A Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Picture. Produced and directed by Cecil B. DeMille. Continuity by Gladys Unger, Josephine Lovett, Lucien Hubbard, and Lenore Coffee. Dialogue by Elsie Janis. (Additional, uncredited writing by Jeanie Macpherson.) From the play by Edwin Milton Royle. Assistant director: J. Mitchell Leisen. Photography: Hal Rosson. Film editor: Anne Bauchens. Incidental music: Herbert Stothart
Picture started: February 9, 193 I. Picture finished: March 26,193 I. Length: 9,792 (twelve reels). Cost: $722,81 1.93. Released: July 1931. Gross: $584,630.60
Cast: Warner Baxter (James Wyngate, the Squaw Man), Eleanor Boardman (Diana, countess of Kerhill), Paul Cavanagh (Henry, Lord Kerhill), Roland Young (Sir John Applegate), Julia Faye (Mrs. Chichester-Jones), Lawrence Grant (General Stafford), Eve Dennison (dowager), Desmond Roberts (Hardwick), Lillian Bond (Babs Barrington), Harry Northrup (silly ass), Lupe Velez (Naturich), Mitchell Lewis (Tabywana), Charles Bickford (Cash Hawkins), J. Farrell McDonald (Big Bill), Dickie Moore (Hal), DeWitt Jennings (Sheriff Hardy), Raymond Hatton (Shorty), Ed Brady (McSorley), Victor Potel (Andy), Frank Rice (Grouchy), Frank Hagney (Clark), and Chris “Pin” Martin (Pete, a half-breed)
In the wake of a cycle of big-budget Westerns like In Old Arizona (Fox,1929), Billy the Kid (M-G-M, 1930), The Big Trail (Fox,1930), and Cimarron (RKO, 1931), it must have seemed a good idea for Cecil B. DeMille to undertake a sound version of The Squaw Man. In order to clear the rights, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer was forced to deal with two rival studios: Paramount-Famous-Lasky controlled the silent motion picture rights to Edwin Milton Royle’s play; but Warner Bros, acquired the talking picture and television rights on March 12, 1930, only to turn them over to M-G-M for a quick profit on June 18, 1930.
The new Squaw Man had a high-powered—and highly priced—cast. In the leading roles, Warner Baxter signed for $5,000 per week, and Lupe Velez for $2,500.Even the character actors were in for a fair piece of change, with Roland Young pulling down $2,000 a week and J. Farrell McDonald earning $1,000. As the country plunged desperately into economic depression, Nicholas Schenck, president of Loew’s, Inc., parent company of M-G-M, tried to stop production due to the heavy costs. He relented only when he was convinced that the cost of shutting down would equal the projected losses. DeMille started The Squaw Man knowing that he had another failure on his hands.
As had become his custom, DeMille began production with a reading of the script for the principal players and technical crew on February 5, 1931. A second reading for the British cast members took place on February 7, and rehearsals also began that day. The camera started rolling on February 9, and DeMille’s records indicate the production consumed forty days and six hours of shooting time. The 171,380 feet of negative that was shot made for a relatively modest shooting ratio, by DeMille’s standards, of seventeen and a half to one.
Despite the sense of gloom that pervaded the production, The Squaw Man turned out quite well and proved to be one of DeMille’s most interesting sound films. Just as D.W. Griffith had demonstrated the power of the old-fashioned theatrical warhorse Way Down East in 1920, here DeMille pulled together all the surefire melodramatic contrivances and played them with sincere conviction, and one can finally understand the reasons for The Squaw Man’s enduring appeal. Writing in the New York Times of September 19, 1931, Mordaunt Hall noted the film was “Skillfully acted by a dozen good players, handsomely produced as to scenery and technical excellence it makes an interesting entertainment—one that is too somber in its story to be called amusing and too neatly carpentered in its plot to be called a genuine tragedy.”
The Squaw Man’s Arizona locations were a big plus, and a rarity for a director who generally preferred to work in the controlled environment of the studio. Also remarkable is the seemingly authentic treatment of Southwestern Indian culture—with the exception that the principal Native American roles were played by non-Indians.
Edwin Milton Royle’s play, written just after the turn of the century, was meant to be contemporary. DeMille updated the action to 1931, striking an odd note. Still it allowed DeMille another of his subtle swipes at Prohibition—the signs outside the saloon promise soft drinks, but firewater seems to be the only liquid available on the inside.
Regrettably, DeMille did not make more of Eleanor Boardman’s role. One of the finest actresses of the silent screen, her career was waning by 1931. Frank McGrath, who worked as Warner Baxter’s double on The Squaw Man, would not gain wide public recognition for another twenty-five years, when he took on the role of the bearded and grizzled chuck-wagon cook on TV’s Wagon Train.
DeMille’s contract with M-G-M was not renewed and, after completing The Squaw Man, he closed up his production office, laid off many of his staff, and embarked on a trip to Europe. He and his wife stopped in New York from June 10 to June 24, waiting for the He de France to sail. On his first day in the city he met with Jesse Lasky and paved the way for what he hoped might be a future reconciliation with Paramount.
While abroad, DeMille received offers from several British companies and from the Soviet government to make films—but these offers were contingent on his being able to obtain guarantees of U.S. distribution. Unable to deliver such pledges, DeMille watched his prospects as a filmmaker dim as the deals evaporated.
Back in Hollywood, DeMille tried to start a new company to be called The Directors Guild with fellow filmmakers King Vidor, Lewis Milestone, and Frank Borzage. He approached Sidney R. Kent, former head of sales for Paramount, with the idea, describing a company that would service independent theaters. DeMille felt certain that film manufacturer DuPont and Consolidated Film Industries laboratories would go along with the plan. But Kent had other commitments, and the growing economic depression made it impossible to arrange financing.1
DeMille’s once-proud staff also fell on hard times. His longtime film editor, Anne Bauchens, reported that work was hard to come by. “Dear Chief,” she wrote, “I have run across a temporary job. A private party with a lot of film on their hands that I may be able to help them with. It will possibly keep me busy four or five weeks at the most.”2