November 12, 2009
Patsy Ruth Miller and F. Scott Fitzgerald: Politically Incorrect in Hollywood
Actress and author Patsy Ruth Miller.
In 1924 while shooting a film in New York, actress Patsy Ruth Miller (1904-1995) developed a close friendship with author F. Scott Fitzgerald and his wife Zelda. Frequently, Fitzgerald and Patsy Ruth would go out for dinner while Zelda remained home pleading fatigue. Patsy Ruth eventually realized that Zelda's fatigue was acute alcoholism.
Observes Patsy Ruth:
It didn't seem to me that Scott drank more than most of the men I knew. He seemed intoxicated on words, and sometimes we would sit, our after-dinner coffee growing cold, while Scott tried to make me see some fine point of writing, or understand why an emotion had been ill or well portrayed. But often I had the feeling that he was unsure of himself as a writer, that he was afraid of that one day he'd have nothing left to say, and I also had the impression that Zelda did little to build his confidence, even sometimes, in a perverse way, seemed to enjoy his battle with self-doubt.
Fitzgerald's agonies of self-doubt are common among writers. The fear of having nothing left to say will, inevitably, be paralyzing. And a non-supportive spouse can act as a fatal poison to a vulnerable writer. Perhaps Fitzgerald was not yet a full blown alcoholic, but he certainly turned into a drunk over the next few years.
A future O'Henry Award winning writer, Patsy Ruth Miller, in her juicy memoir, My Hollywood: When Both of Us Were Young, narrates a fascinating anecdote that took place a few years later when a shaky Fitzgerald was under contract at MGM.
At the time, Patsy Ruth Miller was married to the great screenwriter John Lee Mahin, director Victor Fleming's frequent collaborator.
John [Lee Mahin] often saw Scott at MGM, where they were both working, and told me that Scott seemed very despondent. I said that was only natural, with Zelda in a sanatorium, but John said, No, that wasn't it. He was writing a screenplay based on someone else's story and hated his assignment. Then why does he do it? I asked. Money, I suppose, said John, but it's a damn shame.
In truth, Fitzgerald never mastered the craft of the screenwriting, and in the tense, sink or swim factory atmosphere in which studio screenwriters labored, the master novelist's confidence level was further undermined. Most authors idealize themselves as artists. But the best, most productive screenwriters, then as now, understand that they are craftsmen working in collaboration with scores of highly talented people. Sadly, Fitzgerald never came to grips with the rigid studio system.
Remarks Patsy Ruth on Fitzgerald's bleak state of mind:
I finally ran into Scott one day at the studio where I had gone to pick up John. It was true, he did seem to have less sparkle, less animation, than he had in New York. I remember John saying to him, “Come on, kid. It's all grist to your mill. Some day you're going to write something about Hollywood as good as The Great Gatsby.”
Scott reacted as though he'd been accused of raping his twin sister. He said that he had never written anything worthwhile, that Gatsby was already dead and best forgotten, that nothing he had ever done would live, and not to give him any of that crap about great literature.
Bit by bit, F. Scott Fitzgerald unravels in Hollywood. Certainly, Fitzgerald's unhappiness with his Hollywood career is a prime factor, and with Zelda quite mad and locked away an all consuming anger and bitterness envelopes the great novelist.
Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald>
But John Lee Mahin has a different take on Fitzgerald's broken spirit:
On the way home John said this was all because of the people Scott was surrounded by, all the writers who had suddenly become politically oriented, social consciousness was the cry, and anyone who merely wrote about people and their everyday problems and emotions, was at least a Facist or maybe worse. Poor Scott had been tossed into this whirlpool of Liberalism, and without a political credo to cling to, was drowning in it. He had never espoused causes, nor been very interested in politics; as a writer, Humanity had meant little to him, the Individual everything...
Of course, Patsy Ruth is describing the emerging cells of Hollywood Reds. The love of humanity at the expense of the individual is at the core of Communist ideology. Too often Communist purges, where thousands if not millions are murdered, are justified by this charming dictum: “You have to break a few eggs in order to make an omelette.”
Patsy Ruth observes:
His work was condemned, they said, and he believed them. He denounced himself even more harshly than his judges, accusing his work of being trivial and superficial.
