It is only fair to record that Warners not only greeted me with open arms but graciously relieved me of their share of the damages. I didn’t have to pay the King’s ransom to Sir Patrick, and Sir William’s retainer was shared by my employers who fulfilled Mr. Arliss’ prophecy and bent over backwards to be nice. It was now evident to them that I never would have sacrificed so much time, energy and money unless I was indeed earnest about my career. They knew about my domestic situation and the drain it was on my supposed fortune. I realized I had to make the best of the situation and we met in the spirit of conciliation. Their generosity made it a pleasure being a good sport. In a way, my defeat was a victory. At last we were seeing eye to eye on my career. I was aching to work and they were eager to encourage me.
There is no doubt that the publicity attendant to my litigation paved the way for Olivia de Havilland’s eventual court victory over the immoral suspension clause. She put up a successful fight in California some time later and, once and for all, a definite terminal date was set to all such contracts. The Emancipation was proclaimed and what Sir William had called “perpetual slavery” became a thing of the past. Hollywood actors will be forever in Olivia’s debt.
In the long view, there is no question but that I won after all. Jack Warner now offered me the excellent Marked Woman and I settled down to real work. Though the title reflected the victimization and eventual scarring of a call girl who tried to avenge the rape and murder of her innocent sister sucked into the racket by a gangster reminiscent of Lucky Luciano, I preferred to believe that it was a good and positive omen. I was now marked for great things at last. I was particularly restless and driven, to make up for my inactivity. I wanted to strike while the iron was good and hot. But when was I not driven? While in England, my maid Dell stayed with Bobby and her husband. The days had slipped by unnoticeably and it seems that Dell leaned nostalgically on her mop and informed Bobby that “I miss Bette and her disturbances.” Dear, wonderful Dell. She was now happily back with me—and far more permanently suited to me than my husband, who was sticking it out in New York. She took all of my explosions with the resignation of the Sicilians who live in the shadow of Etna.
Marked Woman was a good picture. Humphrey Bogart, whose star was rising, played the district attorney and Eduardo Cianelli was the slimy, elegantly obscene white slaver. I had seen a performance at the Palmer Playhouse of Lynn Riggs’ Green Grow the Lilacs on which the revolutionary musical Oklahoma was eventually based and was impressed by the brightness of a young girl named Jane Bryan. I convinced Warners to put her under contract and she played my kid sister in Marked Woman. I made up my mind that, when possible, I would remember what it had been like when I first started and secure players dared me to crash the gate of the Establishment. She was excellent in the film which on the whole was satisfactory in every respect.
I remember only one little fracas without which life wouldn’t have been the same. In the film, Janie is seduced and dies. To avenge her murder, I inform on the racketeer who, as a warning to the other girls, has me beaten and scarred for life. After I had been beaten to a pulp by Mr. Cianelli’s henchmen in the awful vendetta, my director, Lloyd Bacon, had me bandaged by the makeup men for the first hospital scene in which Bogie was to visit me. I was to be half dead. I don’t think I ever looked so attractive. Lily Daché herself could have created that creamy puff of gauze at the peak of her inspiration. It was an absolute gem of millinery. After I studied myself in the glass and weighed the possibility of wearing the creation someday at Ciro’s, I smiled sweetly and left the studio for lunch. Instead I went to my doctor.
“I have just been beaten up by a gang of thugs, Doctor, and my cheek has been carved by a knife. Would you please bandage me?”
When I drove through the studio gates on my return, the watchman turned pale and picked up the telephone. Word was passed throughout the lot that production would have to be held up.
“Davis has had a terrible accident!”
They came running from all directions and Bacon saw his schedule go down the drain. I quietly walked onto the set and got into the hospital bed. A parent weeps and wails for his missing child but the safe return is usually greeted by fury.
“You mean you’re all right and this is your idea of makeup?”
“You believed me, didn’t you? So will the public.”
And that is the way it was photographed.
