Early Reagan

by Anne Edwards

  Reagan donned his makeup in the stock room of a ladies ready-to-wear shop across the street from the courthouse, but he used an unoccupied jail cell to rest between takes.

  Although Jerry Wald had visions of this film becoming another Crossfire,† his early fear that the script had a B-picture-ish quality to it was well founded. The story of a crusading county prosecutor (Reagan) out to rid his small town of the Klan by making the townspeople recognize their own responsibility did bear similarity to Crossfire and to the future High Noon as well.* The failure of Storm Warning to become a memorable film rests with the director Stuart Heisler’s concentration on grisly and re-pellant violence (people are flogged and pistol-whipped, a pregnant woman is brutalized and killed) and his inattention to the dialogue, which ought to have been less ideologically preachy and more telling in confrontational scenes.

  Reagan gave a fevered performance. All the literature Wald had swamped him with had been carefully ingested. The character of Rainey has a true sense of the reformer and Reagan delivered what was needed in the Klan scenes. But the private man never did come through. Ginger Rogers seemed less comfortable in her role as a New York fashion model who, while visiting her newly married and pregnant sister (Doris Day), witnesses a murder by hooded Klan members, one of whom turns out to be her sister’s husband (Steve Cochran). Reagan learns of Rogers being a witness to murder and subpoenas her to appear in court. As she packs to leave to avoid having to do so, her brother-in-law makes an overt and humiliating pass at her. The sister intercedes, and both women are brutally beaten by Cochran. Reagan then persuades Rogers not to leave town. Cochran forces her to a Klan meeting where she is saved from a flogging by Reagan, the sister and the police. In the melee that follows, the sister is gunned down accidentally by the police, Cochran is arrested, the Klansmen told to leave town, and Reagan wins Rogers’s love. How a New York fashion model would come to live happily ever after in such a town is never settled. Nor could anyone believe that the Klansmen—all local businessmen—would accept Reagan’s edict that they be good boys and ride off into the sunset.*

  Time and again, Nancy Davis told how she met Reagan. In her version, the dinner at the Scharys’ was forgotten. Nancy claimed that another actress named Nancy Davis had been known to have Communist connections and was the victim of a blacklist, which in turn—because of the confusion in names—created casting problems for her. She said she called Reagan at the SAG some time during September 1949 and asked for his help and if they could discuss the situation. He invited her to have dinner at LaRues (not far from the Guild offices) if she would agree to a fast meal; he had another appointment later. They met and the chemistry was so immediate that he forgot his former engagement and they talked until two or three A.M. The facts contradict this account of their meeting (even if this tete-a-tete is interpreted as being a second meeting).

  Reagan wrote in his autobiography that Mervyn LeRoy, while directing East Side, West Side (which means July-September 1949), called him at the Guild on behalf of Davis who “was very much distressed because her name kept showing up on rosters of Communist front organizations, affixed to petitions of the same coloration, and her mail frequently included notices of meetings she had no desire to attend, and accounts of those meetings as covered by the Daily Worker.’’’’ Correspondence and SAG records show this (or at least the basis for this claim) actually occurred in January 1953—three years later. Also, in 1949, Davis was under contract to MGM. It is unclear why she or LeRoy would not have gone directly to the studio for help and clearance since it was generally known that studios at that time had agencies on retainers who checked for anything of a subversive nature in the backgrounds of their employees.

  A notation in the SAG minutes reveals that in October 1949 (shortly after the dinner at the Scharys’), Nancy Davis contacted Reagan at the Guild offices and “indicated her willingness and desire to run for the Board [the following month in the annual November elections].” The next year, on July 24, 1950, “Lee Bowman urged that Nancy Davis be considered… to replace Ray Collins until the [next] election [November 1950]… due to some confusion in membership (two Nancy Davises) her name was not included on the last ballot.”

