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1700 lines
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* T A Y L O R O L O G Y *
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* A Continuing Exploration of the Life and Death of William Desmond Taylor *
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* *
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* Issue 28 -- April 1995 Editor: Bruce Long bruce@asu.edu *
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* TAYLOROLOGY may be freely distributed *
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*****************************************************************************
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CONTENTS OF THIS ISSUE:
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Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle
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What is TAYLOROLOGY?
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TAYLOROLOGY is a newsletter focusing on the life and death of William Desmond
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Taylor, a top Paramount film director in early Hollywood who was shot to
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death on February 1, 1922. His unsolved murder was one of Hollywood's major
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scandals. This newsletter will deal with: (a) The facts of Taylor's life;
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(b) The facts and rumors of Taylor's murder; (c) The impact of the Taylor
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murder on Hollywood and the nation; (d) Taylor's associates and the Hollywood
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silent film industry in which Taylor worked. Primary emphasis will be given
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toward reprinting, referencing and analyzing source material, and sifting it
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for accuracy.
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*****************************************************************************
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As mentioned in TAYLOROLOGY #12, the best short recap of the Taylor case yet
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published is found in the Time-Life "True Crime" series. Unfortunately, the
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series has been discontinued, and is no longer available from Time-Life. But
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one book dealer who still has copies for sale is Edward R. Hamilton, Falls
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Village, CT 06031-5000. Ask for "UNSOLVED CRIMES: True Crime", Catalog
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Number 61842X. The price is $9.95 + $3.00 shipping.
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*****************************************************************************
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Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle
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One of the top comedy stars of the silent film era was Roscoe "Fatty"
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Arbuckle. Like William Desmond Taylor, Arbuckle worked for Famous Players-
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Lasky (Paramount). Arbuckle's arrest and trial on manslaughter charges in
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1921 was Hollywood's first truly major scandal. Although eventually
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acquitted after a third trial, Arbuckle's stellar career was finished. On
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the day William Desmond Taylor was murdered, the second Arbuckle trial was in
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progress.
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Four substantial books have been written about Arbuckle, all of which
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are useful but none are definitive. THE DAY THE LAUGHTER STOPPED and
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FRAME-UP! deal mainly with the scandal and are aimed at the mass market.
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Although interesting and sympathetic, those two books are not really
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scholarly and are lacking references, nevertheless they should be read if you
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are seeking information on the scandal and the three trials.
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Two scholarly books on Arbuckle were finally published last year.
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ROSCOE "FATTY" ARBUCKLE: A BIO-BIBLIOGRAPHY by Robert Young, Jr., is a
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fine work, well-written and filled with references, although the 80-page
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biography portion of the book is rather short. But there is a major gap in
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the biography: almost all information about Arbuckle's stellar years came
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from later interviews and articles. The many contemporary interviews and
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at-work observations written during Arbuckle's stellar years were not even
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referenced in the book's bibliography. Indeed, the magazine and newspaper
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bibliography in Young's book is primarily a bibliography of the scandal which
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destroyed Arbuckle's career, and of his subsequent come-back attempts--it is
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not a bibliography of Arbuckle the silent comedy star. The book does contain
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a very nice Filmography, Videography, and Chronology, but it's too bad that
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Young didn't wait until Oderman's book was published, so Oderman's additional
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information could have been incorporated into the Chronology. Young's book
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does have some good nuggets of information not found in Oderman's book, and
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there are a few instances where Young is more accurate than Oderman.
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ROSCOE "FATTY" ARBUCKLE: A BIOGRAPHY OF THE SILENT FILM COMEDIAN, 1877-
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1933 by Stuart Oderman is clearly the best book of the four as far as
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information about Arbuckle's life and screen career is concerned, even though
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no filmography is included. As with Young's book, there should have been
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much more career information gathered from contemporary sources. The trial
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coverage includes many reminiscences from Arbuckle's wife, but testimony is
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primarily taken from the NEW YORK TIMES and the unverified FATTY ARBUCKLE
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CASE (which Young shuns), rather than from the San Francisco newspapers or
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the Yallop and Edmonds books (which were utilizing court transcripts).
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Still, Oderman's book does the best job of bringing Arbuckle to life.
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Those who are interested in the film career of Roscoe Arbuckle usually
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want to know most about his "Comique" years--the years between 1917 and 1919:
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when Arbuckle had complete creative control over his own productions, when
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Buster Keaton was part of Arbuckle's comedy team, and when Arbuckle's
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popularity as a comedy star was second only to Chaplin's. All four books are
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lacking sufficient information on the Comique period--Oderman's book
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certainly has more than the others (with over 30 pages covering the Comique
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production period), but there are only about a half-dozen contemporary
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sources briefly cited within those pages--the rest of the information is from
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later interviews and books.
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Another book on Arbuckle still needs to be written--a book dealing
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primarily with Arbuckle during his years as a film star, and extensively
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drawing from as many contemporary sources as possible.
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Below are some press items which supply some information not mentioned
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in the previous four books, and which could be used as a few starting points
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for further research into the 1917-1922 period. Included is Arbuckle's own
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account of the fateful events which took place on September 5, 1921. The
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concluding items indicate Arbuckle's reaction to the Taylor murder.
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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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March 10, 1917
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MOTOGRAPHY
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"Fatty" in Chicago
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You, if you have been reading Motography, know that some time ago the
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Paramount Pictures Corporation captured Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle, erstwhile of
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Keystone, and, as Joseph Hopp, president of the Chicago Exhibitors' League,
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styles him, "the modern Falstaff."
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On the evening of February 27 Paramount and the exhibitors of the
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middle west celebrated the big comedian's new association with a banquet at
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the Hotel Sheridan, Chicago. "Fatty" was there, also President Adolph Zukor,
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of the Famous Players-Lasky Corporation, and other prominent personages.
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About 150 people were present, including a large number of exhibitors,
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exchange-men and representatives of the daily and trade press.
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At the speakers' table were--from left to right in the picture--Max
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Goldstine, manager Chicago Artcraft office; James Steele, treasurer
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Paramount; Roscoe Arbuckle; Joseph Hoop, Adolph Zukor; Mrs. Arbuckle (Minta
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Durfee, on the screen); Mrs. Alfred Hamburger; Alfred Hamburger, prominent
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Chicago exhibitor; S. J. Stoughton; Paramount's new middle west
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representative.
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The burden of the musical words of the speakers introduced by
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Toastmaster Hopp was "better, cleaner pictures." Paramount was many times
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congratulated on the acquisition of so prominent and wholesome a laughmaker
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as "Fatty." The latter, Mr. Zukor brought out, has not asked a big salary
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but has wished to succeed or fail according to the merits of his productions
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and to profit or lose in proportion. "The greatest art of all," said Mr.
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Zukor, "is to make people laugh; and we didn't feel that Paramount could
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furnish an absolutely complete art to the public until it had acquired the
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best comedian on the screen."
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The good natured "Fatty" was cheered enthusiastically when he was
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introduced. Between his stories he told that he had for the past three years
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produced his own comedies and that he now had an arrangement by which he
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could work for himself and a great distributing company at the same time. In
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mentioning the hardships of his trip from Los Angeles to New York, Fatty
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stated that at one time the party had been without food for three hours.
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The other speakers were James Steele of Pittsburgh, treasurer of
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Paramount; Mrs. Alfred Hamburger, who made the finest speech of the evening,
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urging that the new art of pictures should be free, and complimenting
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Paramount on its wholesome productions; William Jefferson, husband of Vivian
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Martin; Louis Anger, representing Joseph Schenck of New York; Herbert Warren;
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A. Siegfried, an exhibitor of Decatur, Illinois; Louella Parsons, Chicago
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Herald...
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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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April 7, 1917
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MOTOGRAPHY
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"Fatty" Arbuckle in Statuettes
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Paul Beygrau, artist, designer and sculptor whose work for the King of
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England won him notice, has modeled a life-like statuette of the famous
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comedian who recently joined Paramount to make for them two-reel comedies for
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all exhibitors. These odd little figures are being distributed throughout
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the country by Western Novelty and Doll Mfg. Co., of Seattle, Washington.
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Exhibitors are planning to use them in connection with their window and lobby
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displays.
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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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April 27, 1917
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VARIETY
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"Fatty" Arbuckle made a hit Sunday night as the leader of the Strand
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orchestra, showing how a temperamental musician would put them through the
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"Poet and Peasant" overture. He had made a little speech about himself and
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his picture, and then, announcing that he was a musician "by birth," borrowed
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a baton and kept the house laughing until he picked up his coat from the
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floor, and leaving the music scattered all around, ducked in the darkness and
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disappeared.
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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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May 5, 1917
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MOTOGRAPHY
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Big Film Ball
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Almost every prominent screen actor and actress in New York was present
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at the "Motion Picture Charity Ball" at Terrace Garden. The ball was given
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for the benefit of the Red Cross and the charitable nature of the affair
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resulted in bringing out a much larger crowd than usual...
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The first part of the entertainment consisted of a concert by a
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symphony orchestra of fifty pieces and led by Hugo Reisenfeld, conductor of
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the Strand Theater orchestra. The patriotic airs were easily the favorites.
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At ll o'clock the dancing began, followed shortly by a military drill by the
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Peer Fife and Bugle Corps. The dancing then continued until promptly at 12
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Roscoe Arbuckle appeared on the floor and gave the signal for the grand
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march. The march was led by Mr. Arbuckle with Virginia Pearson and Earle
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Williams with Leah Baird. An attempt on the part of Arbuckle to trip the
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light fantastic at the close of the grand march was quelled instantly by the
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other dancers.
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It is estimated that there were at least five thousand people present
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and these showed no disposition to leave early. Every one remained until the
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end...
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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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July 14, 1917
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LITERARY DIGEST
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"Fatty" Arbuckle Off The Screen
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A popular saying has it that "nobody loves a fat man," but an older
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adage declares there is an exception to every rule. In this case Roscoe
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Arbuckle is the exception. His elephantine form and jolly grin appear on the
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bill-boards at every movie between New York and Frisco. He has capitalized
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his avoirdupois. And how much is the capital? Well, it might be better form
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to wait and let him tell that himself.
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Mary B. Mullett, who presents a very intimate and interesting study of
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Arbuckle in the New York Sun, started to frame a question as to the financial
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return on that capital of flesh, but "Fatty" promptly interrupted her,
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saying:
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"You're going to ask how many hundred thousand dollars a year I get out
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of this business. In the first place, I don't know yet. I haven't been my
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own producer, director, and general boss long enough to know whether I'm
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going to make a million or ten cents. And if I did know I wouldn't tell.
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"Every moving picture star on earth claims to get $10,000 a week. Some
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of them do, too. But when I was on a salary I think I was the only star that
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didn't shout about earning half a million a year. What's the use? If
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audiences don't like you they'll think you're lying about your salary. And
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if they do like you it won't be because of what you get but of what you do.
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"That's the way I've always felt about it. Now that I'm working for
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myself I realize that I'll earn what I'm worth, no more. I'm in the
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manufacturing business and what I'm making is laughs. If you figure that
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every laugh I get is worth at least a thousand dollars to me you'll
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understand why I get up every morning at seven o'clock to try to be funny."
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"Fatty" had been "doing" a scene for a new play, and he sighed as he
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eased himself into a chair. Says the writer in The Sun:
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After he sat down he achieved the apparently impossible by crossing one
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leg over the other knee. And every time he got up and sat down he did it
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again. Each time I saw the performance beginning I secretly bet with myself
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that he couldn't make it, but I always lost.
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It was an acrobatic triumph. But it was also a side-light on his
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character. For if there is one thing Roscoe Arbuckle has made up his mind
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about it is that he won't be the ordinary fat man. He won't sit like a fat
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man. He won't dress like a fat man. And, above all, he won't depend on his
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diameter and phenomenal circumference to make people laugh.
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When he is out of the movies he looks like a modern Beau Brummel under
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a magnifying glass. He has fifteen pairs of shoes. But he sighed again as
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he declared that he works so hard he never has time to wear them. His
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clothes are always immaculate. It sounds as if he gave a lot of thought to
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his personal appearance. He does. But it is for just one reason.
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"There's nothing in the world so repulsive," he said, "as a fat man who
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isn't well dressed."
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Arbuckle does not depend solely upon his flesh to be funny; in fact, he
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warmly resents any intimation that he is only funny because he is fat. He
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declares that he never tries to get a laugh by getting stuck in a door or
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window, and as to his weight and its commercial value he says:
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"If I didn't do anything but weigh 320 pounds and wear queer clothes I
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might get six laughs. In a half-hour picture-play I've got to get sixty or
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go out of business.
