MENTAL MONTAGE: And the Winner Is...

Olive Thomas and her perfect profile.

While researching this month's muse, I couldn't help but make connections between Ms. Olive Thomas and a plethora of other notable stars whose shot a fame was predicated on a random contest win. Just as Olive was given a leg up in the industry by winning Harold Chandler Christy's search for the "Most Beautiful Girl in New York" in 1914, so too would other fame-hungry hopefuls enter themselves into a hatful of names and faces for the chance of a lifetime. Winning these press gags would at the very least get them publicity, as well as assorted other prizes, but sometimes the victory too would buy them a straight ticket to Hollywood. Olive's path was less direct-- winning Christy's contest led to modeling for Harrison Fisher, which led to performing for Florenz Ziegfeld, which led to acting for Thomas Ince. For others, before the days of reality television and YouTube-- when any and everyone can become a star-- these press contests gave unknowns their time in the spotlight and also allowed already established stars the opportunity to keep their names shining. The following are those who had the gumption to take such opportunities to further their careers and eventually wind up as some of the biggest people in the biz. 

Ironically, another Hollywood beauty would have some help from HC Christy in obtaining stardom. Little, sixteen-year-old Clara Bow considered herself the least likely to succeed in anything. Growing up in Brooklyn, she somehow survived the shaky ground of an impoverished childhood, a mentally unstable mother, and an abusive father. Her release from this trauma was the movies. Her idol was Mary Pickford, and she constantly mimicked America's Sweetheart's every expression in the mirror when she came home from the latest flick. Imagine her excitement when her favorite movie magazine, Motion Picture Classic, announced Brewster Publications' "Fame and Fortune Contest" of 1921. On the hunt for the next great screen beauty, young female contestants were asked to send in two photographs of themselves, which would be judged by the artists Christy, Fisher, and Neysa McMein, along with Mary Pickford herself! Clara didn't have the money to get the photos taken, and her alcoholic father, Robert, performed perhaps the only kind act of his life in giving her the dough to get some taken. Clara wasn't happy with the results, but dropped them off at the contest manager's office anyway. He was immediately impressed, and left a note on her photos to the higher-ups that she had stopped by in person and was quite a looker. (The left publicity photo of Clara would appear in Motion Picture Classic to replace her cheaper entry pics).

Before Clara knew it, she was in the top dozen finalists and was called to Eugene Brewster's home for a screen test. Among the other girls, Clara was out of place. With her dismal wardrobe and third class upbringing, she immediately felt  like an outsider. The other gals confidently strutted before the camera and played out a scene in which they had to pretend to talk on the telephone; the shy Clara silently stood back and watched. Finally, her turn came. Instead of putting on airs, she decided to play the scene as herself-- not as an act, but as she would really do it. Her natural energy transferred, and she made it into the top two slots! She finally got up the nerve to tell her mother, Sarah-- who promptly fainted and then told her that she was going straight to Hell. Yet, in three days time, Clara received the call that she had won! Her picture appeared in Motion Picture Classic in Jan. 1922, and she was promptly summoned to Hollywood for her first film: Beyond the Rainbow. Her career should have ended there, but her innate charisma and gift at relaying honest emotion eventually made her Hollywood's "It" girl. (Clara rolls in "it," right).

1921 was clearly a busy year for talent scouts. At the same time Clara was answering the "Fame and Fortune" ad, Samuel Goldwyn was hosting his own "New Faces" hunt. (Ironically, almost as soon as the contest ended, Goldwyn was booted from his own company, but that's another story...). In the meantime, scout and former vaudeville star Bijou Fernandez was put in command of finding the newest male and female stars. The usual process followed, and a motley assortment of youths sent their photos for consideration. If attractive enough, they were called for a screen test, and eventually were signed to contracts at Goldwyn. It was a prime opportunity for any kid, especially someone like the wiseacre William Haines-- who had a zest for life but no specific ambitions. Legend has it that he was walking down Broadway when Bijou serendipitously spotted him and said, "I like your face" (see why, left). Billy responded in kind: "So do I, but it ain't mine." At her insistence, he entered the contest, having photos taken in probably the only nice suit he owned, and eventually wound up winning! His female counterpart was, unlike Billy, already an actress and a very driven one at that. Eleanor Boardman was a lovely, hard-working model when she saw this chance at a career boost. Naturally ambitious and talented, there are legends about her too, (such as the one involving her performing in the show The National Anthem, only to lose her voice half way through, and still pull off her performance completely in pantomime). After she and Billy made their screen tests, they were awarded contracts at the studio, and they rode out to Hollywood on a train together in March of 1922. They became fast friends and remained so for the rest of their lives. As two young hopefuls, they would both surpass and expand upon their own dreams. How could Eleanor have known that she would soon be Mrs. King Vidor, nor Billy that he would be soon be named Hollywood's Number One star?

Eleanor Boardman: gifted, glamorous, gorgeous.

