they had noticed that he was physically exhausted, Fred and Frances assumed it was the usual “gross exaggeration” that followed Rudy’s every move when they heard reports of his collapse and hospitalization. Frances was genuinely shocked when on Monday, August 23, 1926, she heard the shouts of newspaper boys calling out, “The Sheik is dead.” Frances was repulsed by the entire sideshow that followed Valentino’s death. She was angered by the studio bosses she knew had exploited him as well as the women who dressed in mourning and whose pictures appeared in every newspaper alongside details of fictionalized romances. She gave caustic credit to Pola Negri for being “the best actress of the lot,” but found it all “vulgar” and the antithesis of the Rudy she knew.’ Over 100,000 mourners walked past his casket in New York and there were homages at every stop made by the train that brought his body back to Hollywood. The turnout for his funeral was so massive that streets were blocked off and schools were closed. While Pola Negri made pronouncements of creating marble monuments to Rudy’s memory, his ashes were put to rest in a mausoleum at the Hollywood Cemetery, provided by the one

woman Frances knew to have supported and selflessly loved him, June Mathis. And for United Artists, all the publicity translated into an economic windfall as the fans poured in when Joe Schenck rushed The Son of the Sheik into an immediate general release." Valentino’s death made everyone pause to reflect on the quality of their own lives and Frances and her women friends were no exception. 192

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Adela had been dubbed “The Mother Confessor of Hollywood” by Pho-

toplay’s editor James Quirk, “but when ‘the Mother Confessor’ needed someone to talk to,” remembers her daughter, Elaine St. Johns, “she went to Frances Marion.” Still in their thirties, Frances and Adela had known each other for almost twenty years, and together they debated the choices and decisions they were consciously and not so consciously making. The vote for women had been a national reality for six years, but while they had believed “the street car named Utopia would be along any minute,” from where they sat now it was all as confusing as ever. They knew it was their own movies that provided the fodder for a revolution in mores, attitudes, and dreams, and while they were glad to see many of the restrictions

from earlier generations fall to the wayside, they bemoaned the fact that there were “no guidelines, no signals” on how to make relationships work.” Adela harbored a suspicion that her grandmother’s adage was right: “No woman can drive three mules at the same time.” Juggling the demands and responsibilities of having a husband, children, and a career over any length of time was difficult at best for any woman and the first “mule” to go was usually the husband.” Divorce was reaching epidemic proportions. Everywhere they looked, they saw the same “pattern of domestic unhappiness: quarrels, reconciliations, accusations, reprisals, and final separations.” The fan magazines tried to put the best possible spin on the situation and Adela herself had written

a piece for Photoplay in 1924 entitled “Is Matrimony a Failure in Hollywood?” In defense of the town, she had cited a dozen happily married celebrities, yet by the summer of 1926, half of them were splitting and, almost as quickly, marrying again.” Lois Weber and Phillips Smalley had been divorced for three years when Lois introduced Frances to her fiancé Captain Harry Gantz, a retired army

officer and California ranchman. Frances insisted on having the August wedding at Enchanted Hill, where she was Lois’s matron of honor.“ George Fitzmaurice was divorced by his screenwriter wife, Ouida Bergere, and within months, she married the actor Basil Rathbone. Soon after, George announced his engagement to actress Florence Vidor, the ex-wife of

King Vidor. Frances had known and liked both King and Florence since they first arrived from Texas, when King was still a writer looking for an opportunity to direct. He was also marrying again, this time to the actress Eleanor Boardman, and their September 1926 wedding at Marion Davies’s Beverly Hills home was rumored to be a double ceremony with John

Gilbert and his new love, Greta Garbo. Yet Garbo never arrived and Eleanor had to tell the disappointed Jack they had waited long enough.” Jack Gilbert had met Garbo just a month before and only recently been 193

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divorced from Leatrice Joy, who had just given birth to their daughter. It infuriated Frances that the “charming and unaffected” Leatrice had put her career at risk for her husband only to be humiliated by his public philandering with, among others, Laurette Taylor. Ever since Frances had painted her portrait so many years ago, Laurette had always exemplified to Frances the woman not willing to be her age, demanding more and more “gauze screens” every time she went before the cameras." Frances had known Jack Gilbert since he had first arrived as a teenager at the gates of Inceville in 1915 and through his apprenticeship as a writer and director with Paralta and Triangle studios. She knew he was born John Cecil Pringle in Utah, the only child of an actress mother who literally abandoned him for a life on stage and died of tuberculosis when he was only thirteen. Frances was not surprised when he listened to what she considered “the insidious flattery of friends who kept saying, ‘You’re so good looking, Jack, you should be an actor, not a writer.’ ” He had won praise for his performance in von Stroheim’s The Merry Widow and then established his stardom in Vidor’s The Big Parade, but Frances had little patience with his incredibly needy ego."

Leatrice appreciated Frances’s friendship and support, but she always secretly wondered if what Jack had once told her was true: that back in the teens when Frances and he first met, she let him know she would be interested in knowing him better and he chose to pass on the opportunity." That same September of 1926, their adored Mabel Normand married for the first time, yet her husband was Lew Cody and not Mack Sennett, the man Frances and Adela knew was the one love of her life. That relationship

had been doomed since Mabel found Mack in bed with one of her best friends and ten years later, after dabbling with drugs, a suicide attempt, and

the negative publicity surrounding William Desmond Taylor’s murder, Mabel’s career was negligible and her health was frail. Yet her friends were thrilled that she was finally going to have a wedding and they gathered to give her a traditional bridal shower."”

Frances was also relieved for her friend Bob Leonard when he was divorced by the actress with the “bee stung lips,” Mae Murray. They had made a series of successful films together, but Frances adored Bob while finding Mae egocentric and vapid. He was soon engaged to Gertrude Olmstead and Mae married the former Russian prince David Mdivani. When Pola Negri “recovered” from the loss of Valentino, she married David's brother, Prince Serge, but Gloria Swanson had beaten both actresses in the race to officially attain nobility status, returning to Hollywood from France with her third husband, the poor but handsome and titled Henri, as the Marquise de la Falaise de la Coudraye.* 194

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Although Frances’s friend June Mathis had been replaced on the set of Ben Hur, she had brought home a husband, the Italian cameraman and director Silvano Balboni. And Bess Meredyth, the scenario writer who had won the coveted job of rewriting the script, returned from Rome to separate from her husband and former collaborator, Wilfred Lucas.” Jack Pickford and Marilyn Miller’s marriage had lasted less than two years. He began publicly escorting other women while Marilyn rehearsed a new Broadway show and she wired Charlotte about her dilemma. “Mama” liked Marilyn, but her loyalty was to Jack and she hired a private detective to follow his wife. Yet when the detectives delivered the report for “Mrs. Pickford” to the Biltmore Hotel, Marilyn was the one who collected the package. The next day, Charlotte and Jack left for California together, leaving Marilyn to file divorce papers.” Mary and Doug Fairbanks were still the reigning monarchs of Hollywood and the industry’s ambassadors to the world. At home they kept busy entertaining international visitors and producing their films at United Artists, yet Adela thought she saw a split developing between the inseparable duo. Doug was always anxious to go anywhere there might be fun, activity, and friends, and Mary preferred to stay safe within the walls of Pickfair.” Adela’s own marriage to Ike St. Johns was slowly but surely deteriorating. Ike had moved from the Herald Examiner to become the secretary to the mayor of Los Angeles and then a power in politics throughout the state. He was now the West Coast editor of Photoplay and a partner in a lucrative advertising firm, busy connecting Wallace Reid with Stutz Bearcats, Gloria Swanson with face creams, and Laurel and Hardy with Omar cigarettes.” The money was pouring in for Adela too. Not only was she still interviewing the stars for Photoplay, her magazine fiction and short stories were often bought for the screen and she was in the middle of writing two scenarios for Tom Mix. While she purposely did most of her work at home to be near her two young children, Elaine and Bill, she drove both herself and her husband hard. She had desperately wanted children and loved the idea of home—a library filled with books, fireplaces for warming the senses, and plenty of bedrooms for her extended family and friends—yet she had been raised by her father in hotel rooms and not only had she never developed any domestic skills, she had rarely even witnessed them performed; maids had cleaned while she was out and restaurant meals were prepared behind closed doors. The few times she cooked, the food was delicious, but the kitchen was a disaster. She had money to hire the help to clean up, but she couldn’t shake the guilt and a vague feeling of failure and blamed herself for her “uncompromising female will.” 195

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Adela knew all too well that Ike was a gambler, and she rationalized his philandering because it was with “clearly inferior” women. He was a binge

drinker, in contrast to her adored father, who had been a constant and methodical consumer of alcohol, and it was some time before she realized that Ike’s patterns were in their own way as disastrous. She tired of waiting up nights for his return and proclaimed, “Woman’s work as a listener is never done. ... I thought I’d spent too much of my life listening for some damn man—for my father and now for my husband.”” It wasn’t that Adela was jealous of men, for she had long ago concluded that most were “poor lonesome bastards.” She told Frances that she could live with Ike’s drinking, his infidelities, and the way money ran through his fingers. What she couldn’t take was the nagging. She was “compulsively messy,” he was “compulsively neat,” and he was constantly pointing it out. After a two-week business trip to New York, as much to her own surprise as his, Adela told Ike that “two weeks of not being nagged had been heaven” and they separated shortly thereafter.”®