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"People ask me if I ain't afraid of getting thin. Great Scott!! If I
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knew how to lose 150 pounds I'd show them! I didn't choose to weigh sixteen
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pounds when I was born. I weighed 180 pounds when I was only twelve years
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old, but I didn't wake up in the night to tell myself how glad I was. Not on
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your life! I didn't want to be fat then and I don't want to be now. And if
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I couldn't be funny without being fat I'd get another job.
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"If work and worry would make me thin you'd have to hunt for me with a
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microscope. How long do you think it takes to make a picture that you'll
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laugh at--maybe--for half an hour? It takes me a solid month, and it costs
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$40,000 in cash."
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Arbuckle writes his own scenarios, but, unlike the usual author, he
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develops his play before he works out the scenario. Of his methods he says:
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"In the first place, I make up my own plays. I don't write them.
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I make them up as I go along. I have a general idea in my head when we
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begin, but I don't have a written scenario or even a synopsis. I try out
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every scene I can think of, working out the business by actually rehearsing
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it.
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"And all the time I'm rehearsing out there I'm trying to devise funny
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little twists that will get a laugh. You saw an instance of it just now.
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"That's the way I make a picture. By the time I'm through I have about
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15,000 feet of film--and all I need is 2,000 feet. I've got to skim the
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cream off that milk. I go over all the films and pick out the best scenes.
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Then is the time I write the story. I make out the scenario from the scenes
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I intend to use.
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"In this scenario every scene is numbered. When I have it finished I
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take the reels, find the scenes I want, cut them out, and put them in
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numbered pigeonholes. I write the titles that connect up these scenes and
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then everything is in shipshape order for making up the necessary two reels."
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Arbuckle had said that he catered to the children in his business, and
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in reply to a question if he were fond of them, he replied:
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"I like children themselves. When I don't like them it's their parents
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I dislike through them. It ain't the kids' fault when they're measly. It's
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mostly their mothers that make 'em so."
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Looking more than ever like a chastised cherub, Fatty sighed
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prodigiously. Then his face broke into one of his beaming smiles as he said:
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"I know one thing. I'd a heap rather make people laugh than make 'em
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cry. It's a darned sight harder to do. Sometimes I think I've picked out
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the worst job in sight. If you don't believe me, try to be funny for thirty
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solid minutes yourself. After that you'll want to be a villain or a vampire
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just by way of a little relaxation."
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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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August 31, 1917
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VARIETY
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"Fatty's Profit"
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The Rolls Royce car Fatty Arbuckle has been decorating around Broadway
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for the past year will no longer be driven by him, it having passed to the
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possession of Hiram Abrams of the Paramount.
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Mr. Arbuckle now has a Pierce-Arrow that cost him $6,500. He sold the
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Rolls Royce for $12,000 after having paid $5,500 for it a year ago.
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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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October 20, 1917
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MOTOGRAPHY
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Fatty Arbuckle Hesitates a Day in Chicago
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On his way to the Pacific coast, where he will continue to produce two-
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reel comedies for Paramount, Fatty Arbuckle spent October 4 in Chicago. With
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him were Lou Anger, manager of the Comique Film Corporation, as Fatty's
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company is called, and Herbert Warren, who has charge of the fun-making
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scenarios. The latter has just married Valerie Bergere, the well known stage
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star of New York.
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Fatty drove home one vital point during his conversation with
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Motography's representative when he said, "A picture is only half done when
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it reaches the exhibitor. At least 50 per cent of the value and pulling
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power of the picture depends on the way in which it is advertised and
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presented. Music is the most important thing of all in showing a picture."
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Mr. Arbuckle's company is to work in the Balboa studio, at Long Beach,
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which has been leased for the coming season...
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During his stay in Chicago, Mr. Arbuckle was entertained by Manager Max
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Goldstine of the local Paramount office.
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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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March 22, 1918
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VARIETY
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Fatty Arbuckle has the distinction of being the first godfather to
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Western troops. He has adopted Company C., 159th Infantry, at Camp Kearney.
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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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April 26, 1918
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VARIETY
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"Fatty" Arbuckle, who has been held up six times within three weeks by
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real--not film--highwaymen on the Long Beach Boulevard, has been sworn in as
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a special deputy sheriff. The corpulent originator of laughs says he is sick
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and tired of "coming through."
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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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August 11, 1918
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NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
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Buster Keaton, fellow comedian and best friend of Roscoe "Fatty"
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Arbuckle, is off for "somewhere in France" to show the Huns how he and Fatty
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fall in comedies--only Buster says the boches are going to do all the
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falling, with himself as director.
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Three weeks ago Buster departed for Camp Kearny after the completion of
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"The Cook," which will be the next "Fatty" Arbuckle comedy to be released by
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Paramount. At that time "Fatty" Arbuckle and his company gave Buster a
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farewell party at the famous Jewel City cafe in Seal Beach. An impromptu
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minstrel and vaudeville show featured the affair. Buster was the recipient
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of a handsome leather wallet from the company. When he opened the wallet he
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discovered $100 nestling within. Officers from Company C, One Hundred and
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Fifty-ninth California Infantry, which is Arbuckle's adopted organization,
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were present.
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Before Buster was out of quarantine Company C, One Hundred and Fifty-
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ninth Infantry, received orders and the comedian asked to be allowed to go
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along. He is now on his way "over there."
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"Fatty" Arbuckle, Al St. John and Lou Anger rushed to San Diego to bid
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Buster "good luck." Another little surprise was in store for Buster,
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however. "Fatty" Arbuckle confided to the new soldier that he had a goodly
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portion of his weekly salary coming every week for the duration of the war.
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And that is why his mother received his first war check at her home in
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Muskegon, Mich., this week.
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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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November 1918
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Julian Johnson
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PHOTOPLAY
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[from "An Analytical Review of the Year's Acting"]...Roscoe Arbuckle
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shares comedy honors this year with Chaplin--though no comedian, it must be
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admitted, even approaches Chaplin in personal variety and appeal. But
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Arbuckle's material--his own make--has, in the main, been consistently funny
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and human. He has surrounded himself with good people. He has made good
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productions. He has kept moving. "The Bell Boy," it seems to me, was his
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year's ace.
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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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November 10, 1918
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NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
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"Fatty" Arbuckle, in order to take advantage of the increased
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facilities afforded him at the Lasky studio, deserted his own plant last week
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to finish "Camping," his new Paramount comedy. This is the first comedy
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company to work at the Lasky plant and everyone took some time off to watch
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the jovial ones at work. To the surprise of all not a sound emanated from
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the Arbuckle sets. No pies were thrown and nothing was smashed. The day's
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casualties were nill. Without exception they were amazed at the seriousness
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of the comedians and the strict attention paid to the slightest detail by
|
|
"Fatty" who not only acts, but writes, cuts and directs his own pictures.
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
December 1918
|
|
Elizabeth Peltret
|
|
PHOTOPLAY
|
|
(from an interview with Alice Lake)...In four years of work in
|
|
"slapstick" Alice Lake has had but three accidents which were at all serious.
|
|
One happened during the making of "Moonshiners," a recent Arbuckle comedy,
|
|
when a horse she was trying to mount stepped on her foot (she is not a
|
|
particularly good horsewoman). Fortunately she was standing on a sandy
|
|
surface, so that no bones were broken, but she suffered with her foot for
|
|
weeks afterward.
|
|
..."The funniest looking accident we ever had," she said, "was when
|
|
Roscoe Arbuckle was making 'The Bell Boy.' A crazy old elevator we were
|
|
using fell to pieces and I was dangling in mid-air on the end of a rope. One
|
|
of the boys was inside of what was left of the elevator and I was left
|
|
whirling around in space while he was being rescued from the debris.
|
|
..."I've noticed this about comedies," she remarked. "The gags that
|
|
seem funniest at the studio, will often look dead on the screen, while
|
|
something which hasn't made you smile on the set, will make you shriek with
|
|
laughter when you see it in the picture!"
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
March 3, 1919
|
|
Louella Parsons
|
|
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
|
|
Nobody loves a fat man has been put into disuse by Fatty Arbuckle.
|
|
Everybody loves Roscoe Arbuckle, and fatter than he they do not exist. He is
|
|
round, fat, jolly and the essence of good nature, the characteristics one
|
|
looks to find in a man of the Arbuckle rotundity and if they be missing feels
|
|
that day lost.
|
|
Well, they are not missing in Roscoe Arbuckle, comedian and chief
|
|
Paramount laugh getter. Everything a comedian should be is present in
|
|
"Fatty." He radiates good nature, cheerfulness and a pleasant day. He has a
|
|
constant pleasant day. He has a constant rendezvous with happiness and not
|
|
even a speaking acquaintance with gloom.
|
|
These things I know, though I haven't seen Mr. Arbuckle for many and
|
|
many and many a day. The last time we met was in Chicago right after he had
|
|
signed a contract with Adolph Zukor. Mr. Zukor made the trip from the Coast
|
|
with Mr. Arbuckle and gave a banquet for his newly acquired star when he
|
|
reached the stopping point of their trip. So it seemed particularly fitting
|
|
the next time I should pass the time of day with the cheerful Mr. Arbuckle
|
|
should be in celebration of signing another Zukor contract.
|
|
My invitation was for luncheon. Fatty being one of those people who
|
|
enjoy good food, believes every one else has the same thought, and so we were
|
|
to meet at the Famous Players-Lasky offices at 12:30 and chat over a lamb
|
|
chop or club sandwich. It started out to be simple enough, but it ended by
|
|
being a banquet with oysters, bouillon, chicken, salad and Cliquet
|
|
substituting for the ham sandwich I usually grab for my noonday feast. And
|
|
instead of our going to a nearby automat or to Childs we went to Sherry's
|
|
with eight other guests--and all of them men.
|
|
This is the way it happened. Mr. Arbuckle has several ideas in the way
|
|
of leading ladies in his mind. Those he had on the screen, and Joseph
|
|
Schenck, E. Ludvig, Marcus Loew and a number of the men interested in the
|
|
Arbuckle Company were invited into the projection room to pass judgment on
|
|
these fair ones. Never did any prima donna have a more rigorous test than
|
|
these two would-be Arbuckle leading ladies. They were given an examination
|
|
as to the looks, screen appearance, facial expression and histrionic ability
|
|
that would make the rest of these screen struck girls believe walking on the
|
|
ocean a comparatively easy task to passing the examination required to become
|
|
a leading lady.
|
|
By the time we had looked at Mr. Arbuckle's choice in a screen partner
|
|
it was nearly 2 o'clock, and so the eight men who are interested in making
|
|
the Arbuckle comedies the big comedy bet of the year, all betook themselves
|
|
to Sherry's, and Fatty and I just naturally took ourselves along and we had
|
|
such a good time I decided doing interviews was a job that any one would like
|
|
to have.
|
|
Adolph Zukor and Roscoe Arbuckle are great pals. Mr. Zukor has a
|
|
personal liking for the good natured Roscoe, and admits after many years of
|
|
handling temperamental and ungrateful stars, Roscoe is refreshing and one of
|
|
the reasons he likes the film business. Because Mr. Zukor likes his star,
|
|
busy as he is, he went way out to Kansas City to meet the California train
|
|
and to get the Arbuckle signature to a long-term contract.
|
|
"I would go further than that," Mr. Zukor said. "With all the stars I
|
|
have had Mr. Arbuckle is the least temperamental and the most appreciative."
|
|
A compliment which Fatty returned with a shower of wit and good natured
|
|
repartee. Between the oysters and the soup Fatty told me moving pictures
|
|
were not his whole life.
|
|
"Ah," said I, "you have deceived me; you are leading a double life."
|
|
"Tis true," he said, "and what is more I admit I am not entirely true
|
|
to Mlle. Cinema."
|
|
"Tell me the worst," I begged.
|
|
But Roscoe was spared this humiliation by Lou Anger, his business
|
|
partner, who said Mr. Arbuckle spent much of his time in the county hospital
|
|
in Los Angeles studying surgery. His best friend is a surgeon, explained Mr.
|
|
Anger, and Roscoe would rather go to an operation than eat--which, Mr. Anger
|
|
added, is going some.
|
|
Then followed all the hidden scandal. If Roscoe had not wedded Mlle.
|
|
Cinema, he would have devoted his life to surgery. A neat operation to Mr.
|
|
Arbuckle is more beautiful than an exquisite painting.
|
|
"I wouldn't, you understand, be one of those pill giving M.D.'s. Not
|
|
on your life. But I would like to know how to use the knife. I have watched
|
|
doc take out so many appendices, I believe I could do it myself. Ever seen
|
|
an operation?"
|
|
And when we shudderingly admitted we had never seen one and we believed
|
|
we could live without ever being called in as a witness to such an affair,
|
|
Mr. Arbuckle proceeded to draw a picture of a bone operation he had seen in a
|
|
lad's leg wherein his doctor friend by simply shifting the position of a bone
|
|
made this important member as good as new.