  The other Nancy Davis was also a member of the SAG. Her real name was Nancy Coffman, but when she came to Hollywood in 1942, after five years as a member of the Ice Vanities, she took the name Nancy Lee and signed with Twentieth Century-Fox, where she appeared as a skater in several of the Sonja Henie pictures. The studio changed her name to Nancy Davis. She left Hollywood for New York in 1945, when her husband became terminally ill. In “confusion and distress” she had forgotten to take the permissible leave of absence from the SAG, which would have eliminated the expense (and debt) of yearly dues. She did not return to Los Angeles (with two small children to support) until 1952. But her name had been on the SAG membership list during all the years she had been out of the industry (and her yearly-dues debt mounting).

  A SAG law prohibits duplication of actors’ names. Normally, when Nancy signed with Metro in 1949 she would have been forced by SAG rules to alter her name to avoid any confusion with Nancy (Lee) Davis. But because Nancy (Lee) Davis was on the inactive list, her name had been overlooked. When Nancy chose to run for the board, someone made a more thorough check. Nancy Davis was thought to be Nancy (Lee) Davis and her name removed from the ballot (because of the outstanding dues debt). It makes considerable sense that she would enlist Reagan’s help in clearing this matter up—after all, he was the president of SAG. But since Nancy (Lee) Davis did not work in the industry between 1945 and 1952, she could not have been on any studio blacklist. Nor does it seem likely a producer casting a film would have confused the two women. Nancy (Lee) Davis was listed in the casting directory as an athlete—horsewoman, aquatics and ice skating—and had never played a speaking role of any size. Her parent guild was not the SAG but the Screen Extras Guild (SEG). And the two women had never had the same agent.

  When Nancy (Lee) Davis returned to California in 1952 and asked to be reinstated as an active member of the SAG, the Guild demanded she alter her name since another member, who had been active and in good standing, claimed it. Nancy (Lee) Davis thereafter became Nancy Lee Davis.

  What seems clear is that after meeting Reagan at the Scharys’ in September 1949, Nancy was determined not to let it go at that and a mutual interest in the SAG certainly would help. That following November she contacted him at SAG and they met for dinner. In 1950, during the time she was a replacement, she and Reagan saw each other every Monday night, having dinner together either before or after the board meetings. Reagan also took her to meet Nelle, Neil and Bess. Neil observed to a friend, “It looks as if this one has her hooks in him.” In November 1950 (she had now been dating Reagan for a year), her name was placed on the ballot. There were fourteen nominations and ten were to be elected. Nancy lost.*

  Nancy Lee Davis was to reappear in Nancy’s life in 1953 (by this time she was married to Reagan and no longer under contract to Metro) when she was being considered for a role in a Columbia Pictures film. The investigative firm that checked such things for the studio reported that a Nancy Davis had signed the Amicus Curiae brief for the convicted Hollywood Ten. A letter was dispatched to Nancy Reagan asking for an explanation. Nancy revved into action. Both Jack Dales and Reagan contacted Columbia vice-president B. B. Kahane with much indignation and explained that there was another Nancy Davis who must be the subject of the investigative organization’s “slovenly and inaccurate report.” Nancy then wrote a scathing letter to Columbia casting director Victor Sutker, which he passed on to Kahane, who replied with a lengthy letter of apology.*

  One of the highest moments of Reagan’s life occurred on February 6, 1950 (his birthday), when six hundred Friars (representing the film’s most glittering members) honored him at a banquet held at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Speeches were given in tribute to his work for the industry by Harry Cohn, George Burns, Pat O’Brien and Cecil B. DeMille, among
others. The evening was far more serious than most Friars’ affairs. There was no roast. “Hollywood and the industry love him,” George Jessel said. Reagan attended with a beaming Nancy.

  By the spring of 1950 he was seeing Nancy often but remained uncommitted. A series of women had passed through his bedroom. (“One morning I awoke and couldn’t remember the name of the lady sharing my bed. That was it.”) Wyman had built a life of her own and he found the thirty-mile distance to Malibu from West Hollywood somehow too far to see the children as often as he formerly had. Although he still called Nelle every day, his visits were not as frequent. The machinations of union clashes, of pro-and anti-Communists, of the major film agencies and the studios whirled around him. He was deeply involved in all these issues, giving speeches, writing articles,* presiding over meetings and hotly conspiring in small conclaves to win a point or two for the SAG (or at least for his position on various controversies raging at the SAG).