While Adela acknowledged that Frances and Fred had a “glorious romance,” she gently chided her friend for putting her career second to Fred’s. Frances freely admitted that she probably did, and, at least most of the time, she was glad to do it. For ten years she had been the most successful screenwriter in town, and she was comfortable with her decision not to parlay that

record into an all-consuming life as a director or a producer. She and Fred might have their disagreements and differing temperaments, but they shared a deep love, common commitments, and a sense of discipline and purpose. And she was more determined than ever to make this marriage work, for at the age of thirty-eight, Frances was finally having a baby.” Fred could not have been more thrilled. They had their beautiful house, work that was as secure as any in Hollywood, and now a child on the way. He was pulled between his responsibility to Frances and keeping his promise to be at his friend Gene Tunney’s side when he finally fought the heavyweight

champion Jack Dempsey. She assured him there was nothing to worry about, her due date was still three months away; he should go to Philadelphia for the fight and stay long enough to conduct some business. Joseph Kennedy had been wanting to host an event in his honor and while Fred was uncomfortable with the idea, he agreed to schedule a lunch in New York. Fred joined over 120,000 fans in the open-air Sesquicentennial Stadium in Philadelphia for Tunney’s challenge to the man who had held the cham-

pionship since 1919. Married to the actress Estelle Taylor, Jack Dempsey was a Hollywood favorite as well as the pick of most sportswriters. The New

York Times devoted entire pages to its coverage of the fight and documented the activities of the champion and the challenger on an hour-by196

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hour basis. Ringside seats, defined as the first sixty rows, went for $27.50 each and more than four hundred reporters covered the event.

As big a star as Fred was, he was almost lost in the crowd, which included cabinet secretaries and governors, Charlie Chaplin, Norma Talmadge and Joe Schenck, Jesse Lasky, and W. R. Hearst. Tom Mix brought five hundred “friends” from Los Angeles on a private train. Despite the rain that started halfway through, almost everyone stayed for the full ten rounds to witness Gene Tunney become the new heavyweight champion.” Fred was exhilarated by Tunney’s victory and called Frances from New York when he arrived for the meetings with Kennedy. Much to Fred’s chagrin, what had been billed as a small gathering of theater owners was in fact an impos-

ing lunch for several hundred in a ballroom at the Hotel Astor. Kennedy presided as host with Will Hays and Gene Tunney as the “surprise guests” and Arthur James of Motion Pictures Today as the master of ceremonies.” The purpose of the event was to prime exhibitors to buy Thomson’s films

and when Kennedy rose to speak, he looked in Fred’s direction and said, “The pleasure of association with real men like this is one of the greatest rewards to be obtained from the motion picture business.” Yet Kennedy devoted most of his speech to lauding Will Hays, relating that he had just returned from Europe, where “if it had not been for the confidence in the motion picture industry established by Will Hays, we never would have got to first base. . .. He has placed us on strong footing.” When it was Hays’s turn at the podium, he too made a nod in Fred’s direction, commending his “high standards of cleanliness and manliness.” The finest compliment he could think of was that to the best of his knowledge, “there has never been a single shot in a single picture you have turned out” that had to be censored. Then Hays turned his focus to Kennedy and actually thanked him for buying FBO. “You have honored the motion picture business by coming into it and it is better for your presence.” In the end, only Gene Tunney spoke at any length about Fred and told of

meeting his “modest and retiring” friend during the war. When it was finally Fred’s turn to talk, he said nothing about his acting or his films and spoke only of the pleasure of watching Gene Tunney win the heavyweight championship and thanked his friend for being there. Hays was not about to let the luncheon close on that note, so he rose to

say, “I see three champions here—Champion Gene Tunney, Champion Fred Thomson, and Champion Joe Kennedy—all champions in their lines.” After the applause died down, the master of ceremonies quickly added “and Champion Will Hays”; the room went wild in a burst of self-approval.” Fred returned home feeling used by Kennedy, but went straight to work filming his next western, Don Mike. Frances’s story had Fred as the owner 197

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of a southern California rancho, and directed by Lloyd Ingram, it was his biggest production yet. There were one hundred extras, forty of them on horses, and in the growing tradition of using the family pets, she wrote in a role for Fred’s trained cockatoo. With the trades reporting that Fred’s films were “cleaning up” at the box office and he was “a much sought after young actor,” Fred made time to talk to Joe Schenck. He was still stinging from his New York visit and Schenck assured him that “when he was free” of his obligations to FBO, he would welcome him at United Artists.” Frances continued to work throughout her pregnancy and kept up her social schedule, often seeing her close friend Frances Goldwyn, who was soon to give birth to Sam junior. She spent much of her last two months writing in bed and turned in a treatment of Madame Pompadour for Dorothy Gish in early November. Frances had decided to have her baby in San Francisco, where her mother could be near, and to give the child the cachet of being a third-generation San Franciscan. Almost a quarter of the doctors working in the city in 1926 were women, and Frances chose Laura B. Hurd as her obstetrician. Because of Frances’s age, the doctor wanted to take extra precautions so Frances checked into Dante Hospital a few days before her due date and stayed in the hospital for nine days after Frederick Clifton Thomson was born on December 8, 1926.”

198

a— (Chapter 17

s she was preparing for the birth of Fred junior, Frances had LA sec it was time to stop jumping between assignments and stu-

dios and settle into a long-term arrangement. Her personal life was changing, and so was the business of making movies; mergers, competition for distribution, and rising costs over the past few years had sharply reduced the number of studios. Since completing The Scarlet Letter and The Red Mill at MGM, she had been in discussions with Irving Thalberg and Louis B. Mayer about joining

them under contract, and it was tempting. Their Culver City studio was flourishing. Where a horse corral and a wooden shed had stood a decade before, rose a large, new executive building next to an entire wing devoted to publicity and writing. The glass stages and the open-air platforms, used

to maximize the California sun that had drawn them there in the first place, had given way to darkened rooms lit with a combination of vapor and carbon lamps, resulting in tighter control, higher quality, and more predictable working hours. Three films at a time could be made in the old days; MGM now had the staff and capacity to film twenty.

In three years of management, they had renegotiated their own contracts so they were now committed to releasing forty films a year. They had

methodically put under contract the directors, actors, and writers necessary to keep up that production schedule and one of their attractions for Frances was the quality of their people.'

Over a quarter of the scenario writers were women and many of them were already friends, including June Mathis, Agnes Christine Johnston, Dorothy Farnum, Gladys Unger, and Winifred Eaton Reeve. Most had entered the business at a time when a one-page synopsis of action could be turned into a two-reeler, but they had grown with the industry and were now well paid and highly valued for their abilities. The women were as likely to write jungle films or swashbucklers as tales of female angst and Thalberg maintained that his preference for women writers was a commercial one.’ 199

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Many of Frances’s favorite directors were finding a relatively supportive

environment at MGM, including George Hill, Clarence Brown, and Edmund Goulding, whom she had brought in on A Regular Girl with Elsie Janis only a few years before. A well-financed art department headed by

Cedric Gibbons radiated a quality above other studios by providing detailed sets and costumes and the studio even had its own self-contained lumber mill, furniture factory, greenhouses, and nursery.’ Thalberg assured Frances she could work at home when she wanted and encouraged her to write original stories as well as adaptations. While he had several trusted supervisors like Al Lewin, Hunt Stromberg, Harry Rapf, and Paul Bern, each working on a handful of productions at a time, Irving guaranteed that she would always have access to him, always be involved in the casting process, and always be welcome on the set. “I don’t want to impose too many ideas on you,” he promised. “I merely want to help clarify and build up your own ideas. You’re the creator, not I.”

She understood that in some ways being at only one studio would increase the demands; Irving was infamous among the writers for sending a

motorcycle rider with packets of scripts to their homes on Sunday and expecting their comments on Monday morning. Saturday meetings were frequent and the screening room at The Enchanted Hill would become a necessity, for it was assumed she would see half a dozen films a week. Still, for Frances it meant an overall reduction in commitments. It would allow her to concentrate on Fred, the baby, and home and she knew the workload was small compared to what Thalberg expected of himself. To be collaborating with friends on well-financed and high-quality projects was enticing, but it was Frances’s faith in and respect for Irving Thal-

berg that made the arrangement irresistible. While he could be “mildly patronizing at times,” she believed he possessed the incredible “power of incisive analysis” crucial to making a good picture a great one. She trusted

him, a rare gift in any world, but particularly in Hollywood. Yet when Frances said that Irving’s “flair for human dignity set him apart from the undignified in the studio,” there was no question she was contrasting him with Louis B. Mayer.’

Aside from her personal reaction to him, Frances thought Mayer “was ruled by his emotions and often vacillated in making decisions,” which she saw as a negative for the company. Still, she appreciated Adela’s conclusion that while Irving was “a great creative artist,” Mayer provided him with “the troops and the ammunition” necessary to accomplish his goals.° Frances was to collect $3,000 every Saturday and her contract specifically allowed her to help supervise and edit her productions. The guarantees she was given in terms of using her name in screen credits and publicity 200

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surpassed those of most of their stars. When Thalberg told her the first assignment was The Wind, reuniting her with Lillian Gish, Lars Hanson, and Victor Seastrom, she became genuinely excited about having a new home at MGM.’