My new picture was Kid Galahad with Edward G. Robinson and Wayne Morris. It was a story about prizefighters and a good one. Mr. Curtiz was again my director and I will never forget Wayne’s knocking out a fighter in a take. “Fake fight! Retake! Fake fight—awful!” Curtiz screamed—but it was difficult to redo because Wayne’s opponent was unconscious. He had knocked him out cold.
Marked Woman and Kid Galahad were consolidating my position with the public. Next I was cast for the third time with Leslie Howard in a comedy that loosely suggested, in our roles as a tempestuous acting couple, the glorious Lunts. Olivia de Havilland, a favorite of mine, as an actress and a person, was my rival in the film. It was a farcical comedy, but Leslie and I had a romp and I was out of the gutter and in Orry-Kelly’s latest gowns.
I have always adored comedy. It was my misfortune however that, when I was given a “new facet,” I was given farce, which has never been my dish. High comedy is a different story—the old Philip Barry–Frederick Lonsdale–S. N. Behr–man variety had great style—the butterfly touch. High comedy seems to be a thing of the past. I suspect the world is losing its sense of humor. It is difficult to juggle hundred-megaton notions with any sprightliness. More than ever the artist either beats his breast in agony or his thighs in hilarity. We live in a time of extremes. The luxury of good taste unhappily has departed with the cane-backed Rolls Royce. The leisure class spawned the detached wits who had the time to regard the world wryly and indulge in exquisite badinage. No one dares flirt with the flame any longer. One seems intent on flying straight into it.
I myself have been burned too many times to be lofty about it. I have been far too humorless to laugh with any justification at my fellows. I’m far too square to negotiate the soft curves of gentle irony. I know my limitations; but I can decry them. I cannot linger with Persian subtlety on the rim of a rose. I must suck it dry and move on—a stinging bee, a worker with a Queen Bee complex. I do my job by instinct and demand by divine right my proper station. That is my paradox—that I am both worker and Queen. There is a dullness to my deaf, dumb and blind response to that half-forgot battle order. I am doomed to an eternity of compulsive work. No set goal achieved satisfies. Success only breeds a new goal. The golden apple devoured has seeds. It is endless.
It is small wonder that Ham was both dazzled, bewitched and then exhausted with my crises. I always had one. My latest film, That Certain Woman, was not good. It was a remake of Gloria Swanson’s The Trespasser. It tasted a bit of soap and recalled Miss Chatterton’s nobility that Barbara Stanwyck eventually inherited. After all those years I worked with Hank Fonda, whom I hadn’t seen since my early theatre days. Hank was coming up in the world. Along with Ian Hunter, we tried; but the picture just didn’t make it. Bette Davis was moving on all cylinders and Ruth Elizabeth was losing her husband. I didn’t want a divorce. I no longer loved Ham—not as I had. That was long since gone. I had left home, so to speak, long ago; but I wanted it to be there when I returned.
I was too busy finding a script to preserve the unpreservable. When The Life of Emile Zola was prepared for Paul Muni, I read the script and was fascinated with the small role of Nana. It was unabashedly little more than a bit—but I begged the studio to allow me to do it. It also could have been a sensational stunt at that point in my career. I also begged Mr. Muni to let me play it, but he wouldn’t.
About this time Owen Davis, Sr. and Warners were having a legal battle over the title of a property that Mr. Davis claimed was his. An amicable settlement was made between them by the purchase of one of his plays—Jezebel. It was a story about an antebellum vixen named Julie Marsden.
I will be the last to deny that the nationwide search for Scarlett O’Hara in the now-world-famous Gone With the Wind infuriated me. It could have been written for me. Warners had dropped its option while I was in London, and David Selznick had bought the story. When I read it and remembered Mr. Warner’s promise, I was fit to be tied. It is true that I got my second chance to play Scarlett. When initial plans were in the making, Mr. Selznick asked Warners if they could borrow Bette Davis and Errol Flynn as a package. The thought of Mr. Flynn as Rhett Butler appalled me. I refused. I was not going to be part of that parcel. I wasn’t. And that was my last chance. George Cukor was the director in the beginning. Shades of Rochester. He still saw me as the girl in Broadway and whatever his ancient grievance, his thumbs were still down. By such intangibles are careers affected.
