From the very beginning, the motion picture business has been a magnet for ambitious young people seeking fame and fortune. Shortly after Bautzer started his legal career, a writer named Budd Schulberg published an exposé about the business titled What Makes Sammy Run. Schulberg knew his subject well. His father ran Paramount Pictures. His book was a character study of the type of personality that succeeded in Hollywood. The main character, Sammy Glick, is so ruthlessly ambitious that he will stop at virtually nothing to reach his goal of becoming a successful producer. He steals screenplay ideas from others and backstabs those who help him along the way. Bautzer wasn’t trying to be a producer, and he would rather cut off his right arm than double-cross a friend, but he possessed the same driving ambition as Glick. He was willing to do almost anything to succeed.
Bautzer’s romance with Lana Turner had gained him attention. He was seen as a new personality and perhaps a competent attorney. Celebrity had gotten him in the door, but it was not enough to keep him there. He knew that the path to success required friends in high places. As an inexperienced young lawyer, he needed mentors to teach him how to handle difficult lawsuits and unfamiliar business transactions. Most of all, he needed information from insiders that could give him an edge over other lawyers. He had one prospect: William R. Wilkerson, the Hollywood Reporter publisher who had discovered Turner. Billy, as he was known, maintained an interest in the actress, and he promoted her career in his paper at every opportunity. He did not ask favors in return; instead, his interest seemed almost filial. And when Turner became engaged to Bautzer, Wilkerson practically adopted him as well.
Wilkerson was a multitalented individual. Almost immediately after arriving in Hollywood, the man with the waxed mustache had become an overnight sensation as both a pioneering publisher and an inspired restaurateur. Wilkerson started the Hollywood Reporter in 1930, and within two years it was neck-and-neck with industry leaders such as the Motion Picture Herald and Harrison’s Reports. He made enemies of studio executives by exposing corrupt studio practices, then threatened not to write good things about their pictures unless they purchased copious amounts of advertising. Studio heads who at first tried to blackball the outspoken Wilkerson were soon buying large ads in his paper and hoping that his weekly “Trade Views” column would treat them kindly. He created a new slang vocabulary for the paper—studios were referred to as “the plant,” and directors signed on to “megaphone” a picture. Wilkerson could also make careers; his raves about young Clark Gable contributed to the actor’s meteoric rise to fame.
Wilkerson was a force in Hollywood. “Billy Wilkerson couldn’t topple heads of studios,” said Bautzer, “but he could cause them a hell of a lot of trouble. At one time he was having a controversy with Harry Cohn, head of Columbia Pictures, so Billy published the names of Columbia’s principal shareholders. At the top of the list was one Joan Perry, Cohn’s lady friend. You could hear Cohn screaming all the way from Gower to Highland. But Cohn came to terms.”
Wilkerson had spent time in Europe and thought Hollywood nightclubs like the Café Montmartre were pedestrian. He decided to upgrade Hollywood’s cuisine. In 1933, he opened the Café Vendome at 6666 Sunset Boulevard. In 1934, he opened the Café Trocadero at 8610 Sunset Boulevard. It became the keystone of the Sunset Strip—and made $1.7 million in one year. “Billy brought Paris to Hollywood when stars were eating sandwiches and drinking Coca-Cola,” said producer Joe Pasternak, a patron of the “Troc.”
Curiously, Coca-Cola was one of Wilkerson’s guilty pleasures. He drank twenty bottles a day (and smoked three packs of cigarettes). He was married and divorced numerous times, but not because of philandering. “Billy’s real mistress is his work,” said ex-wife Edith Gwynn Wilkerson. It was not. His real mistress was Lady Luck.
Wilkerson was born in Nashville, Tennessee. When he was seven his father won the bottling rights for Coca-Cola in thirteen Southern states at a poker game. Regrettably, father swapped them for a movie theater. As a teenager, Wilkerson considered becoming a priest. His father was horrified and convinced him to attend college in Maryland and then Jefferson Medical College in Philadelphia. Unfortunately, he had to drop out when his father’s unexpected death revealed huge gambling debts.
Wilkerson went to work managing a friend’s theater in Philadelphia. Soon, he found a more lucrative profession tending a speakeasy in Manhattan at the corner of Fifty-Second Street and Park Avenue. The initiation fee for customers was $1,500. The swanky saloon catered to both a high-class clientele and low-class gangsters. Whether by luck or an inside tip, when the police raided the place Wilkerson was out of town.
