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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 41 -- May 1996 Editor: Bruce Long bruce@asu.edu *
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* TAYLOROLOGY may be freely distributed *
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CONTENTS OF THIS ISSUE:
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The Casting Couch and Sexual Harassment in Early Hollywood
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Leslie Henry's Suicide Plan
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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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February 2, 1922
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Henry E. Dougherty
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LOS ANGELES EXPRESS
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Close-Up Sketch of William D. Taylor
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William D. Taylor was a man of extreme courtesy; he talked little, and,
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apparently, he never forgot an acquaintance.
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I have seen him at work and at play, and he was always the same
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unostentatious, unassuming, quiet individual.
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When he did talk it was in a mild, melodious voice. No matter what the
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provocation on a set where he was directing a picture, he rarely if ever lost
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his temper. He addressed those under him with the same courtesy with which
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he conversed with those who wrote his contracts and paid his salary.
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...It was always noticeable that he was extremely courteous to women
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working on his set, but he was never familiar. He would laugh and tell jokes
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and all that sort of thing, but he would not stand for any "rough stuff" in
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any scenes he directed...
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The Casting Couch and Sexual Harassment in Early Hollywood
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Even in the early days of the silent film industry, there were reports
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of what later came to be known as the "casting couch"--where actresses were
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subjected to sexual demands as conditions of employment. Reliable accounts
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agree that William Desmond Taylor never engaged in such practices; but they
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were a part of the silent film industry in which Taylor worked. Below are
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some published reports and allegations concerning the "casting couch"
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practice and sexual harassment during the years when Taylor was employed in
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the silent film industry.
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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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February 21, 1913
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VARIETY
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Picture Stock Scandal May Carry Its Lesson
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A scandal occurring last week in the stock company of a picture concern
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with headquarters in New York City is now the subject of general conversation
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in all of the studios hereabouts. The affair was kept from the daily
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newspapers and the police only by the herculean work of those concerned who
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were friendly to the director of the stock company involved, they realizing
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what exposure might mean to the trade and the general public who are patrons
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of the screen.
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There are two versions concerning the scandal itself. The correct one
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seems to be that the director of the company made advances to a young girl,
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known as a "jobber" (a picture actor or actress who works by the day when
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called upon, usually receiving $5 for the day's service, although this lately
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has been reduced as low as $1.50). The director promised the young woman the
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following week she would become the leading woman of the stock company.
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Lured by his promises, the little actress was betrayed. She was picked up on
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the street by an officer, who sent her to a hospital, finding her stupefied
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with liquor. By the time the effects of the drink wore off friends of the
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director who had heard of the affair located her and dispatched the girl to
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the asylum for complete recovery.
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The father and brother of the little actress also heard of the outrage.
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They started for the studio of the stock company loaded with firearms, but
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the director had been taken out of town by the same friends. The scandal has
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not quieted down yet. It is said there is an indefinite leave of absence
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granted the director, who is not certain when he may return to New York. His
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present whereabouts are kept a perfect secret. The young woman has been
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pronounced temporarily insane. She will leave the asylum in a week or so.
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The story has created the most talk in picture circles among the
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actresses engaged in that line. A couple informed a VARIETY representative
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that similar conditions would not be hard to unearth among three-quarters of
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the picture stock companies. It has grown to be looked upon, they said, as a
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prerogative of the picture stock director. The "jobbers" are nearly always
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the victims. In some cases where girls are ordered by the director for a
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day's work, and the task of calling them either by phone or postal card falls
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to the lot of an office man, very often this person encroaches upon the
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precincts of the company's director by informing the "jobbers" that unless
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they listen to him he will forget their phone number or house address.
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The picture stock scandal is expected to have a lasting lesson among the
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companies. It was a very narrow escape for the director in question. The
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actresses of the profession believe that hereafter directors will be more
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discreet, at least, if not strictly attending to their business only.
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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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March 13, 1914
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VARIETY
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Attention and Punishment for Flirtatious Directors
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A recent flagrant instance of the common practice among certain
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directors in certain screen studios of "loving up" attractive feminine
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applicants for positions, promises to bring about drastic measures through
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the Screen Club for the cessation of the insults and the severe punishment of
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the offenders.
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Everyone familiar with the inner workings of the film stages knows to
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what shameless reaches certain directors in some studios have been going
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since filmdom got popular with the hundreds of girls ambitious for screen
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fame and its other emoluments. But, as in the protected precincts of certain
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regular theatres along show alley in days happily now almost gone, those of
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filmdom who have "seen things" have kept their conclusions to themselves.
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Even reputable directors who have observed liberties to which petticoat
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applicants have been subjected have been forced to hold their tongues, if not
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shut their eyes, to the lecherous advances lest their own jobs be the price
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of protest.
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Film men jealous of the good name of their vocation and conscious of the
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evil practices referred to, have watched its inroads with increasing alarm.
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But though practically everyone knew what was going on, no one interposed.
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And then came the instance that promises reform. A certain director's
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daughter came home from a visit to a studio not a hundred miles from Broadway
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and 42nd Street, last Wednesday with a tale that made her mother weep and
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started her father sputtering about the "unwritten law." Friends of the
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family got to the father before he could get at the unwelcome philanderer,
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and nothing lawless happened.
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But the friends and the father, all members of the Screen Club, got
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together and wrote the flirtatious director a note, specifying more than a
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score of women whom he had recently insulted when they had applied to him for
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studio employment. Further, the self-appointed committee interviewed a half
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dozen or more of the protesting women and girls specified in the unofficial
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indictment, and got their consent to appear as witnesses against the
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transgressor if called upon to do so.
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Report doesn't say what effect the denunciatory missive has thus far had
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upon the morals or manners of the director involved, but it does aver that
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the particular offense nettled so many people affiliated with the Screen Club
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that talk of an ejectment clause to the federation's by-laws for offenses of
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the kind is predicted at the next executive meeting.
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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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December 1914
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Irene Wallace
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GREEN BOOK
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The Woman on the Screen
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...I am a motion picture actress, a leading woman, one of the scores who
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are pouring out every atom of energy, ability and experience they possess, to
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succeed. Therefore it is a rather difficult confession that I must set down
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here, this indisputable, ever-present fact that it is only because of mere
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good fortune that I am permitted to earn an honest living in the films. [The
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most prominent film in which Irene Wallace appeared was "Traffic in Souls."]
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I chanced to be engaged by a strict business management. When I went to
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market, I found a place where work was bought. I did not have to take myself
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to the auction block.
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I went on the stage when I was a child. I worked hard and long to
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learn. I spent years drilling myself in stage technique. Others now on the
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screen did the same. For what? Perhaps to get a position in a motion
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picture studio, to find themselves face to face with the alternative of being
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"a friend of the director," or a "protegee of the manager," or a "favorite of
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the leading man,"--or of quitting their hard-earned positions.
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I believe the films breed more immorality than the stage ever did.
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Ability and work count on the stage. They might bleed their hearts out for a
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trial in some motion picture studios.
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The public cannot comprehend how many women are selling their ability
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and labor and brains at so many dollars a week, with their souls thrown in--
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are forced to sell them or "go look for another job." This is not true
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everywhere; it is not true in the majority of studios; but it is so
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frequently true as to be sickening.
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I love my work, and I love many people of it. I feel their frowns.
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They may say I am digging up filth; but I am only uncovering it in the hope
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that it may be washed away. I want to help those who are good, to continue
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to be good and to warn many unsuspecting creatures of their danger.