|
|
"Nothing to shudder at," said Roscoe. "It is a pretty sight to see doc
|
|
work. I have taken Charlie Chaplin to the hospital several times and now he
|
|
is talking in medical terms."
|
|
A party to see New Orleans by lamplight was planned with Mr. Arbuckle
|
|
as the chief see-er. Before the luncheon was over Roscoe was inviting every
|
|
one to join the party and be a member of this personally conducted tour,
|
|
guaranteed to see the sights first hands under his guidance.
|
|
"Roscoe loves company," said Lou Anger. In fact in Los Angeles he
|
|
cannot escape company. Every Tuesday night he comes into the Alexandria for
|
|
dinner on his way to the fights. There are about six or seven lounge lizards-
|
|
-sitting bulls, Guy Price calls them, because they sit and sell more film
|
|
than the world has ever seen. First one will spy Fatty and then another one.
|
|
"Going to the fights? he will ask.
|
|
When assured that such is Mr. Arbuckle's intention, the waiting one
|
|
says, "Got an extra ticket? I will go along."
|
|
The extra ticket being in evidence, the hanger-on then invites himself
|
|
to dinner as Mr. Arbuckle's guest. After dinner he jumps in Fatty's car and
|
|
as a self-invited guest sees the fight. After the fights he suggests a ride
|
|
to Vernon and a light supper with wine. When deposited at length at the
|
|
Alexander door, the willing guest says:
|
|
"Roscoe, old top, you might look me up next Tuesday evening."
|
|
And, said Mr. Anger, they get away with that stuff.
|
|
Some men might resent such a thing as putting them in the easy-mark
|
|
class, but it is one of the nice things about Roscoe Arbuckle that he is like
|
|
a big boy in wanting to share with his friends the good things which have
|
|
come his way. He is quite unspoiled--happy and in his happiness giving
|
|
pleasure to the many people who call him friend.
|
|
These things I had whispered to me some months ago by a certain little
|
|
girl whom Fatty had given his friendship and advice. To those who think the
|
|
Arbuckle life is one round of continual pleasure, it might be well to hear
|
|
how he went out of his way to befriend this girl when things looked black for
|
|
her. I shall like him always for that, though he modestly refused to admit
|
|
he had done more than any other man would do when I spoke to him of this
|
|
young woman.
|
|
And now about Fatty and Mabel. Fatty says he would love to have Mabel
|
|
for his leading lady, and has always selected his heroine with an eye to the
|
|
Normand type. And Mabel says she would like to have Fatty for her leading
|
|
man, because they work well together, and there you are. Only Mabel is tied
|
|
up with a Goldwyn contract and Fatty is signed with Paramount. So it looks
|
|
as if this wish of the public to see Mabel Normand in Arbuckle comedies will
|
|
not be realized for the present, at least.
|
|
While we are wishing, Fatty will continue to believe the world is a
|
|
comedy for him to pick and choose his subject. He will go on his way making
|
|
folk laugh and be glad, which after all is the greatest accomplishment one
|
|
can have--to be able to make the world laugh. And Roscoe Arbuckle has that
|
|
gift, one he can well be proud of, and one which he has always used to the
|
|
best advantage.
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
April 13, 1919
|
|
Margaret Ettinger
|
|
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
|
|
(Los Angeles, April 8)--The benefit given by the Evening Herald on
|
|
Saturday night was one of the biggest events of the year and all the proceeds
|
|
were given to the Salvation Army. Douglas Fairbanks appeared in a strut all
|
|
his own. The Sennett Bathing Girls came in "clothes that never saw the sea."
|
|
Roscoe Arbuckle did a single; so did James Jeffries and James J. Corbett;
|
|
Fred Niblo in "Impromptu Remarks," Ruth Roland in a song and dance special.
|
|
Carter De Haven and Flora Parker De Haven in "Vaudeville Reminiscences," H.B.
|
|
Warner in a monologue and Charlie Murray in his favorite role of "Ladies and
|
|
Gentlemen," all helped make a corking good program.
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
April 13, 1919
|
|
Louella Parsons
|
|
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
|
|
On the last day of March, as guest of William Wrigley, the chewing gum
|
|
and baseball magnate, "Fatty" Arbuckle tossed the first ball in the opening
|
|
game of the season between the Pasadena, Cal., team and the Chicago Cubs.
|
|
The day was a glorious one; a real California sky overhead and every
|
|
one in gala attire, almost Summery in tone. "Fatty" was busy working on "The
|
|
Bank Clerk," but he could not resist this appeal. So he replied to the
|
|
invitation:
|
|
"I like Mr. Wrigley's gum and I can't refuse to do this. Incidentally,
|
|
I'm pretty strong for the national game, too."
|
|
So he went to Pasadena in a high-powered car, chatted with the magnate,
|
|
met many people of prominence and then tossed up the little white sphere,
|
|
thus starting the ball rolling in earnest in a hard-fought game.
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
May 4, 1919
|
|
Margaret Ettinger
|
|
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
|
|
Roscoe (Fatty) Arbuckle will be owner of the Vernon Tigers unless an
|
|
unforseen hitch halts the negotiations now pending. Arbuckle is to buy the
|
|
stock now controlled by Thomas Darmondy and is to serve as president of the
|
|
ball team. Fatty also has leased part of the Glendale studio owned by Louis
|
|
Gasnier.
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
May 25, 1919
|
|
Margaret Ettinger
|
|
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
|
|
The grandstand was filled to capacity on the day that Roscoe Arbuckle's
|
|
baseball team made its first appearance. In compliment to Fatty a number of
|
|
the companies stopped work and hied to the baseball grounds. Bessie
|
|
Barriscale and her husband, Howard Hickman, and party occupied one box. Tom
|
|
Mix, his manager, Eddie Rosenbaum, and Mr. and Mrs. E. J. Le Saint another.
|
|
Jack Pickford, Lew Cody, Lou Anger and many other "movin' pitcher" people
|
|
were there to cheer the Tigers on. Fatty, Al St. John and Buster Keaton put
|
|
on a side show. Dressed in the garb of the Vernons they staged a game all
|
|
their own, using a plaster paris bat and ball. The result when ball and bat
|
|
met may be imagined.
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
June 1919
|
|
Alfred Cohn
|
|
PHOTOPLAY
|
|
(from an interview with Roscoe Arbuckle)...
|
|
"Every 'gag' in a production is as carefully analyzed after it has been
|
|
released as it is during the course of production. An entire five-reel
|
|
dramatic photoplay may depend entirely on one situation and still be a
|
|
success. A two-reel comedy to be successful must have a dozen laugh
|
|
producing situations or 'gags' and must never lag for a moment.
|
|
"The same plot can be done over and over again in the so-called
|
|
features but the comedy without new gags is a failure. That's why most
|
|
comedy directors, after a while in the business, go around talking to
|
|
themselves instead of giving out interviews. It's a hard life."
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
July 27, 1919
|
|
Margaret Ettinger
|
|
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
|
|
Scarcely a week passes without a notable showing of the picture folk,
|
|
socially...This week the assemblage was such a tremendous affair that it
|
|
caused quite the biggest commotion of anything thus far given.
|
|
The occasion was the automobile races at Ascot Park, in which almost
|
|
every star and director of the West Coast participated. Besides, there was a
|
|
parade of the motion picture stars, so those who did not race appeared on the
|
|
track at any rate, and gave an exhibition fashion parade, garbed in their
|
|
latest Paris creations and riding in their newest Rolls-Pack-Arrow cars.
|
|
Among the entries in the fast races were: Marshall Neilan, Tom Mix,
|
|
Carter De Haven, Douglas MacLean, Donald Crisp, Henry King, Roscoe Arbuckle,
|
|
Lew Cody, Al St. John, Ed Flannagan, Larry Semon, Earl Montgomery and Joe
|
|
Rock. The fashion parade included a stream of pictureland's best known
|
|
actresses: Blanche Sweet, Anita Stewart, Peggy Hyland, Bessie Barriscale,
|
|
Priscilla Dean, Enid Bennett, Pauline Frederick, Gertrude Selby, Virginia Lee
|
|
Corbin, Juanita Hansen, Lila Lee and Dorothy de Vore...
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
August 15, 1919
|
|
VARIETY
|
|
The Arbuckle comedy staff went to San Francisco and staged burlesque
|
|
stunts at the ball yard where Arbuckle's team, Vernon Tigers, were playing.
|
|
Fatty, the papers said, was a riot.
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
October 28, 1919
|
|
Ray Frohman
|
|
LOS ANGELES HERALD
|
|
...Roscoe was in a jovial mood. He had just been making up sleep after
|
|
staying up all night cutting his latest film. The worries of owning the
|
|
Vernon ball club--he did then--had not reduced his noble--shall I call it, by
|
|
courtesy, "chest."
|
|
For, he explained, he "just bought them to please Anger." Anger is his
|
|
manager, you know, and Anger is a baseball "bug."
|
|
All Fatty did, he said, was to be "president and sign checks." Anger
|
|
was his personal representative and general manager, and "it kept him in good
|
|
humor."
|
|
As the sale price of Fatty's pictures is contracted for during the
|
|
coming two years or so, he didn't buy the club as an advertisement, he said--
|
|
he won't make any more money by it that way.
|
|
"I can't go to the ball game any more, Lou," exclaimed the pyramid of
|
|
flesh. Anger's other name is Lou. "It makes me too darn nervous. After two
|
|
hours and a half of that, I can't do anything else I want to. The excitement
|
|
makes my stomach feel bad."
|
|
Our most famous human dirigible was a prodigious study in brown.
|
|
From his auxiliary chin--as big as anyone else's chin proper--and the
|
|
reserve supply of cartilage he wore at the back of his neck, down past that
|
|
noted waist line (whose dimensions I didn't inquire because large figures
|
|
give me a headache), and on down to his dainty feet, he was in brown--hat,
|
|
hair, tie, suit, sox, shoes. Light blue eyes completed the monstrous
|
|
picture.
|
|
"My first part was that of a picaninny kid," sprouted Fatty, letting
|
|
the light in on the dark shadows of his past.
|
|
"It was one night with the Webster-Brown Stock Company at Santa Ana,
|
|
when I was eight years old. I got it because I was always hanging around the
|
|
theater. I lived there then. I was born in Smith Center, Kan., but have
|
|
lived in California ever since I was a year old."
|
|
Fatty, be it known, was the baby--a 16-pounder at birth!--of the whole
|
|
family. There were nine children. Only one other, a sister, was fat. Even
|
|
now, Fatty only weighs 275 pounds--and two dozen jockeys would weigh about
|
|
that much.
|
|
He earnestly assured me that he didn't "get that way" from too much
|
|
eating or drinking; and in view of the high cost of food and drink, and the
|
|
fact that Fatty will only net about $3,000,000 from his latest contract,
|
|
I could easily believe it.
|
|
But rumble on, "thou ocean" of pulp.
|
|
"My first role was a 'fat part!' Salary? Fifty cents.
|
|
"When I asked for the job they told me to go home and get my shoes and
|
|
stockings but I knew my mother wouldn't let me come back. So they blacked my
|
|
legs and feet, too. I knew I'd get a licking when I got home.
|
|
"From then till 1913 I was on the stage. I did everything from singing
|
|
illustrated songs to clown and acrobatic acts. I was considered 'fair,' like
|
|
the rest of them.
|
|
"I was in dramatic, and principally musical, stock most of the time.
|
|
"My first real professional engagement was in 1904, singing illustrated
|
|
songs for Sid Grauman at the Unique theater, San Jose, at $17.50 a week.
|
|
"I played character stuff in Morosco's Burbank stock company here, and
|
|
went all through China and Japan with Ferris Hartman in musical comedy.
|
|
"Tenor? No, baritone. I lost my voice in Manila in 1913 playing in
|
|
'The Toymaker' with Hartman--that's why I went into movies.
|
|
"I was only 'on' in the first and last acts. I went out in back of the
|
|
theater and barked at a dog who barked at me. Pretty soon I had the whole
|
|
canine neighborhood barking. When I went back I couldn't sing a note!
|
|
I couldn't even talk for three weeks!
|
|
"Yes, I sing a little now for my own amusement, but I wouldn't bore
|
|
anybody else with it. I wouldn't dare to.
|
|
"My last appearance on the stage in a part was with Hartman in
|
|
Yokahama, when I was 26. I'm 32 now. With his company I played the Mikado,
|
|
and Koko, and Katish--a female of the species."
|
|
Just then a "Hello, Fat!" vibrated through the atmosphere as an auto
|
|
disgorged Hiram Abrams, general manager of "The Big Four."