Seeking a more legal profession, he turned to publishing and resurrected a faltering theatrical trade paper. One day in 1929, after cashing out his share of the publication and borrowing some more money, he walked into the New York Stock Exchange, expecting to double the $45,000 he had in his pocket. That was October 24, the day the stock market bubble burst. Forty-five minutes later, he walked out of the Exchange with empty pockets and decided to move to Los Angeles.
This scene would be repeated many times, in card parlors and casinos, on gambling ships, and at racetracks. He was addicted to gambling. When he gambled with the public’s taste, Wilkerson won; every restaurant he opened was a success. When he gambled with money, his taste and objectivity melted into the smoke over the felt-topped table. He lost, and lost badly—an average of $150,000 a year. His salary could not cover his bets, so he began to stake the magazine’s payroll. After he went through that, he bet the prepaid advertising receipts. To pay that back, he sold more prepaid advertising, importuning sponsors like Howard Hughes to cover his losses.
Bautzer saw none of this turmoil when he first met Wilkerson in 1938 at the Troc. The attorney was engaged to Turner at the time, and Billy was quite happy to meet Lana’s fiancé. He had noticed Bautzer’s incredible wardrobe as he glided beautiful girls across the dance floors of his nightclubs. He had also seen the young man’s name in the gossip columns. Wilkerson knew Bautzer was hustling for speedy success, and he admired him for it. He would note Bautzer’s charm every time he joined the couple for a drink in one of the mint-green-and-cocoa-striped booths at LaRue.* As soon as the topic of card games came up, they were off and running. Bautzer loved gambling as much as Wilkerson. Both of Bautzer’s parents had been skilled card players, and bridge, gin rummy, and poker were as much a part of Bautzer’s portfolio as the fox-trot, waltz, and rumba.
Hollywood card games were the stuff of legend. In the mid-1930s Irving Thalberg, MGM production chief, had hosted a weekly game in his Santa Monica beachfront mansion. Regulars included comic actor Chico Marx and studio heads David O. Selznick, Joseph Schenck, Darryl F. Zanuck, and Sam Goldwyn. The stakes were perilously high. “You don’t gamble unless you stand to win something. Or lose something,” said Thalberg. “If I can win $40,000 or $50,000 and buy a house at the beach and have Schenck pay for it, then I enjoy it. But if I go up there and bet only $400 or $500, I don’t care whether I win or lose. You see, it’s got to count. It’s got to get to where you get hurt. You’re either going to win something or get hurt. Really hurt.”
By the late 1930s, Thalberg had died and the card game had moved on. Twentieth Century-Fox chairman Joe Schenck was now hosting the card parties, and Billy Wilkerson was included. Bautzer thought that if he could get into the game, he could meet and impress important men who could help propel his career. All he needed was an introduction. Wilkerson was happy to oblige, but there was one problem.
Incredible as it sounds, the brash young lawyer was suing Schenck. Bautzer was representing Nicky Arnstein, the former husband of Broadway’s Fanny Brice, in a lawsuit against Twentieth Century-Fox. Arnstein had seen himself portrayed in a new film without his permission and had hired Bautzer to sue its makers. Rose of Washington Square told the story of a Tin Pan Alley songstress (Alice Faye) and her abusive, thieving husband (Tyrone Power). Film critics noted both the similarity of Rose’s main character to Brice and the unpleasantness of the character’s husband. Arnstein had served two prison terms—first in Sing Sing for wiretapping in 1915 and then in Leavenworth in 1924 for conspiracy to traffic in stolen bonds. One of the film’s featured songs was “My Man,” a torch song that had been Fanny Brice’s signature number.
The film premiered on May 3, 1939, and three weeks later, Bautzer filed a complaint under Arnstein’s real name, Jules Arndt Stein. The complaint named as defendants the studio; stars Faye and Power; director Gregory Ratoff; writers Nunnally Johnson, John Larkin, and Jerry Horwin; and executives Darryl Zanuck and Joseph Schenck. The lawsuit asserted that a character in the film was based on Arnstein and that it used elements from his life. He was asking $150,000 for violation of his privacy, $150,000 for libel, and $100,000 for use of material from his life without his authorization. In addition, he was seeking an injunction to prevent future showings of the film and an accounting to recover profits.
“I have tried industriously to live down my mistakes,” Arnstein told the L.A. Times. “Now this moving picture comes along. My friends, most of whom know all about me, have been literally knocked off their feet. It’s obviously about my life. And what’s worse, it depicts a lot of things I never did.” Arnstein cited scenes that showed the ne’er-do-well lead character selling furniture from a friend’s home, stealing a necklace, and jumping bail—things he had not done.