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I am writing, too, for a little girl's sake. She has just left my room.
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To retain her position in another company, she would have been forced to give
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up all that a woman considers sacred. She refused; she was discharged. She
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is only seventeen.
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She put her head down on my dressing-table and sobbed out her story.
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Her mother is an invalid. She has a little sister too young to work and
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help.
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"Sometimes I wonder," she said, "if I shouldn't have done it for their
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sake. But isn't there some other way?"
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I told her there was some other way. And there is; but it is a long one
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--sometimes too long when there is no money to pay for the waiting.
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And the man? Oh, he has forgotten long ago. Probably he never thought
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enough about it to forget. He is going his comfortable, self-satisfied way,
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drawing a large salary, discharging more girls, or-- He will continue doing
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so; but who cares? No one but the girls--and there are so many of them in
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the world; why bother about a few, more or less? If you ask him, he probably
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will say, "Oh, it would have been some other man, anyway." That is his
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defense.
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It was the old story.
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Her father was dead. She was almost a baby when she went to work in a
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department store. She got five dollars a week. She kept her soul: the store
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didn't need that--it wasn't a particularly salable article.
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When her mother fell ill, their savings melted. She was pretty, and
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some one in the story told her--that eternal mischief-maker--that she was a
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"type," that the film companies wanted just such girls. And the wages!
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Beginners got three times as much as she was receiving.
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She submitted her application, with her only photograph. She told the
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director of her lack of experience, and of her circumstances. He did not
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sympathize. He merely looked her over, boldly. There was something in his
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eyes that alarmed her.
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"You're a good-looking kid," he decided finally. "I'll give you a
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trial."
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She was to get three dollars a day--when she worked. The director
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believed he could use her most of the time. To the girl it seemed a lot of
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money. She rushed home to her mother, and they had a little party that
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night, a celebration.
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Her part the next day was in a street crowd. Day after day she was
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given something to do. There were other girls there--it seemed as if there
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must have been a hundred of them--and some of them said they hadn't worked
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for weeks. She discovered that it was within the power of the director
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pretty definitely to establish wages. Being a woman, and considering the
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salary, she was nice to him.
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A few days later the director called her to him.
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"You're too nifty a kid for small parts," he told her. "I am going to
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try to get something better for you. I believe I can make a star of you."
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She couldn't get home fast enough, to tell her mother. She even gave
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some of the girls at the studio a hint of her good fortune. They didn't even
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congratulate her; they only looked at her curiously. She and her mother made
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glorious plans--for the time when she should become a star.
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Then, the next day, the director called her to him again. "There are
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some things I want to talk over with you," he said. "Come to dinner with me
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tonight."
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She went. The things he wanted to talk over were not about her work.
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She didn't see any harm in letting him kiss her. She had been kissed before;
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and he was the man who was to make a star out of her--the man who had
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recognized her ability and had picked her out of the mob.
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She got better parts. The attitude of the other girls in the studio
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seemed strange. She could not understand their treatment of her. They
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seemed friendly enough, but they avoided her. She got to believe that they
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resented her success, and that they were envious. "They are cats," she said
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to herself.
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Another invitation to dinner. (My fingers fairly itch to write the
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director's name.) She was afraid to refuse. Her woman's instinct told her
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that it was the test--of her and of the man. She won and she lost. She fled
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home to her mother. At the studio next day she found a note. She was
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discharged. Her services were "no longer needed."
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I have said that it is the old story. It comes from the most unexpected
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sources, and about the least suspected people. You hear that this girl or
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that girl has left a certain studio: sometimes she has been dismissed for
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being good, sometimes for being bad, and being bad too long. It seems that
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in some studios she must always go sooner or later.
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If I were to name the stars who have been made by men, I would guarantee
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you the surprise of your life. Fortunately, ability is counting more every
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day; competition in the motion picture business is making this true.
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Here they come, the extra girls, hordes and hordes of them flocking to
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the studios. Each one believes she is the chosen. I pity them all.
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One extra girl's mother made it a custom to go to the studio with her
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daughter and to remain with her throughout the day. One day the mother found
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her girl in the arms of an actor. The mother laid the case before the studio
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manager. He listened patiently, then said: "I can't do anything for you.
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That actor is worth ten extra girls. I've got to keep him, and I don't have
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to keep your daughter. We can always get girls whose mothers are not so
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particular. It is probably the girl's fault, anyway."
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So the mother and daughter sought another studio. One of the managers
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took a liking to the "chicken," as he called the girl. Her mother was in his
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way. She got notice that she must stay away from the studio, or her daughter
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would be discharged.
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"We have found it necessary," so the notice ran, "to keep outside the
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studio all persons not employed by us."
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Girls of three classes go to the studios:
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(1) Foolish chits who have seen the actors on the screen, have glorified
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them, or believe they have fallen in love with them.
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(2) Vain, movie-struck girls who want to see themselves on the screen,
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and who believe that by being filmed they make heroines of themselves to the
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picture audiences.
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(3) A few girls--and a very few--with a serious purpose and an earnest
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desire to get into the work for the remuneration and possible success they
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may reach--girls who are willing to work.
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Naturally, the first two classes suffer most severely. Perhaps they are
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of the kind who would suffer in whatever walk of life they went. Most of
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them are shallow, without balance or serious interest, their main purpose in
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life being to be admired and flattered.
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...Ask almost any little extra girl at a film studio why she is there,
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and, if she tells the truth, she will probably give you one of these two
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answers: "Oh, I just thought Mr. ----- was grand, and I wanted to meet him,
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so I came out and got a job in his company," or "Everybody said I was just an
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ideal type for the movies, and that they just knew I would be a success. Of
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course I am still undiscovered, but they will put me forward some day."
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One is foolish, and the other is vain. What more could an unscrupulous
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man ask?
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Then in the studios there are all those idle, mischief-filled hours.
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Ordinary conventions are not much observed. You see one another in all
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stages of dress and undress, and in all sorts of scenes. There is no arguing
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against the fact that a certain intimacy arises. The ordinary things that
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make up the great barrier between the sexes are gradually pulled away through
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seeming necessity. It requires little to topple over whatever remains.
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And there is the "friend" evil. You have heard, no doubt, the
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expression "Oh, she is a friend of the manager's," or some like comment.
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This does not always mean that the woman is bad. But in a great many cases
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the "friend" of the manager is a greater evil than the manager himself, or
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the director, or the leading man, or whoever she represents. Her place is
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insecure, and no one knows it any better than she does herself.
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I know of case after case where girls have been discharged simply
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because they were too good looking or too attractive to suit the "friend" of
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the manager. The favorite, you know, does not believe in taking chances.
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One girl--I had known her on the stage--joined a certain film company.
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She caught the liking of the advertising manager. She quite calmly stated
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the proposition to me. I will give the meat of it.
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"Here we are, a man and a woman," she said. "He likes me and I like
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him. We are not in love and probably never will be. He is alone in the
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world and so am I. He is a nice chap, rather more like a pal. We don't want
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to get married because we don't know how long this liking for each other will
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continue.
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"Without his help, or the help of some other man of importance at the
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studio, I'll never get anywhere. We have two directors. One of them is
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boosting his wife--he won't give anyone else a chance; and the other is
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boosting a 'friend.' I have no chance unless some one boosts me. Billy (the
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advertising man) can make me a star if he tries hard enough, and I believe he
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will.
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"On one side I have a good chance for success. On the other side,
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I will have to keep on working for thirty-five dollars a week from now until
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doomsday, unless I get married. If I got married I would never be satisfied
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to become a mere dish-washing wife. Now what would you do?"