She immersed herself in Dorothy Scarborough’s novel and quickly turned out a first draft, but then her attention was diverted when she learned Marie Dressler was in serious trouble.

Marie had announced her retirement from the stage in early 1926, but continued to ply Frances with tales of her travels. Her beloved Jim had suffered a stroke and for a year she tended to his every need, moving him in his wheelchair everywhere she went. When he died, she hoped at least to bury him as her husband, but the wife who had never divorced him sent detec-

tives to the morticians to remove the body. By January of 1927, Frances thought things had improved. Marie wrote from Florida that she was making a “bonanza” in real estate and “dear Allan Dwan” had cast her in a “starring role” in The Joy Girl, filming in Palm Beach at the height of the social season.° Frances knew Marie habitually painted the rosiest picture possible, but she

was shocked when she received a letter from their mutual friend, the New York literary agent Elisabeth Marbury, reporting a different story entirely: The Florida deal was a fiasco. She hasn’t had a single offer from any theatrical source, not even second-rate roadshow companies. The movie “success” was a very small part Allan gave her out of the kindness of his heart. She told me gaily last night that she intends to open a theatrical boarding house and described it with such hilarious gusto I almost believed her. Today I found out that she is planning to accept a job as a housekeeper in a Long Island home. Isn't it possible for you to write a part for her in one of your movies?’

Finding Marie a role became Frances’s first priority. Adela said, “Behind a madonna-like face and a shy-and-lady-like manner, Frances Marion had

the rugged determination of a boa constrictor where a friend was concerned” and that tenacity sent her to the studio story department in search of a vehicle for Marie.”°

Irving had said original stories would be welcomed, but she knew it was easier to sell him on an idea the studio already owned. Finding a reader’s synopsis of a book of short stories bought the year before called The Callahans by Kathleen Norris, Frances skimmed the narrative and then let her own imagination go. She created a series of vignettes stressing slapstick and

gags over plotline and included a love story on the side to make it even more commercial. Mixing her memories of Potash and Perlmutter with a bit

of Hatfields and McCoys, Frances wrote an Irish female buddy comedy 201

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specifically for the talents of Marie Dressler and another experienced vaudevillian already on MGM’s payroll, Polly Moran. Mrs. Callahan and Mrs. Murphy are “friendly enemies,” living their lives in constant battle across the alley from each other. Their respective daughter and son fall in love, secretly marry, and have a child, which they leave

on her mother’s doorstep. After the women get roaring drunk at a St. Patrick’s Day picnic and the child’s legitimacy is established, the families

are happily reunited and the two matriarchs fight over whether the new blessed grandchild looks more like a Callahan or a Murphy." Frances took her script to Irving, who welcomed a good comedy for Polly Moran, but he hesitated when she suggested casting Marie. Frances started telling him of Broadway triumphs and other offers, but she simply couldn’t pull it off. Stopping midsentence, she handed him Elisabeth Marbury’s letter and admitted that Marie was a dear friend, desperately in need of a job."

Thalberg was already confident Frances would never advocate hiring anyone based on compassion alone; as Marie herself said, “Frances is loyal

and she is stubborn, but don’t think for a moment though that she would have jeopardized a production in the name of friendship. Not Frances Marion.” Irving had promised her a voice in casting and she clearly had faith in Marie’s comic and acting abilities. He had never seen the actress onstage, but he knew her by reputation.”

His pause gave Frances concern, but then he said, “My theory is that anybody who once hits the bulls eye, it doesn’t matter in what profession, has the brains and stamina to stage a comeback. I figure that a woman who held the spotlight for so many years has been the victim of bad writing and probably a lot of bad advice.” He told her to go ahead and send for Marie; he would put her on salary at between $1,500 and $2,000 a week and The Callahans and The Murphys would begin shooting with George Hill directing as soon as Marie arrived." Frances knew Irving was making a personal and professional commitment to her by agreeing to hire Marie and it served to cement a loyalty to

him that would be shaken in the months and years to come but would weather every storm. Marie was even more desperate than anyone knew. She was “living hand to mouth” and “had given up all hope” when the phone rang in the middle

of the night. Frances’s “voice sang across three thousand miles of wire. ‘Pack up your pie box,’ she said, ‘and come to Hollywood. I need you.’ ” Marie was so excited she didn’t even try to go back to sleep that night, but when Frances met her at the train station in Los Angeles, she was shocked and saddened by the intense aging that had occurred in the year since they had seen each other. 202

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“She looked old and shabby. Gone was the spring in her walk, the upward

thrust of the chin, the way she used to pull her shoulders back. Her flesh seemed flabby, her eyes dull. What hell she must have gone through.”” Frances insisted she stay at The Enchanted Hill; Fred knew how important Marie was to her and he laughed when the perfume-soaked Marie hung over the fence of the riding ring, attracting the horses with her aroma. As Silver King nuzzled her ears, she told them animals just naturally adored her. They loved the animated way she watched Fred’s movies in their basement screening room and Frances thought “she had the mind of a youngster” as she “gasped

at the dangerous stunts and applauded the noble deeds.” And Marie was a marvel with the baby, coaxing Fred junior’s first smiles with her mugging.” The joy of work, financial security, and being with friends seemed to perform magic on Marie. Within a week of beginning the picture, she looked like her old self again and quickly became one of the most popular personalities on the lot. Frances returned her attention to finishing her scenario of The Wind and both she and Lillian Gish were excited by its possibilities. They were deter-

mined to bring to the screen a harsh, unromanticized vision of the West, and working with Victor Seastrom, they were confident in their collective ability to create a great film. Lillian played Letty Mason, a young Virginia innocent financially forced

to move to her cousin’s ranch in Texas. Her cousin demands she leave when her husband and children become too fond of Letty and she accepts the proposal of Roddy, a cattle buyer she has met on the train, only to discover he already has a wife. Her only moral alternative is to make a loveless

marriage with the neighboring rancher Lige who silently worships her, played by Lars Hanson. Lige tries to capture wild horses to raise the money to send her back to her beloved Virginia, but in his absence a huge windstorm rises and Roddy forces his way into the cabin and rapes Letty. She shoots him in self-defense and frantically tries to bury his body as the winds continue and the sands shift; the body will not stay buried. Alone and des-

perate, she has been slowly driven insane by the power of the wind. The novel and Frances’s script end with her walking away from the cabin and the dead body, into the blowing sands and to her own death.” Having starred in half a dozen films where the heroine dies, Lillian saw no problem with the conclusion, but Frances knew the realities of studio pictures. While she had long since rationalized the need for most happy endings, acknowledging that audiences were “beckoned to the screen to be amused and forget,” she was convinced that the dramatic integrity of The Wind hinged on the suicidal climax and sought out Thalberg for reassurance. “No happy ending, Irving. Please, not that.” 203

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“IT agree with you. No happy ending.””

Any apprehension he had about the film’s being such a strong melodrama was assuaged by seeing it as one of many on the list of upcoming releases. In fact, Thalberg’s most immediate concern was enlarging Lars Hanson’s role and that was fine with Frances. Louis B. Mayer never understood the appeal of The Wind, yet the only comment he made to Frances was that he didn’t want the story set in Texas; too many theaters owners might be needlessly aggravated. When she argued that it wasn’t the whole state, it was just the Panhandle, Mayer became angry. “Go ahead, break your damn wind in Texas, only don’t hound me about it if we get in a jam.”” Thalberg’s assurances and Mayer’s grumblings lulled the company into

thinking they were making the compromises inherent in any production while producing a film they were proud of. The interiors were completed at

the studio and the company moved to the Mojave Desert for the location shots.

