Part 8

He worshiped John Barrymore and deliberately started the rumor that he was John’s illegitimate offspring. They came to a parting of the ways, however, when he invited “Father” up to Mulholland Drive. John, who was incontinent toward the end, forgot himself as he sat on a beautiful settee in the lavishly furnished living room that was Errol’s pride. That was the last time John was invited.

Water, as well as drugs and alcohol, attracted Errol. He was sun-bathing mother-naked one day on a sailboat in the Mediterranean when a sight-seeing craft loaded with American schoolteachers came by. He chose that moment to stand up and stretch. One gasping teacher fell overboard, covered in blushes, and he promptly plunged in to retrieve her.

Errol used to live directly across the street from me during his marriage to Lili Damita. All I had to do to pick up an item or two for the column was sit by my bedroom window and listen to them shrieking at each other. I got the low-down on their separation by just lying in bed and listening. It was a screaming, juicy bout.

I was all set to put it on the wire the next morning, when Errol came over in dressing gown and slippers at 7 A.M., got me out of bed, and begged me not to print it, saying they hadn’t even talked about a property settlement. Like a fool, I promised to keep silent until he gave me the cue. But he couldn’t keep his own secret and told Louella, who scooped me with my own story. I could have throttled him--but that’s Hollywood.

The last time I saw Errol was in Paris, when he was making _The Roots of Heaven_. He wanted his teen-age popsie to stay in the room while I interviewed him. She wouldn’t go, so I did, interview or no interview. But I kept a soft spot for him in my heart in spite of the several kinds of ruin he brought on himself.

* * * * *

After ten o’clock on a weekday night, Podunk would probably look like Broadway compared with Beverly Hills, which is strictly a roll-up-the-sidewalk community. After that witching hour, police in prowl cars stop anyone they see out walking to ask if they’re residents and, if they’re not and have no good reason for being around, escort them to the nearest bus stop.

By ten-thirty virtually every household has gone to bed. Working actors and actresses have to be up by six or six-thirty. Then it’s a cold shower to get the eyes open, a shampoo and a finger wave in the case of actresses. Most women have a shampoo every morning; blondes from necessity because they use gold dust in their hair, brunettes to make their hair shiny. Half a dozen eggs makes the basis of many a brunet shampoo.

Under the dryer, the Beverly Hills workingwoman takes the juice of a lemon and a cup of hot water. Then a look over the script for the day’s shooting while she downs orange juice and black coffee. After leaving instructions for the cook and servants--and nurse, if there are young children--she drives to the studio, where curls are combed out and make-up applied. If she’s wearing an evening gown, she’s whitened to the waist; it’s cold and sticky.

She’s squeezed into her costume, and a stand-by car takes her to the sound stage. Director, crew, and rest of the cast say their good mornings. Because their moods will be affected by hers, she has to set the emotional climate for the day--no headaches, heartaches, or bellyaches for her.

If she knows her lines, some other cast members may not. So the company rehearses until everybody’s letter perfect. Lights are set, sound adjusted, cameras roll. Then somebody fluffs a cue or a move, and that’s contagious. “Dear God, don’t let it happen to me,” she mutters. The same scene may be done over forty times before the director is satisfied. Some of them are sadists, who’ll keep their players sweating just to prove who’s boss.

At noon, lunch is called. Her dress is usually so tight that a cup of hot soup, green salad with cottage cheese, and more black coffee is as much as she can stand. It’s hard to relax after that bit of bunny food.

Maybe there’s a long-distance call waiting from some relative who never did a lick of work, complaining that the allowance will have to be upped because baby Peggy needs braces or the car has to have new tires or Auntie May has set her heart on a Florida vacation.

Then she hurries back to work. If she happens to have a crying scene to do, it will be easy. When she comes out of it, she catches the eye of an extra whose thoughts are as plain as if shouted aloud: “Were you ever rotten in that! I could show them how to handle it.” When our girl’s nose, eyes, and mascara are all running simultaneously, the head of the studio walks on with a banker from New York.