The contests continued in 1922, but this time for different reasons. By now, Cecil B. DeMille (right) was one of the biggest directors in Hollywood-- big in professional stature, big in story, big in budget. Yet, after the success of The Squaw Man, Why Change Your Wife?, and Manslaughter, he was ready to top himself. In addition, he wanted to find out what the public was really in the mood for. So, on October 8, he ran an ad in the Los Angeles Times asking movie fans to write in ideas for his next film. The winner of the most creative story would receive $1000. In addition to keeping his name in the papers, Cecil used this cash reward press trick to both endear his audiences to him and keep his finger on the pulse of the nation. While reading through the multiple entries, he came across a letter from Mr. F.C. Nelson of Lansing, MI who wrote: "You cannot break the Ten Commandments-- they will break you." Finally, a worthy challenge! A religious man, Cecil was naturally drawn to the idea of exploring this Biblical moment, not just for the moral message, but because he already had dazzling images, set designs, and multiple taudry scenes dancing through his head. Mr. Nelson had hit the nail on the head; Cecil had his winner. However, he felt bad for the seven other people who, it turned out, had also sent in the Ten Commandments as a suggestion. To be fair, he sent all seven of them $1000 checks as well-- as always, a spendthrift. The Ten Commandments would be released the following year, and it remains just as startling and brilliant. For its time, and even today, the parting of the Red Sea is nothing to sniff at (thanks to the special effects of Roy Pomeroy, some gelatin, and gas jets).In effect, the contest spawned another contest-- one between Cecil and Cecil-- for he would decide to top even himself when he remade his own classic with Charlton Heston in 1956.

Jumping forward to the 1930s-- movie contests remained in full swing. This time, Clara Bow's home studio Paramount was about to feature another star-maker competition. Ironically, another Clara would win. Clara Lou Sheridan had absolutely no interest in acting. In fact, she was something of a tom boy who preferred working on cars to shopping. Nonetheless, her beautiful visage and curvaceous body made her a reluctant candidate for modeling-- despite the gap in her two front teeth, which she refused to fix. Her sister noticed that Paramount was featuring a "Search for Beauty Contest," the winner of which would receive a contract and a role in a major motion picture. Clara's picture was forthwith placed in the mail with the other contestants. Rumor has it that the deciding judge, flooded with so many photos, was having some trouble making up his mind on the winner, so he started throwing the pictures up into the air. Clara Lou's continued to appear face up when it hit the floor, and because she was a looker, she won the big prize. Signed to a one year contract, much to her chagrin, Clara Lou started making the rounds in B-pictures that showcased her beauty. After the year was up, she transferred over to Warner Bros, who made much better use of her earthiness by making her one of their many sexy-dames-with-an-edge. Cynical and direct, the newly named "Ann" Sheridan fit the Warner roster like a hand in a glove. Soon, she had gained enough popularity to earn the nickname she too would loathe: The "Oomph" Girl (see left). Maintaining her down-to-earth demeanor, the Texan girl always had a sense of humor about her random career change and the whole Hollywood biz. When asked later about the photo toss that won her her contract, Ann quipped, "Yeah, and I've been on my back ever since!"  

Lucille LeSueur would not achieve fame through a contest win; she got where she was going with a pinch of luck and a whole lot of grit and determination. However, a magazine contest too affected her life. Lucille had always had an inner drive and wanted nothing more than to distance herself from her turbulent relationship with her mother and her depressing childhood. Getting notice at a young age for her good looks, she got early work on the stage as a dancer, and she traveled around quite a bit in various shows. In time, she was discovered by a scout and subsequently landed a contract at the illustrious movie factory, MGM. It was here that she became pals with William Haines, who by now had taken to his new career path and was a huge screen star. Having mastered the art of film acting, Billy took Lucille under his wing and taught her how to play the part of the star on and off camera. After some minor roles and extra work, it was time for Lucille to renew her contract, but LB Mayer had a stipulation: he wanted her to change her name. He thought LeSueur sounded too much like Le-Sewer. At first, Lucille wanted to go by Billie Cassan, the name of the step-father who had shown her her only childhood warmth and whose vaudeville career had also introduced her to acting. In fact, all of Lucille's close friends already called her "Billie." However, Mayer didn't like it. Instead, to boost her public appeal and find an answer to the name question, he had the publicity department start a competition to find her a new one. On August 18, 1925, she received her new moniker: Joan Crawford (right). She was not happy. "It sounds just like Crawfish!" she complained to Billy. "Oh well," he quipped back. "They might have called you cranberry and served you every Thanksgiving with the turkey." (In the end, the contest got the new Joan Crawford two new names: thereafter, Billy always called her "cranberry"). Her first role as JC was with another JC, Jackie Coogan, in Old Clothes. Her new name soon became old hat, and twenty years later Joan Crawford would make the ultimate win, becoming an Academy Award winner for Mildred Pierce in 1946.

MENTAL MONTAGE: And the Winner Is...

NOW, THAT'S FUNNY: Part V

Carole Landis, poised for laughs.

Carole Landis's fun-loving attitude made her an eager participant in many a good-natured joke or game. A warm person, her mere presence seemed to flip the happy switch and put people in a better mood. This came in handy most particularly when she started entertaining the troops during WWII. Her heart went out to the battling soldiers, and she would do anything to give them a little peace and joy in the midst of the chaos that they daily faced. And I mean anything... During the war, radio became a useful outlet for the boys fighting abroad, and a steady stream of broadcasts gave them comforting reminders of home. One particular show, Command Performance, was based upon this concept. It took random requests from the boys and put them into action, making the oddest desires come true. Hopefuls called in with strange petitions, asking for various sound mementos from home or-- more daringly-- celebrity performances. On one interesting occassion, a huge Carole fan asked for very small favor. All he wanted was to listen to her "sigh." Carole must have gotten a good chuckle out of such an odd inquiry, but she gamely agreed to do it. So, on June 14, 1942, Carole stood in front of the microphone and softly proclaimed to soldiers all over the world, "Ahhhhhhhh...." It was a sensation and one of the best remembered moments of the show, as well as one which earned the most requests for replay.