  His partnership with Nino Pepitone in the Northridge Horse Farm took time as well, and he still had a career to pursue, one which was not moving in a direction that suited him. The very fact that Warners planned to hold up the release on Storm Warning revealed their disappointment with the film.

  He became insistent that in the one picture he owed Warners for 1950 he be cast in a Western or a war film that had a role with the macho quality John Wayne was then portraying (She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, Sands of Iwo Jima and Rio Grande). Wayne remained a role model. Reagan admired his outdoorsmanship and shared his political philosophy. On May 15, 1950, just two days before Reagan delivered one of his own diatribes against communism, Wayne, as president of the Red-baiting Motion Picture Alliance for the Preservation of Ideals, had stated: ‘America is insisting on a delousing [of Communists and Communist sympathizers],” and urged “all organizations within the film industry and all civic organizations in the community to press for a resolution to require registration of all Communists.”

  But Jack Warner did not believe Reagan had the chemistry to become a star of John Wayne’s magnitude. The rumor that Errol Flynn would play the lead in Ghost Mountain, the script Reagan had once helped develop, deepened his growing bitterness toward his employer, and the stake was driven in deeper by exploding problems among MCA, Reagan’s agents and Jack Warner (a situation that would soon erupt into a full-scale government investigation of MCA’s monopolistic methods, which would considerably change agency-studio relations).*

  An interview published in the Los Angeles Mirror on January 6 set off further sparks between Reagan and his boss. Reagan had told the Associated Press reporter Bob Thomas that the parts the studio gave him were so bad that “[he] could telephone [his] lines in and it wouldn’t make any difference.” (After reflecting on this statement, he shrugged, “Well, I can always go back to being a sports announcer.”) Warner was incensed and that day wrote Reagan a letter.

  Dear Ronnie,

  Now that “Storm Warning” is over and you are working at Universal, I am wondering if you did or did not give the enclosed interview to Bob Thomas, the Associated] P[ress] correspondent. If in fact you did this interview I think it was very unfortunate of you to do so.… If you are not satisfied with the roles you have portrayed in the past, undoubtedly you will have the same attitude, with respect to future roles.

  I would greatly appreciate your sending me a letter cancelling our mutual contract obligations with respect to the two remaining pictures you are to do with this company.

  I have always considered you as a very good friend and I would rather have you remain as such than to have business matters interfere with such friendship. Recently your agent asked me to advance you certain monies on your contract. I was happy to do so. However, I do not feel that I personally, nor our company, nor the pictures in which you have appeared for us, deserve the uncomplimentary and erroneous rap that is reflected in the interview.

  Instead of sending this letter, Warner filed it and had Ray Orbinger speak to Reagan. The memo from Ray Orbinger to Warner, dated February 17, 1950, reads:

  Reagan felt he had a “beef playing 2nd lead to Todd in “The Hasty Heart”—that he was blamed for the poor showing of “That Hagen Girl.” After he got the steam off I told him that the implications from the interview were very damaging to his pictures, [since] practically all of which were produced here, and that it reflected his attitude towards future pictures—and that while you considered him a very good personal friend you felt it would be best from a business stand point to call off the contract deal amicably.

  Reagan went into some more alleged abuses and particularly the fact that he lay in the hospital for six weeks with a broken leg without anybody from the studio contacting him… also he said that when he returned from England he talked to Steve Trilling and that Steve told him he was not clicking at the box office and the company was a little cold on him, but this was all due to the fact that he had been a good enough sport to do “That Hagen Girl” which he knew from the beginning would not go over.… He also said he thought he was being double-crossed in not getting “Ghost Mountain.” He stated that he had a contract for two more pictures and expected to perform under it. He also stated that if he ever has the occasion to see you personally that he proposes to tell you his personal feelings with respect to his not getting “Ghost Mountain.”

