Howard Hawks: The Grey Fox of Hollywood

by Todd McCarthy

  These scenes, which involved as many as eight hundred extras, were shot on the huge set on the MGM lot used just a few months before for the first major studio prison picture, George Hill’s The Big House, cowritten by Flavin, which had been released in June and to which The Criminal Code has always been compared. An exciting film until its cop-out ending, The Big House is impressive for its size and near-architectural qualities, but scenes from The Criminal Code stick in the mind more indelibly: Huston’s repeated displays of arrogant confidence as he faces the prisoners in the yard, yells back at them in their own crude manner, and defiantly lights his cigar and stares down their hate for him; Karloff’s implacable stalk as he corners the sadistic guard for the kill while the other prisoners cover the act with their shouting, and the surprising humor Hawks draws from grim surroundings and characters. Hawks also dabbles in overlapping dialogue for the first time, in the opening scene in the police station, where one cop is on the phone while two other men are playing cards. The Criminal Code doesn’t seem as timeless or congenial as many of Hawks’s later films, and it is damaged by an uncharacteristic sappiness in the scenes with the romantic youngsters. Even here, however, Hawks softened the blow with his determinedly unsentimental treatment of a potentially predictable moment: when a cable arrives with the news that Phillips Holmes’s mother has died, he is playing checkers in his cell; the cable is passed around among the cons in silence, but before the expected reaction can set in, Holmes’s cellmate says, “Your move, kid,” nipping any overt emotionalism in the bud.

  The Criminal Code opened in New York on January 3, 1931, less than two months after it wrapped, and did very good business, especially for a Columbia release. The film did encounter some problems because of its violent and potentially volatile content, particularly in Chicago, where its bookings were canceled after the local censor board demanded heavy cuts.

  By the time Hawks finished up retakes and final work on The Criminal Code in mid-November, Howard Hughes’s relationship with Hawks had warmed considerably. Hughes’s next production was to be a gangster epic, and Hawks’s expression of interest in directing it had developed into a firm intention. Aside from liking the idea of making the ultimate gangster film, Hawks enjoyed the fact that everything the young Texan did represented a snub at the powers that be of the Hollywood establishment. To Hawks, aligning with the wealthy Hughes meant the possibility of real independence from the ruling nabobs. The only problem was his freshly minted contract to direct three pictures for First National, which had been patiently waiting since August for him to finish The Criminal Code. Determined not to miss his chance with Hughes, Hawks had to figure out a way to slither out of First National’s grasp in order to make the most explosive picture of gangland the world had ever seen.

  8

  Tough Guys: Hughes, Hecht, Hays and Scarface

  On November 28, 1930, when Hawks reported for work at First National, Hal Wallis immediately teamed him up with the writer Waldemar Young to prepare an adaptation of A. Hamilton Gibbs’s popular novel Chances. Hawks’s assignment to this project was a typical example of studio thinking: since the director had handled The Dawn Patrol so effectively, let’s give him another tragic World War I story, albeit one dominated by a triangular love story. Almost immediately, Hawks objected, deriding the material at story meetings and telling Wallis and Jack Warner in no uncertain terms that the book was lousy and could only make for an equally poor picture. Soon realizing that Hawks’s attitude made further insistence futile, the studio proposed several other projects to the director, all of which he rejected out of hand. Finally, on December 11, figuring he’d show his obstinate employee who’s boss, Wallis yanked Hawks off Chances but also put a hold on any salary payments until such time as Hawks came around. Five days later, Hawks strolled over to the cashier’s office to collect the three thousand dollars he was contractually owed for his work since November 28 but was told there was no check for him. The next day he returned and was again rebuffed. He thereupon informed First National that he considered the studio in breach of contract and that he was therefore free to sign another deal, which he did with Howard Hughes on January 16.

  Understandably, First National saw things a little differently. No other director treated them so rudely—not Bill Wellman, not Mike Curtiz, not Mervyn LeRoy—and a contract worker was a contract worker, expected to do what he was told. Still, Jack Warner liked Hawks, so he deigned to sit down with the upstart Howard Hughes three times in February, the final time at the Lakeside Country Club, to try to resolve “the Howard Hawks problem.” No solution could be found, however, so, on March 6, 1931, First National filed suit against Hawks and Hughes’s The Caddo Company for breach of contract. The studio asked, among other things, that Caddo be restrained from employing Hawks, who was then in the thick of preparing Scarface, until the matter could be settled.