The next jest is too tied to Carole, but there is debate over whether it was she who indeed committed the whimsy or her contemporary Lana Turner (left). In either case, one of these two ladies was again entertaining the soldiers in wartime and dancing with one fellow in particular-- who found his gaze continually traveling downward to the damsel's low-cut neckline. The soldier then humorously asked if the plunging cut was supposed to symbolize "V for Victory?" Not to be outdone, the lady in question quipped back, "Yes, but the bundles aren't for Britain!" Carole would later attribute the punchline to Lana, but some argued that she had in fact said it herself. I guess we'll never know. Both ladies were certainly capable of that kind of brazenly, silly stunt.

Beyond the Forest is most memorable for being the line in which Bette Davis uttered the eternal quote: "What a dump." However, there is actually a rather funny story involving another quote from the film. See, Bette didn't want to do the film in the first place. She thought both the story and the character were beneath her. Having constantly battled with studio head Jack Warner in the past, her fierce, stubborn streak was old news at this point. It was clear that both Bette and Warner Brothers were growing tired of each other. She fought, begged, and pleaded to get out of the role, even offering up casting suggestions-- she thought Virginia Mayo was better suited to play Rosa Moline, which was probably a back-handed compliment at the actress, who was more notorious for playing sexy, gangsters' molls. In the end, Bette's tenacity did not get her out of the movie, but it did end her contract. She threatened to walk off the picture, which was only half finished, thus inducing an ultimatum from Warners: if she finished the picture, she would be free from her home studio. She agreed. Finally, liberated after eighteen years, Bette was ecstatic... Until she learned that she had to return to do some voice over on a badly recorded scene. Glumly, she trudged back to say her last line at WB: "If I don't get out of here, I'll die." (See iconic moment, right).

Gary Cooper (left) was a quiet sort of guy, but that was part of his charm. Where most celebrity males of the time, and in fact today, walked with a confident swagger, he more gracefully strolled. Where many were loud and boastful, throwing their masculine weight around, Gary was quiet and soft spoken. Many a person, particularly women, spent a great deal of time trying to figure out what was going on inside that pretty, silent head of his, and certain gals like Carole Lombard threw up their hands in defeat after trying to figure him out. In the end, Carole preferred the brashness of Gable, thinking Gary was, well, boring. However, this was not so. Coop too had a great sense of fun and naughtiness, as Rita Hayworth and Veronica Lake would witness first hand... when they went on a bender together. This unlikely trio of shy outsiders banded together one fateful night while in Chicago on a War Bond tour. Determined to forget their stresses and throw caution to the wind, they soon found themselves at a strip joint watching the current female attraction on stage.

Gary, despite his bashful demeanor, was one of the notorious Hollywood "ladykillers," so it came as no surprise to Ronni and Rita when a girl plopped down next to him and started a conversation. Gary listened sympathetically, despite being schnockered, as this young woman explained that it was her sister who was dancing on stage and, "Oh dear, isn't it a horrible thing?" Veronica and Rita marvelled at the way Coop was able to draw the unsuspecting girl to him like a moth to a flame; how a complete stranger found herself babbling her innermost sorrows as he at least pretended to listen. He had such a wooing, calming effect. Eventually, having unburdened her conflicted heart, the girl made a drunken exit, leaving her stripping sister and famous cohorts behind, though she was probably not even aware to whom she had just been speaking. Feeling a bit guilty after this revelatory conversation, the three friends quieted their consciences by becoming equally inebriated and ambling down to another strip joint. And just who do you think should be dancing center stage? The very same girl who had just been mourning her sister's sad profession!  As eyes bulged and mouths opened, one can almost imagine Rita and Veronica looking at a surprised Gary and cackling at the twist of fate. The joke, it seemed, was on them! The girl recognized the coterie and humorously gave Gary a great deal of attention, for which he provided a generous tip. As they departed from their night of debauchery, the man of few words had, as usual, little to say. Smirking and shaking his head, he let it go with a: "Well, I'll be damned." (Gary and Rita reunite more soberly during They Came to Cordura).

Vicente Minelli, Judy Garland, and Kate Hepburn chit chat
on the set of Undercurrent.