|
|
After that, Fatty's "confession" continued only amid a rapid-fire
|
|
staccato, "kidding" interrogation from Abrams, who seems to have missed his
|
|
real vocation, interviewing. Elgin Lessley, the only man who ever
|
|
photographed Fatty for the screen (unless two or three cameras were being
|
|
used at once), also was "on stage" for the repartee about "opposition" and
|
|
"real actors," etc.
|
|
"What is your real name? What school did you attend? What
|
|
university?" demanded Abrams all in one breath.
|
|
"Through the fourth grade!" answered Fatty, forgetting his Santa Clara
|
|
college days.
|
|
"I got my first movie job at $40 a week with Keystone," continued the
|
|
hippopotamic comedian, after Abrams and I had run out of breath. "For a
|
|
month I walked around out there without working. Every time I turned around,
|
|
Sennett was looking at me. To this day I guess he doesn't think I'm funny.
|
|
"But somebody does--Zukor will pay me over $3,000,000 for the 22
|
|
pictures I began making last March and selling outright to the Famous Players
|
|
company. It'll take me about two and a half years to make them.
|
|
"I played mostly policemen in the two or three hundred pictures I was
|
|
in at Keystone, but I played everything from cops to GRAND DAMES. Mabel
|
|
Normand and Ford Sterling were there, and Sennett and Henry Lehrman were the
|
|
directors. All my mechanical knowledge of pictures I learned under the
|
|
direction of Lehrman, who directed all but about two of my pictures.
|
|
"During my three and a half years there I was never starred or even
|
|
featured--the exhibitors played me up. Then I formed a partnership with
|
|
Joseph M. Schenck--he's the husband of Norma Talmadge and director of both
|
|
Norma and Constance--had my own company, and released through the Famous
|
|
Players on a percentage basis.
|
|
"I'm working now on the fourth picture under my new contract--with the
|
|
same people, but on a 'flat rate' basis--making my own pictures, directing my
|
|
own company.
|
|
"How did I become a star? I don't know how it happened. It just
|
|
happened. When I look at my old pictures I can't tell how it happened!
|
|
"It was only last March that I began to be a real star. When you can
|
|
sell outright 22 pictures in advance of making them, when they accept you on
|
|
your face value, you're a star."
|
|
One word more--and this is the most important of all--from the puffy
|
|
mass of adipose tissue whose income makes that of the President of the United
|
|
States look like a sick nickel and whose genius I had so much belied in my
|
|
thoughts.
|
|
"I'VE NEVER USED MY WEIGHT TO GET A LAUGH YET! That is, used my size
|
|
as the subject for humor.
|
|
"You never saw me stuck in a doorway or stuck in a chair. If you'll
|
|
analyze my pictures you'll see that they are humorous in themselves, except,
|
|
of course, that the audience remarks about the agility on account of the
|
|
weight.
|
|
"Titles, trademarks don't count. It's all no good unless the picture
|
|
is funny.
|
|
"You only star in movies from picture to picture. If two or three
|
|
pictures are bad, you're not a star any more. It's a constant worry. That's
|
|
why movie people are temperamental. It's a terrible strain!"
|
|
P.S.--And yet, despite this "strain" neither Roscoe's own figure nor
|
|
his bank book shows signs of emaciation!
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
November 3, 1919
|
|
Reed Heustis
|
|
LOS ANGELES HERALD
|
|
This is, primarily, the story of a small young studio down Culver City
|
|
way and of a large, young fellow.
|
|
To mention the name of a studio is to mention the young fellow. And
|
|
here you have it--Arbuckle.
|
|
Roscoe Arbuckle, if you remember, has been played up in type time and
|
|
again as the young Behemoth who, once seated, needs a block and tackle to
|
|
start him on his way again.
|
|
But this is wrong, entirely erroneous.
|
|
Roscoe is not so fat--that is, not in the way he has been hailed as
|
|
being.
|
|
Moreover, once seated in a chair he needs nothing to get him under
|
|
steam again. He can do that all by himself.
|
|
We know a lot of persons who know Roscoe who will wager that he can get
|
|
over 100 yards of terrain in almost 10 seconds--well, 12 anyway, and if you
|
|
ever traveled 100 yards--hoof power--in 12 seconds, you realized you were
|
|
spurning the earth.
|
|
That for Roscoe and his rotundity.
|
|
In breezing into the Arbuckle studio--which is merely stage space and
|
|
equipment stuff rented from a producer named Henry Lehrman--in breezing into
|
|
the studio you will first of all meet Lou Anger, one of the many pioneers who
|
|
put windshield eyeglasses on the peak of popularity.
|
|
The windshield glasses serve a double purpose. Not only do they add to
|
|
the general de luxe of the person so equipped, but they afford a shield
|
|
behind which the wearer may plot and plan at leisure and unobserved.
|
|
A gentleman may think many things when hidden behind the optic shields
|
|
and his audience gain no inkling of what it's all about.
|
|
This went wrong only once. And that was when, in his salad days, Anger
|
|
was wearing the glasses and a sweet young thing breezed into his office.
|
|
Lou's glasses immediately fell off, for "what" said he, "was the use of
|
|
keeping 'em on. Taking them off helped my eyesight and she knew what I was
|
|
thinking about, anyhow." You see?
|
|
You will find Roscoe upstairs in his dressing room, one of a series of
|
|
rooms which reminds one strongly of Atlantic City and the bathhouses there.
|
|
Roscoe's dressing room is composed of a lounging room--where no one is
|
|
permitted to loaf; a shower bath section and a dressing room. Also a strong
|
|
armed young gentleman with a bottle of alcohol--external purposes only--and a
|
|
wicked gleam in his eye.
|
|
It is this man's duty to grab Roscoe, as we have said, to slap him on a
|
|
slab upon his--that is--well, face down and give him the knuckle drill with
|
|
the external alcohol as the unguent.
|
|
This massage having been duly completed, Roscoe shaves to the quick,
|
|
dons fresh clothes, from socks to suspenders, and orders up one particular
|
|
car, which, according to Roscoe, possesses one fault: the rear wheels skid
|
|
and bounce most menacingly. Having explained all this to you, Roscoe
|
|
carefully puts Lou Anger beside him at the wheel and invites you to ride in
|
|
the rear.
|
|
But we've taken Roscoe from the studio before we've hardly planted him
|
|
there. So behold him--not de luxe, but clad in the old familiar one-piece
|
|
pants--at work.
|
|
No entrances nor exits to these pants. When Roscoe's in, he's in.
|
|
Sewed up for the day, so to speak.
|
|
With Roscoe will be Buster Keaton, also sewed up. Buster is the
|
|
pleasant faced young acrobat who will rise to stardom some time in April and
|
|
who truly beyond the mere laudations which are so easy to write and which so
|
|
seldom ring true is of big league timber.
|
|
Roscoe and Buster and Dan Crimmins--the same Dan Crimmins who starred
|
|
years ago in "By the Sad Sea Waves"--are on the stage and due for a mess of
|
|
water stuff. It is a chill October morn, too, but never mind that. The
|
|
three boys must be wet and wet they get. Each in turn dives into a big vat
|
|
of water standing on the stage and then go into their "gag," which consists
|
|
largely of resuscitating Dan, nearly drowned, by a means of a garden hose and
|
|
a flow of ice water.
|
|
Earn their salaries! Thrice over.
|
|
Then Buster and Roscoe warm up, go through a sort of clog dance--not
|
|
for the camera, but for the corpuscles--which ends in the familiar thunk, de
|
|
thunk, thunk, thunk, the last two thunks when Roscoe and Buster do a fall
|
|
which shakes even the stage and many a stout heart.
|
|
Leave them there for a minute. We'll pick 'em up later. Let us visit
|
|
Jean Havez and Harry Williams, "gag" men, whose chief aim in life is to
|
|
discover something new in the world. And it's a tough old job.
|
|
Jean is as rotund as Roscoe and has spent most of his life in writing
|
|
lyrics for musical shows and all that. Had a finger in a mess of Broadway--
|
|
the other Broadway--productions. And is now enjoying the fruits thereof,
|
|
plus the Arbuckle harvest.
|
|
Harry, too, has followed the same line. Songs, the writing of them,
|
|
have been his chief asset. Remember that soul stirring ditty, "Oh, let us
|
|
have just one more drink, and then we'll all go home?" That's Harry. And,
|
|
if we know anything about Harry he has, until recently, had a mess of these
|
|
little drinks.
|
|
You will hear Lou Anger pattering around overhead massing with bills
|
|
and discounts and other things and wondering if such and so comes F.O.B.,
|
|
C.O.D., or C.O.N., the latter meaning, "Cash on the Nail."
|
|
Back to Roscoe. Here we find that Molly Malone, Roscoe's leading
|
|
woman, has arrived, done up in dainty overalls and silk shirtings and the
|
|
rest of the atmosphere. Molly is toying with the making of a handkerchief,
|
|
a sheer little thing. It may not have been a handkerchief--we didn't look
|
|
too closely.
|
|
Harry McCoy, the juvenile, is with the party by this time, garbed in
|
|
cavalry officer boots and filled to the ears, like the mocking birds--with
|
|
song. He imitates Al Jolson in something about playing poker with Pocahontas
|
|
and you could almost swear Jolson was at your elbow. We hasten to add that
|
|
Harry wore more than those cavalry boots.
|
|
Then the luncheon call.
|
|
Havez is a noted trencherman; chili and beans, pork sandwiches, pumpkin
|
|
pie, maybe a glass of milk and no encores. Harry Williams the same. Lou
|
|
Anger pulls a wheeze: "This apple pie is immense." It goes over well. Lou
|
|
repeats. It goes just as well a second time and Lou marks it down in his
|
|
book for future use.
|
|
Then back to the studio, more of the water stuff and then as they say
|
|
in continuity writing, we reach the sequences which deal with the dressing
|
|
room: the alcohol rub and the car with the bum rear wheels.
|
|
We head for home, after having learned that Roscoe's camera man is
|
|
named Elgin Lessley--here we pull a Lou Anger wheeze--"look out"--no, we made
|
|
a mistake--"watch out," and while we're heading for home seated just above
|
|
those jackrabbit wheels, we'll delve a bit into the history--that is the
|
|
family history of the Angers, the Arbuckles and thus bring into the scene a
|
|
noted baseball pitcher, Byron Houck.
|
|
Lou Anger is Arbuckle's business manager and confidant. Lou is married
|
|
to Sophye Barnard, than whom no more patriotic woman ever lived.
|
|
Miss Barnard--the then Miss Barnard, is the singer who laid New York at
|
|
her feet when she featured "Poor Butterfly," the song, at the New York
|
|
Hippodrome. Miss Barnard during our share of the world war was one of the
|
|
devoted women who gave their entire time to making the Red Cross Shop and
|
|
Eighth and Alvarado streets a monumental success. Day and night Miss Barnard
|
|
labored singing, planning, welcoming and--seeing that visitors spent money to
|
|
help the boys abroad.
|
|
Miss Barnard is--you may believe us--a very fine young woman. She has
|
|
a sister, Kathryn, who married Byron Houck, the Vernon ball pitcher, who, in
|
|
his turn, was one greatly responsible for Vernon winning the Coast league
|
|
championship this year.
|
|
Thus, Byron Houck becomes brother-in-law to--well, figure that out for
|
|
yourself.
|
|
And meantime we get home O.K. O.K, the hind wheels having done their
|
|
best or their worst, but when one's fingers are sunk deep into the
|
|
upholstery, it is to laugh at swerving wheels and skidding tires.
|
|
A last word. If you who read are dazzled by the stories of Arbuckle's
|
|
wealth, remember this: Roscoe hustled for it--and in his memory are stories
|
|
of meals he missed, hungry, grey days. Now he's in the sunshine.
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
December 12, 1919
|
|
VARIETY
|
|
[following an announcement that Ince, Sennett, Neilan, Tourneur and
|
|
Dwan had joined together to form Associated Producers, an independent film
|
|
alliance]...Roscoe ("Fatty") Arbuckle arrived in New York Monday morning.
|
|
Asked if there was any truth in the report he contemplated joining the
|
|
combination of directors, he stated he had been approached, but had no desire
|
|
to enter into the business end of the game.
|
|
He added that he had had a lot of fun monkeying with the baseball game,
|
|
and having sold out, now contemplated buying the Los Angeles ball club,
|
|
merely for his own amusement.
|
|
"I have all the money I want," he said, "and at the conclusion of my
|
|
present contract, I will stop making pictures myself, but may be interested
|
|
in having others appear before the camera, just to keep occupied. While I am
|
|
east, I am having 'Buster' Keaton make a picture on his own. Let 'em all
|
|
have a chance. I don't want to be hoggish."