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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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December 29, 1915
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VARIETY
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Startling Immorality Charges
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Los Angeles--The movies may be probed by a grand jury. Accusations of a
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startling nature were filed against film studios in general here this week
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and city officials have decided to make a sweeping investigation.
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It is charged that the moving picture camps are seething with
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immorality. Several cases, it is alleged, have come to light in which young
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girls have, under sworn statement, charged that liberties had been taken with
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them by managers and directors and that it was absolutely impossible for a
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pure girl to remain so if she elected to adopt that career.
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In a scathing announcement Rev. Selecman of Trinity Church, this city,
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fearlessly charged that conditions in and about this city were appalling. He
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has demanded a thorough inquiry and has tendered his service to the
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inquisitors to aid them in unearthing the alleged wrongdoing...
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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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Acclaimed writer Theodore Dreiser spent considerable time in Los Angeles
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where he had many opportunities to observe the practices of the Hollywood
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studios. His observations were recorded in a series of published articles.
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November 1921
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Theodore Dreiser
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SHADOWLAND
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Hollywood: Its Morals and Manners
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Part One: The Struggle on the Threshold of Motion Pictures
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[After describing some of the problems and intense competition faced by
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a newcomer who attempts to get a job acting in movies--]
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|
...At this moment, then, literally hundreds of girls and women, for that
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|
matter, of the rarest beauty, to say nothing of emotional and dramatic sense,
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|
in many cases, business judgment, force, energy, tact and determination, are
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concentrating with a single-mindedness that would do credit to a Rockefeller
|
|
or a Schwab, on the above problems. Deprivation, for the moment, is nothing.
|
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The tang and sting of the game makes up to them for that. Insults and
|
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annoyances are nothing. There are those, no doubt, who even like them.
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Compromise, if need be, is nothing. They will do anything, all to win, and
|
|
then smile condescendingly upon those still in the melee, or who retire
|
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beaten, having scarcely the time or the spirit to assist any, even if they
|
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had the inclination. And if the truth were known, they would not, in many
|
|
cases, spiritually wipe their feet upon the many who from time to time, in
|
|
the course of their upward struggle, have compelled them to yield their
|
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favors for a price. It is a part of the cost in nearly all cases but not to
|
|
be looked back upon in many cases with much pleasure. They took it into
|
|
consideration at the opening of the contest.
|
|
Here and there, unquestionably, is a producer, a casting director, a
|
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director, etc., who would not, as a rule, disturb anyone, and who seeks only
|
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the merit that is necessary for the adequate representation of a given film.
|
|
But for everyone such there are at least five who have no such ethical or
|
|
commercial standards. They combine business with pleasure as much as they
|
|
dare, and in not a few cases one might safely add, no pleasure, no business,
|
|
at least for the more attractive beginner. It may seem a coarse and vulgar
|
|
thing to report, but so it is. And happy the girl or woman who, a bargain
|
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being struck, is so fortunate as to find someone who will honestly endeavor
|
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to further her interests.
|
|
Now nothing could be further from the purpose of these articles than to
|
|
set up a sentimental defense of the assumed reserve and virtue of many who
|
|
take up pictures as a profession. Neither is there any puritanic desire to
|
|
condemn. By far the greater number of girls and women who essay this work
|
|
know very well beforehand via hearsay or exact information the character of
|
|
the conditions to be met. And if they do not know it beforehand, they could
|
|
not be about the work a month before they would be aware of the general
|
|
assumption of those connected with the work, the males in particular, of
|
|
course, that all women connected with the work are potentially, if not
|
|
actually, of easy virtue. Therefore, if they resent this and still linger
|
|
about the scene, ambition or not, the responsibility is at least in part
|
|
theirs. And a very large number linger, not only quite willingly, even
|
|
though they may possess ample means to go elsewhere if they choose, but they
|
|
rather relish, I think, the very lively war that is here persistently on
|
|
between the sexes. They are by no means innocents or lambs being led to the
|
|
slaughter. And not a few relish the personal and emotional freedom which
|
|
life in this realm provides. For most of those who eventually undertake the
|
|
struggle are already mentally liberated from most of the binding taboos which
|
|
govern in the social realms from which they emanate. And many of them have
|
|
already long resented them. Anyone familiar with this realm could spin a
|
|
long tale as to this. Nevertheless it is not to be doubted that here and
|
|
there among the many who essay the work are a few who have not previously
|
|
scented correctly the nature of the conditions. And others who, knowing of
|
|
them, have either not been willing to believe or they have concluded that
|
|
whatever the conditions they themselves are bomb proof and can make their way
|
|
despite these conditions.
|
|
But they find it difficult, just them same--very--, and never doubt it.
|
|
I have in mind, for instance, certain comedy producing masters and owners of
|
|
studios who, apart from establishing character interpreters of a humorous
|
|
turn who can make their way anywhere, of course, will give no opportunity to
|
|
the novice of the female persuasion who is beautiful unless she is not
|
|
married, or is most careful to conceal the fact. And what is more, even
|
|
emotionally engaged applicants need not apply. Not that the work itself is
|
|
of such a nature as to preclude its proper interpretation by one who chances
|
|
to be so engaged but because these lords of these very pretty domains are,
|
|
Solomon-wise, determined to attach to their already extended harems
|
|
(potentially, if not actually at the time) all those of sufficient charm who
|
|
hope to prosper by their favor in any way. This may sound crude and
|
|
exaggerated to a degree but I am here to assure you that it is not. They
|
|
want these beauties at their beck and call at all times, apparently, and for
|
|
no other reason than that they prefer them socially even more than they do as
|
|
screen workers and they cannot endure the thought of another who may, by any
|
|
chance, have a prior claim. No immediate and willing response at any time,
|
|
night or day, seemingly, to their demands and there will be no more work for
|
|
them in that studio. Crude? Exactly. But efficient. And I might add that
|
|
any and all of those high-salaried and comfortable vice-snoopers, who are
|
|
even now so busily engaged hailing before the courts of the land respectable
|
|
publishers, to say nothing of serious authors whose only crime is that they
|
|
seek via admirable letters to set forth pictures of the social state of the
|
|
time, might better be engaged in bringing to light the truth of this, if only
|
|
such truth were sensibly and honestly dealt with. But they are cautious and
|
|
self-preserving as well as self-advantaging company, these same who have the
|
|
morals of the country in charge. You will find them taking no note of what
|
|
is here set forth, for the good and sufficient reason that it is far more
|
|
dangerous to attack any of these barons of the movie realm than it is the
|
|
average hard-pressed publisher and author of distinction. For the former
|
|
have the means and the courage to make trouble for these snoopers. And
|
|
would. Hence the wide berth given them by these same salary-hunting purists
|
|
who will devote months and years even hounding to earth the less "well-
|
|
heeled" but serious worker and publisher who can make no expensive and hence
|
|
very damaging defense. If you are not prepared to believe this, I commend
|
|
your attention to the undisturbed social conditions in the moving picture and
|
|
theatrical worlds generally. Not that I desire to stir up trouble for these
|
|
very worthy and thirst satisfying industries which are unquestionably meeting
|
|
a wide public demand. But rather that the burden of enduring all of the
|
|
petty and self-advantaging industry of the snoopers may, in part at least, be
|
|
lifted from the shoulders of the hard-working author and his publisher.