“At first the weather was still reasonably cool, but then the heat burst,” Lillian remembered. “Film coating melted from its celluloid base. With temperatures at 120 degrees, it was impossible to develop the film. Finally the technicians packed it frozen and rushed it to the Culver City laboratories to be thawed out and developed.”” Eight airplane propellers spun the sand to create the windstorm effects and everyone wore goggles and scarves across their faces when the cameras weren't rolling. The heat was so intense at one point that when Lillian, looking for her makeup, reached for the metal handle on a car door, the skin on her palm ripped off. While her hair was burned by the sun, her eyes were miraculously unharmed by the blowing sand and the sulfur used to darken the skies. It was one of her “worst and most uncomfortable” experiences as an actress, yet they all believed they had a fine film in the making.” By early summer, The Callahans and The Murphys had been completed and Frances was thrilled with the results of the preview screening. The audience laughed in all the right places and Marie received raves on the reaction cards. Frances confidently worked with the editor, Hugh Wynn, to finalize the film for its June 16, 1927, Los Angeles premiere. Always preferring previews to gala premieres, Frances made an exception for Marie’s official return to glory.” The positive reviews started rolling in. Moving Picture World called it “a riot of laughs” and praised Marie for giving “a remarkably effective perfor-

mance. She gets a laugh out of everything she does.” The studio was so convinced that they had a hit, there was already talk of a sequel and the immediate repairing of Polly Moran and Marie Dressler.” 204

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The first inkling of any trouble came when a local Irish organization complained about “the farfetched vulgarity and scenes of debauchery” they claimed insulted Jrish-Americans. The corporate response was to assume that this was the usual small set of grievances that greeted any ethnic comedy, but the spark of protest had been lit. The Catholic Archdiocese of Los Angeles printed objections in their newspaper and the film was discussed at the Ancient Order of Hibernians’ national convention. Unlike The Scarlet Letter, where they had known in advance they would have trouble, no outsiders had been brought in during the filming of The Callahans and The Murphys to be appeased, cajoled, and generally made to feel they were a part of the process. The Hays office could be of limited assistance after the fact, but Jason Joy, the newly appointed head of their studio relations office in Los Angeles, sent out “stock letters,” presuming that all the Irish groups needed was some attention and a sense that their opinions were valued in order to be pacified. Yet opposition escalated and representatives of the studio, Irish-Ameri-

can organizations, and the Hays office met to see if there was a limited number of changes that could be made to reach a rapprochement. Frances listened and nodded meaningfully as they listed their complaints and then worked on new lines and cuts with the title writer, Ralph Spence. The opening sequence introducing “Goat Alley,” the row between the tenements where the Callahans and the Murphys live, had read, “It’s where a gentleman always takes off his hat before striking a lady.” To set a new tone, she now wrote, “This is the story of the Callahans and the Murphys— both of that fast fading old school families to whom the world is indebted for the richest and rarest of wholesome fun and humor.””

But then the state and local censor boards started to be heard from. “Eliminate the scene in bed at the awakening of Miss Dressler where she removed a flea from her back”; “eliminate the line ‘If I had a family like yours, I’d sue my husband for damages’ ”; “eliminate all the scratching scenes”; “eliminate the term ‘sewer digger’ ”; “eliminate the scene where Mrs. Murphy and Mrs. Callahan thumb their noses at each other.” And everyone insisted on removing the scene where the mothers look inside the diapers to see if it is “a jew baby.””

The Catholics demanded that all references to the Church be removed—every instance where Marie crossed herself (properly when sober and improperly when not) had to be cut and they were offended by the mere mention of St. Patrick’s Day.

MGM made another set of changes and it looked like the tide had turned. Jason Joy wired Will Hays the results of what he thought was their final meeting with the protesters: 205

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Immediately after our telephone conversation this morning I went to Culver City and talked with Irving Thalberg, Eddie Mannix and Frances Marion who wrote the scenario and Paul Bern. They had two conferences with Crane McSwennie and twenty others and thought that they had done everything they ought to in connection with The Callahans and the Murphys. I have had a long talk with Crane and Murray a co-patriot who are very

much pleased with the attention given them and are quite satisfied now to make no further trouble with their picture. They will send out to Catholic papers a mild retraction of the charges previously made. Kindest regards, Jason Joy.”

But within the week more protests were heard from the Catholic Theater

Guild, the International Federation of Catholic Alumnae, the National Catholic Welfare Conference, and the Knights of Columbus; it seemed that as soon as one group was appeased, three more organizations demanded meetings. MGM made one last revision and then refused to make any more cuts. In some towns the protests and publicity actually helped the film, but when calls for new censorship laws could not be stifled any other way, The Callahans and The Murphys was pulled from distribution.” Frances was heartsick, but Marie took it in stride, assuring her that Nella Webb, a student of the stars, had prepared “my astrological chart and she says that I’m passing through a sabbatical year. . . . | must expect these little setbacks.” Though many of her Hollywood friends were turning to astrology and

studying auras, Frances’s childhood experiences with Great Aunt Jane’s séances made it difficult for her to find solace in such sources. Yet she was pleased that Marie seemed unfazed, George Hill’s directorial assignments didn’t suffer, and Thalberg never blamed Frances for the fiasco. But Louis B. Mayer picked up a lifelong habit: whenever he and Frances disagreed, he would walk off sputtering, “Fine, you Callahans and Murphys, you.”” The entire experience sent a chill through all the writers, the studio, and the Hays office. This was the first time groups had organized successfully to

remove a comedy from the theaters and Jason Joy prophetically wrote to the New York office, “I hope there will be a definite reaction against that kind of censorship. If there is not, we are in for a hard time.”” One immediate result was to increase the awareness of the possible dangers to any but the blandest of stories and to bring in all potential objectors at the earliest stages of production. In direct response to The Callahans and The Murphys, Jason Joy suggested that Eddie Mannix have representatives of Catholic organizations review the script of Bringing Up Father, the next film Frances was writing, based on the comic strip antics of Maggie and 206

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Jiggs. The studio manager agreed it was probably a good idea, but he wanted it on record that “this cartoon has been running in the Hearst newspapers for the last twenty years and the average circulation is 25 million and no drastic attempts by the Irish societies or the Catholic welfare [sic] has ever been made to have it withdrawn from the paper.”

Frances went ahead and wrote similar slapstick routines for Marie Dressler as Annie Moore and Polly Moran as Maggie in Bringing Up Father,

but without any ethnic slant, and facetiously suggested calling it The Browns and the Jones.

Bringing Up Father was hailed as “a glorification of the rolling pin as a symbol of a wife’s rights” and Marie was on her way to being noticed again. “The best performance is given by Marie Dressler who has a style of com-

edy all her own.” It was in the midst of this roller coaster of debacles that Irving Thalberg called Frances in to discuss The Wind. It had been previewed successfully and he had approved it, so even though it had yet to be released, Frances assumed it was behind her. Now Thalberg told her that the New York office, the source of all funds, claimed that at least eight of the largest theater owners, or, as Lillian Gish would refer to them, “exhi-BITERS,” found it “too dreary” to screen.” Frances was convinced that Mayer was behind the decision and was furi-

ous. A “heartbroken” Lillian protested that the changes were “morally unjust,” but after raging to no avail, Frances wrote a new ending; the body stays buried and Lige arrives at the cabin to rescue the tormented Letty. With their arms wrapped around each other, Letty looks out into the blowing sand and says, “I’m not afraid of the wind—I’m not afraid of anything because I am your wife—to work with you—to love you.” Filming a happy ending was costly for the studio on several levels. The

interior set had to be rebuilt, shooting was postponed and rescheduled because both actors were working on other films, and Lars Hanson’s strikingly different haircut for The Divine Woman was simply ignored. And the seeds of Lillian’s disillusionment had been planted. While some actors thrived under the emerging paterfamilias that was MGM, Lillian had grown up in the industry with D. W. Griffith and trusted

her own instincts, set her own standards and maintained them. Mass approval was not important to her; the opinions of her mother, her sister, and a few well-chosen colleagues were. Lillian was discussing the possibility of playing the title role in Anna Karenina, but she was not encouraged when Thalberg suggested changing the story to make Anna’s son adopted to provide an excuse for her willingness to leave her husband and child for Count Vronsky. Then Mayer called 207

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Lillian to his office and produced a raft of papers for her to sign on the spot.

She demurely explained that she had promised her lawyer never to sign anything until he had read it. Mayer claimed he just wanted to take her off salary “until they had a story ready,” and his temper started to rise at the implication that he wasn’t completely trustworthy. “If you don’t do as I say, I can ruin you.” The threat only caused Lillian to dig her heels in deeper. “I’m sure you can, but I gave my word. I can’t break that; how could you or anyone else ever trust me again?” She had him there and they both knew it. Mayer smoldered and sent her

back to Thalberg, who told her he wanted to “arrange a scandal.” She listened to the man she considered a friend tell her his rationale: “You see, you are way up there on a pedestal and nobody cares.” A sensation of some sort, preferably having to do with her love life, which she had always kept meticulously private, would attract attention and presumably generate the compassion that would make “everyone care.”™ In spite of being offered as much as $8,000 a week to stay, it did not take Lillian long to give Thalberg “a decisive no.” She added an aura of class to the studio, but Mayer was not going to fight to keep her. The actress Louise

Brooks always harbored a strong “suspicion that MGM had put [Lillian] under contract at a spectacular salary in order to methodically destroy her.” She believed Lillian had been lulled into thinking Mayer had taste because he had the foresight to bring Greta Garbo to the studio, but in reality the studio boss thought Lillian was a “sexless antique” and didn’t know what to do with her.

Whatever the motives, after completing The Enemy, directed by Fred Niblo, Lillian left for a long unpaid vacation in New York and Frances couldn’t blame her. In fact, she supported her in her decision, but she was saddened when both Lars Hanson and Victor Seastrom returned to Sweden a short time later. Admitting that she would probably write a happy ending for Romeo and Juliet if she had to, Frances didn’t know if she was more disgusted with herself or the studio. She told Lillian that The Wind was “the last film to which she gave her heart as well as head.”