After the disastrous shoot on Summer Stock, Judy Garland found herself permanently severed from her home studio MGM, which was bittersweet. Happy to be free, yet anxious without a home, her depression was only intensified by her deteriorating marriage to the homosexual Vicente Minelli. At the end of her tether, Judy disappeared into the bathroom and used some broken glass to slash her own throat. This suicide attempt was no laughing matter, of course, but it was typical of Judy, whose injuries were far from fatal. Mostly, she was crying for help, attention, and sympathy-- publicly proclaiming herself the victim of MGM's ruthless brutality. The message was received, and Louis B. Mayer, in a panic about what the negative publicity could do to his studio, sent for Hollywood's immovable pillar of strength, Katharine Hepburn, for help. She agreed to go talk to Judy and hopefully coax her out of the black hole into which she'd fallen. Kate arrived at Judy's home and was barraged by photographers, whom she told in no uncertain terms that if they took her picture, they would be punched in the face. Needless to say, the shutters stopped. In her typical, New England drawl, she then burst into Judy's room with a series of reprimands and supportive anecdotes. "Oh deah, you rally are in a bad way, ahn't you?" Kate offered Judy room and board at her place, where the patient could regain her strength and recuperate. Judy, grateful for the offer, was too terrified to accept. "Relaxing" with Kate surely would include swimming, jogging, and various other tough love rejuvenation tactics. Judy preferred to mope and enjoy the pitiful windfall of sympathy. Yet, Judy loved and respected Kate and felt truly victorious that one of Hollywood's biggest angels had been sent to help her. However, she was soon offered another consoling shoulder, which she did not find as appealing. During prayer at church, Jane Russell believed that she had been sent a divine message to reach out to Judy in her plight. So, she made a telephone call. Judy answered, at which point Jane went into Psalm 23: "The Lord is my shepherd..." Judy, who-- despite evidence to the contrary-- was in no mood to face her maker, quickly and embarrassingly interrupted with a "Thank you" and abruptly hung up. Perhaps at her next prayer session Jane offered up an "Our Father, return to sender."

Talk about "V for Victory..." Jane in her Sunday best.

NOW, THAT'S FUNNY: Part V

MENTAL MONTAGE: Ladies in a Man's World

The ultimate female objectification: Jane Russell and her assets

advertised in a 3D movie.

The battle of the sexes reached a fever pitch with the advent of cinema. Exploring gender roles on the silver screen was one thing, but it was the behind-the-scenes shenanigans that would take on much greater precedence in the history of He vs. She. The business of movie making, in a way, opened up a Pandora's Box of sexism, for as young ingenues came out to a land offering dreams-come-true and limitless possibilities, the consummation of ambition and corruption gave birth instead to what has commonly become known as "the casting couch." Sadly, it is not a myth. Hollywood itself, particularly in the early pioneering days and the apex of the studio system, was a glorified and gorified representation of a patriarchal society gone haywire. With large, wealthy businessmen and moguls holding the reigns and beautiful women running amok, it didn't take long for the well known game of quid pro quo to begin. As studio magnates got more and more powerful, their manipulation of the system, bloated egos, and inflated sensibilities of entitlement, resulted in a cat and mouse game, wherein more than one girl became the reluctant prey. In the eternal battle, many Virgins were sacrificed to the great Gods of Fame, Fortune, and Celluloid, but Rebels too came out swinging with a vengeance. Here are their stories.

LB at his throne of power.

MGM: "the dream factory." On the screen, it churned out delicious masterpieces for the eyes and imagination. Off camera, however, this iconic studio was a complete nightmare. Louis B. Mayer knew the business, he knew money, and he likewise knew how to cash in on his audiences. Yet, despite the fact that his job was to provide mass entertainment for the human soul, he seemed to lack one of his own. One of movieland's greatest hypocrites, he scolded his stars for their indecent behavior, while personally committing countless acts of debauchery and malevolence. In addition to controlling every aspect of his stars' lives-- his livestock-- spying on them, tapping their phones, intercepting their private letters and wires, he too abused his power physically. Some women, such as the strong Luise Rainer, never played into his trap and maintained enough control over their lives so that he was never able to infect their private business. Rainer (left) always made Mayer uneasy. He couldn't "figure her out." Read: she wouldn't play into his hands like an eye-batting simp. She came to work, did her job, and did not mix business with his pleasure. Actresses like Rainer, who didn't care about the fame but were invested specifically in the work, easily avoided the noose, and irritated the hell out of LB. Ava Gardner too could be lumped into this category. Fresh out of North Carolina, Ava was naive about the ways of the world when she was signed at MGM, which-- coupled with her beauty-- made her a prime target. However, Ava wasn't "that type of girl," and when she was nearly sexually attacked by a certain employee, she ran to Howard Strickling, MGM's publicity man, to protect her. Strickling ordered the man with happy hands to keep his "paws off." While Ava would later become more sexually adventurous, she was also a woman in control of her own life; she was calling the shots and not the other way around. For this reason, she was never played as a sexual pawn.

This is not to say that all women who fell prey to the man in charge were soulless fame seekers or women weak in spirit. Most girls were simply too young to understand how to fight back, nor in the days before the feminist movement did they know that they should. One such ingenue was Judy Garland (right), who in later years would recount being "felt-up" by Mayer a number of times when she was a young woman just starting to blossom. Mayer would call her into his office and have her sing for him. After she wowed him with her god-given gift, he would then say to her, "You know why you have such power in your voice, Judy? Because you sing from the heart. From here." He would then place his hand on her heart aka her breast. As an adolescent, Judy was awkward in these moments, not knowing how to react. Her instincts of course could feel that she was being abused, that something wasn't right, but Mayer was the man in charge. What could she do? (She joked in later years that she was grateful that she didn't sing from another part of her anatomy.) This type of occurrence repeated itself over the years, until finally, one day after Judy had matured, Mayer tried the tactic again. This time, Judy looked him straight in his bespectacled eyes and said, "Mr. Mayer, don't you ever do that again!" Mayer, who was known for lapsing into dramatic hysterics, burst into tears. "How could you say such a thing to me, after all I've done for you?!" Judy, shocked, suddenly found herself comforting him. At least he never laid another hand on her.

Mickey Rooney, Judy, and the "affable" Papa Mayer.