|
|
But the above is mere fact. There is the commonplace director of the
|
|
smaller comedy and other film companies who, invariably and almost as a
|
|
matter of course, makes overtures to every attractive worker who enters upon
|
|
a set that he chances to be directing. Not that he thereby, and by reason of
|
|
his position, is able to force himself into the good graces of those who
|
|
chance to fall within the range of his authority as that, in many instances,
|
|
he makes it all but a condition of further employment under him that
|
|
something be done by the worker of physical charm to assuage his very
|
|
emotional and yearning temperament. It seems a little petty to say the
|
|
least, especially where the worker in question has secured the brief
|
|
employment in question by the most arduous and persistent industry and where
|
|
the salary connected with the work, and especially for the brief time that
|
|
work is to be had anywhere on any set, is entirely incommensurate with the
|
|
ability and service required. Yet so it is. And you may hear some of the
|
|
very comfortable employers of labor in this sense laughing over or boasting
|
|
their several conquests of the while at other moments, yet in the same
|
|
connection, they may be heard denouncing such and such a worker thus used in
|
|
the past as a this or a that. It might be a little amusing if it were not
|
|
quite so drastic.
|
|
Then there are the casting directors of some of these institutions--not
|
|
all of them, by any means, I must hasten to add--who are not above selling
|
|
opportunities to the needy, or at least the fame-hungry among those who apply
|
|
to them and who chance to take their fancy, for a return of a pleasurable
|
|
nature to them, of course. Not that all of them have so very much in the way
|
|
of an opportunity to offer to anyone. Or, that those for whom that bid do
|
|
not, in many cases, know that. Or, that they succeed so very often. I do
|
|
not think they do--certainly not in the cases of the more exceptional of
|
|
their applicants--at least, not often. Yet notwithstanding, there is this
|
|
type of overture about. And there is the type of aspirant who is not above
|
|
advantaging herself in this rather shabby fashion. Around the meaner type of
|
|
studio I have good reason to know that they are very common. The illusion or
|
|
vain hope is that it will do them good "artistically." The thing takes on a
|
|
disgusting look at times. But so do aspects of certain other professions--
|
|
nearly all of them. Yet there is no one in the profession today who does not
|
|
know that sex in one form and another is the principal and hence the
|
|
determining factor in the rise of most of those of beauty among the women who
|
|
hope to go far. And that there have been and will yet be many compromises of
|
|
a decidedly sordid character in order that screen success may be attained.
|
|
The most irritating features of the whole thing though, really, are these
|
|
constantly and decidedly brazen overtures on the part of so many who are
|
|
among the humblest of the attaches--the general assumption on the part of so
|
|
many call-boys, cameramen, assistant directors, and who not else, that all of
|
|
those who work in this realm are of easy virtue and that their favors are
|
|
among the rightful perquisites of those who work about the studios or in the
|
|
profession, even. Also, that unless they submit they should be made to pay
|
|
the penalty of ostracism. It sounds a little wild to the outsider of more
|
|
conventional views, but so it is, just the same.
|
|
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
|
|
December 1921
|
|
Theodore Dreiser
|
|
SHADOWLAND
|
|
Hollywood: Its Morals and Manners
|
|
|
|
Part Two: The Commonplace Tale with a Thousand Endings
|
|
|
|
I have in mind a certain director, one of the staff of directors of one
|
|
of the larger studios, who is, to say the least, a rather ridiculous
|
|
illustration of what I mean. At one time he was a butcher's helper and made
|
|
a humble wage at cutting steaks and chops. At present he is a fairly capable
|
|
"shooter" of five-reelers and is not at all disliked by those who employ him.
|
|
Yet mentally he is not much above a certain type of director in filmdom,
|
|
which is not saying very much, you may be sure. Although a bachelor via the
|
|
divorce court, he has his "home," his butler, his car, his this, his that,
|
|
with a little home-brew thrown in for good measure. About the studios and
|
|
among the flappers he poses as being a--well a member of a certain rather
|
|
popular faith. Among directors and film-workers generally, those who know of
|
|
him at all, he is known as a "chaser" of sorts, one of those who are more
|
|
than inclined to annoy the novices of beauty who chance to come in contact
|
|
with him on his sets. Well, there you have the stage set, as it were.
|
|
Now we will say it is nine o'clock of a certain Los Angeles morning, and
|
|
Cerise, aged nineteen or thereabouts and but newly engaged to play the part
|
|
of a charming niece in a comedy which our director is about to direct, has
|
|
come upon the set for the first time and is looking joyfully and gratefully
|
|
about. She is pink and vigorous, with golden or black hair, as you will, and
|
|
eyes with that haunting freshness that is among the requisites of beauty in
|
|
youth. Also there is a smile that is truly winsome, because devoid of make-
|
|
believe and because it is suggestive of pleased wonder.
|
|
At sight of Cerise, who has been "handed him" by the casting director,
|
|
and who, as he latterly phrases it, has proved to be a "pippin for once," he
|
|
is all eyes, and yet distant. For so difficult has "the game" become of
|
|
late, so watchful the money-power, so tricky and ungrateful the various vamps
|
|
and succubi of the profession who, to say the truth, have not used him any
|
|
too well, that at last he is developing a little caution. Yet so great is
|
|
the lure of youth in this instance, as in that of so many others, that he can
|
|
scarcely keep his mind on his work. He begins, forthwith, to talk more
|
|
loudly, to give more directions than are absolutely necessary, to direct
|
|
"with a vengeance" as some unhappy thespian of his set now makes bold to
|
|
comment to another, "and all on account of that young skirt over there."
|
|
'Tis the way of a portion of the directors of moviedom, at least.
|
|
And within the hour of her arrival, if you will believe it, and after
|
|
the direction of many, many pictures, he is her slave, yet still at a
|
|
respectful distance. The sight of the "heavy" of this set setting down
|
|
beside her and beginning an enticing conversation is sufficient to cause him
|
|
to all but suffocate with envy, fear and rage. "What! That waster! Is he
|
|
about to attempt an additional conquest here?" Forthwith he proceeds to give
|
|
said actor instructions in regard to something in order to divert his mind or
|
|
his mood or both. "Just stay over here near me, Williams. I want you to see
|
|
what is going on here so you can get into the spirit of this thing for once."
|
|
Note the "for once." A little later it may be an extra who has intruded upon
|
|
the newcomer with kind words and a smile. At once he is aflame with secret
|
|
rage and envy. "Off the set! Off the set! That means you, Fisher. I don't
|
|
want any but principals and the members of the cast around here now." Exit
|
|
the abashed and angry Fisher, silent because he needs, very much, to court
|
|
the favor of all in these trying days. By nightfall, after sidling near at
|
|
many points of the day and work with pleasant if inane references to the
|
|
character of the work in hand, his plans for it, the impossibility, almost,
|
|
of finding ideal types for the several roles, he is ready for his coup or
|
|
play. "But you certainly have beauty. Just the person I have been looking
|
|
for. If I had known of you when I was casting my last picture, I certainly
|
|
could have made a place for you."
|
|
Now Cerise, like so many others of her years and sex, is all aflame with
|
|
what it means to be a star or within the ranks of those who may reasonably
|
|
aspire to stellar honors. Fortunately or unfortunately, as you will, she has
|
|
a mother who, to further her picture ambitions, has left her native state
|
|
with her and journeyed to far Los Angeles in order to open a millinery
|
|
establishment or to herself work in a store. The apartment, that between
|
|
them they can afford, is the humblest. In addition, it is with the greatest
|
|
difficulty and care that Cerise has achieved the few attractive garments
|
|
which she now possesses and by the aid of which she hopes to forward herself
|
|
as much as possible. More would be welcome, of course. Hence the thrill at
|
|
the thought of making so marked an impression and of being made to feel that
|
|
additional work may be in store for her here. At the end of the day, then,
|
|
when Sir Director lingers and offers the service of his car, she is
|
|
appropriately elated, of course. He is taken with her as a screen
|
|
possibility. He will be glad to forward her career because of her innate
|
|
fitness for the work.