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ore painfully aware than ever of the compromises that were MY required, Frances knew she was at MGM to stay. Distasteful as it often was, she was willing to play the role of loyal functionary when

required. It was with that awareness that she opened her invitation to attend the May 11, 1927, banquet in the Crystal Ballroom of the Biltmore Hotel to “celebrate” the official organization of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. What had started as a dinner conversation between Louis B. Mayer and his guests Conrad Nagel and Fred Niblo about the state of filmmaking had grown into a platform to promote the business with the public at large and “harmony and solidarity” within the industry itself. In the burst of enthusiasm that surrounded the first meeting of thirty-six founders in January,

Mary Pickford called it “the League of Nations of the Motion Picture industry” and promised “an open forum where all branches can meet and discuss constructive solutions to problems.” The organization was divided into five sections—producers, actors, directors, writers, and technicians. Douglas Fairbanks was elected to serve as the first president and Mary listed herself as a producer.’

An aura of exclusivity surrounded the organization from the start and Frances and Fred were among the three hundred select industry leaders invited to be charter members. Fred could not see the benefits outweighing

the potential inconvenience, especially if he was called on to wear a tuxedo, but Frances was not about “to the bite the hand that feeds me caviar.” She attended the Biltmore dinner and wrote out her membership check for $100.’ Neither of them wanted to attend meetings, but the Thomsons were an easy touch for their friends’ charities and they quietly gave considerable donations. A student nurse at Los Angeles County General Hospital in 1927 watched “the happy faces and squeals of delight of the children when the ice cream man came every Sunday afternoon. | said to an older nurse ‘It certainly is nice of that man to bring ice cream to the children’ and she 209

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replied ‘The man brings it, but it is paid for by Frances Marion, the screen writer. It is her gift to the children.’ ”’ Children were the primary focus of Fred’s and Frances’s giving. They showered their own nieces and nephews with gifts and purchased a thousand acres in the San Fernando Valley to create a ranch for children without the means to have outdoor activities. To help finance it on an ongoing basis, they invested in a shopping center on Sunset housing several small stores, a flower market, and a barbershop. They and everyone else in Hollywood had every reason to believe that their prosperity would continue unabated. In May, Sid Grauman followed the success of his Egyptian Theater by opening the grandest “temple to art” yet, his Chinese Theater. With a large forecourt and a lobby carpet so thick “you sank to your knees,” the theater seated over 2.000 patrons, provided a children’s nursery staffed with attendants, and opened with the grand premiere of Cecil B. DeMille’s latest epic, The King of Kings. A few months later all the world watched and cheered as Charles Lindbergh successfully flew a solo flight across the Atlantic; optimism was alive and well on all fronts.’ Movies were booming. Over 400 features had been released in 1926 to

more than 15,000 theaters throughout the country. Half were in towns with populations of less than 5,000 and these were where Fred Thomson’s films were becoming legend; in theaters with 200 to 500 seats, children and their parents paid between ten and fifty cents to pack the house on Saturdays and watch Fred and Silver King catch the bad guy and get the girl. Thousands of fan letters arrived each week, some addressed simply to Silver King, USA.’ Fred’s westerns were so successful that each averaged 10,000 exhibitor contracts, more than any other actors. The financier A. H. Giannini even used him as an example of the one star for whom his bank “might loan as high as the entire cost of production. ... 1 do not worry about Fred Thomson making a picture that has tremendous box office value; I know him; I know his producer. Knowing the cast, knowing Thomson’s record, knowing what he has done on previous occasions, I find that sufficient information and leave the rest to him and his associates.”® Yet Fred’s producer was still Joe Kennedy. While successful beyond their initial dreams, Fred was frustrated that his films were primarily relegated to small towns and he wanted to expand to larger cities with films that war-

ranted being more than a second feature. Kennedy knew full well that other companies had approached his star, yet to raise his budgets or reduce the number of releases a year would wreak havoc with his plans for FBO. He listened to Fred’s concerns, assured him they would be addressed, and 210

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signed him to a personal contract increasing his salary to $15,000 a week.

Fred’s tremendous sense of loyalty predetermined him to stay with Kennedy if his offer was anywhere near the others. His record-breaking salary for a cowboy star, combined with Kennedy’s continuing rise in stature, lulled him into acquiescence.’ Intensifying the juggling act that typified his work style, Kennedy made his move to increase his visibility as a leader of Hollywood by offering the studio bosses, most of whom were without formal education, one of the ultimate imprimaturs of respectability: Harvard University. He arranged a symposium at the Graduate School of Business Administration consisting of a series of lectures by a dozen heads of the industry. There were token protests that the morally questionable business of the movies would be the focus of classroom study, but Kennedy quieted them by donating $30,000 to create a film library and archive for Harvard’s Fogg Museum.’° It was a brilliant move. As each guest individually arrived at Harvard in

the spring of 1927, Kennedy introduced him at the lectern. Marcus Loew summed up their reaction when he said, “I cannot begin to tell you how it impresses me, coming to a great college such as this to deliver a lecture when I have never even seen the inside of one before.” It was exactly the response Kennedy had hoped for; in one stroke he gained instant access to and equality with the largest studio heads and, lest anyone forget, he had the lectures published in book form as The Story of Films, edited by Joseph P Kennedy.’

He took advantage of the time with the leaders to talk deals as well. While keeping Fred under personal contract, Kennedy released him from FBO and signed a production and distribution deal with Paramount for four Fred Thomson “super westerns.” A few weeks after Jesse Lasky’s visit to Harvard, it was announced that Fred’s Paramount films would embrace “absorbing themes with a historical background that promise to establish a new standard in the field of Westerns.””° Kennedy guaranteed financing at $75,000 each and Fred’s salary was to be $100,000 per film. His production company could stay with him and it continued to be based on the FBO lot, next door to Paramount on Melrose. Frank M. Clifton even got an amusing nod from the trades, saying “he has become famous for his work as Thomson’s special writer and scenarist.”"

To Fred and Frances at the time, it seemed like a reasonable solution. They kept their friendship with Kennedy, joined a company with a large distribution network, and took on the challenge of creating westerns on a grand scale. As avid readers and amateur historians, they believed many of the true stories of the West had been convoluted through dime novels. From early childhood, Fred had heard the tales of his own ancestors: his 211

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great-preat-great-prandfather killed by Indians in 1780; his great-greatgrandfather who rode with Daniel Boone; and the Thomsons who left Kentucky in the late 1820s because of their opposition to slavery.”

Fred decided to take on the task of redefining the saga of the James brothers and once again Frances picked up her pen as Frank M. Clifton to turn out a tale of Jesse James as a hero, a “victim of circumstances forced into outlawry by carpetbaggers who invaded the South.”” As Jesse James was beginning production, there was sad news from New York. June Mathis had died suddenly of heart failure while attending a Broadway play with her grandmother. She was only thirty-five and Frances felt the loss not just of a friend but of a woman who had held her head high while demanding the best from herself and those around her. There had

been nothing flippant or self-deprecating about June Mathis. She had taken her work seriously, calling it an art form, and in doing so, had promoted scenario writers to a higher plane. Her ashes were brought back to Hollywood and placed in her family’s crypt next to those of her dear friend Rudolph Valentino.”

During that same summer of 1927, Anita Loos made a triumphant return to Los Angeles to participate in casting Paramount’s screen version of her runaway best-seller, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. Several years before, Anita found herself on the train from New York quietly fuming over how men she adored, like the otherwise intelligent H. L. Mencken, made total and complete fools of themselves over “a witless blonde.”” To vent her frustrations, Anita pulled out one of the large yellow pads she always carried with her and wrote a missive about a sweet young blonde named Lorelei who got everything she wanted for all the wrong reasons. Anita claimed that by the time she arrived home she forgot all about it and it wasn’t until she was packing for another trip that she found her satire on Mencken’s behavior. She sent it off to her friend, who urged her to publish

it and called her the first American writer who “had made fun of sex.” Mencken himself begged off as he had just started the American Mercury magazine and was afraid “to besmirch the first issue,” but Harper’s Bazaar editor Henry Sell not only agreed to print it but encouraged her to write more. “You’ve started the girl going to Europe, why don’t you carry her along?”

Lorelei’s adventures, told through her diary, graced the next six issues of the magazine and doubled the circulation in the process. Anita’s brilliant parody was then published, privately at first, in book form as Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. When all the copies were sold by noon the first day, a second edition of 65,000 was ordered and by the end of 1926, the book was in its seventeenth printing.” 212

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Frances enjoyed Anita’s tales of vacations in Paris, the south of France, and meeting Mussolini in Italy. Based in New York, John Emerson was still head of Actors Equity, giving him a rationale for being gone from the house more often than not, and Anita had come to terms with taking care of herself while supporting him.

Anita’s reaction to her husband’s philandering was modeled on her childhood memory of a lovely young woman who appeared at their door to ask her mother to divorce Mr. Loos so she could marry him. The visitor was treated with total sympathy and assured that she was only the most recent of many to be infatuated with her Harry. While her mother’s performance indelibly impressed Anita, she alternated between wondering if her mother

was “an earthbound angel” and how “anyone so lacking in spirit as my mother had ever managed to hook my scintillating Pop.””” So Anita dealt with Emerson’s infidelities by ignoring them as best she could while reminding herself that “beauties were around every corner, but a brain that could support him was a once in a lifetime encounter.” Still, she made jokes about him before anyone else could, quoting Sam Goldwyn as saying Emerson “lives by the sweat of his frau.””