  On May 3, Reagan, feeling more conciliatory, wrote Warner in longhand:

  I don’t know anything about your difficulty with MCA nor do I care to know. Naturally, it is none of my business. They have just notified me of my right to utilize the Wm. Morris office [in order to deal more amicably with Warner]—a right which I waived. Having been with MCA almost as many years as you and I have been together, I don’t feel that strangers can suddenly take over and represent my best interest.

  I hope that where our relationship is concerned you will allow Arthur Parks to negotiate in my behalf. Actually he is personally involved in the particular item of business I wish to discuss.

  I know that you will recall our discussion some time ago in regard to “That Hagen Girl.” You agreed the script and role were very weak, but asked me to do the picture as a personal favor, which I gladly did. At that time you encouraged me to bring in a suitable outdoor script which you agreed to buy as a starring vehicle for me. I found such a property in “Ghost Mountain” and the studio purchased it with me, through MCA, acting as go-between to close the deal with the author.

  Of late there have been “gossip items” indicating you plan to star someone else in the story. Naturally, I put no stock in these rumors—I know you too well to ever think you’d break your word.

  However, I am anxious to know something of production plans—starting dates—etc. in order to better schedule my own plans. Frankly, I hope it is soon as I have every confidence in the story.

  Sincerely,

  Ronnie Reagan

  Ray Orbinger reported to Warner on May 26:

  I talked to Reagan regarding his May 3rd letter. Advised him that the “Ghost Mountain” situation developed when he [first] refused “That Hagen Girl,” which, of course, he did not have the right to do, and that there were no promises made by you or Trilling that if he brought in an outdoor picture or suggested properties—they would be his. Other artists bring in stories—many of which are bought, some of them are—and that the ones that are bought are not necessarily produced with the artists being assigned for many reasons.

  I also told him that with respect to “Ghost Mountain” that the company’s attitude had changed considerably since his article about phoning in his lines to the studio and did not want to risk assigning him to a picture of heavy costs when he had such an attitude and frame of mind about his work. I then stated that in view of his apparent unhappiness, etc.—that maybe, it would be a good idea to effect a mutual cancellation of his contract.

  (Reagan obviously did not agree to this for he was eventually to film the two pictures left on his Warner Brothers three-picture deal.)*

  When
Reagan signed with Universal, it had recently merged with International Films and its former B-picture product was gradually abandoned as major stars and technicians were signed to its banner. The fact that most of the new blood at the studio were MCA clients was more than a coincidence. Within twelve years (1962), it would become a subsidiary of MCA. By 1950, the “Star-Spangled Octopus,” as MCA was dubbed, represented the services of nearly 60 percent of the industry’s talent. (“I’ve never seen anything like it in my life,” a deputy district attorney would one day exclaim. “You can’t even go to the bathroom in Hollywood without asking MCA’s permission.”) Under Wasserman, MCA also moved aggressively into television production.

  No wonder men like Jack Warner bristled at the mention of Wasserman’s name. The major studios had been made hostage to his demands for his clients. The “package deal” had been an MCA invention, begun by founder Jules Stein. Wasserman refined it to an art. If a studio desperately wanted a particular star for a film, they often had to take co-stars or a director or writer also represented by MCA in the same package.

  No one knew the true extent of MCA’s hold on Hollywood, nor its yearly gross income. The company kept its business—in the tradition of Jules Stein’s early Capone connections—a closely guarded secret; so close that Dun & Bradstreet had not been able to compile a credit rating on it. Guesses ran from forty to one hundred million dollars. Since MCA did not allow anyone to see a full list of its clients, there was no way to narrow the gap. None of the accepted business reference books (Moody’s, Poor’s or Standard Statistics in 1950) published any information on MCA or its many interlocking corporations. Only Stein, his right hand, Wasserman, their auditor and their income-tax collector knew. Incredibly, both Stein and Wasserman avoided being listed in the 1950 Who’s Who in the Motion Picture Industry, “a staggering compilation of practically everyone in Hollywood above the status of stagehand.”