  Although Hawks might not have expected the case to go as far as it did into a lawsuit and a public airing of his terms of employment, he certainly didn’t mind, since it asserted his will and, in his view, his right to operate independently of the studio harness. Upon a closer examination of the case, there can be little doubt that Hawks orchestrated it to unfold almost precisely as it did, completely in his favor and on his terms. That he lied and behaved disdainfully toward his employer was of no consequence to him, since it enabled him to direct the film he wanted to make at that moment. More than that, the case established, for the first time, Hawks’s position that he needed the studio chiefs less than they needed him. If they wanted to deal with him, it would be on his terms, not theirs. He had money, he had talent, he could say no and walk away. Very few other directors in the nascent studio system dared behave this way, or were in a position to. It took nerve, but Hawks got away with it, and he set the terms under which he was able to pursue the extraordinary career he did, one that was virtually unique in Hollywood at the time.

  It seemed like the sort of squabble that could have easily been settled by a gentlemen’s agreement: sure, we’ll let Hawks direct Scarface, but then he’s got to come back right away and make the three pictures for us that he’s contracted to do, and no more loan-outs and no money from us until he makes them. But there were two factors mitigating against this. First, the Hollywood moguls, as competitive as they were with one another, were united in one thing: they hated Howard Hughes. This maverick with money of his own who could spend three years monkeying with a movie, a good-looking, high-flying thirty-one-year-old bachelor with no respect for the way things were done in Hollywood, rubbed the big bosses the wrong way on every count. What’s more, at this moment before the rise of Darryl F. Zanuck, when literally all the studio heads—Mayer, Zukor, Schulberg, Cohn, Warner, Goldwyn, Laemmle, Fox, Schenck—were Jewish, Hughes was clearly not destined for membership in The Club; it was noticed that Hughes hired virtually no Jews and that one of his pet projects was an adaptation of the scathing Hollywood satire Queer People, whose virulent attacks on the industry’s power brokers were widely perceived to be anti-Semitic. Therefore, the establishment bigwigs would happily go out of their way to do anything they could to deal Hughes a setback.

  Second, the studio executives, having effectively wrested control of the business over the past five or six years and now in the process of consolidating their power, needed to assert their absolute authority over “talent.” The whole studio system was being structured and continually refined to keep actors, directors, writers, and all other personnel in their place; Hollywood unions were still pie in the sky and would be created over the dead bodies of the bosses. It was their money, they called the shots, and if some actor or director didn’t like what they were told to do, he could just sit out on suspension until he came to his senses. It was therefore only logical to sue Hawks to bring him into line and to prevent him and Hughes from showing the world that two rebels, answerable to no one else, could make a film as well as—or even better than—they could.

  In essence, both sides in the suit alleg
ed breach of contract, First National accusing Hawks of not fulfilling the terms of his contract, to direct three films during the 1931 calendar year, and Hawks claiming that the contract had not been effect since December 17, when the studio had refused to pay him, thereby freeing him to seek employment elsewhere.

  In his account of the events leading up to the break, Hal Wallis stated that Hawks was recalcitrant about the Chances project from the outset. “I discussed Hawks’s objections with him, but Hawks made no criticisms of the story other than a general statement that it was poor or weak. He offered no suggestions as to how to change or improve the story. I told Hawks to attempt to work the matter out with [Waldemar] Young. Several conferences were held in which Hawks, Young, Charles Graham Baker, one of First National’s production executives, and I participated, for the purpose of discussing the adaptation.… Hawks persisted, in all of these conferences, in his attitude that he would not make any photoplay based on this novel. He disagreed with and dissented from every suggestion made for improving the story, but made or offered no suggestion of his own.…

  “Finally, Hawks refused absolutely to make Chances and also refused to make any of several other stories which were suggested to him. Hawks was then instructed, about December 11, 1930, that he would be paid no further compensation until he complied with his contract by beginning work upon a story assigned to him.”