In naming Schenck as a defendant, Bautzer was taking on a formidable adversary. Schenck was one of the most powerful men in Hollywood. Technically, the only legitimate reason to name a company executive in a suit against that company is if the executive acted outside the course and scope of his or her employment or failed to maintain a separation between personal and corporate business. Otherwise, naming an executive is simply a tactic to make that person so uncomfortable that he or she will agree to a settlement. But Schenck had been running cutthroat businesses before Bautzer was born. It would take more than putting his name on a lawsuit to make him uncomfortable.
Joseph Schenck was born in Rybinsk, Russia, in 1876. He and his brother Nicholas came to America in 1893 and slept on the floor of an older brother’s pharmacy in the Bowery until they could get a foothold in the new country. Years of odd jobs enabled them to buy the pharmacy, then a dance hall, and eventually Palisades Amusement Park in New Jersey. After Joe and Nick leased space in the park to pioneering silent film exhibitor Marcus Loew, he recognized their business ability and enticed them into working with him owning and managing movie theaters.
Both brothers were brilliant businessmen, but their personalities were radically different. Nick was cold, tough, and inscrutable. Joe was easygoing and made deals by finding common ground. Nick was content to manage money. Joe wanted to manage filmmaking.
As the holdings of Loew’s grew from 12 theaters to 112, Nick grew rich. Joe booked films, which gave him the opportunity to meet movie stars. He decided to leave Loew’s Inc. and strike out on his own. In 1916, he married the actress Norma Talmadge. He had been producing films for comedians Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle and Buster Keaton, so he started a film company with Norma, making her and her sister Constance into major stars. In 1923, he moved their company to California. A year later, he became president of United Artists, the powerhouse company formed five years earlier by Mary Pickford, Douglas Fairbanks, D. W. Griffith, and Charlie Chaplin. These mega-stars had decided to create the independent operation because they felt they deserved more money than any studio was willing to pay, and they wanted to make their movies without the interference of tightfisted studio bosses. That they would pick Joe Schenck to run their company is testimony to how well-liked and trusted he was by artists. While his brother Nick ruled by intimidation, Joe found ways to make friends and compromise.*
Despite his easygoing demeanor, after eight years as head of United Artists, Joe tired of dealing with the egotistical Chaplin, so he left the company. Meanwhile, producer Darryl F. Zanuck, who had shined at Warner Bros.—he created the wildly profitable Rin Tin Tin wonder-dog series, among many other hits—had tired of Jack Warner’s broken promises. He left Warner Bros. and joined Schenck. They formed a small production company, Twentieth Century Pictures. It made profitable movies on the United Artists lot but needed more room. In 1935, it merged with foundering Fox Film to form Twentieth Century-Fox, a super studio that was soon making super profits.
Short, bald, and stout, Joe Schenck could buy and sell Gregson Bautzer ten times over. Yet for some reason, Schenck was intrigued by the young lawyer. Perhaps it was his audacity. Wilkerson prevailed upon Schenck to meet Bautzer to discuss settlement. The meeting took place in mid-May 1939 at Schenck’s house. Legend has it that a card game was starting when Bautzer arrived, and Schenck was one player short. He asked Bautzer to sit in and play for a while before discussing settlement. It didn’t take long for Bautzer to impress Schenck. After the card game, Schenck told Bautzer what he would pay to settle the lawsuit. They shook hands and made the deal.
On June 6, the L.A. Times reported that “attorneys Gregson Bautzer and G. Bentley Ryan, representing Nicky Arnstein, moved for a dismissal yesterday of the action by their client for $250,000 [sic] against the film concern. The motion was granted.” The settlement was undisclosed but estimated to be $20,000. Arnstein was pleased. Schenck was pleased. Bautzer had made a new friend. “When Joe Schenck put his arm around me and said ‘This is a pretty good fellow,’ I was off to a good start,” said Bautzer.
As Bautzer had hoped, Schenck invited him to the weekly card parties at his Holmby Hills estate. Bautzer did not have the money to gamble that Wilkerson did. Luckily, the game did not call for bets until three cards had been dealt. If Bautzer did not have a strong hand, he could fold at the outset. This strategy kept him in the game for a time, but it was eventually discovered. The house changed the rules and he was forced to bet up front. Still, he played close to the vest and managed to keep his losses down.
Schenck’s card parties had another element that suited Bautzer’s interests. Beyond the smoky light of the card table, up-and-coming actresses beautified the room, hoping to advance their careers. These nubile and willing young ladies were supplied by an individual named Pasquale “Pat” Di Cicco, who was nominally a talent agent, a career that didn’t have much sway in the studio era. At the time, an actor would sign a long-term contract with a particular studio; the commitment could last as long as seven years, and the actor had no say in the roles he or she was assigned. A performer who refused to play a part was suspended, and the time spent idle was added to the length of his or her contract. As Bautzer would one day admit, in those days “all an agent could demand was a new dressing room or limousine service to and from the studio.”
