If vanity is the first criterion for writing a memoir, then I qualify without argument. One cannot negotiate successfully through the Hollywood jungle for almost fifty years absent a large ego, healthy or not. Egotism, however, was not my sole motive for penning the following pages. Rather, and more important, I was provoked by the collective ignorance of people who observe the motion picture and television industry from afar, particularly the Washington, D.C., crowd, the politicians and pundits who blame Hollywood for every national shortcoming. Seldom do they have knowledge of what they speak and write about. I wanted to set them straight, if possible, by penning a story as seen from the inside of an industry looking out, rather than the opposite.
What the world calls “Hollywood” is not a monolithic entity responsible for continual cultural change, good or bad. In fact, motion pictures and television shows generally reflect what society looks like rather than what we might want it to be. It was the great Sam Goldwyn who had it right: “If you want to send a message, go to Western Union.” The making of motion pictures and television shows is a diverse industry, as competitive as any on earth, and that’s why it’s called show business, not show art. We are lucky indeed when every so often a motion picture transcends its producer’s intent of making a profitable entertainment and sublimates itself to a real meaning, to art.
Most of the people in this story were stars at a given moment in their careers—actors, writers, directors, producers—yet the majority are now forgotten. But that’s the nature of our collective memory. How many people know who the eighth president of the United States was? Or the eighteenth? Few indeed. It is the same in Hollywood. As with most histories, Hollywood’s is generational; some people forget very quickly, and young people seem not to care about the past at all, which is a mistake. If you don’t know where you’ve been, how do you know where you’re going?
Of the first generation of Hollywood stars, only Chaplin comes quickly to mind, less frequently Fatty Arbuckle, and for a few people the Keystone Kops. Valentino remains in our collective memory because of his youthful death, and Jean Harlow for the same reason. Had James Dean not died tragically at twenty-four he might not be remembered either, with a resumé of only three movies. Had Ronald Reagan not become president of the United States, he, too, would probably be one of those actors lost somewhere in a dark alley off Hollywood’s memory lane.
This book was written for young people, all those wannabes who migrate annually to the West Coast seeking fame and fortune in show business. I want them to know how difficult and dangerous the path is. With rare exception, success does not come overnight, and for most it never comes at all. Hollywood is a jungle, make no mistake about it, and my own experiences will shed some light on the pitfalls often encountered by the uninitiated. Remember this: in the shadows behind every spotlight, there lurks a predator.
So here is my story of Hollywood, the way I saw it and the way I lived it—the good, the bad and the ugly.