The quest for Scarlett became international, and I had my partisans. I was as perfect for Scarlett as Clark Gable was for Rhett. And many knew this. In the face of such obvious casting inspiration, the official decision was to find a fresh face. One would have thought me Ouspenskaya! The story is too familiar to belabor. Everybody’s second cousin was tested and I was used as the touchstone. That was how right I was. It was insanity that I not be given Scarlett. But then, Hollywood has never been rational.
I only argue with their eventual choice because it was not I. Nor do I detract one whit from Miss Leigh’s beautiful performance when I say that I still wish I’d got my hands on it. But as luck would have it, Julie Marsden, the Jezebel in question, was a blood sister of Scarlett’s. Willful, perverse and proud, she was every inch the Southern belle. She had the same cast-iron fragility, the same resourcefulness, the same rebellion. Julie was the best part I had had since Mildred. I had no time to be shocked by the fact that my little white cottage was crumbling. Like a set that is struck after a performance, it seemed like the dream it was—a façade, a temporary scene for pointless arguments.
I couldn’t believe this scene was being played by childhood sweethearts. A boy and girl had adored each other, married and never dreamed of such an ending to it all. It made me feel old and weary. The fact that I didn’t care anymore that I was finding other men attractive was heartbreaking to me. Under the circumstances, having never had any adventures before marriage, this was the logical sequence of events. We finally some months later faced the fact that I had outgrown the whole relationship. I gave Ham permission to divorce me. His grounds were: “She reads in bed. She neglected me for her work.” In the final analysis, I guess this was the truth.
When my boss, Hal Wallis, announced that he had hired William Wyler to direct Jezebel, I was stunned. The little man who had said a long time ago to me, “What do you think about these dames who show their chests and think they can get jobs?” Saying nothing about all this, and licking my chops that I was now in a position to refuse to work with Mr. Wyler, I asked for an appointment to talk to him. Revenge, they say, is sweet. It has never been thus for me. Mr. Wyler, not remembering me or the incident, was, to put it mildly, taken aback when I told him my grim little tale of woe. He actually turned green. He was genuinely apologetic, saying he had come a long way since those days. I could not help but believe he was sincere. With no revenge left in me, I started work on Jezebel. I became such a champion of his talent—and still am—that one would have thought I was his highly paid press agent. It was he who helped me realize my full potential as an actress. I met my match in this exceptionally creative and talented director.
Unlike some yeoman directors, he couldn’t work with the talentless. I can hear him now, dispensing with actors of no experience.
“I am not a dramatic coach. I want actors who can act. I can only direct actors, I can’t teach them how to act.” How different from a Frank Capra who conversely preferred to direct personalities. That handsomely, homely dynamo, Wyler, could make your life a hell.
It was he who screamed at me, “Do you want me to put a chain around your neck? Stop moving your head!” This man was a perfectionist and had the courage of twenty. He was as dedicated as I. It is impossible to describe the contribution that Wyler made to Jezebel.
After all these years, I had been given a high-budget film with all the trimmings I had fought for and a talented director that I had been begging for also. The cast included Henry Fonda, George Brent, Donald Crisp, and the inspired Fay Bainter as “Auntie Belle” who understood Julie so well. “She’s always meanest when she’s loving most.” Miss Bainter’s contribution to the film and to my performance was immeasurable. It just wouldn’t have been the same picture without her.
My first appearance was in a riding habit. As Julie entering her house, I was to lift my skirt with my riding crop. It sounds simple. Mr. Wyler asked me to take the riding skirt and the crop home and rehearse with them. The next morning, I arrived knowing he was after something special. I made my entrance a dozen times and he wasn’t satisfied. He wanted something, all right. He wanted a complete establishment of character with one gesture. I sweated through forty-five takes and he finally got it the way he wanted, or at least he said so, in his very noncommittal way.