|
|
Now the conclusion of this particular incident may be as your fancy
|
|
dictates. But depend upon it, however you, personally, may decide to end it,
|
|
it will have had, at some time or other, a counterpart in real life. It
|
|
depends on the temperament and hence the practical judgment, or lack of it,
|
|
of the one thus enthusiastically approached or often her mother or friends,
|
|
or the character of her bad friend in some other way. By far the largest
|
|
number of those who decide to test this world are sophisticated beyond their
|
|
years, whatever their years may be. They are, in the main, practical to this
|
|
extent, that they are here to realize on their ability and charm as swiftly
|
|
as possible. Ushered into the very much benickeled car of a personage in
|
|
this realm and offered a dinner or at least a little chocolate en route and
|
|
told very plainly and earnestly as to what the prospects of advancement are--
|
|
well--the matter would certainly be taken into consideration and thought upon
|
|
at length, if not decided upon immediately. Such a seemingly real impression
|
|
is not made every day. If the situation of the aspirant is very complicated
|
|
and her need for aid pressing--well. Yet, as a rule, they know enough that
|
|
no situation is likely to be injured by a little waiting. Also, that one
|
|
should look most carefully over the cliff before they leap. Beyond this, and
|
|
a little time taken, the thing may end most any way. And does. It might
|
|
well be called "The Commonplace Tale with a Thousand Endings."
|
|
Yet in this case, as in all others of the same type, unless the
|
|
situation is handled by the aspirant with the utmost tact, the director
|
|
failing will see to it that no more favors of any kind are extended her by
|
|
him. He may even become very disagreeable in connection with the work in
|
|
hand, so much so that she might well find it impossible to complete the work
|
|
then and there doing. The theory is that if he is not good enough for her,
|
|
and she things so very well of herself, let her get someone else to do favors
|
|
for her. Depend upon it, he will not. And more than one director has had to
|
|
be released from one and another studio before he would cease his annoying
|
|
tactics. Not all beginners will endure such assaults without complaint. Yet
|
|
in the main they do. And it is thus that one opportunity after another, with
|
|
one director after another, has been lost, and advancement all but closed
|
|
because the aspirant chanced to be of exceptional charm and was desirous of
|
|
making her way without compromise except where her affections were honestly
|
|
engaged.
|
|
Indeed, the more one wanders about and wins to wisdom in this matter of
|
|
picture production, the more one comes to note the shabby and pinchbeck point
|
|
of view that holds, not only in most of the counting offices of all these
|
|
great concerns where the petty and often pretty beginner is concerned, but
|
|
also in the minds of directors, casting-directors, assistant-directors,
|
|
cameramen, the heavies and even leads of the male persuasion who have
|
|
anything to do with or can, by any hook or crook, contrive any possible claim
|
|
upon the time or attention or services of those of the feminine persuasion--
|
|
the younger and prettier and less experienced, of course--who are seeking to
|
|
make an ill-paid way in this, in the main, grueling realm. The shabby and
|
|
even shameful impositions! The sharp exactations in the matter of time and
|
|
money! (Hours, for instance, that stretch from eight to six and even longer,
|
|
on the set and in costume, for a wage which, when measured by the number of
|
|
employed days one will come by in the course of a year, is ridiculously and
|
|
even pitifully inadequate.)
|
|
The general assumption on the part of many directors, assistant-
|
|
directors and even stage carpenters and electricians is that, somehow,
|
|
because these hundreds and even thousands of girls are compelled to or, at
|
|
any rate, are desirous of making their living or their way in this field, and
|
|
have all too little, financially, wherewith to do that, therefore they are,
|
|
and of right ought to be, the sexual prey of these men. Also that any
|
|
opposition on their part to being so used or pursued can only be based upon a
|
|
disagreeable and even reprehensible vanity--or "better than thou" spirit,
|
|
which should never, for a moment even, be tolerated by one in so lofty a
|
|
position as any of the above. The often undesired and in many cases resented
|
|
overtures and insults which, nevertheless, because of the nature of the work
|
|
and the driving character of the ambition of those insulted, may never be
|
|
properly rebuked! And, where one such chances to be usually winsome and
|
|
earnest, and eager to make progress without compromise, the rebuffs,
|
|
impositions and preventing or delaying oppositions, even though all the
|
|
necessary talent for the situation may be properly presented, may endure for
|
|
a period of years, in some instances quite until hope is exhausted.
|
|
In writing this I have in mind not one but something like twenty-five
|
|
aspirants of exceptional beauty and ability and admitted screen charm who,
|
|
nevertheless, and because of a lack of means combined with an unfortunate
|
|
determination to fight their way upwards without compromise on the emotional
|
|
side are still, after several years of unremitted struggle or intelligent
|
|
application, as you will, about where they began at first. And that in the
|
|
face of others of no more ability who have risen much more rapidly. It is
|
|
true that during that time, and by reason of some little money with which
|
|
they came, plus the employment they have had, they have managed to live and
|
|
take their part in the movie social world about them. Also that they have
|
|
acquired much of the necessary screen technique which, coupled at this time
|
|
with an opportunity of some kind, might easily lead to recognition of a very
|
|
grateful character. They are among those who, whenever some exceptional
|
|
minor part that takes ability but not much time is to be "cast," are sent
|
|
for. And in such things they appear quite regularly. Their faces, for brief
|
|
intervals, are to be seen in many pictures. But will they succeed
|
|
eventually? That certainly depends to a degree upon the presence of others
|
|
of equal attractions who are not so frugal with their favors. During the
|
|
time they have been upon the scene not one of them but has had, over and
|
|
over, advances made to them by one and another of force and distinction in
|
|
the realm in which they seek to shine. But in each and every case, for
|
|
reasons best known to themselves, these opportunities have been allowed to
|
|
slip by. Speaking of one of them, a scenarist of no little popularity once
|
|
observed to me: "For the life of me I can't see why Mary hangs on out here.
|
|
She has ability--tons of it. And if she were only backed by someone she
|
|
would make a strike, all right. A few of the right sort of posters, a good
|
|
vehicle, and a press-agent, and she would get over with a bang. But here she
|
|
is, drifting along, and here she will be five years from now, trailing others
|
|
who haven't a fourth of her genuine charm, unless she quits. What's the
|
|
answer? She isn't coarse-fibred enough, that's all. She can't bring herself
|
|
to do the things that most of them do. If she would..." He said no more
|
|
than the truth...
|
|
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
|
|
After the Arbuckle scandal broke, Henry Ford's DEARBORN INDEPENDENT ran
|
|
a series of articles on "Baring the Heart of Hollywood." The following,
|
|
slightly edited, was from the final article in the series.
|
|
|
|
December 10, 1921
|
|
DEARBORN INDEPENDENT
|
|
...That the great body of our motion picture players should have become
|
|
what they are is a great pity and it is a condition for which they cannot be
|
|
held altogether to blame. The environment of an aspirant for fame in the
|
|
pictures is such that only one of exceptionally strong moral fiber could be
|
|
expected to emerge unspotted. This applies to either sex, for the
|
|
temptations are just as strong and appealing to the boys as to the girls.