So it goes until six o’clock, when she goes to the projection room to see the previous day’s rushes, then back to the dressing room to remove make-up. If she’s a blonde, the gold dust is brushed out, hot oil applied, and her head’s wrapped up in a bandanna like a Christmas pudding.

Home at last, where the servants are eating high on the hog, but she has a tray with hot broth, one lamb chop, spinach or string beans, and perhaps a dab of apple sauce. There’s time to play with the children for half an hour, look over tomorrow’s script, sign dozens of checks a secretary has laid out in a folder for her. Then a body massage, and what’s left of her crawls to bed.

Is it any wonder that there hasn’t been a real, big-star hostess in our town since Doug Fairbanks deserted Mary Pickford? Hundreds have tried, but nobody’s succeeded, not even Mary. As Mrs. Buddy Rogers, she lost the glory.

Mrs. Kirk Douglas and her friend, the present Mrs. Gregory Peck, have their dreams along those lines. Veronique pretended to be a writer so she could get a private interview with Gregory when he visited Paris with his first wife, Greta, and openly told a companion, Brenda Helser of _Diplomat_ magazine: “I’m going to be the next Mrs. Peck.” Her plan worked like a charm.

The current Mrs. Edward G. Robinson would like to be a hostess with the mostest, but she has not attained the status of Gladys, his former wife, who entertained in great style and set him going on his way to being a great art collector. It was Gladys who had the knowledge and chose most of the paintings. Collecting pictures is a neat trick for cutting down on income tax, highly recommended by financial consultants if you can afford it. You donate the paintings to a museum as an act of charity, but have the pleasure of them hanging on your walls for a lifetime.

The William Goetzes mix social ambitions with art collecting and what may be lightheartedly called “cultural leadership.” The walls of their home--it takes seven servants to run it--are adorned like a museum with works by Monet, Matisse, Roualt, Dufy, Lautrec, and a reputed Van Gogh, which Bill bought for $50,000 in 1948 from a New York gallery. When the painter’s nephew had doubts about its authenticity, the Metropolitan Museum assembled a jury of three experts. After they’d pored over the canvas, they declared that they, too, were unwilling to accept it as an original. A European art critic, Dr. Jacob Bart de la Faille, who had vouched for the picture’s genuineness in the first place, insisted that he’d made no mistake and the buyer hadn’t been taken. Then five European experts took a look and said it was a Van Gogh, sure enough. Where that leaves Bill Goetz, I don’t know, because he hasn’t told me. We aren’t in each other’s confidence and never have been.

He married Edith, Louis B. Mayer’s older daughter--Irene, the other, became David Selznick’s wife. When Edie’s engagement was announced, Louis put Ida Koverman in charge of wedding arrangements, with orders to invite all the old-line Los Angeles socialites. As Herbert Hoover’s former aide, Ida knew them; Louis did not. Edie was always drawn by pictures of one sort or another. She paid almost daily visits to Ida’s office, whose walls were hung with autographed pictures from the biggest people in America, to bombard her with fresh instructions.

She stopped in front of the then President’s photograph (“To my dear Ida ... Herbert Hoover”) and asked: “Have you invited him?”

“You don’t know him,” Ida said.

“You do and father does. Send him an invitation. I’d like to see what he sends me.”

“But he’s the President of the United States.”

“Invite him, anyway.”

Hoover didn’t attend the wedding, but Edie got a present from him. She got presents from everybody. There must have been twenty showers given for her. If you were on the MGM payroll, as I was as an actress then, there was somebody to tell you what to take or send for all occasions.

Came the night of the wedding and sit-down supper in the Biltmore ballroom. I was seated at a side table when Ben Meyer, a local banker, came over and asked me to join his group at a more elevated spot. “We don’t know any of these people,” he said. “Will you point out the stars for us?”

## Partly as a result of making my first visit to the place as DeWolf

Hopper’s wife when he was an idol in the theater, partly as a result of having Harry Lombard, the Boston banker, and his wife as friends, I knew my way around Los Angeles society. But I had to tell Ben Meyer: “I’ll have to get Mr. Mayer’s permission first.”