Frances continued to adore Anita’s company and respect her talents enormously, but she never understood why she put up with John Emerson. Yet Anita seemed content in her life in New York and Paris, where she now

felt quite at home, while Frances went back to MGM, where she was handed yet another classic novel to adapt: Leo Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, to be tailored for the studio’s newest star, Greta Garbo. It had been almost two years since Frances met Greta on the set of The Scarlet Letter and they had become friends of sorts. Victor Seastrom and his wife brought her up to The Enchanted Hill and Garbo seemed to be most comfortable watching the horses at the stable, walking the steep paths, or

sitting in the kitchen talking Swedish with Sigrid, who prepared nypon soppa, a sweet soup, and cardamon seed bread especially for her.” At first Frances liked her. She considered the actress “outspoken like all honest women” and she always felt great satisfaction in others’ appreciating

her home. Still, she watched Greta looking across the canyon at Jack Gilbert’s and wondered if she could really be interested in a man Frances had come to view as superficial. Garbo was finally cast in a starring role only because Monta Bell insisted on her being the one to replace the undependable Alma Rubens in his The

Torrent. The magic of William Daniels’s camera seemed to transform Garbo, who Frances thought was attractive in person, into a great beauty. With the release of Flesh and the Devil in early 1927, Garbo became a fullblown star and her costar John Gilbert was dubbed “the Great Lover,” step213

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ping into the void left by Valentino’s death. Yet she was in the second year of a three-year contract and bringing home only $600 a week compared to Gilbert's $5,000 and she told Mayer she wanted the same. In his outrage, the studio boss used the press to charge her “with high-powered temperament” and dangled the possibility of her deportation to Sweden “if her idleness is brought to the attention of immigration officials.”””

Mayer was used to dealing with actresses who devoted their lives to becoming stars and for the first time he was up against someone who was completely indifferent to whether or not she returned to the screen. The hostilities escalated and Garbo was removed from Anna Karenina and then reinstated, but with Dmitri Buchowetski directing and Ricardo Cortez as Count Vronsky. With that news, Greta “fell ill.”” She insisted her off-screen lover John Gilbert play opposite her and as furious as Mayer was at being blackmailed into a casting decision, he had to admit that the publicity generated by the success of Flesh and the Devil was

manna to the studio. Fans wrote begging to have them reunited on the screen. In May, Garbo danced with Gilbert at the Academy banquet at the Biltmore right under Mayer’s nose, but she was still “too sick” to report for filming. Cortez was quietly dropped and then Buchowetski, a Russian with his own idiosyncratic personality, met with Garbo and Gilbert and decided he could not work with their “combined temperaments.”” On June 1, 1927, Garbo signed a new six-year contract with a starting salary of $5,000 a week, but increasing so slowly that only in the final year would she receive $6,000 a week. She was also taken out of circulation and

forbidden to give interviews. Her awkward quotes could only get all of them into trouble and her inaccessibility planted the seeds of what was to grow into a mysterious legend.

Frances wished they would let Garbo talk to reporters and she “might make some frank statement such as ‘ja, ja we ate lovers’ and they would find it difficult to convince the news gatherers that she had misunderstood their question.” And Frances was not alone in her amusement watching Mayer trying to control a woman who didn’t care about stardom. The actress Louise Brooks was thrilled, claiming “the victory of one friendless girl in an alien land over the best brains of a great corporation rocked all of Hollywood.””

Aware as she was of the comings and goings of stars and directors, Frances tried to concentrate on the immediate tasks at hand. Lorna Moon, a young scenario writer who had signed with MGM after several years writing with Paramount, adapted Anna Karenina for the screen and Frances wrote the script. They stripped the original story to its bare bones and presented Anna as 214

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a woman trapped in a loveless marriage to a man consumed with his career

and a son she adores who worships her in return. From the opening moments where they meet in a snowstorm, Vronsky and Anna are shown to be people of honor and the audience’s sympathies never waver; any subtleties in their personalities were left on the cutting room floor. Adapting a classic for the screen was almost always a painful experience for Frances, twisting it into a commercial formula where all too often the only recognizable remains were the names of the characters. While the professional side of her knew that was exactly what she was hired to do, soon after finishing her first draft of Anna Karenina, she was called to a meeting with a new supervisor.

“Supervisor” was the euphemism applied to those who at other studios became producers, but at MGM Irving Thalberg oversaw all productions. Frances thought Hunt Stromberg, Harry Rapf, and Al Lewin had proven their worth administering several films at a time, but some of the newest hires were nothing but trouble.” She was summoned by “the comparative newcomer” and the meeting did not bode well even before it began. To establish his importance, he made her wait in his outer office for an hour. His secretary was a friend of Frances’s secretary Margaret Beggs and she admitted the man was sitting alone behind the closed door. Frances tried to ease her embarrassment, and she noted that the secretaries knew each other from college, an educational experience the supervisor in question had not encountered. When she was finally allowed to enter “the inner sanctum,” the “gnome of a man” let her know that he had not bothered to read her scenario in its entirety, let alone the original book. “Who wrote it?” “Tolstoy.”

“Somebody from our stable?” “No, he’s one of Russia’s most famous authors.” “Never heard of the guy. What’s it all about?” Looking down at her feet to keep from revealing how appalled she was, Frances gave a brief synopsis of the story.

“It stinks,” he announced with authority. He added that the title was ridiculous because no one could pronounce it, the heroine dying at the end would never do, and she had better have “a hell of an idea if you hope to make something out of that crap.” With that, he ordered her to report back in a few days.” Frances had been at the studio less than a year, but her respect for Thal-

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“carrying more burdens than his frail shoulders could bear,” but she literally ran to Thalberg’s office with her dilemma.” He listened, agreed, made arrangements for a new supervisor, and told her Edmund Goulding was being assigned to direct. She couldn’t have been happier and found they shared a “twin vision” of Anna Karenina, but-their mutual pleasure at working together again was short-lived. Story meetings

produced questions not only about the plotline but the title as well. New names were thrown around the table and a voice called out “I’ve got it— ‘Heat.’ ”

The group seemed ecstatic until Frances pointed out the obvious: the actual marquee would read “Greta Garbo in Heat.” Goulding broke the silence by laughing so hard he started to cry, but the others failed to see the humor. They eventually agreed on yet another single-syllable name, Love, because the tag line “Garbo and Gilbert in Love” was a natural.” Once filming began, it was completed in a month, but Goulding’s reputation for diplomacy was tried to the limit by the two stars, who where obviously madly in love some days and then barely speaking on others. Often, Greta would take direction only from Gilbert, who played off Goulding to

establish his own importance, if in no one else’s eyes but Greta’s. Yet Clarence Brown gave full credit to Gilbert for teaching Garbo “how to move for the camera,” which Gilbert had learned not just by acting but from his early days in the editing room trying to cut a poor performance into a good one.” The joys of collaboration were not enhanced when Eddie and Frances

were informed by Thalberg that they needed not one ending but two. While they went ahead and shot the novel’s original finale of Count Vronsky with his troops raising his glass “to love” as Anna is committing suicide by stepping in front of a moving train, a happy alternative was to be created as well.

Frances gritted her teeth and wrote a two-minute addition. Anna still goes to the train station, but then the camera fades and the titles inform the audience Vronsky has looked in vain for Anna for three years. He sees an item in the paper about Anna’s son at school, visits him, and learns Anna’s husband is dead. Moments later, she appears in the doorway to be reunited with her love without any impediments to living happily ever after.”

The original conclusion was shown in New York, major cities, and abroad, but exhibitors were given a choice and many across the country chose the new, more fortuitous ending. Frances expected the critics to blame her for the epilogue that had been forced upon her, but she was surprised when Jack Gilbert was quoted as calling it “cheap, imitation Tolstoy.” He had already gone on record as con216

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demning the studio for not budgeting enough for the film and his interviews did not win him any points with either Frances or Louis B. Mayer.” There were a few reviewers who seemed to think it was Frances’s own personal vendetta against literature, but most of the comments were quite kind to the scenario. “ ‘Love’ is right,” Photoplay’s review put it succinctly. “It isn’t Tolstoy, but it is John Gilbert and Greta Garbo which, after Flesh and the Devil, is what the fans are crying for . . . beautifully presented and

magnetically acted.” And the public could not get enough of Garbo and Gilbert. When Love opened at the Embassy theater in New York on Saturday, November 29, 1927, the audience for the first matinee was “packed two feet deep behind the last row” and the box office card read “S.R.O. until Monday night.” MGM had another huge hit.” The month before, Fred’s Jesse James had opened to tepid reviews. Caring passionately for both the subject and the success of his first “super western,’ Fred gave extensive interviews for the first time in his career. Ike St. Johns spent a day on the set and visited Enchanted Hill for a several-page spread on Fred, Silver King, and the “real story” of Jesse James for Photoplay. There was also a spate of publicity around hiring Jesse James’s son as a technical adviser and his granddaughter to play her real-life grandmother.” Jesse James was named one of Photoplay’s Best Pictures of the Month, but while calling Fred “a big boy at the box office with a huge following” and saying Jesse James was “worth your time and money,” they noted that the “exciting film version may seem to whitewash the famous bandit of Clay

County.” “Whitewash” was the theme throughout most of the reviews. Jesse James’s image as a dangerous outlaw was ingrained in the public’s mind and in trying to make him a hero, they had gone against D. W. Griffith’s axiom,

“What the people believe to be true IS true—for them—and there is no budging them.” Fred’s and Silver King’s talents and the production values were praised, but the story was seen as revisionist at best and too different for most reviewers and the public to swallow. And as an omen there was more trouble to come, the Jesse James review in Moving Picture World shared the page with what was called a “triumph for Warners, Vitaphone and Jolson,” The Jazz Singer.”