|
|
Many of our motion picture players have been recruited from good
|
|
American homes, the same kind of home that furnishes the bulk of our skilled
|
|
labor, our office workers and our salesmen and saleswomen. These boys and
|
|
girls, good looking, healthy and with some degree of personality or talent,
|
|
come to the studios as clean morally as the average American youth, but how
|
|
long do they stay that way? How long CAN they stay that way?
|
|
The working conditions in a few of the larger studios have changed for
|
|
the better during the past two years. This was not in the interest of
|
|
morality but of efficiency. The producers found that love making around the
|
|
studios during working hours was a costly proposition for them and they took
|
|
steps to eradicate it. But in other studios conditions are much the same as
|
|
they were. A well-known producer mentioned two of the largest studios in
|
|
telling the writer that he would rather see a daughter of his in her grave
|
|
than working in either of them.
|
|
The comedies are particularly bad. A college girl who had done some
|
|
newspaper work before coming to Hollywood and going into the movies, told the
|
|
writer about a certain well-known comedy company where the brother of the
|
|
producer and star hired the girls used in the pictures. Before a girl was
|
|
given employment she took a walk with this man and on her acceptance or
|
|
rejection of his advances depended her engagement.
|
|
This same system of employment was followed by many other studios until
|
|
it was seen that such methods were costing them a lot of money. Jealousies
|
|
between directors' favorites often delayed pictures and caused friction among
|
|
the players that destroyed discipline and ran up production expenses.
|
|
The director was a petty czar on the lot or on location, and he could
|
|
ruin the chances of advancement of any girl who might reject his overtures.
|
|
A girl with ambition to be a star, therefore, either had to accept the
|
|
director's advances or quit the pictures, unless, as was sometimes the case,
|
|
she was the sweetheart of the producer.
|
|
A producer brought out a young woman who showed promise as an actress.
|
|
After she had been working in her first picture for a few days the producer
|
|
noticed that she was worried about something. After some difficulty he
|
|
succeeded in getting the story from her. The director, she said, had made
|
|
overtures to her from the first day she had appeared on the lot. When she
|
|
refused his attentions he had threatened to get her job. One day he had torn
|
|
off nearly all her clothing before she could get away from him.
|
|
This director had a two-year contract with the producer. The latter
|
|
said nothing to him at the time, but put a private detective on his trail.
|
|
After he had obtained sufficient evidence the producer called the director
|
|
into his office and informed him that he was through. The director
|
|
threatened to sue for fulfillment of his contract, but after being shown the
|
|
evidence against him thought better of it. He immediately went to work,
|
|
however, for another large studio where he is still directing.
|
|
It was such abuse of their positions by directors that led to the
|
|
installation, by some studios, of casting directors. Under this system the
|
|
applicant registers with the casting director, is photographed in several
|
|
poses and these photographs, known as stills, are filed away with the name,
|
|
address, telephone number and description. Sometimes a few feet of film are
|
|
also taken. After it is decided to film a certain script these files are
|
|
gone over and the players selected from them. Thus the director does not see
|
|
his players until they walk on the lot the first day. Being shorn of his
|
|
power to hire, his power to fire is also limited. In the studios where the
|
|
casting director system is used a girl has an even chance of preserving her
|
|
honor, provided she escapes the notice of the producers themselves, and has
|
|
sufficiently strong character to resist the blandishments of the male stars
|
|
and directors.
|
|
It takes a girl of exceptionally strong character to emerge unscathed
|
|
from the temptations presented at the studios, and all honor should be given
|
|
to those who do. The free and easy life, with its escape from the
|
|
conventionalities, tends gradually to weaken the sternest moral fiber.
|
|
Things that horrify at first become a matter of course when seen daily. The
|
|
ambitious girl sees others availing themselves of their charms to push
|
|
themselves forward into stardom and its attendant financial reward. It is
|
|
only a girl of the most exceptional talent and energy who can hope to succeed
|
|
without the aid of a pull. Small wonder that so few of them hold out. The
|
|
blame does not rest on them, but on the whole rotten system, a system that
|
|
will endure until the public has convinced the producers that there are some
|
|
things more precious than the dollar...
|
|
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
|
|
For another reported incident of sexual harassment, see "The Girl Who Wanted
|
|
Work" in TAYLOROLOGY 30.
|
|
|
|
*****************************************************************************
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*****************************************************************************
|
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|
|
Leslie Henry's Suicide Plan
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|
|
|
Charlotte Shelby, the mother of actress Mary Miles Minter, was one of
|
|
the major suspects in the 1922 Taylor murder. Her broker, Leslie Henry,
|
|
was later charged with stealing money from her account (see TAYLOROLOGY 35).
|
|
In 1932, Leslie Henry planned to commit suicide in such a manner as to repay
|
|
his debt to Charlotte Shelby, and he wrote her a suicide letter.
|
|
|
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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
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|
|
The "Suicide Letter" from Leslie Henry to Charlotte Shelby
|
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|
|
December 23, 1932
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LOS ANGELES TIMES
|
|
...It was learned, however, that the missive was received in a special
|
|
delivery envelope by Mrs. Shelby at her Beverly Hills home November 14, last
|
|
[1932]. Two other letters relating to the suicide plot were also written and
|
|
one received by Miss Eve Baber, Henry's secretary. Upon the receipt of the
|
|
missive the secretary hurried to Mrs. Shelby's home and that evening,
|
|
convinced that Henry would kill himself, they listened to police and news
|
|
radio broadcasts.
|
|
Nothing, of course, happened...
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|
Excerpts from the letter received by Mrs. Shelby on November 14 follow:
|
|
"Yesterday your attitude put the seal on a death verdict for me that has
|
|
hung over me for four years. Tomorrow, when you read this, I hope that the
|
|
death I am courting tomorrow will not have proved as vain in your service as
|
|
my life has been. Whether this effort is successful or not will depend
|
|
almost entirely on your complete co-operation in the events which follow,
|
|
your patience, your sympathy and understanding.
|
|
"The cash due you and Margaret is nonexistent.
|
|
"The securities in syndicate have long since been sold.
|
|
"Securities held by you or due you are in default to an amount of
|
|
approximately $5000 per year, excluding the Sutter Basin, Key System and
|
|
Shenandoah preferred stock...
|
|
"At no time since the above situation began to develop has my combined
|
|
life and accident insurance been less than the amount necessary to discharge
|
|
these obligations. These policies are paid to date, and are all past the
|
|
contestable period of two years. The present state of the market is such
|
|
that the funds collected from these policies will pay the cash due, purchase
|
|
the sound securities due you and replace the defaulted securities held by or
|
|
due you.
|
|
"Except as you may show this to Margaret, which you must do for your
|
|
joint guidance and which I did not doubt you will do when I wrote the word
|
|
'may,' there are only you, my wife and Miss Baber who know the contents of
|
|
this letter. I am leaving copies of it for them. Even the attorney who will
|
|
probate my miserable estate will know nothing. Naturally the firm knows
|
|
nothing, but any untoward act on your part would make it quickly suspicious.
|
|
That would result immediately in the calling in of representatives of the
|
|
surety company, quick betrayal of the nature of my death and its purpose to
|
|
the insurance companies in the effect of the surety firm and the company to
|
|
obtain the few thousand dollars to be had in cash values to be applied
|
|
against what loss you eventually might have assessed against them.