“You’ll have to what?” he exploded.

“He employs me, remember? Social or anything else, I’ll have to ask him.”

Louis couldn’t understand how I could have a banker asking after me.

“These are my friends, Louis: lawyers, doctors, professional people. They’ve no idea who your stars are because they never see your pictures.” Permission granted, grudgingly. With the Meyers, I sat at the gayest, most gossipy table in the room. At the end of the evening they knew the names of all the stars and most of their histories.

Louis and his son-in-law were thick as thieves for years. Mayer bought race horses, Goetz bought race horses. At one Academy Award banquet Louis put his arm around Bill: “If you just go on the way you’re going, you’ll be a greater man than I ever was.”

William wanted to head his own film company just like his brother-in-law, David. With Louis behind him anything was possible. It looked like a wide-open opportunity when Darryl Zanuck left Twentieth Century-Fox to join the Army in World War II. Louis began maneuvers with his partner at Metro, Nick Schenck, of Loew’s Inc., whose brother Joe was board chairman at Fox. Goetz would replace Zanuck while Darryl was in Washington, D.C. in uniform.

I got wind of it and flashed a “hurry home” message to Darryl, who was on duty in Washington. He raced back three days before the intended change-over. Shortly thereafter it was announced that Mr. Goetz had resigned from Twentieth Century-Fox, to become production chief at Universal-International.

Ten years later, in 1953, he quit that job, too. A controlling interest in the studio had been bought by Milton Rackmil, who found in the course of negotiating a new contract for his head of production that Goetz set his price at $5000 a week while fellow executives got less than $2000. Later he had a spell at Columbia, and now Bill Goetz sits on a bank’s board, has real-estate interests. The movies lost their attraction when he underestimated Louis, a fierce Republican, and backed Adlai Stevenson in 1948 despite his father-in-law’s pleas. Louis did not speak to him after that. When he died in 1957, his will left $500,000 to his daughter Irene and similar bequests to her sons by Selznick. He cut out Edie and Bill Goetz and their children entirely.

* * * * *

Los Angeles society is much like the frog that wanted to inflate himself bigger than a bull. New York, San Francisco, Chicago, Detroit all have social leaders with recognizable names that stand for something in America and, in some cases, around the world. Los Angeles is different, for all its size. Outside our city limits, its “society” with few exceptions doesn’t mean much, primarily because our standard isn’t “Who are you?” but “How much have you got?”

In the early days Los Angeles socialites lent their gardens and exteriors of their houses to movie making on a business basis, donating proceeds to charity. But they didn’t invite picture people in to dine with them. The dividing line still exists, though it’s narrower than it used to be. For one thing, international leaders and celebrities don’t give a damn about Los Angeles society when they visit here. They want to meet and be entertained by the stars, because they give the best

## parties and are more fun to be with.

Now Sam Goldwyn mingles with Mrs. Norman Chandler and the music crowd since they’re both deeply involved in fund raising for the music center housing the Los Angeles Philharmonic and the San Francisco Opera Company. Danny Kaye and Jack Benny conduct concerts for the symphony. One that Danny did brought in $185,000. But movie people can no more get into the Los Angeles Country Club for either love or money than they could when Cecil De Mille battered in vain on its doors.

Harpo Marx, whom I adore, once told me he couldn’t understand why he couldn’t join a local country dub. “That’s easy,” was my reply. “You belong to a different club, where they don’t take in Christians. So in a way they’re sort of even.”

“I never thought of that,” said he. The following day, Eddie Mannix, a feisty Irishman, joined Harpo’s country club.

Generally speaking, Los Angeles society in the beginning would have nothing to do with the movie crowd; now the movie industry has little to do with Los Angeles society. In some cases the bar went up because they worked in movies, sometimes because they were Jews. Our town and every suburban Podunk across the nation have something in common with that prejudice.