For all of the turbulence in their relationship, Mayer always had a soft spot for Judy, mostly because she proved to be such a huge moneymaker. This would come in handy later. Judy once had an encounter with one of Mayer's right-hand men, Ben Thau. When the stuffy, abrupt Thau surprisingly laid a kiss on the adolescent Judy, she was shocked. He then told her in no uncertain terms that she was to go to bed with him. Judy politely refused the flowery proposal, and Thau became angry, telling her that if she didn't obey, he would "ruin her." Judy by now had enough clout at the studio to hold her ground. She stared him down and said, "Oh, you'll be gone before I will." Indeed, he was. After the story was relayed to Mayer, Thau was out.

Another man who was known to throw his slovenly, repugnant weight around MGM was producer Arthur Freed. Judy had a hefty business relationship with Freed, whose name is present on the majority of the MGM pictures she made. Freed was another chronic womanizer who used his power for personal gain. His most infamous relationship perhaps involves Judy's co-star Lucille Bremer, who starred as Judy's older sister in Meet Me in St. Louis. She secured the job only because she was Freed's "girl." Sadly, her career didn't last much longer after the film's release. Another story involves Freed's meeting with Shirley Temple, the pint-sized actress who was one of cinema's greatest moneymakers (left). When she transferred over to MGM from Fox, the eleven-year-old was invited into Freed's office, where the pompous windbag told her that he was going to "make her a star," which, coincidentally, she already was. He then presented his... member to her. (That's right, I said 11-years-old). The young child responded with childish, uncomfortable laughter, which set off Freed's hairtrigger temper. He screamed at her "Get out! Get out!!!!" Honestly, what response did he expect? Despite the fact that this story in particular is unsettling due to Shirley's age, it is comical in that a pre-teen girl was able to emasculate the notorious lecher. (Temple's mother was also forced to fend off the wolves, who often tried to proposition her when she was trying to get her daughter ahead in the business. It is also speculated that Judy Garland's mother, Ethel, freely offered herself up on behalf of her daughter's career.).

Mayer's #2, Eddie Mannix, is a perplexing person in film history. A bruiser with mob connections, his experience and knowledge of cinema was null, making his high post at MGM... questionable. Publicly, he was Vice-President. In truth, he was a glorified spy who kept stars in line by keeping himself very knowledgeable about their private business. Needless to say, Mayer loved him, and Mannix loved his job, using MGM as his personal, sexual piggy bank. His favorite girl for a time was Mary Nolan, a former Ziegfeld Girl nicknamed "Bubbles" (right). When Mannix fell for her, she was suddenly cast in films opposite the likes of Lon Chaney and John Gilbert. However, she paid the price for fame. Attempting to prove his great machismo, Mannix was mentally and physically abusive. Sometimes he would beat Mary so savagely that she required surgery. Many would note her black and blue appearance when coming to set. It was only a matter of time before she, in addition, became addicted to morphine. (Ironically, she would play an addict in West of Zanzibar). When Mannix tired of her and tried to break it off, Nolan fought back and sued him in a court of law. Of course, being a high man on the totem pole with his hands in government pockets, Mannix never suffered the consequences for his actions. Mary was libeled as a "drug-addict" and a "tramp" in the press and quickly intimidated out of town by Mannix's henchmen. She died alone of liver disease in 1948.


One of the most horrific stories about the distorted misogyny of Hollywood can be learned from the story of extra girl Patricia Douglas. MGM held yearly sales conventions, during which Mayer entertained his multiple investors by showing off the fruits of their monetary contributions. Concocting elaborate parties that invited these men onto the back lots of the studio, wild and ribald behavior was endorsed and the wine flowed like... wine. The beautiful women and hopeful ingenues were too paraded before the slobbering lot-- dancing, singing, and serving them liquor. Eternal gentleman John Gilbert was so disgusted at the display at one particular party-- and the way Mayer was offering up "those poor little girls" like prostitutes-- that he stormed out, much to Mayer's chagrin. It seemed like harmless fun from the outside, but the truth was that once the gates of MGM closed, over a hundred girls were trapped and outnumbered by drunken, pawing men who felt they deserved a little "reward" for their lucrative contributions to the studio. On June 1, 1931, 20-year-old, Patricia was one of these victims. Growing up in Hollywood, the lovely young girl was familiar with the business and some of its players and took the job for a little extra money. It wasn't as easy a job as she originally expected, and soon things became rowdy and out of control. Actress Ginger Wyatt was also present at this affair, and would recall things getting so out of hand that actor Wallace Beery had to punch a few guys out in order to get her to safety. Patricia was not so lucky.

She was eventually asked to dance by MGM employee Dave Ross. She found him unsettling and creepy, but she found him difficult to avoid. At one point, he and an unnamed friend held her nose and poured a mixture of scotch and champagne down her throat. On the verge of vomiting, she stumbled outside onto the dirty fields of the Hal Roach lot. Ross came up behind her, pushed her down, threatened her life, warned her not to scream, and raped her. After she was discovered, bloody and bruised, she was taken to MGM's own hospital. Patricia expected something to be done, but the silence was deafening. She approached District Attorney Buron Fitts, but he of course gave service to the highest bidder, so Patricia's case went nowhere. MGM had to protect its reputation, so the story of their party had to be squelched. Despite the fact that Patricia was a young innocent and a virgin, a fact many testified to, she was labeled as a "loose woman" with unsuitable morals who was out for money. Her case was dropped, MGM was kept out of the papers, and Patricia never got her retribution. Her sad story meant nothing to Hollywood's biggest money machine-- she was just another commodity to be used as the men in charge saw fit. In court, Buron Fitts solidified MGM's defense with the mere comment, "Who would want to sleep with that?" That sentence would echo through Patricia's ears for the rest of her life. (Learn more from the film Girl 27 by brilliant author and filmmaker David Stenn).