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
May 30, 1920
|
|
Frances Agnew
|
|
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
|
|
Probably the most expensive cast ever assembled will be that for the
|
|
production of "Arizona" to be given as a benefit for the Hollywood Post of
|
|
the American Legion at Clune's Auditorium, June 3, 4 and 5. It will be an
|
|
event long to be remembered and a credit to the generosity of film folk.
|
|
Theodore Roberts is stage director, having the original script which was sent
|
|
to him by the author, Augustus Thomas.
|
|
Dustin Farnum will play Denton; Hobart Bosworth, Colonel Bonham; Ethel
|
|
Clayton will be Estelle; Theodore Roberts, Henry Crosby; William Desmond,
|
|
Tony Mascano; Bessie Barriscale, Bonita; Lewis S. Stone; Sergeant Keller;
|
|
Roscoe Arbuckle, the Doctor; Sessue Hayakawa, Sam, the Chinaman; Gloria
|
|
Swanson, the Schoolma'am; Wanda Hawley, Lena; Lydia Yeamans-Titus, Mrs.
|
|
Canby; Milton Sills, Captain Hodgeman; and Bryant Washburn, Lieutenant.
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
June 1920
|
|
Delight Evans
|
|
PHOTOPLAY
|
|
My intention had been to have a quiet, serious talk with Roscoe
|
|
Arbuckle. I see now how wrong I was. Just as we entered the dining-room,
|
|
Fa--Mr. Arbuckle sneezed. He couldn't help it. Neither could you. But--it
|
|
came at the wrong time--and I'm never going to criticize again that old film
|
|
situation in which the hero and heroine, successfully hid from their pursuer,
|
|
spoil it all with a good, healthy, old-fashion kerchoo. That's what Roscoe
|
|
did. Immediately it was as if he was the only customer. The captain and the
|
|
waiters came running and fairly begged him, with tears in their eyes, to
|
|
accept the best table...
|
|
"I'm giving up slapstick," said Roscoe, "I've signed a new contract to
|
|
make only features in the future. I'll do 'Brewster's Millions' and 'The
|
|
Travelling Salesman' instead of the two-reelers which take me twenty-four
|
|
hours a day to make--and I can't sleep nights when I'm making one. No--I'm
|
|
going to let the other fellow have the trouble of directing--and devote my
|
|
own time to thinking up original comedy touches..."
|
|
Roscoe said dreamily the show he'd enjoyed most, not even excepting the
|
|
new Ziegfeld Roof, was "Abraham Lincoln."
|
|
And that, after all, it was serious things that counted--you have to
|
|
take things seriously to make good.
|
|
And that he's never going to let anything unlifelike creep into his
|
|
comedies.
|
|
And he likes Harold Lloyd's work...
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
October 24, 1920
|
|
Frances Agnew
|
|
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
|
|
(Los Angeles, Oct. 18)--And last Monday was the day that Buster Keaton,
|
|
Metro comedian, also celebrated a birthday, his twenty-fifth. The party
|
|
given in the evening by the star's father and mother, Joe and Myra Keaton,
|
|
was enjoyed by everybody associated with the funmaker, from his big boss of
|
|
affairs, Lou Anger, down to the office boy, Luke McGluke, while other guests
|
|
were Roscoe Arbuckle, Viola Dana, Shirley Mason, Alice Lake, Lew Cody and
|
|
Bernard Durning.
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
November 26, 1920
|
|
VARIETY
|
|
Roscoe Arbuckle failed to leave New York on the Imperator last week,
|
|
but his baggage left by that steamer. The trouble was "Fatty" had too much
|
|
farewell party and both he and Fred Ward missed the boat. He sailed in the
|
|
Aquitania Tuesday.
|
|
Regarding the report of marriage Arbuckle stated before sailing that
|
|
one could never tell what might happen in France and he might come back with
|
|
a French wife.
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
November 30, 1920
|
|
NEW YORK HERALD (Paris edition)
|
|
|
|
Aquitania Lands "Fatty" Arbuckle
|
|
|
|
Cherbourg, Monday--The Cunard liner Aquitania arrived here tonight in
|
|
bad weather. The passengers landed about 9:45 p.m. and left at 10:15 for
|
|
Paris...
|
|
One of the first to land here was Mr. Roscoe Arbuckle, known in all the
|
|
world's moving-picture shows as "Fatty," he was met by a number of
|
|
representatives of film companies and stated that he was delighted with the
|
|
prospect of seeing Paris.
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
December 1, 1920
|
|
NEW YORK HERALD (Paris edition)
|
|
|
|
French Receive "Fatty" Warmly
|
|
|
|
That Roscoe ("Fatty") Arbuckle, the American movie star, is as popular
|
|
in France as in his native country has been firmly established by the
|
|
reception accorded him during his first day in Paris yesterday. From his
|
|
arrival at the Gare Saint-Lazare from Cherbourg yesterday morning at six
|
|
o'clock until the curtain was rung down on the final scene at the Folies-
|
|
Bergere, which "Fatty" attended as a special guest last evening, he was fully
|
|
occupied, and when he turned in last night after going forty-eight hours
|
|
without sleep, he took pains to give instructions that he be not awakened
|
|
early this morning.
|
|
An hour before "Fatty" was scheduled to leave Claridge's Hotel, where
|
|
he is stopping to get a daylight view of Paris for the first time, numbers of
|
|
persons, mostly Frenchmen, began to gather outside the hotel, and when at
|
|
eleven o'clock the cinema star stepped into the automobile awaiting him, a
|
|
group of about three hundred people had congregated, all anxious to see the
|
|
beaming, chubby, rosy "Fatty." The car, which was adorned with two large
|
|
American flags, hesitated for a minute while movie and camera men took their
|
|
shots before it headed for the Arc de Triomphe.
|
|
At the Arc de Triomphe "Fatty" alighted to place on the spot where the
|
|
Unknown Soldier is to lie a handsome bouquet of flowers, which a young French
|
|
admirer had presented to him before leaving the hotel. He then drove to the
|
|
Bank of France and subscribed liberally to the French loan before lunching at
|
|
Claridge's Hotel.
|
|
The movie actor was received at 4 p.m. at the offices of the "Matin,"
|
|
where his reception was the most demonstrative of the day. Hundreds of
|
|
Frenchmen and many Americans crowded into the building to get a glimpse of
|
|
jovial, happy "Fatty." But those outside, the several hundred others left,
|
|
were far from being satisfied and began to set up a howl. Meanwhile three
|
|
French girls had managed to get close enough to the movie idol to kiss him on
|
|
both cheeks, in spite of his inate bashfulness. Finally a stand was
|
|
improvised for him outside the "Matin" office, and for the first time during
|
|
the day everybody was able to get a full view of "Fatty."
|
|
Then a member of the "Matin" staff made a short speech in which he
|
|
cordially welcomed the actor to France, telling how "Fatty" had helped to
|
|
cheer and comfort the French nation during its trying period. "Fatty," in
|
|
response, immediately drew a laugh when he declared that "the only place in
|
|
America to get a drink is the police station."
|
|
"Fatty" had scarcely entered the door at the Folies-Bergere last night
|
|
before he was recognized by the whole house, which was particularly crowded
|
|
because of his expected appearance. As he moved toward the seats reserved
|
|
for his party, murmurs of "There's Fatty! There's Fatty!" ran through the
|
|
audience.
|
|
Mr. Arbuckle told a correspondent of the New York Herald last evening
|
|
that he thoroughly enjoyed his Transatlantic trip, which was decided upon
|
|
just two days before the ship sailed. He expects to remain in Paris for two
|
|
weeks before going to England. While crossing he was a great favorite with
|
|
the passengers, being permanent guardian of the "pool" on the ship.
|
|
"It is needless to say that I appreciate the warm reception that has
|
|
been extended to me by the French," he said. "I have always had the greatest
|
|
admiration for this country and although I have seen but little of it as yet,
|
|
I feel quite satisfied that I shall want to remain here much longer than I
|
|
can. I was especially impressed by my reception at the 'Matin' office."
|
|
"Fatty" was recognized wherever he went yesterday by many French
|
|
people, who waved or cheered or gathered about the automobile containing his
|
|
party. His one drawback was that he cannot speak French. "But you don't
|
|
have to speak French over here to be understood," he added.
|
|
Accompanying him is Mr. Fred Ward, a retired movie actor, of New York.
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
December 2, 1920
|
|
NEW YORK HERALD (Paris edition)
|
|
"Fatty" Arbuckle, the American movie star, will be the guest of honor
|
|
at the second of the series of dances given by the Women's Auxiliary, Paris
|
|
Post No. 1, American Legion, which is to be held on Saturday evening
|
|
[December 5] at Salle du Parthenon, 64 rue du Rocher.
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
December 6, 1920
|
|
NEW YORK HERALD (Paris edition)
|
|
"Fatty" Arbuckle's sojourn in Paris has been cut short, and he will
|
|
leave tonight for a short visit to London before sailing for America on
|
|
December 15. He had expected to stay here two weeks before going to England,
|
|
but a cablegram from New York telling of urgent business at home caused a
|
|
change in his plans.
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
January 9, 1921
|
|
Frances Agnew
|
|
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
|
|
(Los Angeles, Jan. 3)--Much has been written and a lot said to the
|
|
effect that Cupid has been interested in the affairs of Roscoe (Fatty)
|
|
Arbuckle and Dorothy Wallace. The latest story printed locally Friday had it
|
|
that Mr. Arbuckle, who has just returned from New York, would announce the
|
|
engagement at his New Year's Eve party. We couldn't get in touch with Miss
|
|
Wallace, but denials were forthcoming from the rotund comedian via the Lasky
|
|
publicity office who insisted that the story was merely the result of the
|
|
batch of rumors which have been floating around the colony of late.
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
March 19, 1921
|
|
DRAMATIC MIRROR
|
|
Fatty Arbuckle was in Cleveland last Thursday. During the afternoon he
|
|
appeared personally at the State Theatre where his picture "Brewster's
|
|
Millions" was the current feature.
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
May 1921
|
|
Cal York (Adela Rogers St. Johns)
|
|
PHOTOPLAY
|
|
The American Society of Cinematographers (which Fatty Arbuckle says is
|
|
French for cameramen) gave a ball at the new Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles
|
|
the other evening that was quite THE social event of the season, pictorially
|
|
speaking.
|
|
Roscoe Arbuckle helped lead the orchestra part of the evening and did
|
|
very well, but his prize performance of the night, to my way of thinking, was
|
|
the last dance, which he had with a lovely little Follies girl. The rotund
|
|
comedian had had a hard day, apparently, the evening had been long--and
|
|
rather wet--and Roscoe went to sleep on the floor, resting his head gently
|
|
against his partner's rosy cheek and continuing to move his feet occasionally
|
|
to the music. If they covered more than six feet the whole dance, San
|
|
Francisco is a suburb of New York.
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
August 6, 1921
|
|
DRAMATIC MIRROR
|
|
Roscoe (Fatty) Arbuckle and his company which includes Lila Lee,
|
|
returned to Hollywood last week after filming scenes for "Freight Prepaid" in
|
|
Chicago.
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
August 7, 1921
|
|
Louella Parsons
|
|
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
|
|
Roscoe Arbuckle has lost eight pounds. The hot weather in Chicago did
|
|
it, assisted by the row he had with the waiter at the Congress Hotel.
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
September 11, 1921
|
|
LOS ANGELES EXAMINER
|
|
Late in 1920 "Fatty" sailed for France, and was greeted there so
|
|
enthusiastically that he was severely injured. A number of men in a crowd
|
|
attempted to carry "their hero" on their shoulders, but they did not
|
|
calculate his avoirdupois carefully enough, and "Fatty" fell to the pavement.
|
|
...His most recent escapades, however, were in the dignified Congress
|
|
Hotel in Chicago this summer.
|
|
"Fatty," with James Cruze and Ed Keyes, directors, were lunching in the
|
|
hotel dining room, with Joe Greenberg, a waiter, serving the trio. For the
|
|
delectation of all "Fatty" took a club sandwich and flattened it on his head,
|
|
making Joe double up in guffaws.
|
|
"Mr. Arbuckle," he said, "you're the funniest man I ever saw," to the
|
|
tune of "Fatty" throwing a sandwich past the waiter's nose.
|
|
"Wait," said "Fatty," here's a funnier one," and, according to reports,
|
|
he proceeded to slam a platter of creamed chicken in the waiter's face.
|
|
Joe fled, dripping creamed chicken as he ran.
|
|
But in a few minutes he returned with two officers and "Fatty" had a
|
|
free ride to the Clark Street Station, where he was compelled to put up a $50
|
|
deposit for his appearance in court. As he never appeared for trial, Judge
|
|
Haas forfeited the bail.