Hollywood treats the subject simultaneously as a joke, a jinx, and a business risk. Sinatra and the Clan allow themselves the privilege of kidding each other as “wops” and “kikes” but protest publicly against racial discrimination. One comedy star doesn’t wince when men on his payroll refer to him as “Super-Jew.”

When Louis B. Mayer first saw Danny Thomas, who is a professional Lebanese, on a night-club stage, he liked everything about him except his looks. “I would put you under contract immediately,” he told Danny, “except you look too Jewish. I want you to have some surgery to straighten out your nose.”

He imagined it was doubt about the possible result that made Danny decline with thanks. “Well, then, I understand you have a brother. Here’s what we’ll do for you. We’ll have his nose done _first_ as a sample.” He was amazed when that offer was turned down, too.

Because of his “lady complex,” I was approached by Louis, who begged me to get his daughters into our most private private school, whose principal was a friend of mine. There was no point in mincing words. “Mr. Mayer,” I said, “they don’t accept them.”

“But they’ll take my daughters,” he snapped. “Can’t you tell the head mistress how important I am?”

“It won’t do any good. You can’t win that one. They will not take Jews.” He had no choice but to accept the truth, no matter how disagreeable.

When Samuel Goldwyn was preparing _Guys and Dolls_, I heard he was talking about having Frank Sinatra play Nathan Detroit, the gambling man, brilliantly played by Sam Levene on Broadway. I bearded Samuel in his den. “Sinatra’s no more fitted for that part than I am. He’s a great entertainer, but not in that role. Nobody but nobody can play it like Sam Levene. Why don’t you get him?”

“You can’t have a Jew playing a Jew,” Sam said calmly. “It wouldn’t work on the screen.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “What was that you said?” He repeated his words. “I could slay you for that remark,” I exploded.

“But you won’t.”

“But someday I might,” I warned.

So in Hollywood only Christians are allowed to portray Jews. Gertrude Berg was thrown out of _A Majority of One_ to make room for Rosalind Russell--Gertrude read about the switch in the New York _Times_ after she’d been promised the part by Dore Schary. Otto Preminger’s casting transformed _Exodus_ into a Protestant epic. _Anne Frank_ emerged as milk-and-watery Millie Perkins. _A Catered Affair_ served Kellys instead of Cohens.

Sam stayed on speaking terms with me until _Porgy and Bess_ came along, and he hired as director Rouben Mamoulian, who had performed the same task for DuBose Heyward’s _Porgy_ as a straight play, before it was converted into a musical. During the following eight months Mamoulian had fresh arrangements orchestrated, persuaded a distinguished list of Negro players to forget their fears that the movie would be an “Uncle Tom” show.

Sidney Poitier, Dorothy Dandridge, Pearl Bailey, and others had turned down Goldwyn’s approaches. Only Sammy Davis, Jr., had agreed to perform. Mamoulian explained individually to each holdout how he would direct, with full recognition of the fact that humanity has come a long way since Porgy first saw the light of Catfish Row. Satisfied that there’d be no reflection on their race, they signed contracts with Sam--who decided to fire Mamoulian and hire in his place Otto Preminger, whose style is distinctly Prussian. He engaged Preminger before he told Mamoulian he was through.

Outraged, I let fly at Sam in a column. I admired this talented, foxy man from the days when he was Sam Goldfish, an immigrant from Poland. I knew him as Jesse Lasky’s partner when Geraldine Farrar came out from New York to make _Joan of Arc_ in 1915. In fact, I made a couple of silent pictures for him. I helped get an honorary Oscar for Harold Russell, the miraculous, handless ex-GI in Sam’s _Best Years of Our Lives_. Harold also collected one as best supporting actor, thus squeezing out Clifton Webb, who was the favorite that year in that category.

Samuel was Mr. Charm himself then; we were friends, especially if he’d had a tiff with Louella. But a few lines in print ended our life-term friendship. He hasn’t spoken to me since. It’s gall to him that _Porgy and Bess_ was one of his few failures, a dull, photographed opera with no heart, soul, or finesse, where Mamoulian could have made it a thing of beauty, like the original _Porgy_, which had me weeping tears of compassion as I first saw it in a New York theater.