But MGM wasn't alone in its sexual shenanigans. Darryl F. Zanuck of Twentieth-Century Fox was also a notorious lecher. In fact, it was well known on the lot that business with Zanuck was closed from 4-4:30pm each day. Why? Because that was always the time that a pretty, young actress was escorted into his office, where he would personally "audition" her. It was a free for all, and women who didn't perform off screen were told in no uncertain terms that they wouldn't perform on screen. The way these girls were paraded around led to more than one woman gaining a reputation. Carole Landis and Linda Darnell both allegedly suffered the humiliation of social judgment after various encounters. It was just the way of the business. Who were these young actresses to question it? Upon most of their initial introductions to Hollywood, they were told that this was just how things were. Not every girl was equipped with the same fierce and gamely antagonistic spirit of a Bette Davis, and some were a little too naive to simply say "No." However, Zanuck would learn that he wouldn't always get his way. When the young Betty Grable (right) entered his office at 4pm one day and was unceremoniously offered his appendage, she simply said, "That's beautiful. You can put it away now," and walked out the door.

Harry Cohn of Columbia was no prize either. The sadistic relationships he had with his actresses, especially the resistant ones like Rita Hayworth, Kim Novak, and Jean Arthur-- who opposed his power plays-- were legendary. He was labeled as "White Fang," a mental and physical rapist who left in his wake a landscape of discarded and humiliated women. He was said to have auditioned new actresses by sticking a pencil in their mouths to examine their teeth, lifting their skirts to look at their legs, and moving them over to his infamous white couch where they would "perform" before being escorted out the back door. After Marilyn Monroe appeared in Ladies of the Chorus for Columbia (left), she was invited to a meeting by casting director Max Arnow. Nervous about a possible new role, Marilyn prepped herself, crossed her fingers, and went to the appointment. However, Arnow wasn't there. A smiling secretary sent her instead into the office with Cohn, who beamingly showed off a picture of his yacht. He then invited Marilyn to come along on his next trip to sea, to which Marilyn responded, "What about your wife?" Cohn became enraged telling her to "leave [his] wife outta this," but any time he tried to redirect conversation to a rendezvous, Marilyn avoided the bait. Despite what is often said about her, Marilyn was a shrewd tactician and she knew better than to become yet another one of Cohn's walking wounded. Thus, as she made her way to the exit, Cohn blurted out "This is your last chance!" She exited nonetheless. Her Columbia contract was cancelled the following Monday.

The stories out there are endless, most of them experienced by the nameless women whose sacrifices never got them the opportunities they were promised when in a compromising position. Often, in recollection, women still protect the names of the men that so abused them on their rise to the top. One such woman is the spitfire Veronica Lake (right), who was never prone to gossip. BS maybe, but gossip no. Ronni's encounters in the extreme and sometimes rotten world of Hollywood are entertaining and eye-opening to say the least. She would recount in her memoirs mysterious auditions for various "films," which turned out to be pornographies-- one sort of movie she was not apt to make. She recalled being somewhat fearful in these situations. The casting director would try to intimidate her into accepting the job, leaving her nothing to do but run. The most hilarious of her appointments with sexism is also the most indicative of her character. She was once called in to meet a certain producer, whom she left nameless. After talking about a future role for her, this man took out his member (seemed to be a running theme) and laid it on his desk. Instead of batting her eyes at the great wonder of nature before her, or cowering nervously and searching for the exit, Veronica did what only Veronica would do. She threw a book at it. A heavy one. That had to hurt, and good riddance!

Mae West: an actress who put women firmly in a position of

power and took over Hollywood on her own terms.

One would hope that the aforementioned practices are a thing of the past and that the rise of feminism had abolished the submission of women in the Hollywood workplace, but the sad truth is that this kind of thing still goes on all the time. In a fame-hungry world, the need for power and celebrity to validate one's own existence only heightens a prospective star's susceptibility to such a cruel injustice. The hungrier one's desire for fame, the easier it is for a person in the position to give it to feed his (or her) own appetite. Luckily, there have always been those ladies who knew that their greatest service to society and themselves could not be performed on their backs. From those who suffered and those who triumphed, we can learn much: the cost of fortune should never be one's soul. Unfortunately, this truth was not blatant enough for all of these young women to see. In the game of sex, life, or business, if a girl isn't in control of her own moves, she is the one being played. Women like Lake, Rainer, and Grable had enough gumption to turn the tables and not be the pawn. Check mate, fellas.

MENTAL MONTAGE: Ladies in a Man's World

HISTORY LESSON: "The [Songs] That [Almost] Got Away"

Joots prepares to unleash her golden voice.