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
July 12, 1941
|
|
Alan Hynd
|
|
LIBERTY
|
|
[The following is from a lengthy serialized biography of Joseph
|
|
Schenck, based on interviews with him. After charges were filed against
|
|
Arbuckle concerning the death of Virginia Rappe, Schenck contacted Arbuckle.]
|
|
"Tell me, Roscoe," said Joe, "are you guilty of any crime in connection
|
|
with this death?"
|
|
"Joe," said Arbuckle, "as God is my judge, I wished that girl no harm.
|
|
The whole thing was an accident."
|
|
"Have you any money [for the legal defense], Roscoe?"
|
|
The comedian shrugged, and his chubby face took on the expression of a
|
|
boy deeply hurt. "You know me, Joe," he answered. "I spent it as fast as I
|
|
made it."
|
|
"All right," said Schenck. "I have a hundred thousand dollars for you.
|
|
There's more where that came from if you need it."
|
|
Arbuckle began to cry. "Don't blubber," said Schenck. "Tell me. What
|
|
does Minta think of this mess?"...
|
|
"She's sticking by me," said the film clown. "She believes in me,
|
|
too."...
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
December 24, 1921
|
|
Mrs. Minta Durfee Arbuckle
|
|
MOVIE WEEKLY
|
|
The True Story About My Husband
|
|
|
|
As surely as God is above me, and I believe in Him very sincerely,
|
|
I know that Roscoe Arbuckle did not do the thing for which he has been made
|
|
to face trial.
|
|
My reasons are as powerful as they are simple. He has told me what
|
|
happened and what did not happen in that hotel room, and I believe him. And
|
|
I know, after thirteen years of married life, that he is not that kind of a
|
|
man. He simply could not do such a thing.
|
|
I first heard of his trouble when I walked into a hotel parlor and saw
|
|
a newspaper with the name "Arbuckle" in great headlines. It was a terrible
|
|
shock. My first thought was that he had been killed in some motion picture
|
|
stunt. Then the fear came that perhaps there had been an automobile accident-
|
|
-perhaps he had killed someone with his car, but I knew that he is such a
|
|
splendid driver that that could hardly have happened.
|
|
Then I learned what really was the matter, and my first thought was to
|
|
get to him as quickly as I could. I knew that he could not be guilty, but I
|
|
wanted to hear the from his own lips the true story of the affair, and I
|
|
wanted to be with him in his trouble. It was for that reason and no other
|
|
that I traveled three thousand miles to San Francisco, and it is because I
|
|
believe implicitly and firmly that what he has told me is the absolute truth,
|
|
confirming my own trust in him, that I have been with him ever since.
|
|
The moment that I learned he was in trouble, I knew there was only one
|
|
place in the world for me, and that was with my husband, for he is my
|
|
husband, although differences of temperament--and nothing more, except
|
|
perhaps a little stubborn pride on both sides--have kept us apart for five
|
|
years. When this affair happened, the little things over which we had
|
|
disagreed seemed utterly unimportant.
|
|
Perhaps I have old-fashioned believes about marriage, but it always
|
|
seemed to me that a real wife must be as much sweetheart, friend, pal, and
|
|
even mother, as wife. I'm not pretending to be a saint, and I like a good
|
|
time as well as anybody, but being a wife has always appealed to me as a
|
|
life's work.
|
|
When we like anyone, we Durfees, we like them for a long long time. My
|
|
faith in Roscoe Arbuckle is too great to be shaken by any attacks upon him,
|
|
even if they were supported by real proof.
|
|
It hurt me when the rumor spread that I had come to him because I was
|
|
looking for notoriety or because I had been paid to do it, as was intimated
|
|
in some places. I am his wife, and my place was with him. I believe that
|
|
even if we had been divorced I would have come, just the same. I could not
|
|
have seen the man I know to be the victim of unjust accusations, face his
|
|
trouble and not have me with him.
|
|
As for the party itself, knowing Roscoe Arbuckle as I do, I can very
|
|
easily understand his share in it. Mr. Arbuckle is just a big, easy-going,
|
|
good-natured boy. I can understand just how he found himself the host that
|
|
afternoon, without ever intending to invite anybody there. As a matter of
|
|
fact, he did not invite any of the guests. The party was not his suggestion.
|
|
Other people got the crowd together, and simply used his rooms.
|
|
Mr. Arbuckle has told me that so far as the liquor that was there is
|
|
concerned, he actually does not know where it came from or how it got there.
|
|
Perhaps the best proof of that is that with all the bills he has had to pay,
|
|
he has never paid one cent for the liquor that was served--and in these days,
|
|
no one gets liquor without paying for it.
|
|
I can picture him that afternoon as the involuntary host at a party not
|
|
of his invitation or suggestions; perhaps enjoying it, for although he
|
|
scarcely ever starts a party himself, he likes company and enjoys being with
|
|
people. Certainly no one can blame him, if the party became noisy and too
|
|
lively. As a matter of fact, he has told me that he did complain of the
|
|
actions of certain members of the party and told them that they were going
|
|
too far. Perhaps that very thing aroused a spirit of revenge that was
|
|
responsible for the charges made against him.
|
|
As for Virginia Rappe, the minute I saw her name in connection with the
|
|
case it made me more sure than ever that my husband was being made the victim
|
|
of circumstances. I do not want to say anything against her; in fact, both
|
|
Mr. Arbuckle and myself urged from the very beginning that nothing be brought
|
|
into the case that would tend to besmirch her character if it could possibly
|
|
be kept out. We were not responsible for published statements attacking her.
|
|
That was done by other persons, evidently fearing that we would try such
|
|
measures and wishing to forestall us. They were very much mistaken. Nothing
|
|
has been farther from our thoughts.
|
|
I knew Virginia Rappe as long as Mr. Arbuckle did. Henry Lehrmann, her
|
|
manager, was also my director at one time. I knew the girl, not only from
|
|
personal acquaintance but from acquaintance with many of her friends.
|
|
I do not believe that Virginia Rappe was a conscious factor in any
|
|
maneuver directed against Mr. Arbuckle. If there were a deliberate plot
|
|
against him, I do not think that she knew anything about it. She was in Los
|
|
Angeles, financially hard up, out of work and unable to get help from her
|
|
friends. She came to San Francisco, I believe, merely on a pleasure trip.
|
|
She went to that party, not because Mr. Arbuckle invited her, but because she
|
|
was asked to meet Ira Fortlouis, a gown designer and salesman, who had seen
|
|
her and thought she would make a good model. That we know from the words of
|
|
Fred Fishback, who told us that Mr. Fortlouis had seen Miss Rappe, had
|
|
admired her possibilities as a model, and finding that she was in San
|
|
Francisco, asked to meet her.
|
|
If Miss Rappe had not died, I believe that nothing would ever have been
|
|
heard of the affair, because there would have been nothing to talk about.
|
|
There are hundreds and hundreds of just such impromptu parties all the time.
|
|
People drink and dance and have a good time, and no one is the worse for it.
|
|
I believe that the whole trouble started when someone who thought that
|
|
Mr. Arbuckle would be an "easy mark" and perhaps was further moved by anger
|
|
against him for some reason, seized on Miss Rappe's death as the reason for
|
|
wild statements and unfounded charges. It is difficult to discuss that point
|
|
without making direct accusations, and that I prefer not to do, but it seems
|
|
perfectly evident to me that this motive was back of the whole thing.
|
|
Ever since he was a boy--and he practically grew up with our family--
|
|
Mr. Arbuckle has been careless with money. He never considered expense.
|
|
Money simply meant the means of getting what he wanted, of enjoying himself,
|
|
of helping other people. Incidentally, helping other people is the way a
|
|
great deal of his money has gone. He has been most generous with me, even
|
|
since our separation. He has supported relatives. He has always been ready
|
|
to help anyone who needed it. He has half a dozen pensioners about whom
|
|
nobody but his own people know. Even during his trial, when he knew that the
|
|
tremendous expenses he was under and the loss of the salary he had always had
|
|
were making him actually a poor man, I have known him to give $5 bills to
|
|
beggars who stopped him on the street.
|
|
And speaking of expenses, I want to say that Mr. Arbuckle and no one
|
|
else has been paying the costs of his trial and all the rest of it. It has
|
|
been said that the motion picture interests were behind him. They were not.
|
|
Every cent has come out of his own pocket or out of mine.
|
|
As a matter of fact, so far from receiving support from the picture
|
|
interests, Mr. Arbuckle has been out of a job since the day after he was
|
|
arrested--out of work for the first time since he began his motion picture
|
|
work. He did not know it until after I came to him. I learned it just
|
|
before I left New York; learned that as soon as the news reached the East, he
|
|
was dropped. It was a terrible shock to him. He has always had such faith
|
|
in his friends, that it hurt him very much.
|
|
With a reputation of being a good spender, always ready to listen to a
|
|
hard luck story, and not at all a good manager of his own business affairs
|
|
because of this generosity, it is no wonder that he attracted people who were
|
|
after him for what they could get, to put it bluntly.
|
|
I know of many cases: men who have persuaded him to give them money,
|
|
girls with whom he was friendly who have actually made him a joke because it
|
|
was so easy to get money away from him. Everyone thought of him as an easy-
|
|
going fellow, ready to accept people at their own valuation, and not at all
|
|
difficult to manage. I can see just how a clever and unprincipled man or
|
|
woman who was looking for an easy victim would select him.
|
|
Moreover, Mr. Arbuckle has been not only financially successful but
|
|
prominent in his work. There is something about success and prominence,
|
|
particularly in the theatrical world, that makes men and women targets for
|
|
the malice of others. As soon as an actor becomes known in his profession,
|
|
it seems to inspire lies and slander and scandal about him, started by those
|
|
strange people who believe that the theatre and good morals cannot go
|
|
together, and helped along by people who should know better, but who seem to
|
|
take a delight in repeating unproved gossip, and the more scandalous gossip,
|
|
the better.
|
|
I was not surprised, then, when the moment the news of his trouble
|
|
became known, the newspapers were filled with the most malicious attacks on
|
|
him. It hurt me terribly, of course, as it hurt him, but it is one of the
|
|
penalties of being well-known; there is always someone waiting for the chance
|
|
to do just that thing.
|
|
Mr. Arbuckle and I want just two things: first, of course, that he be
|
|
cleared of these charges, and then that the public we love so much will take
|
|
him back into favor, not because of any material interests, but because it
|
|
will mean that the public recognizes that he is the innocent victim of a
|
|
malicious attack rather than the terrible creature he has been painted.
|
|
He wants, particularly, to have the women and children of the theatre-
|
|
going public know his innocence and receive him again as they have always
|
|
received him. He always has the children in mind when he makes a picture; he
|
|
never does a scene that could offend or that would be harmful for a child to
|
|
see. In all the many pictures he has made, he has never appeared in a scene
|
|
that has been censored.
|
|
A great deal was said when the trial began about there being women on
|
|
the jury. Some people expressed surprise that our attorneys did not try to
|
|
get a jury entirely of men. They thought, I suppose, that women would be
|
|
unwelcome because of the traditional stand of a woman in judging a case
|
|
involving such charges as are brought in this case.
|
|
Absolutely the contrary was true. We did not try to keep women off the
|
|
jury. We all hoped that women would be drawn, and Mr. Arbuckle and I were
|
|
delighted when the final selection left five good sensible women in the jury
|
|
box. Both of us have great faith in a woman's intuition, and we were
|
|
perfectly confident that the women would give us a fair deal.
|
|
And speaking of women, I do want the women of the country to know that
|
|
in spite of all the insinuations and ugly stories that have been circulated
|
|
since this thing began, Roscoe Arbuckle is the most modest of men. Certainly
|
|
I should know. I have been his wife for thirteen years. For eight of those
|
|
years we were hardly out of each other's sight, and in all those eight years
|
|
I never remember a single action or a single word that, by the farthest
|
|
stretch of the imagination, could be called even immodest, to say nothing of
|
|
vulgar or lewd.
|
|
He is minutely careful about his dress. Even in our own home, he is as
|
|
particular with the members of his own family as he is with strangers. It is
|
|
an actual fact that in all the years I have been his wife, I have never seen
|
|
him when he was not clothed.
|
|
A great deal has been made of the fact that on the afternoon of this
|
|
party, Mr. Arbuckle was wearing pajamas and a dressing gown. On the face of
|
|
it, without any explanation, it sounds odd--that a man should receive guests,
|
|
including women and some women who were strangers to him, in such a costume.