* * * * *

Beverly Hills is my home. I’ve lived in the same house there for twenty-two years. When I walk my gray French poodle, Beau Beau, a gift from Ann Sheridan, I pass the house of Ned Washington, who wrote such scintillating songs as “My Foolish Heart,” “I’ll Walk Alone,” “When You Wish Upon a Star.” Across from him resides Pete Smith, retired now, whose movie short subjects had audiences in gales of laughter for more than a generation.

Then there’s the home of Ann and Jack Warner, with its private golf course and tennis court. In the drawing room hangs her portrait by Salvador Dali, the finest he’s painted.... There’s the house of Mr. and Mrs. Bruno Pagliai. We knew her first as Merle Oberon, then as Lady Alexander Korda. After their divorce she married Lucien Ballard, one of our finest cinematographers. She longed for children but could have none, even after several operations. So after her marriage to Bruno, she adopted a boy and a girl.

Next to the Pagliais live Ketti and Kurt Frings. Ketti adapted for the stage _Look Homeward, Angel_, which boosted Tony Perkins to stardom. Kurt is the agent who got Elizabeth Taylor the first million-dollar picture salary in our history.

Turning into Roxbury Drive, I pass the home of Lucille Ball, who knew joy and sorrow there with Desi Arnaz and now is happy as a lark with her new husband, Gary Morton. Tallulah Bankhead and I were among the dinner guests in that house once, when Tallu was appearing the following day on “I Love Lucy.” Desi seated me on his right, a place which Tallu insisted should be hers. But Hopper can be stubborn as an Amish mule, and the brickbats started to fly. We couldn’t get her out of the house until 1:30 A.M. At the “Lucy” filming Lucille was nervous as a cat over the events of the previous night. She forgot her lines for the first time in her life. Tallulah, who’d been appalling during rehearsals, sailed through her performance like Eleanora Duse.

Lucy’s neighbors are Mary and Jack Benny, who’ve never changed marriage partners or their way of life. Jack doesn’t stop working; Mary, like Gracie Allen, refuses to set foot on a TV sound stage again.

Up the street, you find Jeanne Crain and Paul Brinkman and their six children, all happy as hooligans. Better look sharp as you pass or you’ll trip over roller skates, a tricycle, or a baseball bat on the sidewalk.

Next door is a house of sorrow--Rosemary Clooney and her five children live there with no husband or father to guide them. José Ferrer moved out. Also on this street are the Ira Gershwins; the Thomas Mitchells; Aggie Moorehead in the house where Sigmund Romberg used to make music and feed us every Sunday night. In this block, too, stands the Spanish house where Liz Taylor lived with her parents when she was making _National Velvet_, too young to be interested in men or even boys.

Then I pass what was once the home of Sir Charles and Lady Mendl, a monstrous Spanish affair that Elsie Mendl made over into a thing of beauty. Never was an off-color joke allowed to be told when she was present. Ludwig Bemelmans, who had a Rabelaisian sense of humor, repaid her hospitality by adorning the powder-room walls with some outrageous pictures. She took one horrified look and ordered the walls repainted immediately. Elsie, ninety-five pounds of energy, fun, and good taste, received Sir Charles in her bedroom only after she had granted him permission via his valet.

Charles and I used to walk by the mile together, apparently the only residents of Beverly who applied their legs to such purpose. Though he’d known seventeen European monarchs in his day--including the Duke of Windsor, whom Charles didn’t much care for--he steadfastly turned down my pleas for him to write the Mendl memoirs.

Charles earned his knighthood as press attaché to the British Embassy in Paris when Ramsay MacDonald was Prime Minister. MacDonald, unsophisticated as a newborn baby, fell into the clutches of a wise and beautiful woman. He was indiscreet enough to write her letters that a schoolboy would have blushed over. The problem was how to recover them without scandal or the outlay of a mint of money.