“He actually told me he's ashamed of The Great Gatsby,” John fairly snarled. “Those cursed Do-gooders... they've got him believing his work isn't worth a tinkers damn just because he wasn't waving a banner or marching in a picket line. They've destroyed him, as sure as God made little apples.”
That shouldn't keep him from writing,” I protested.
The Hell it doesn't,” John said. “Who can write when you've been told, when you've been convinced that anything you have to say is a bunch of crap. He can write rings around every one of those bastards who've done this to him, but he doesn't believe it any more, and if you don't believe it, you can't do it.”
Is Mahin's theory correct? Did Fitzgerald fail in Hollywood because he felt diminished by a wave of politically correct thought?
I doubt that this was the prime reason for Fitzgerald's Hollywood decline. Common sense argues that the break-up of his marriage, alcoholism, chronic money problems and a loss of confidence were the prime motivators in F. Scott's downfall. But let's not forget that Fitzgerald did write The Last Tycoon, unfinished yes, but still a masterful portrait of Hollywood with Irving Thalberg as Monroe Stahr, the central character.
Nevertheless, Mahin's denunciations of Fitzgerald as the victim of a politically correct Hollywood ring true as contributing to Fitzgerald's melancholy state of mind. And drawing from personal observation, I can attest to the wounds that can be inflicted by an almost monolithic political Hollywood sensibility.
Turner Classic Movie Alert
My friend Self Styled Siren, one of the best movie bloggers in the known universe—I think Ms. Siren has read even more Hollywood memoirs than yours truly—is, with the The New York Post's Lou Lumenick, programming a series of films, in January, for Turner Classic Movies titled: Shadows of Russia
The festival will air Wednesdays in primetime throughout January.
From the TCM press release:
The selections focusing on the many views of Russia and communism to be found in American movies. Some films are masterpieces that the Siren and her readers know almost by heart (Ninotchka, The Manchurian Candidate, The Scarlet Empress), others the Siren loved on viewing but needs to get re-acquainted with (Reds, The Way We Were), still others are oddities deserving of a more focused look (Rasputin and the Empress, Red Danube, Conspirator, Comrade X). And there are some rare films being shown, including Leo McCarey's film maudit My Son John, with poor doomed Robert Walker in the lead; The North Star, of which I am told TCM has located a good print that should show off James Wong Howe's cinematography; and I Was a Communist for the FBI.
I will be watching and writing about the series for Big Hollywood. It should prove enlightening and fascinating.
Congratulations to Siren. Her exemplary work, along with many others in the lively and informative movie blogosphere, demonstrates that the internet is exerting a profound influence on the world of films.
Memo to TCM: If you'd like to program a series exploring the image of Jews in American movies, give me a call.
Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 08:55 AM | Comments (8)
October 22, 2009
Patsy Ruth Miller on Fire—But Not Acting
Lobby card, For Big Stakes, 1922, starring cowboy star Tom Mix and Patsy Ruth Miller.
Silent films—especially westerns—were frequently shot on location, under grueling and often dangerous conditions. There were no unions to protect actors and crew, thus safety precautions were routinely sacrificed in order to meet tight shooting schedules and even tighter budgets.
There were countless accidents, some fatal. Martha Mansfield, a stunning Ziegfeld girl, just beginning to make her mark in motion pictures, was in 1923, engulfed in flames when a careless crew member dropped a match on her voluminous gown, a Civil War costume. Mansfield died twenty-four hours later from third degree burns over her entire body.
In her delightful and revealing memoir, My Hollywood: When Both of us Were Young, Patsy Ruth Miller (1904-1995)—briefly married to director Tay Garnett—best known for her role as Esmerelda in the silent Hunchback of Notre Dame, starring Lon Chaney, recalls a frightening episode on a Tom Mix western, For Big Stakes, 1922. At the time, Miller was a high school student who had been mentored by the great if notorious Nazimova, real name Miriam Edez Adelaida Leventon, and now struggling to get a foothold in the industry.
Oaters, as B westerns were called, were not glamorous or prestigious, and the pay was awful—actors had to provide their own wardrobe—but they did afford the opportunity to gain much needed experience and garner favorable public attention. Oaters had a large and dedicated audience.