|
|
"The profits which were paid you and Margaret from time to time in the
|
|
program of deceit which I had to follow will remain with you, as will the
|
|
excess amounts credited you on Wilshire bonds, which were sold under par in
|
|
the market, as none of this issue has ever been called."
|
|
The letter here recited that the irregularities commenced in 1924 due to
|
|
a business deal he became involved in, and then continued:
|
|
"From that day to his, hell and madness have been mine. I speculated
|
|
with money from other of your securities in an effort to replace the missing
|
|
bonds. Interest had to be paid on these taken. Each speculation that proved
|
|
momentarily a losing one was sold out before it had a chance to join the
|
|
general trend of prices that was to climax in the 1929 market...The frantic
|
|
fear of losing yet more of your funds made sane speculation impossible, and
|
|
the greatest rising market in the history of the world saw me casting aside
|
|
stocks because of momentary declines which if held would have done all I had
|
|
to do to preserve your funds and yet live.
|
|
"When I left Pasadena for Los Angeles Miss Baber had the opportunity to
|
|
uncover a part of what had transpired. I told her everything. She dissuaded
|
|
me from the hellish thing ahead of me tomorrow. She might have left the firm
|
|
at that point without saying anything to anyone and have been free of this
|
|
affair. Although she has never been the beneficiary of so much as a dime of
|
|
the money that has passed the way I have described, has suffered the various
|
|
cuts in wages imposed by the depression when other houses and banks have
|
|
offered her increased figures to join them, has watched herself age under
|
|
uncertainty and care such as only a situation as this could impose, she has
|
|
stood by.
|
|
"Ignoring the meanness of every form of deceit I was compelled to
|
|
practice to pursue the course I could not leave except through death, she
|
|
looked to but two essentials: my lack of capacity for detail meant my
|
|
discovery within a month or two at the month, followed by my death or
|
|
imprisonment, an insupportable loss for you, and the disgrace of the innocent
|
|
ones of my family. She does not know tonight how close is the final defeat
|
|
of her hope that somewhere out of this would come a break that would restore
|
|
everything and leave her free to leave for other scenes and other
|
|
occupations. I recommend her to you and to Margaret. She can be depended on
|
|
to finish for you the work she will be committed to in this letter. She is
|
|
honest in everything that honor measures in either a man or a woman. She is
|
|
the most capable worker I have ever known.
|
|
"Whatever of feeling Margaret has had against her because of the
|
|
incident of the delayed letters should be resolved into gratefulness that she
|
|
will be available and willing to counsel with you and work for you toward the
|
|
recovery of that which I endangered. I do not know what it can be worth to
|
|
her, but it is all I have to give for the undeserved loyalty she has given me
|
|
--the respect from one who is a bankrupt in everything and who would not have
|
|
had even the losing chance that has been mine.
|
|
"While Miss Baber has had the knowledge of what might and probably would
|
|
eventuate for you, my family and myself, it is a cruel blow that I have had
|
|
to strike you who have been in ignorance and apprehension. You must realize,
|
|
Mrs. Shelby, that it could not be otherwise. To have told either of you in
|
|
your home or the wife now waiting for me in mine the facts of this situation
|
|
would have been to challenge that in each of you which took possession of
|
|
Miss Baber--preservation of a life at any price. You would have taken your
|
|
chances on financial loss and, for all of your indignation and sorrow, have
|
|
even hated the thought of prison for me. Knowing that death was in my mind,
|
|
you or my wife would have risked everything to uncover me before I would act.
|
|
"What I do tomorrow is not done out of fear of facing anybody or of
|
|
seeing and hearing myself held up to the world in derision by the empty-
|
|
headed, condemnation by the thinking, and shame generally by everybody. It
|
|
is not done out of fear of prison. It is done because any other course would
|
|
mean a frightful loss to you and yours, penniless misery for my own dear ones
|
|
and shame and derision of some kind on all of us alike. That my effort might
|
|
fail is my only fear. If only I could assure myself of the end in its every
|
|
respect, I would gladly undergo every physical torture that can precede it as
|
|
a partial atonement for the sorrow I have caused.
|
|
"My wife was not the beneficiary of anything of yours, knowingly. Her
|
|
monthly allowance was meager under the very necessities of this situation,
|
|
always within my earnings at their lowest ebb. That she was at the beach
|
|
each summer of the past three years was over her own protest. I imposed it
|
|
on her for her own health and that of the children as something my life might
|
|
have to pay for at any moment. What little she had had from me these
|
|
miserable few years has been pressed upon her in guilty acknowledgment of the
|
|
heartbreak the course of my life was leading her to. She would not touch a
|
|
tainted dollar of anyone's giving, and would starve with her children in the
|
|
gutter before she would flourish at your expense. The only property that is
|
|
hers are within the four walls of the home, and rightfully hers. That house
|
|
is mortgaged to its limit.
|
|
"I can write nothing more, Mrs. Shelby, out of the numb weariness that
|
|
is on me. Have Miss Baber come to your house in the evening and go over the
|
|
situation with her pending the return from the insurance company, and
|
|
withhold from any contact with the office that will start wheels to turning
|
|
which you can never stop from grinding out you and yours and mine in misery
|
|
and loss until there remains but shells financially, physically and mentally.
|
|
Guard your conversation and the tone of your voice over the telephone in
|
|
making the appointment I have recommended.
|
|
"For me in all my wrongdoing there is no hell beyond.
|
|
"Leslie B. Henry."
|
|
Henry then adds a postscript in his handwriting as follows:
|
|
"When this reaches you I will be out of reach of anyone, so don't, I
|
|
pray you, trespass the advice in these lines. My going is in an accident you
|
|
are powerless to stop. What time elapses now until its discovery--only a
|
|
matter of hours--It is my hope that it will be all over when you are reading
|
|
this. The cruelty of suspense I have practiced on you was due these past two
|
|
weeks to one vain, final effort to solve this situation. Forgive me for
|
|
having lived so much longer at your expense.
|
|
"This letter is a sacred contract in your hands when all is done.
|
|
Preserve it to yourself in your own interest and that of my loved ones and
|
|
destroy it in the presence of my wife when the bill is paid.
|
|
"Good bye.
|
|
"Leslie B. Henry."
|
|
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
|
|
Testimony of Eva Adeline Baber
|
|
July 20, 1933
|
|
|
|
...I think the letter [was] dated November the 14th, to Mrs. Shelby, in which
|
|
he told her he was going to commit suicide, among other things. When I came
|
|
back to my office after lunch on that particular date, I found a copy of this
|
|
letter, and I was naturally extremely worried, not knowing what she was going
|
|
to do, and at 5:00 o'clock I had not heard anything from her that afternoon,
|
|
and I felt sure that she had received the letter during the afternoon, so I
|
|
called her up and asked her if she wanted to see me, and she said, yes, that
|
|
she would send Mrs. Fillmore down to get me. Mrs. Fillmore came down and met
|
|
me downtown in her car, and took me out to the house. She conducted me
|
|
upstairs to the door, and she said, "Oh, is it true?" I was crying at the
|
|
time, and I said, "Yes, I am afraid it is true," so we went in and sat down
|
|
and talked. She and Margaret were both very kind to me that afternoon and
|
|
expressed their sympathy for the terrific strain I had been under, and Mrs.