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ontrary to the impression that Al Jolson opened his mouth to sing and all of Hollywood stopped dead in its tracks, the “talkie” revolution was a tenuous process that took several years to evolve. The impact of sound had first been debated in the early twenties as radio became a medium of communication, some saying it would have no effect and others convinced it would ruin movies forever. Thalberg had mused, “I think, in the long run, it will be a good thing. It will spur the makers of moving pictures on to supplying new story elements, with which radio will not be able to compete. Pictures with foreign backgrounds, real or simulated, will be popular. After all, you can’t travel by ear.”' Fan magazines ran contests for a new name for “talkies” and some films that were nearing completion had a song or two added, but few theaters were equipped with systems allowing for anything but live music and the widely held assumption was that talking pictures were a novelty.’ At MGM, everyone was talking about sound, but no one was doing very much about it. When Frances was called into Irving’s office to be handed the material and files on The Cossacks by Leo Tolstoy, she asked for her release on the spot. She bluntly said she “couldn’t face the ordeal of distorting another Tolstoy.” When he simply smiled, she tried another tack. Frances was convinced that sound pictures were inevitable, but rather than voices and dialogue, what intrigued and excited her was the sound of thundering horse hooves and water rolling over rocks down a stream. If Irving was determined to make The Cossacks, she pleaded with him to wait for sound. She detailed scenes where it could enhance the action, but he looked at her coolly and said, “Start tomorrow morning and bring me a rough treatment by Friday. George Hill is going to direct.” “Don’t let Hill direct it,” Frances heard herself say. “This isn’t his type of story. He’s better at comedy dramas set against a familiar background.”

When others were in the office, Frances never questioned Irving’s supremacy, but when they were alone she felt secure enough to argue with 218

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him. Yet this time he just looked across the desk and asked, “Are you giving orders to me?”

This was Irving at his most frustrating; he had let her speak her piece, but had no intention of changing his mind. Frances was convinced she was right, but silently walked back to her office to face the novel and the pile of rejected scenarios of The Cossacks.‘

Frances was the fourth writer assigned to the project and she could not have agreed more with the original reader’s report, dated more than two years earlier: “The plot, if it could be said to have one, is too thin for pictures. This title misleads the unwary reader. I thought it would concern thrilling, dramatic action by Cossack soldiers. I didn’t know there were

non-soldiers called Cossacks too. But this novel is almost entirely a detailed exposition of the everyday life of such people.”

Her task was to create an action vehicle for John Gilbert and Renee Adoree out of an original story that focused on the psychological trials of a Russian aristocrat. Frances turned him into a minor character, moved half

the action from the village to Moscow, threw in plenty of dancing, and came up with a love story and a kidnapping to add some suspense. Little but the title and the names of the characters remained the same. When moviemaking worked, it was collaboration at its best, but The Cossacks quickly became a hodgepodge of input by committee. Thalberg was in and out of the story meetings and at different times Bernie Hyman and then

Albert Lewin supervised; even Eddie Mannix made some changes. Jack Gilbert and Renee Adoree both complained that their roles were “not worthy” of their talents. George Hill had not liked the subject in the first place, and now the cast’s “tears and lamentations” drove him to beg to be transferred to another picture. Frances was so frustrated over the instructions for rewrites from so many different sources that she “lost track of what the story was really about and the material seemed frayed on all edges.”® Adding to the distress of a tension-filled set, Frances spotted a vaguely familiar face in a throng of dancers gathered for a crowd scene in front of

the painted backdrop of the Kremlin. When the cameras stopped, the woman came toward her. “Have you forgotten Romola Nijinska?” “I’m sorry, Romola,” Frances said, trying to hide her shock at the transformation in her old acquaintance. “] didn’t recognize you at first.”

“This is understandable, I know I’ve changed much. We were so gay when we met so many years ago.” It had only been twelve years since Alla Nazimova had introduced her to Romola and her famous dancer husband, Vaslav Nijinsky, and Frances had spent a wonderful week showing them the sights of New York before they 219

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left for a tour of South America. Then came the stories of his collapse, of brain damage, and of being locked away in sanitariums, “a prisoner in his own tortured mind.” Now Romola was working as a choreographer at the studio to support herself while she waited for the recovery of her husband that she was convinced would come.’ After several sets of retakes directed by Clarence Brown, The Cossacks was finally finished. Thalberg and George Hill worked out their differences and George renewed his contract. And to Frances, Irving even “graciously admitted his regret at not waiting for sound.” The fitful conversion to sound continued to be a major source of anxiety and there was a general belt tightening at all the studios. As the industry continued to seek capital investment, a series of seemingly small transformations was taking place that would significantly alter the way business was done.

Frances thought that a few of the changes were positive. One of Will Hays’s reforms had been the establishment of the Central Casting Corporation, where actors could register and studios relayed their needs. Every day,

actors and extras called Hollywood 3701 and heard an operator answer “Central.” They would give their name and be told where and when to report the next day, or more likely, after a pause, the hopeful at the other end of the line would hear the word “Nothing.” After complaints that the response was simply too discouraging, the reply was changed to “Try later.” While Central Casting helped channel some vulnerable young people, the casting couch was a veritable institution. Even “respectable” hotels like the Biltmore allowed themselves to be used as fronts without asking too many questions, assuming the customer paying the bills was “a good spender.” One man who admitted to placing ads in the local papers for a “casting call” to be held in his room at the hotel didn’t know if he was more surprised that the ad “brought a deluge of replies” or at the young girls’ inability “to differentiate between the legitimate ‘calls’ and the illegitimate snares.”

Frances found other “reforms” insidious, and none more so than “the morals clause,” the little paragraph inserted in almost everyone’s contract nullifying all the studio’s obligations if the star was caught in a compromising position, usually defined as “adulterous conduct or immoral relations.” To further spread fear and trepidation, one only had to be “charged” with

immoral behavior and if “any such charges are published in the public press, the waiver herein contained shall be null and void and of no force and effect.”"

The vagueness, to say nothing of the hypocrisy, that “charges” alone were sufficient grounds for ruination was for the most part accepted as the price of doing business. The studio bosses and the press became judge and 220

CARI BEAUCHAMP

jury while also holding the power to ignore the indiscretions of the sufficiently contrite. With those lines dangling over their heads, actors’ lives were changed forever. Only a few years before, it was a common assumption that glamorous stars would not be popular if they had children. Frances admired Glo-

ria Swanson for openly taking time from filming to give birth to her daughter by her husband Herbert Somborn even though she was told it would “ruin her career.” Then Francis X. Bushman admitted to being married and the father of seven, even appearing in public with his children, and slowly the stigma of parenthood was lifted.” It was only a few years later that Gloria’s divorce from Somborn was

being delayed and she found herself pregnant by her fiancé Henri de la Falaise. She read and reread the morals clause in her contract and decided to have an abortion in France, but it was so badly botched that not only was her life threatened by a high fever and infection, she was afraid she would be unable to have another child.”

In Hollywood, abortions were an open secret and everyone seemed to have a friend of a friend who could help. Jean Harlow had her first abortion

when she was eighteen and married and the reason her mother gave was the same shared by many in the business—“A child could wait; her career could not.” While Marlene Dietrich and others were known to swear by

the effectiveness of douching with white wine vinegar, one actress explained to her daughter in later years, “After all, abortions were our birth control—going to see Dr. Griffith.” The good doctor made the situation as bearable as possible “by serving champagne and singing a little ditty: “The sins you do two by two, you pay for one by one.’ ”” Other women took other paths. The glamorous star Barbara La Marr was dubbed “the girl who was too beautiful” and never gave much effort to maintaining pretenses, but when she gave birth to a son in Dallas, Texas, in 1922, she briefly put him in an orphanage and then brought him home to Hollywood with her, publicly claiming he was adopted. Yet all her friends knew the truth and when a combination of alcohol, drugs, and tuberculosis claimed Barbara’s life in 1926, ZaSu Pitts and her husband, Tom Gallery, who had a daughter who was also three, adopted the young boy they called Don. Loretta Young, pregnant by her Call of the Wild costar Clark Gable, took an extended vacation and gave birth to a daughter. She eventually brought the child home, but claimed she was adopted. When as a grown woman her

daughter learned the truth about her parentage and confronted her, Loretta replied she had no choice; to have admitted she was her own “just wasn't done.””