|
|
As a matter of fact, the explanation clears up everything. Not long before
|
|
the trip to San Francisco, Mr. Arbuckle was accidentally burned with muriatic
|
|
acid. It was a serious burn and very painful, and he had to wear a thick
|
|
cotton dressing. He always had his clothing made rather tightly fitting in
|
|
order to keep him from looking any fatter than he is, and tight clothing over
|
|
the burn was anything but comfortable. Whenever he could, he wore loose
|
|
clothing, and that was why he was dressed in pajamas on the day of the party.
|
|
Remember, he did not suggest the party; it simply moved in on him, as they
|
|
say, and the whole thing happened so unexpectedly that he let his costume go.
|
|
And I wish the people who have criticised his attire could see the
|
|
pajamas and the dressing gown. The pajamas were of the thickest silk he
|
|
could buy, as heavy as the heaviest linen. The dressing gown was of thick
|
|
brocade, lined with heavy silk, and it was long enough to reach to his ankles
|
|
and double-brested. Actually, although his costume was informal, he was much
|
|
more thoroughly covered than any man on the tennis court or the beach.
|
|
In line with his modesty regarding dress, I want people to understand
|
|
Mr. Arbuckle's personal modesty, particularly with women. As a matter of
|
|
fact, he prefers to be with men. He likes nothing better than to get a crowd
|
|
of men together and sing and laugh and enjoy themselves like a crowd of
|
|
college boys.
|
|
All his life, Mr. Arbuckle has been embarrassed by his size. He has
|
|
believed that women could not like a fat man, and for that reason he has
|
|
hesitated even more than might be natural about developing friendships among
|
|
women. He is not the type of man who caresses a woman. If he likes a girl,
|
|
he will tease her or make her presents or generally be nice to her, but he
|
|
will never think of putting his hands on her. In fact, he carries it so far
|
|
that it is almost an obsession.
|
|
Knowing that trait of character, I cannot imagine him doing what it has
|
|
been said he did. I have known all about his affairs, and I know that he
|
|
never forced his acquaintance on a woman. If she were friendly, and he liked
|
|
her, he could be good friends, but he has always been so conscious of that
|
|
traditional "nobody loves a fat man" idea, that it has influenced him in his
|
|
friendships.
|
|
For eight years I was constantly with Mr. Arbuckle, and in all that
|
|
time I never heard him use vile language or tell disgusting stories or do
|
|
anything of that sort. He likes a good time, but he likes a clean good time.
|
|
He likes machinery, and loves to tinker with the cars. He is fond of dogs,
|
|
and likes nothing better than to take a day off and wash our three dogs. He
|
|
and the big St. Bernard have wonderful times. Mr. Arbuckle gets into his
|
|
bathing suit, and puts a tub in the garage, and he and the dog are perfectly
|
|
happy there for half a day.
|
|
In the eight years that followed our marriage, I came to know my
|
|
husband in every particular. Few married couples are together as much as we
|
|
were in those years.
|
|
We met at Long Beach, where he was principal comedian in a musical
|
|
comedy company and I was in the chorus. We were married in 1908, and for the
|
|
next eight years we were hardly out of one another's sight. Not very long
|
|
after our marriage, we went to Los Angeles, where motion pictures were just
|
|
beginning to become a great industry. We found work at the same studio,
|
|
doing comedy pictures.
|
|
Every morning we rode to the studio together. All day long we worked
|
|
in the same studio and the same picture. In a year and half I played with
|
|
Mr. Arbuckle in forty-seven pictures.
|
|
If either of us went anywhere in the evening, the other always went
|
|
along. I was brought up in the belief--they call it old-fashioned now--that
|
|
a wife's place was to suit herself to her husband's wishes, and to go where
|
|
he wanted to go. In fact, I so thoroughly fitted myself into Mr. Arbuckle's
|
|
life, that I almost lost my own interests. He does not care for reading, and
|
|
I am very fond of it. I love books, and I love to find my own problems
|
|
solved in them. However, he did not care particularly for reading, so I let
|
|
my books go. It was the same with other things. His interests became mine,
|
|
absolutely.
|
|
Perhaps we made a mistake by being so much together. It is the safest
|
|
thing for married couples to take an occasional vacation from each other.
|
|
I know that now, but you couldn't make me believe it then. We had our
|
|
careers. Roscoe was on the way to becoming a star, and I was doing well with
|
|
my work. We were both busy, and busy people are often nervous and irritable.
|
|
Two busy people in a family frequently clash, not because of any dislike, but
|
|
simply because they get on each other's nerves, and neither one, because of
|
|
the continual strain of work, has the time to acquire sufficient calmness to
|
|
meet the other's needs.
|
|
Roscoe has no great faults; that I know. But he is human and like
|
|
other men, he has his minor difficulties. He has always been inclined to be
|
|
stubborn in spite of his easy-going nature. It sounds like an impossibility,
|
|
but every wife will know that it can be true.
|
|
Well, if he can be stubborn, so can I. Probably our separation was as
|
|
much my fault as it was his. We began to clash a little, probably over some
|
|
very unimportant thing. He wouldn't admit that he was wrong, and neither
|
|
would I. He is like a boy; he wants to be coaxed; and as for myself,
|
|
I cannot force myself on anyone, least of all a man, if I have the slightest
|
|
feeling that I may not be welcome.
|
|
So we simply got on one another's nerves, and it never got properly
|
|
straightened out, until this thing happened, and all our little disagreements
|
|
were swept out of sight.
|
|
Even during the years that we were separated, we were friends. We
|
|
corresponded frequently; Mr. Arbuckle often called me up over the long
|
|
distance telephone when I was in New York and he was in Los Angeles; and
|
|
whenever he was in New York, he came to see me. That doesn't sound much like
|
|
being enemies, does it?
|
|
All during the trial, I have sat in the courtroom and prayed over and
|
|
over a little prayer that Mr. Arbuckle would be cleared and that the real
|
|
truth would become known. I dislike to make direct charges concerning
|
|
anyone, but I can simply say that the circumstantial evidence that was
|
|
brought out against Mr. Arbuckle sounded to me very weak indeed, and as for
|
|
direct accusations, I do not believe them. It seems perfectly clear to me
|
|
that every circumstance developed in the case can be explained as effectively
|
|
in Mr. Arbuckle's favor as against him, and as for anything further, it must
|
|
be remembered that Mrs. Delmont, who first made the charges and who was
|
|
really the only one to accuse Mr. Arbuckle directly, was not put on the stand
|
|
by the prosecution. Surely they would have insisted upon her testimony,
|
|
unless they did not believe her story after all, or unless they feared that
|
|
we could discredit her.
|
|
I know that Roscoe Arbuckle is innocent, and that he will be acquitted,
|
|
but I hope that the case will go so that he is clearly acquitted on the facts
|
|
and not simply by legal technicalities. As much as he wants his freedom from
|
|
these charges, and as much as I want it, it will mean little if he is still
|
|
under a cloud. He has been deeply hurt in many ways during this affair. He
|
|
has seen fair-weather friends fall away from him, and he has learned the
|
|
value of his true friends.
|
|
Roscoe Arbuckle looks on every man, woman and child who has ever
|
|
enjoyed him in the films as his friend, and those friends he wants to keep.
|
|
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
December 31, 1921
|
|
Roscoe Arbuckle
|
|
MOVIE WEEKLY
|
|
Roscoe Arbuckle Tells His Own Story
|
|
|
|
The hardest thing I have ever done in my life was to keep still for the
|
|
twelve weeks between September 10th, when I heard that Virginia Rappe had
|
|
died in a San Francisco hospital, and November 28, when I went on the witness
|
|
stand to tell my story for the first time.
|
|
As soon as I was told that I was being held responsible for Miss
|
|
Rappe's death and that I would have to clear myself in the eyes of a jury and
|
|
of the world, I wanted to tell the truth. No one but myself could tell the
|
|
whole truth of the affair, for no one else knew. Other people knew part of
|
|
the story, and some of them thought that they knew a great deal more than
|
|
they really did, but I alone could tell everything.
|
|
However, I realized that my attorneys knew best and that if I spoke too
|
|
soon there would be danger of hurting my case and that the wisest thing would
|
|
be to keep silent until the right time came to speak. So although I did not
|
|
look forward with any pleasure to going on the witness stand--no man likes to
|
|
have to defend himself against charges that he knows are unjust--I was really
|
|
glad that at last the chance had come to let the whole world know that I was
|
|
not guilty of the crime charged against me.
|
|
I did not hurt Virginia Rappe in any way whatever. I never had any
|
|
intention of hurting her. I would not hurt any woman.
|
|
Whatever motive inspired the people who accused me, it was not
|
|
knowledge that I had done the thing they said I did. It seems almost
|
|
impossible to me that anyone could be so cruel and malicious as to make such
|
|
terrible charges against a man without the most positive proof to support
|
|
those charges, and yet that is what happened.
|
|
I was accused of saying and doing things that never entered my mind,
|
|
and not only that, but things I did say and do were twisted and
|
|
misinterpreted until they sounded very different from the truth.
|
|
People have talked about me as entertaining a gay party in my rooms at
|
|
the hotel that day. It has been referred to again and again as the "Arbuckle
|
|
party."
|
|
It wasn't my party at all. The only person who came to those rooms
|
|
that day at my invitation was Mrs. Mae Taube, with whom I had made an
|
|
engagement to go driving in the afternoon.
|
|
Other people invited all the other guests. Most of the guests I had
|
|
never seen before that afternoon. Miss Rappe came at the invitation of Fred
|
|
Fishback, and he invited her at the suggestion of Ira Fortlouis, who had seen
|
|
the girl and thought she would do for a model. Mrs. Delmont came with Miss
|
|
Rappe. I really don't know how the others happened to come. The first thing
|
|
I knew, they were there, and that was all there was to it.
|
|
I had arisen that morning about 11 o'clock, and had put on my pajamas,
|
|
bathrobe and slippers. If I had had any idea that people were coming to the
|
|
rooms, I certainly would have changed my clothes, but, as I say, the people
|
|
simply walked in. When they were there, they made themselves at home, went
|
|
back and forth between the rooms, and I had no time to dress. I hadn't
|
|
invited them, but they were in my rooms, and I couldn't be rude.
|
|
There were three rooms in the suite, 1219, 1220 and 1221. The sitting
|
|
room was 1220, and the other two were bedrooms, one on each side of the
|
|
sitting room. Most of the time the people stayed in 1220, but they went into
|
|
the other rooms whenever they wanted to.
|
|
Early in the afternoon I saw Virginia Rappe go into Room 1221. I did
|
|
not see her come out again. It was almost time for my automobile to arrive,
|
|
and so I went into Room 1219, which was my bedroom, intending to dress.
|
|
I had no idea that there was anybody in the room.
|
|
I closed the door into 1220 and locked it, because the people were
|
|
going back and forth between the rooms, and I wanted to keep them out while I
|
|
was dressing.
|
|
I went straight to the bathroom, and as I opened the door, it struck
|
|
against something. I pushed in, and saw Miss Rappe lying on the floor,
|
|
clutching her body with both hands and moaning. Of course, I thought right
|
|
away that she was ill, and my first thought was to help her.
|
|
As quickly as I could, I picked her up from the floor and held her
|
|
while she suffered an attack of nausea. She seemed to be very sick, but she
|
|
had been drinking some liquor, and I thought that was the trouble.
|
|
And by the way, the liquor which was served that afternoon was not
|
|
mine. All I know about it is that Fred Fishback went to the closet in Room
|
|
1221 and brought out a couple of bottles of Scotch whiskey and a bottle of
|
|
gin. Some orange juice and seltzer were sent up from downstairs, and
|
|
everyone helped himself to drinks. Miss Rappe drank gin and orange juice,
|
|
about three drinks.
|
|
As soon as Miss Rappe was able, I helped her out into the room. She
|
|
said something about wanting to lie down, and I set her on the edge of one of
|
|
the beds. She lay down, and I lifted her feet to the bed and left her there
|
|
for a minute, as I thought that she was simply ill from too much liquor and
|
|
would be all right if she could lie quietly.
|
|
I stepped out of the room for a minute, and when I came back, Miss
|
|
Rappe was lying on the floor between the two beds, again clutching her body
|
|
and moaning. All this time she said nothing that I could understand, just
|
|
moaned and seemed to be in pain.
|
|
I picked her up and laid her on the bed. Then I went out into 1220,
|
|
and found Zey Prevost [Prevon] there.
|
|
I said: "Virginia is sick" and Miss Prevost went into Room 1219.
|
|
Mrs. Delmont was not in 1220 when I came out. I know that she has said
|
|
and Miss Prevost has testified that they knocked at the door from 1220 into
|
|
1219, and Mrs. Delmont has insisted that she kicked as well as knocked, but I
|
|
never heard a sound, and when I came out to get somebody to help Miss Rappe,
|
|
Mrs. Delmont was not in sight.