|
|
Shelby brought me some aspirin. I had had such a headache, and she said for
|
|
me to take that and to brace up, and we would talk this thing out together,
|
|
or work it out together, so I did, and then she said that we ought to have
|
|
some dinner, and she told me to go into the bathroom and wash my face, so the
|
|
maid would not know that I had been crying. She said, "We have to keep up
|
|
appearances, and while I don't think the maid will talk, I would rather she
|
|
did not know that you had been out here," so we went down to dinner, and she
|
|
cautioned Margaret to address me as Mrs. Brown, in case anything came out in
|
|
the newspapers; she did not want anyone to know...We went down to dinner, and
|
|
afterwards we came back upstairs and began talking over ways and means of
|
|
collecting this insurance. She asked me at the time if I thought Mr. Henry
|
|
had already killed himself, and I said "No, I don't think so, because I
|
|
haven't heard anything this afternoon, and he is probably going to wait until
|
|
dark," and then she asked how he was going to do it, and I said, "I don't
|
|
know, he never told me that, but I would not be surprised if he connects with
|
|
a freight train somewhere," and then when we began discussing the ways and
|
|
means of paying back this money out of the insurance policies, she said--I
|
|
told her that Mr. Henry was going to instruct his wife to give me a power of
|
|
attorney, so I could act for her, because she wasn't experienced in handling
|
|
business matters, and that as soon as the money was available I would buy
|
|
back for her the bonds due her, and she said, "No, I won't have bonds; I want
|
|
cash." She said, "No more bonds for me; I insist on having cash." Then we
|
|
discussed ways and means, and she wanted to know how long it would take
|
|
before cash would be available, and I said, "I don't know, but I think it
|
|
ought not to take longer than a month," and she said, "Mary must not know of
|
|
this," and she said, "There is a payment due Mary the first of the month,
|
|
$700.00, and I don't think I have enough money to pay it," and they talked
|
|
about that, how they would keep the news of this disaster from Mary, and then
|
|
I felt so badly, it was then, I guess, about a little after 8:00 o'clock, and
|
|
we had talked and talked and talked, until I was so tired I wanted to go
|
|
home, and she said, "Wait until the 9:00 o'clock broadcast, and see if there
|
|
is any news of an accident reported." She had a radio in her bedroom, and I
|
|
sat there with her until after 9:00 o'clock, and she seemed to be a little
|
|
disappointed and sort of wondered why there was no report had come over the
|
|
radio. I presume she expected to hear, as I did to, that there had been an
|
|
accident, and then after that, Margaret drove me down to the Pacific Electric
|
|
station, and I caught the car and went home, and the next morning, before I
|
|
had finished my breakfast, just after I had gotten out of bed, the telephone
|
|
rang, and it was Mrs. Shelby on the phone; and she said, "Have you heard
|
|
anything yet?" and I said, "No," and then she hung up the receiver, and
|
|
there was no more conversation, and immediately I called Mr. Henry's house to
|
|
see if he was at home, and Mrs. Henry said, yes he was at home, and then I
|
|
went on to the office, and about noon, I guess, Mr. Henry came in...Mr. Henry
|
|
told me he had talked to her, and she wanted those insurance policies brought
|
|
out to her, and he wanted me--she had asked that I bring them out, and I
|
|
said, "I don't want to go, I don't want to talk to her again," and he said
|
|
that she insisted that she would not let him bring them out, so I took them
|
|
out to her, and her attitude that day was entirely different. She was very
|
|
hostile and she was just cool really, and she told me that she wasn't a bit
|
|
surprised when Mr. Henry called her up that morning. She said she knew he
|
|
wasn't going to do it. She said--Margaret said, "I had a lot of respect for
|
|
him when I thought he was going to make good these losses by killing himself,
|
|
but," she said, "I have no more respect left for him now, and I think it is
|
|
strictly up to him to go through with what he promised to do," and Mrs.
|
|
Shelby said to me--I believe it was Margaret said to me, "You know, Miss
|
|
Baber, this would ruin you if it ever came out in court," and Mrs. Shelby
|
|
said, "I want to tell you, I am going to fight, and I will spare no one.
|
|
When I get through with you, nobody will ever employ you again." Then she
|
|
sat down to go over these insurance policies together, and I handed them to
|
|
her, and she would read the amounts off and Margaret would take them down,
|
|
the face amount of the policy, and the date, and whether or not it was
|
|
carrying a double indemnity clause, and while we were sitting there checking
|
|
them up, she said, "These policies aren't any good to me, because they don't
|
|
have the last receipt for the premium, to show the premiums were paid," and
|
|
she said, "I must have that." I said, "Well, I think that Mr. Henry must
|
|
have them; I know the policies are in full force and effect, and I will go
|
|
back to the office if you want me to and see if I can find them. I think she
|
|
first suggested that I call Mr. Henry and see if he had them, and I called
|
|
the office and he wasn't in, and then I told her I would go back to the
|
|
office and see if I could locate them, and she said to bring them out to her,
|
|
and I said, "Couldn't I send them out by a messenger?" and she said, "No, I
|
|
don't want any messenger to bring them tonight." I went back and I couldn't
|
|
find any receipts. Mr. Henry apparently had destroyed all of his papers, and
|
|
when I told Mr. Henry I had left the policies out there, he was very much
|
|
upset about it, and said that I shouldn't have done that, but she did not let
|
|
me take them, and I couldn't very well snatch them up and take them back, and
|
|
as a matter of fact, it did not occur to me that it was important to do so.
|
|
I called her up and told her I could not find any of the receipts, and she
|
|
said, "Never mind, it isn't necessary." When Mr. Henry found I had left
|
|
them, he asked me to call and ask if I could come and get the policies, and I
|
|
did, and she said, no, that she did not want me to come out. That was in the
|
|
afternoon, and later on the evening I went out to the Pacific Electric
|
|
Station. She told me not to come to the house, and I called her again and
|
|
asked if I couldn't come up and either get the policies or get a receipt for
|
|
them. I said, "I will be held responsible for them," and she said, "Miss
|
|
Baber, you must not come near the house; I have guest here, and you must not
|
|
be seen around here," and I said, "Do you know, Mrs. Shelby, the first thing,
|
|
if there is an accident, the first thing the insurance company will want to
|
|
know is where the policies are, and if they are in your hands, they might
|
|
raise some question about whether or not there was a genuine accident, or
|
|
something might come up that would reveal that," and she said, "If anything
|
|
happens, I will take them straight on to Mrs. Henry," and that was all.
|
|
|
|
(Q. Now, you started to say that Mrs. Shelby told you that she talked to Mr.
|
|
Henry on the telephone that morning; did you give all of that conversation?)
|
|
|
|
When I went out there in the afternoon, she said, "I knew he wasn't going
|
|
through with it." She said, "He hasn't got the nerve." She said, "I wasn't
|
|
a bit surprised when he called me up this afternoon, and I told him that I
|
|
would just give him until 2:00 o'clock tomorrow afternoon to go through with
|
|
that letter, or I will walk into the office and call Mr. Babcock and Mr.
|
|
Cadwalader and lay my cards all on the table."...
|
|
|
|
[Special thanks to Dave Downey for providing above transcript.]
|
|
|
|
*****************************************************************************
|
|
*****************************************************************************
|
|
For more information about Taylor, see
|
|
WILLIAM DESMOND TAYLOR: A DOSSIER (Scarecrow Press, 1991)
|
|
Back issues of Taylorology are available via Gopher at
|
|
gopher.etext.org
|
|
in the directory Zines/Taylorology
|
|
or on the Web at
|
|
http://www.angelfire.com/free/Taylor.html
|
|
*****************************************************************************
|
|
|
|
|