Actually a lot was done, it was just kept as private as possible, and it 221

WITHOUT LYING DOWN

wasn't only stars who had to face difficult decisions in their personal lives. Adela Rogers St. Johns had missed newspaper reporting desperately and without Ike to object to her absence from home or question her priorities, she returned to work for Hearst. “The Chief” had a new theory that sports

were growing in popularity with the increase in leisure time. Adela had always loved baseball and prided herself on being accepted by men’s men like Mark Kelly of the Examiner, and with Hearst’s support, she wrote about

football, golf, and boxing. In the course of her work she fell in with the handsome Stanford football star Richard Hyland and Adela, in her midthirties and knowing better, realized she was pregnant. As usual, she was mad at herself for being fallible, but she was convinced there was only one option to take so she and Hyland were quietly married in Santa Barbara. This time she rationalized keeping her name as it was; after all, she wasn’t giving up the Rogers and she was known professionally as St. Johns. Yet Dick Hyland, used to being a star on his own turf, did not take well to being called Mr. St. Johns and when they returned to live in

the house she and Ike had built in Whittier, even the joy of a new baby couldn’t overshadow the awareness that she had made a severe mistake. To

Adela, it seemed that Dick took on an attitude of “tolerant superiority” with everyone, including her children. Since they had met cowriting an article, Dick tried his hand at some pieces for Photoplay, but he spent most of his time on the tennis courts.’ As difficult as it was, at least Adela had the foresight to have her affair with

an unmarried man. Another of Frances’s friends at MGM was her fellow screenwriter Lorna Moon, a small, attractive, red-headed Scottish woman who

had been a successful short-story writer. She had come to California in 1921 as a screenwriter for Cecil B. DeMille, but fell in love with his brother, William, and soon she was pregnant. Spending several months discreetly away from Los Angeles, Lorna gave birth to a son and tried to care for him, but she contracted tuberculosis and knew she could not raise a child, work, and fight the disease all at the same time.”

William de Mille was still very much married to Anna, the daughter of Henry George and a rather stern moralist as well as the mother of William’s daughters, Agnes and Margaret. William secretly went to his brother, who, along with his wife, Constance, agreed to raise the boy if he and Lorna would relinquish all control, and they consented to the arrangement. It would be over thirty years later that Agnes and Margaret de Mille learned that the boy they had thought was unrelated was actually their half brother and Richard was told he wasn’t an orphan left on the doorstep, as the press had reported at the time.”

One of Frances’s friends who challenged convention was the actor 222

CARI BEAUCHAMP

William Haines. While working for a New York brokerage firm in 1922, Haines won a “New Faces” contest sponsored by Sam Goldwyn and with his matinee-idol good looks, Billy hit it big with Brown of Harvard and Tell It to the Marines. Frances enjoyed his witty, irreverent company and satiric sense of humor and he often escorted her to events when Fred was unavailable. Now Frances was writing Excess Baggage, a love triangle with a vaudeville

background, that was to star Haines and feature sound effects and a musical score. Billed in studio publicity as “the perfect lover” by such authorities as Peggy Hopkins Joyce, Barbara La Marr, and other female beauties, Haines, in truth, was happily and relatively openly gay. He enjoyed acting, but not so

much that he was willing to live under the constant threat of potential blackmail. When Billy was called into Mayer’s office to discuss a new contract, he refused to sign anything that contained a morals clause. His popularity was such that Mayer agreed to scratch the paragraph, but he was kept on short-term agreements over the next few years. There were stories of his being arrested in parks and YMCA bathrooms, but Billy refused to give in to studio pressure. He left the business entirely

in 1934, became a successful interior decorator, and lived with the same partner for the next forty years.” Other friends became victims of their own self-destruction. Frances had liked Alma Rubens since Humoresque and now they were working together

again on The Masks of The Devil. Soon after production began, Victor Seastrom told Frances he needed her to “shorten several of her scenes, eliminate a few and rewrite the dramatic climax.” Frances credited John Gilbert with going out of his way to help Alma through her scenes, but she still had difficulty sustaining any emotion in front of the camera and “her drifting speech and glassy eyes” betrayed the drug addiction that had taken hold of her.” Frances believed that “a great deal could be written in defense of studio players who become addicted, first to sleeping pills which they are assured

are harmless, then to stimulants to offset the deadening effects of narcotics.” Adela maintained that Wallace Reid became addicted to opium after an injury during filming and a doctor “introduced him to narcotics as a release from those blinding, unbearable headaches” and then he couldn't

break himself of the habit because of the “pace of the work” that was demanded from him. Reid’s death at the age of thirty-one in 1923 had shocked the film colony, but while his wife devoted her life to a public fight against drugs, Frances saw “the scores of Blackmarketeers who would cut

their mother’s throats for profit” continue to thrive and noted that “Benzedrine and marijuana are as accessible as gumdrops.” Fred and Frances found themselves in the public position of being the 223

WITHOUT LYING DOWN

dependable married couple put on a pedestal by an industry desperate for

role models. Many of their friends did come to them, separately and together, with personal problems and Fred “always kept up his role as a counselor” long after he left the ministry.” Frances in turn was seen as “the senior all the sophomores wanted to be,” remembers Elaine St. Johns, who included her mother among the sophomores. Adela herself quoted others as saying, “It doesn’t seem quite fair that Frances Marion, along with everything else, should be beautiful too,” and Mary Anita Loos says her Aunt Anita had the same perception. “Without using the word envy, I think she felt Frances Marion had a lot that she didn’t have. Frances was a raving beauty and she was also very happily married and immensely successful and innovative in her work. She was a legend among writers as well as the people in general.” Frances and Fred tried not to be swayed by the perceptions of others and

when they turned their attention to their own lives they found only one major disappointment. Shortly after giving birth to Fred junior, Frances had

followed her doctor’s advice and had a hysterectomy, but she and Fred wanted at least one more child. In October of 1927, they adopted a baby boy and named him Richard Gordon Thomson. Frances would joke that since Fred “monopolized the attentions” of their first son, she was forced to adopt so she could have a child as well, but the truth was that Fred wanted a larger family and Frances was concerned about raising an only child in the middle of so much luxury.”

The last day of 1927 brought the publication of Exhibitors Herald’s list of the “Top Stars of the Year.” After surveying theater owners “to determine accurately the name which put money into the pocketbook of Mr. Exhibiter,” Fred Thomson was declared the number two draw in the country for the second year in a row, eclipsed only slightly by Tom Mix. Lon Chaney was third, John Gilbert eighth, and Douglas Fairbanks was ranked number ten. In the seven years since Fred and Frances married when Doug was known throughout the world and Fred sat in the background, Fred had skyrocketed past all the stars and matinee idols to become one of the top box office draws in the country.” Lists such as these had potential impact on salary negotiations and Fred and Frances were encouraged as they looked forward to the new year. The problems with Jesse James were behind them with the release and positive reception of Fred’s second Paramount film, The Pioneer Scout. His FBO films were still playing in smaller houses across the country, reinforcing his popularity, and almost every “What This Film Did for Me” column in the trades included letters from theater owners praising a Thomson film.” 224

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The press called them “cat parties” or “hen parties,” but Frances found when she invited her women friends over on a Fridayy fue night without the pressure of dates, husbands, or studio bosses, they “laughed until their sides ached.” (FM personal collection, USC) Seated on floor, left to right: Kathleen Clifford, Renee Borzage, Constance Talmadge, Bessie Love, Dorothy Davenport Reid, Priscilla Dean. Seated on couch: Norma Talmadge, FM holding Wings, I Dorothy Mackaill, Pauline Starke, Natalie Talmadge, Colleen Moore, Barbara Bennett. Standing: unknown, unknown, Adela Rogers St. Johns, Elza Schallert, Florence Vidor, unknown, Lori Bara, Theda Bara, unknown.

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Some of the stars she wrote for: (this page, clockwise from top left) Olive Thomas (Thomson family), Marion Davies (Thomson family), Colleen Moore (Thomson family), Greta Garbo

“7 E oe . fan Wane ‘ < ~ € ‘ *

(FM personal collection, USC); (opposite page, clockwise from top left) Lillian Gish and

Lars Hanson (MOMA), Rudy Valentino saying goodbye to Norma Talmadge and Joe Schenck as he leaves for New York to promote The Son of the Sheik (MOMA), Irving Thalberg

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with Gloria Swanson. (author’s personal collection), Gary Cooper and Vilma Banky in The Winning of Barbara Worth (Le Gironate del Cinema Muto), and Clark Gable and Norma Shearer (author’s personal collection).

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omson family), an nita Loos (Mary Anita Loos).

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oC , , Ae 'ibey cokbaikaaSmee ar da' ”aceabata or" James Hilton posed with Frances after Frances thought Brian Aherne was “too smooth” she arranged for him to become an to take seriously in a relationship, but she enjoyed MGM screenwriter. Their overseas him as an escort, such as this event at the Hollyaffair cooled when he arrived to stay wood Bowl, talking with Ann Harding. (MOMA) at her house with his wife in tow.

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Nelson Eddy begged Frances to marry him and inundated | Gay* her with love letters and photos of himself like this one, | Sent signed “To Frances who tore away the mask.” | .

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rances wit er son Chara in Nis Navy

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unirorm Thomson famil ; Cars “

OL Ten asnip: Frances an ary Fickrord at —_- *

1CKTalf 1N ill ackson ; rTances was “nes id .

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in her early eighties wnen the pnotograpnher

caught her reflection 1n the lower left of this~ a icture of her bust of Hedda Hopper rat = Sy “5 ~ ae , ’ FM personal c , Uo). . 4 - ea” .

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