Judy Garland's singing career is indivisible from her acting career. When one hears the name "Judy Garland," it is likely that one will immediately conjure up images of her in the midst of song. With a powerful voice matched by a powerful personality, it is no wonder that the tunes Judy gave us over the course of her career are still ringing in our ears. Some of the most popular songs in film history, and perhaps of all time, were first christened by Joots. Her sad and endearing rendition of "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas" from Meet Me in St. Louis has caused it to become one of the holiday's most beloved melodies, and her duet "How About You?" with pal Mickey Rooney in Babes on Broadway can bring a round of smiles to even the most maudlin of occasions. However, some of Judy's most popular hits almost never came to be. Now that they are a part of our cultural and musical repertoire, history and life in general would seem incomplete without them. Here a three stories about three impromptu tunes.

1) "Over the Rainbow" is unarguably the most memorable moment from 1939's The Wizard of Oz. For generations, this film has maintained its endearing hold on the public via the tune that every human being, whether young or old, can relate to. We all still dream, still hope, and still possess some corner of our hearts where our youthful innocence takes harbor. Song writer Richard Arlen, one of MGM's greatest musical workhorses, had no idea how memorable his song would be when he wrote it. He got the idea when he stopped his car outside Schwab's Pharmacy on Sunset Boulevard and was hypnotized by the brilliant colors of the electric sign. When he teamed up with lyricist E.Y. Harburg, his inspiration took shape in a melody that would transcend time and send little Dorothy Gale (right) all the way to the mystical land of her imaginings: Oz.

But, "Over the Rainbow" almost didn't make the cut! After the initial previews in June of '39, the studio heads at Metro weren't sold on many portions of the film. It had been an arduous one to make, not to mention costly, and after all of the stress, they needed a clean, perfected hit to earn back their investment. First of all, the film was too long. An hour and a half was the acceptable length for a musical comedy or-- as the studio called this piece-- "a musical drama." A few minutes, therefore, had to be shaved. In addition to cutting some of the Wicked Witch's most scintillating and downright evil lines-- which, when screened in London, instigated the rule that no child could attend the horrifying film unattended-- a few odds, ends, corners, and even musical numbers had to be snipped. One Suit suggested that "Over the Rainbow" be cut. After all, it was a melancholy little number that merely delayed Dorothy's voyage to Oz, where all of the real action happened. In addition, having one of the studio's biggest assets singing in a barn surrounded by hay and hogs didn't seem like a keen selling point.

Off to see the Wizard.



When Harburg found out, he was furious! To him and nearly everyone else involved with the picture, Judy's rendering of this song was the most important moment of the fim. Not only did it establish her character, but it prepared the audience for what was to come, acting as a bridge to the unbelievable land where Dorothy would journey. King Vidor, who directed the scene, was called in to wrap up the unfilmed footage when Victor Fleming was called away to pick up Gone with the Wind from the ousted George Cukor. (Ironically, Cukor had been an advisor on Wizard after first director Richard Thorpe was fired and before Fleming was brought in). The last minute switch was kismet. Vidor was an alumni of silent film, and his interpretation of the scene, its poetry, the camera's movement, all lent to the beauty of Judy's longing voice. Out of the black and white of the scene comes the first true color of the film before the tornado ever carries Dorothy to Oz. Surprisingly, it was Louis B. Mayer who stepped up to the plate, convinced that the number had to stay. While he often himself appeared like the Tin Man, the sentimentality and wholesomeness of the song appealed to him. Apparently, he did have a heart. And so, the song stayed, and history was made.

2) "Get Happy" is the singular moment of Summer Stock, and one of the most brilliant moments of Judy's career. When watching the movie today, one often gets bored waiting for this one big scene amidst the drudgery and chaos of the surrounding, back-country plot. In fact, the charming Gene Kelly and the matronly Judy (right) seem like an unlikely fit, which makes their romance very confusing-- a far cry from their more suitable For Me and My Gal days. They perform better apart than together. Gene has his time to shine in his solo dance sequence, but even the incomparable, sexual dancer can't top Judy's pipes. "Get Happy" was the saving grace of the film, and it resulted almost by happenstance.

When Judy began work on the picture, she had picked up a little weight. After obtaining rest and relaxation at the Peter Bent Brigham Hospital, where she had been served three square meals a day, she did not look like the svelte beauty she had been in The Clock or Ziegfeld's Follies. In fact, she looked a great deal older than her 27 years. Being adorned in farm-girl attire only hampered her already less-than-startling appearance. After years of overwork, stress, and drugs, Judy was not in a good place emotionally when she started the film, and was also on the brink of a break with MGM. Going on a crash diet increased her edginess and ill feelings. Insecure, she often called in sick, arrived late, or used any possible delaying tactic to avoid coming to work, for-- as she relayed to musical director Saul Chaplin-- "I'm so ugly and untalented, they're going to find me out!" Director Chuck Walters, a constant collaborator with Judy over the years, was by now used to, if not immune to, her hysterics, and he knew how to work around them. He often distracted Judy with other business to keep her mind off work, knowing that if he could just get her up and in front of the camera, she would do her thing. His ploy often worked. He would tell Judy, "Oh, you look tired. Why don't you go home. But first, could you run through this song once for tomorrow?" Judy would agree, start to sing, and then "Whip, Boom, Pow!" She became the star everyone knew and loved, and Walters would turn the camera on to capture it.

La-La-Legs!