Dark-haired and handsome, Di Cicco was a constant figure at Schenck’s card table, and he would become one of Bautzer’s good friends. Di Cicco was also in the employ of Howard Hughes, although no one is certain what he did for Hughes, other than introduce him to girls. Some have suggested that Di Cicco had ties to underworld figures, including fronting for Lucky Luciano, but that has never been proven.* Like Di Cicco, Bautzer also introduced young actresses to Schenck. According to actor Tony Curtis, Bautzer ‘s most noteworthy introduction would come in the late 1940s when he presented Marilyn Monroe to the mogul. Monroe became Schenck’s mistress and lived at his house. Schenck in turn gave her a contract at Twentieth Century-Fox, starting one of the most iconic acting careers in history.
Bautzer credited Schenck for advancing his career. Schenck was a masterful negotiator. He knew everyone of importance in the industry, and on both coasts. There was no favor he could not call in. He helped Bautzer with referrals and with advice, becoming exactly the type of mentor Bautzer had hoped for. Wilkerson, too, took Bautzer under his wing. The young man who had no immediate relatives suddenly had a new family—or at least two godfathers.
Of course, no amount of favors or inside information would make Bautzer’s career a success if he weren’t a talented lawyer. In 1940, he and Bentley Ryan proved that despite their youth, they were capable of taking cases all the way to verdict, and to the court of appeals if necessary, when they sued Warner Bros. and its police chief, Blaney Matthews, on behalf of two union organizers. Their complaint stated that Matthews and his security guards had falsely arrested union officials Ralph Pekham and Herbert Sorrel for participating in a 1937 studio strike that ended in violence, with at least one studio employee badly beaten and property destroyed. Matthews kept the two union officials locked up for days without charging them.
The trial started in January 1940. In April, before the case went to the jury, Judge Walter S. Gates granted the studio’s motion that the complaint against it be dismissed. The judge decided that the unlawful arrests were not within the course and scope of Matthews’s employment and thus weren’t authorized by the studio. He instructed the jury not to issue a monetary damage award against Warner Bros. After hearing Bautzer’s closing argument, the jury ignored the judge’s instructions. The runaway jury returned a verdict against both Blaney Matthews and Warner Bros., ordering the studio to pay Pekham $7,500 and Sorrell $5,500.
Judge Gates was incensed. He set aside the verdict against the studio, holding that the jury had no right to disregard his directions. He also nullified the verdict against Blaney Matthews, personally ordering that the plaintiffs would get nothing. Bautzer appealed. In December, the Court of Appeal reversed the judge’s ruling, proclaiming that the jury and not the judge should decide whether the plaintiffs had presented sufficient evidence to hold Warner Bros. responsible. The award to the plaintiffs was reestablished. The California Court of Appeal published their decision, making it a precedent to be followed in the future.
It is apparent that Judge Gates was biased in favor of the defendants. Why he granted Warner Bros.’ motion is something of a mystery. Perhaps he was swayed by the amount of violence that had taken place during the strike and thought that, in comparison, holding Sorrel and Pekham in jail for a few days without being charged was not worth complaining about. Then again, something more nefarious may have taken place. Gates had been previously indicted in a scandal over judges appointing receivers in exchange for bribes. (Receivers are court-appointed business managers who collect debts for insolvent companies). Although Gates was acquitted, such judicial misdeeds were not unheard-of in prewar Los Angeles.
Only four years into his career, Bautzer was proving that he was a lawyer to take seriously. By successfully appealing Judge Gates’s orders, Bautzer showed that he was more than a handsome young man who took starlets to nightclubs. He was a professional at the beginning of a distinguished career.
*According to Wilkerson’s son, Willie, Bautzer became Wilkerson’s lawyer at this time after pitching his services during an elevator ride and offering to work for free for six months. Bautzer successfully cleared Wilkerson of multiple pending charges for moving violations and remained his lawyer for life.
*When Marcus Loew died in 1927, Nick Schenck replaced him as head of Loew’s Inc., which owned MGM. Many people considered Louis B. Mayer the most powerful man in Hollywood, but it was his boss, Nick Schenck, who had the real power.
*Di Cicco’s cousin, Albert R. “Cubby” Broccoli, was also one of Bautzer’s good friends. Broccoli would go on to produce the highly successful James Bond motion picture franchise.