Toward the end of the film, Julie and Press’s wife fight over who will go with him to the plague-infested swamps. The actress playing opposite me couldn’t play the scene the way Willie wanted her to. She was the giver in the scene, I the receiver. She had to convey the power of possession. She was his wife. Willie shot the scene over and over and still was not satisfied.
When I thought all was lost, Willie suddenly moved into a close-up of her. The scene still seemed unsatisfactory to me but he printed a take.
“That’s it. Wrap it up!” he shouted to everyone’s relief.
That’s what? I thought. But I had underestimated him for the first time. He had made a stumbling block into a stepping-stone. During her dialogue, Willie moved into a close-up all right. A close-up of her hand on the banister of the staircase. It was her left hand and there on the usual finger, glistening with symbolism, was her wedding ring. What more powerful indication of her priority could there be? What greater antagonist? I would have jumped into the Hudson River if this man had told me to, directorially speaking.
The most famous scene, however, was the Comus Ball. With all the girls in traditional white, Julie out of spite arrives in scarlet to the embarrassment of her escort and the horror of the guests. John Huston, who did the screen adaptation, merely indicated this in a paragraph. Without a word of dialogue Willie created a scene of power and tension. This was movie making on the highest plane. Insisting that my correct escort dance with me—knowing that I am making him an accomplice in this gauchery—and his refusal to stop, once the floor is cleared by the revolted dancers who consider us pariahs, is so mortifying that Julie wants to die. But now Press is relentless in his punishment. His own embarrassment is nothing to the shame he must inflict on her. Julie implores him to take her home. His grip on her waist becomes tighter, his step more deliberate, his eyes never meet hers. And always the lilting music, the swirling bodies and the peripheral reaction shots of the stunned pillars of society and Auntie Belle, who suffers with Julie. It is a scene of such suspense that I never have not marveled at the direction of it.
Fonda’s wife was about to make him a father and the film was scheduled to get him back to New York for the arrival. It played havoc with the continuity and Mr. Arliss’ words echoed in my ears. I also remembered Mr. Barthelmess’ vanishing act during my close-ups. But this couldn’t be helped. Every time I see the gifted Jane Fonda today, I remember what she put me through before she came on the scene.
Jezebel was work from the word go. Willie was so thorough and so inventive that we were running behind schedule—Hollywood’s biggest bugaboo. Of course, this can be carried to extremes from Von Sternberg to Wells; but creative artists are not capping soda bottles ninety a minute on an assembly line. Art may be disciplined but not regimented.
Warners, in a fret, decided to take Willie off the picture since the budget was going out the window. But this man wasn’t going to be fired if I, personally, had to burn the place down. I wasn’t going to lose this genius for anybody or anything. I walked up that beaten path to the sanctum sanctorum and announced that I wouldn’t finish the film if Mr. Wyler were not allowed to continue.
“I have been raced through the picture because of Hank’s baby and I will not be rushed with my part of the film. Plus, changing directors in midstream would be a tragedy.”
I was willing to work late each day if necessary to keep Willie on the picture. Warner agreed. I worked until midnight every night and was back on the set early each morning. I earned the Oscar I received for Jezebel. The thrill of winning my second Oscar was only lessened by the Academy’s failure to give the directorial award to Willie. He made my performance. He made the script. Jezebel is a fine picture. It was all Wyler. I had known all the horrors of no direction and bad direction. I now knew what a great director was and what he could mean to an actress. I will always be grateful to him for his toughness and his genius.
My reporter friend must have been delighted because I was dressed to the nines for the Academy dinner this time—a brown net dress with aigrettes at the neckline. It was the beginning of the halcyon years. The proof of the pudding would be the scripts to follow—and the directors. I was never surer of myself professionally than at this moment.