After the film wrapped, the studio watched the initial cut but felt that there was something missing. The movie needed one more big number-- a la Judy, of course-- to seal the deal with viewers. So, Judy was called back from vacation in Carmel to begrudgingly film one more song. Her one condition was that it be "Get Happy," written again by Arlen with lyrics by Ted Koehler. It was one of her favorites and was an old piece that Arlen had penned back in 1929. When Judy arrived on the set, she looked quite different. Rest in Carmel had served her well! Trim, sexy, and with her swagger back, she looked ready to go! She pre-recorded the vocals for the song with no problem, but she received an attack of the jitters when it came time to call "action." So drugged up that she could barely stand, Walters had to postpone the shoot until the next day, which the inebriated Judy didn't understand. She found the delay unprofessional, not realizing in her mentally unwound state that she was the source. Nonetheless, she arrived the next day sober, on time, and gorgeous. The pro had stepped up her game. Walters, who had been forced to choreograph the sequence himself, put Judy in a black fedora, jacket, and heels, and let her go. Those legs deserve a song of their own! And when Judy tips that hat and saunters down the stage, it becomes the musical moment worth waiting for. Without it, the film wouldn't have remained as famous and beloved as it is today. "Get Happy" would be Judy's last song at MGM as well as one of the pieces played at her funeral.

3) "The Man That Got Away" is yet another Richard Arlen contribution, this time with lyricist Ira Gershwin. Unlike the aforementioned episodes, this song was purposeful from the get go. An important moment in the film A Star is Born, this piece was calculatingly crafted to relate several things: the character Esther Blodgett's talent, which then induces the fascination and passion of Norman Maine (played by James Mason), and a foreshadowing of the doom their relationship is to endure. The movie has many brilliant moments and memorable songs, including the lengthy "I Was Born in a Trunk" sequence, but "Man" is the one that remains synonymous with the picture. In fact, without this song or Judy's pained and intense performance, the film would have crumpled into an obsolete heap next to the original (starring Janet Gaynor and Fredric March in 1937.)

No, the problem wasn't with the song this time... It was with filming it. It seemed that George Cukor, the director most remembered for his sensitive translations of the female heart, couldn't get this one particular moment right. In fact, he had to film it three times over before everyone, including himself, was satisfied. George adored Judy and was floored time and again by her boundless talent. Her character's painful conversation with Charles Bickford about her husband, Norman, and the emotional disease, obsession, and self-loathing that she can neither comprehend nor help, reveals to the audience a profound truth-- she is talking about herself, the real Judy, who is drowning, and unable to save herself. With such a force at his disposal, Cukor was excited to film the "Man" scene, as he was any musical number with Judy. The first attempt was made on October 21, 1953. Seeing the clip now, it is understandable why it was scrapped. Judy is adorned in an unflattering pink shirt against a pink wall, and she is surrounded by blue decor and musicians in blue suits. The color is garish, and Judy blends right in. The musicians often take precedence over her in the scene, her hair is fairly short and worn down, and the song is abrupt. It starts and it ends. Judy fills the moment with emotion, but it still comes off as anti-climactic. After Jack Warner and Judy's latest hubby Sidney Luft saw the dailies, they asked for a reshoot. Try number two, on October 27, was a bit of an improvement. This time, the instrumental introduction lasts longer. It gives Cukor time to cut away to Norman Maine, seen entering The Downbeat Club and witnessing the rag-tag group of performers and his latest fascination, Esther. The decor is dressed down-- the walls are still pink, but the trimmings are brown and dark. Too dark in fact. And when Judy sings in her now brown dress (as seen above), the audience still has trouble finding her. She looks a sight better than before, her hair half up, but she is still drab. 

 We have a winner!

The scene remained as it was until February of 1954. This time, Cukor attacked with a vengeance. The frumpy wardrobe designed by Mary Ann Nyberg was replaced by a respectable, blue Jean Louis suit-- simple, befitting the character, clean, and elegant. Judy's hair was pulled all the way back from her face, making her appear more youthful and pretty, and Cukor changed the camera angle from center stage to a side shot, more focused on Judy and her piano playing partner (Tom Noonan). The piano figures in as a deliberate prop. Judy moves around it, leans on it, and in one great moment grasps it as she tosses her other arm up in the throes of perfect melody. Another item is infused, for Judy's character is given more humility this time. In previous takes, she had always simply wandered about The Downbeat Bar with her friends before unceremoniously starting to sing. This time, Noonan prods her, "Come on... Take it from the top." Judy then peers down at the music, which makes the moment seem less planned and more serendipitous. Thus her natural, unbridled talent comes across with innocence and not with knowing agenda. With the light in place and in focus on her, she is no longer upstaged by the surrounding musicians, and Judy's accidental songbirg finally comes to life. Cukor too uses the camera to more effect, particularly in pulling back in a long shot during a climactic moment. This time, the greatest triumph is in having all eyes on Judy and her powerful delivery of a painful ballad. It was a sequence necessary to the rest of the film, for-- from this moment-- she has the viewer's sympathy and never lets go.

The almost divine intervention in all three of these films resulted in divine movie moments, and thus timeless, divine movies themselves. Certainly, Judy's voice would have enhanced and carried any film she was in, but the perfection of these three scenes made her work classic and eternal as opposed to merely acceptable. These three are also some of the songs she is most known for, so their absence from cinema would have been a severe detriment to, not only the lady herself, but pop culture in general. As it is, we keep the songs with Judy in our hearts. She is our eternal little girl lost, whom we find again and again in our favorite melodies.

HISTORY LESSON: "The [Songs] That [Almost] Got Away"