|
|
She came in a moment later from Room 1221, and went into Room 1219 with
|
|
Miss Prevost.
|
|
I followed them into the room, and saw Miss Rappe sitting on the bed,
|
|
tearing at her clothing. She had both hands gripped in her waist, and was
|
|
ripping it to shreds, gritting her teeth and making noises. She tried to
|
|
tear the green jacket she was wearing, but she could not tear it. Then she
|
|
took hold of her stockings and garters and ripped them off.
|
|
I told Mrs. Delmont and Miss Prevost to make Miss Rappe stop tearing
|
|
her clothing, but she wouldn't stop. She acted like a person in a terrible
|
|
temper, almost beside herself. She didn't scream or say anything, just
|
|
moaned and tore at her garments.
|
|
One sleeve of her waist was hanging by a thread. I thought perhaps the
|
|
best thing would be to try to quiet her instead of opposing her, so I sent
|
|
over to her and took hold of the sleeve, and pulled it off, saying: "All
|
|
right, if you want it off, I'll help you." All I meant was that she seemed
|
|
in an uncontrollable spasm of some kind, and I was afraid that if tried to
|
|
argue with her, she might hurt herself.
|
|
After that I went out of the room, and when I came back a little later,
|
|
Miss Rappe was lying unclothed on the bed and Mrs. Delmont was rubbing her
|
|
with a piece of ice. I picked up a piece of ice that was lying on Miss
|
|
Rappe's body, and asked Mrs. Delmont what was the idea. It seemed to me
|
|
pretty dangerous treatment for anybody but a doctor or a nurse to try.
|
|
Mrs. Delmont turned on me angrily and told me to shut up and mind my
|
|
own business--that she knew how to take care of Virginia. It made me angry,
|
|
for all I wanted to do was to help the sick girl, and Mrs. Delmont was
|
|
talking to me in a way I didn't like, so I told her to shut up or I would
|
|
throw her out of the window. Of course, I wouldn't really have done it; it
|
|
was just one of those things one says in a moment of anger without any idea
|
|
of literal meaning.
|
|
That is an example of how things I really did say have been twisted and
|
|
turned against me. It has been made to sound as if I had said that to
|
|
Virginia Rappe while she lay there suffering and ill. I said it, but I
|
|
certainly did not say it to Miss Rappe, nor did I mean her when I said it.
|
|
I would have been a brute to have spoken to a sick girl like that.
|
|
I realized by that time that Miss Rappe was probably more seriously ill
|
|
than I had thought, and should have a room to herself, so I went back into
|
|
the other rooms and asked Mrs. Taube to telephone to the manager of the hotel
|
|
and ask for another room. The manager came up in a few minutes, and told us
|
|
where we might take Miss Rappe.
|
|
We rolled her up in a bathrobe--she had been lying nude on the bed all
|
|
this time, and uncovered except after I had managed to pull the spread out
|
|
from under her and cover her with it. Then I took her in my arms and started
|
|
down the hall toward the other room. When I was nearly there, she started to
|
|
slip from my arms; she was limp and half-conscious, and very hard to hold.
|
|
I asked the hotel manager to lift her up a little, but he took her in his
|
|
arms and carried her into the room.
|
|
After she was put to bed, I told them to get a doctor, and then I went
|
|
back to my rooms.
|
|
I did not know that Virginia Rappe was even seriously ill until I got
|
|
word of her death. I went back to Los Angeles the next day, because I had
|
|
reservations on the steamer for my party and my car. There was never any
|
|
thought in my mind that Miss Rappe was suffering from anything more than the
|
|
effects of too much liquor or an attack of slight illness. The news of her
|
|
death was my first intimation that it was serious.
|
|
The State's witnesses have testified that they heard screams coming
|
|
from my rooms. I know that all afternoon the window was wide open, and any
|
|
sound louder than an ordinary conversation could have been heard without any
|
|
difficulty; and people who occupied adjoining rooms have declared that they
|
|
heard nothing.
|
|
They have made a great deal out of some finger prints that were found
|
|
on the door of Room 1219--the door that lead into the hallway. Experts have
|
|
tried to show that the prints must have been made by Virginia Rappe's fingers
|
|
and mine, and that when they were made, her hand was against the door and I
|
|
was trying to drag it off.
|
|
I don't know where they get such ideas. There seemed to be marks on
|
|
the door when it was brought into the courtroom, but I certainly did not put
|
|
them there. I am positive that I never touched that door with my hand all
|
|
day, as I had not gone out into the hallway, but only into the other rooms of
|
|
the suite. Certainly I never touched it in the way they said I did. It's a
|
|
mystery to me.
|
|
Jesse Norgaard, who said he was a janitor at the Culver City studios
|
|
when Miss Rappe and I were both working there, testified that once I asked
|
|
him for the keys to her rooms, saying that I wanted to play a joke on her.
|
|
I suppose the idea was to show that I tried to force myself into her room
|
|
when she didn't want to let me in.
|
|
That is absolutely false. I never made any such request of Norgaard,
|
|
nor did I offer him money for the keys, as he said I did. In fact, when I
|
|
saw Norgaard on the witness stand, I couldn't remember ever having seen him
|
|
before. He may have been at the studios, but there were so many people there
|
|
that I couldn't remember them all.
|
|
All this talk of my having been infatuated with Miss Rappe or trying to
|
|
"get her," is absurd. I knew her for several years; we had worked at the
|
|
same studios, and I had met her in other places, but that was absolutely all.
|
|
I knew when I went on the witness stand that my cross-examination was
|
|
going to be as rigid as it could be made, but I had no fear, for I was
|
|
telling nothing but the truth. I know that the lawyers tried many times to
|
|
catch me on details, but they couldn't, because everything I said was true,
|
|
and there was no need to remember what I had said the first time.
|
|
No man can do any more than to tell the truth, and it was the truth I
|
|
told on the witness stand.
|
|
A great many very harsh and unjust things have been said about me since
|
|
this affair began and they have hurt me very much. I have always had many
|
|
friends, but I found when this trouble came, who my real friends were.
|
|
It has hurt me deeply to think that the people to whom I have tried to
|
|
give good clean enjoyment for so many years could turn on me and condemn me
|
|
without a hearing. I suppose every man accused of crime must expect that,
|
|
but it didn't make it any easier for me.
|
|
I have been very grateful to the other people who refused to believe
|
|
that I was guilty merely because I was accused of crime. There have been
|
|
many of them. I have received many many letters and telegrams from people
|
|
all over the country, assuring me that they believed in me, and I am glad to
|
|
know that I have these real friends.
|
|
If everything is straightened out at last and I am cleared of all the
|
|
charges, I hope that these friends will be as ready to welcome me back on the
|
|
screen as I shall be glad to get back. I like to make people laugh and enjoy
|
|
themselves. It pleases me because children are amused at my pictures, and I
|
|
have always tried very hard not to do anything in any picture that would
|
|
offend or be bad for the children.
|
|
One really good thing has come out of all this trouble. It has been
|
|
the means of reuniting my wife and myself after five years of separation. We
|
|
are happy to be together again, and we have discovered that the things that
|
|
kept us apart were very unimportant after all.
|
|
Mrs. Arbuckle has been wonderfully loyal to me during all this trouble.
|
|
She came all the way across the continent to be with me, and every minute she
|
|
has stuck by me. Her faith and love, and the faith and love of her mother,
|
|
who is like a mother to me, have been my greatest helps all these long hard
|
|
weeks.
|
|
While, through the technicalities of the law, I have not been legally
|
|
acquitted of the charge of manslaughter in connection with the death of
|
|
Virginia Rappe, I have been morally acquitted.
|
|
After the organized propaganda, designed to make the securing of an
|
|
impartial jury an impossibility and to prevent my obtaining a fair trial,
|
|
I feel grateful for this message from the jury to the American people. This
|
|
comes, too, after hearing only part of the facts, as the efforts of the
|
|
District Attorney succeeded, on technical objections, in excluding from the
|
|
jury the statements from Miss Rappe to several people of high character,
|
|
completely exonerating me.
|
|
The undisputed and uncontradicted testimony established that my only
|
|
connection with this sad affair was one of merciful service, and the fact
|
|
that ordinary human kindness should have brought upon me this tragedy has
|
|
seemed a cruel wrong. I have sought to bring joy and gladness and merriment
|
|
into the world, and why this great misfortune should have fallen upon me is a
|
|
mystery that only God can, and will, some day reveal.
|
|
I have always rested my cause in a profound believe in Divine justice
|
|
and in the confidence of the great heart and fairness of the American people.
|
|
I want to thank the multitude from all over the world who have
|
|
telegraphed and written to me in my sorrow and expressed their utmost
|
|
confidence in my innocence. I assure them that no act of mine ever has, and
|
|
I promise them that no act of mine ever shall cause them to regret their
|
|
faith in me.
|
|
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
February 2, 1922
|
|
SAN FRANCISCO BULLETIN
|
|
Word of [William Desmond] Taylor's death was brought to Roscoe Arbuckle,
|
|
film comedian, as he sat at the counsel table awaiting the verdict of the jury
|
|
in his manslaughter trial, by a reporter for The Bulletin. Arbuckle's eyes
|
|
filled with tears. He was visibly affected.
|
|
"Taylor was the best fellow on the lot," he said, using a theatrical
|
|
expression. "He was beloved by everybody, and his loss is a shock. I cannot
|
|
begin to say how much everyone liked him. There has never been a breath of
|
|
scandal connected with his name. I cannot understand why anyone would wish to
|
|
murder him as he was the last man in the world to make an enemy."
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
February 15, 1922
|
|
Jack Jungmeyer
|
|
LOS ANGELES RECORD
|
|
Fatty Philosophizes on Taylor Case
|
|
|
|
"The American public is ardent in its hero worship and quite as
|
|
ruthless in destroying its idols in any walk of life.
|
|
"It elevates a man more quickly than any nation in the world, and casts
|
|
him down more quickly--quite often on surmise or a mere hunch.
|
|
"This latter disposition so curiously at variance with the American
|
|
tradition and ideal of justice is just now being driven home particularly to
|
|
the motion picture people of Los Angeles on the heels of Billy Taylor's
|
|
mysterious murder."
|
|
Such was the comment today by "Fatty" Arbuckle on one aftermath angle
|
|
of the noted picture director's assassination in his home here on the night
|
|
of February 1. He was decrying certain innuendos cast against William
|
|
Desmond Taylor, his life and his relationship with women screen stars whose
|
|
names have featured the investigations.
|
|
Arbuckle is back in his West Adams mansion after his second court
|
|
ordeal in connection with the death of Virginia Rappe in San Francisco.
|
|
"It is the general inclination, when trouble happens to strike in film
|
|
circles, for the thoughtless to whisper, malign and gossip and to speak with
|
|
that mock sagacity of the times of 'the inside dope' and 'the low down,'"
|
|
continued Arbuckle.
|
|
"This was brought out quite forcibly in my own case and has been
|
|
accentuated in the case of William Taylor. That I will acquit myself I am
|
|
quite sure, but poor Billy is not here to defend himself from speculations
|
|
which have no basis in proven fact.
|
|
"Taylor lived as he died--a square shooter, absolutely on the level
|
|
with his fellow beings, charitable and kind. His death removed from the
|
|
motion picture industry one of its outstanding characters. To this hundreds
|
|
who knew him best testify.
|
|
"And yet, because of that curious and pervading psychology of suspicion
|
|
to which I have referred, Billy Taylor's name is in many quarters being
|
|
smirched with utter disregard for the facts of his personal and professional
|
|
life.
|
|
"That is far from the dominant trait of our forefathers, who held a man
|
|
innocent until proven guilty. And I know the full weight of this
|
|
vilification and innuendo because I was a victim of the same campaign.
|
|
"Never in history, perhaps, have men and women been so quickly elevated
|
|
to prominence as have the successful folk in pictures. That is because of
|
|
the millions before whom they appear via the screen almost nightly. Their
|
|
names become household words. Their features widely familiar. They are
|
|
virtually next door neighbor to everyone in the land.
|
|
"The man and woman who thus accepts as worthy of esteem this filmland
|
|
neighbor should do himself or herself the moral honor of refusing to accept
|
|
tattle and shouldershrugs in place of fact--as he undoubtedly would in the
|
|
case of his respected physical neighbor."
|
|
*****************************************************************************
|
|
*****************************************************************************
|
|
For more information about Taylor, see
|
|
WILLIAM DESMOND TAYLOR: A DOSSIER (Scarecrow Press, 1991)
|
|
Back issues of Taylorology are available via Gopher or FTP at
|
|
etext.archive.umich.edu
|
|
in the directory pub/Zines/Taylorology
|
|
***************************************************************************** |