Tom Mix, a colorful cowboy star, rode Tony, his faithful horse. Tony was, arguably, just as famous as Mix, hence an extremely valuable piece of horse flesh.
Tom Mix, the most flamboyant cowboy star of his era, and
his beloved horse Tony.
Patsy Ruth sets up the frightening episode:
One day on location there was a scene in which the heavies kidnapped me and tied me to a tree—probably a Yucca—out on the lone prairie. Then the villains ride off, setting fire to the underbrush...Before the fire could reach me, Tom would come tearing in, cut me loose with one sweep of his knife, swing me up on the saddle behind him, and go galloping off...
But, as often happens when shooting a stunt, something goes terribly wrong as the camera grinds away:
The only flaw in the plan was that the bad guy who tied me was not a quick learner; he didn't catch on how to tie a slip knot in one easy lesson, and he tied a real knot—a true Gordian knot. My struggle (acting) to free myself only made the knot tighter. Then the wind shifted a little, and my frantic struggle was no longer acting; I was getting too warm; the fire was uncomfortably close. The director and crew thought I was just hamming it up a bit, I suppose.
Unaware of the looming danger, Tom Mix, the classic white hat good guy, rides to the rescue:
He pulled Tony to a rearing halt then, wielding the knife with a flourish, pretended to cut the rope while really pulling on the loose end as in the rehearsal. But instead of falling free, the rope just got tighter; it would have taken three hands to untie it, and Tom barely had one. His left hand holding the reins, he was having all he could do to keep Tony from bolting. Horses have a terrific fear of fire. They panic and Tony was no exception.
Tom Mix and Patsy Ruth Miller, 1922.
By now, Mix understands that the stunt has gone bad and he is no longer acting. Keep in mind, Mix is mounted on his horse as he deals with the life-threatening situation:
Tom reacted quickly and with great presence of mind. Realizing that if he slashed the rope he would probably slash me, he slid the knife under the rope where it bound my shoulders. I scrunched my arms back to give him some leeway, and he sawed through it in a matter of seconds. It was a great feat of horsemanship and quick thinking. As soon as I was free, I reached up, he grabbed me, and somehow I was in the saddle behind him clinging like a limpet, and we were galloping off to safety...
Fade to black on a happy ending? Not quite.
My long, flowing hair was on fire and so was Tony's long, flowing tail. The fire didn't reach the camera truck; either they put it out or it burned itself out.
In the old days, movies were shot on nitrate stock—highly flammable, and the camera truck would have gone off like a munitions arsenal.
Tom Mix, star and producer, was furious:
But Tom's rage wasn't that easily extinguished. He raised holy hell with everyone—not mind you, because his leading lady might have been barbecued—there are always more leading ladies, but because Tony had lost a good part of his tail.
Interpolation:
An actress on one of my films pulled a hissy fit when she discovered that the bottled water in her trailer was not the brand she ordered. Her agent actually called to scold the producer and demand an immediate correction—or else. A production assistant privately suggested to me: “Wouldn't it be tragic if a light accidentally fell on her head.”
End Interpolation:
Patsy Ruth doesn't slap a law suit on the production company. She doesn't whine and kvetch. She wears a fall for the rest of the picture and promptly signs up for a Hoot Gibson oater. A few months later she's cast in The Hunchback of Notre Dame, the role that established her career.
Patsy Ruth Miller never finished high school. She dropped out in order to pursue her Hollywood career. But after she retired in 1931, Patsy Ruth started writing short stories and radio scripts. She won three O'Henry Awards and her novel, That Flannigan Girl, 1939, is an excruciatingly accurate portrait of Hollywood stardom—rise, fall and comeback—in the golden era. The novel is hard to find, but highly recommended. I picked up a used library copy for two dollars.
The danger in looking back at the old days is, of course, romanticizing an often brutal and callous business. But it does seem to this veteran Hollywood screenwriter that the classic American virtues of rugged self-reliance and, yes, personal courage, have been replaced by a culture of overpaid, overbred, and overeducated Hollywood brats who are not movie stars, just ordinary celebrities.
Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:03 AM | Comments (11)
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