  To build the case for Hawks’s uniqueness and consequent value to the studio, Wallis was forced to add an evaluation that can only have made him choke on his words: “In my opinion, Hawks is a motion picture director of unusual and extraordinary ability.… He commands and has commanded, by reason of his reputation and ability, a compensation which is large as compared with the salaries of ordinary motion picture directors.”

  Waldemar Young, who had no particular ax to grind with Hawks, added: “I had several meetings with Hawks lasting until about December 10, 1930. At no time did he confer or work with me for more than one or two hours per day. During these conferences Hawks’s suggestions were consistently destructive and not constructive to the adaptation of the novel.” Young also noted that, after December 17, he continued on without Hawks and polished off the adaptation within two weeks’ time.

  Most revealing, however, is Jack Warner’s commentary. Although Warner held no title at First National, Warner Bros. owned First National and they essentially functioned as the same company. Warner commenced by proclaiming that “Hawks’s reputation as a director is now such that he has ‘box office value,’ that is, his name, advertised as the director of a picture, attracts persons to see such picture. I do not believe that it would be easy to replace Hawks’s services, nor do I believe that there are many, if any, directors whose services and ability duplicate or excel those of Hawks.” He thereupon set out his complaint that Hawks had spent very little time at the studio since initiating his contract. Noting that Hawks had come to him in person and refused to make Chances, Warner added that, on December 10, Hawks “also stated that he could not and would not work with Harold B. Wallis.… I pointed out to Hawks that under his contract he did not have any right to select or approve the stories upon which he was to work, but that I was willing to attempt to please him if possible. Therefore, I gave him several other stories—As Good as New, The Noose and Ambush—all successful and well-known novels or plays, as well as John Monk Saunders’s original story ‘The Finger Points.’ About December 11, 1930, Hawks returned to my office, threw the above-named books on my desk, and stated that he would not make any of them, that they were all poor. He then asked me to release him from his contract entirely and to enter into an arrangement whereby he could make one picture a year for First National based on some of his own stories. This I refused to do. I again pointed out to him that under his contract he had no choice of stories, and no right to dictate the particular story upon which he was to work.”

  Hawks nevertheless plunged ahead to propose to Warner two stories he claimed he’d written. The first was “based to some extent upon the life of a well-known Los Angeles evangelist,” and Hawks offered to let Warner have it for ten thousand dollars. The second was an original submarine story that Hawks was willing to part with for twenty thousand dollars. Just as Hawks surely knew they would be, both were rejected, and Hawks left Warner’s office knowing that his next move would be a call to Howard Hughes telling him the coast was clear.

  By the time the suit was filed in March, First National had collected a truly extraordinary set of affidavits from many of the top bosses in Hollywood. Assembled to help First National bolster its case, they also made for an array of quotes that any director would have been thrilled to put on his résumé. Samuel Goldwyn asserted, “Hawks possesses the requisite essentials of a first-class director. His abilities are such that a producer securing his services, rendered in good faith, is assured of ability which few other directors possess. His services, in my opinion, are of a special, unique and extraordinary character.” Joseph M. Schenck and Louis B. Mayer also gave ringing endorsements.

  A less enthusiastic assessment came from the leading agent Myron Selznick, the brother of one of Hawks’s least favorite Hollywood executives, David O. Selznick: “Mr. Hawks has directed several good motion pictures, and in my opinion is a good director, but … in my opinion there are many directors who could satisfactorily and artistically perform services of the kind and character performed by Howard Hawks.”

  Amazingly, the most halfhearted endorsement came from Hawks’s own agent, Ruth Collier, who had spent the previous summer unsuccessfully attempting to find Hawks work with some of these same moguls who now found the director’s talents so extraordinary. “Based on my efforts to secure employment for Howard Hawks as a motion picture director,” she remarked, “I am of the opinion that he is a good director but that it is reasonably possible for his services to be satisfactorily replaced by other motion picture directors.”

  Douglas Fairbanks Jr. contributed his view about Chances, which by March he had already finished starring in, under the direction of Allan Dwan: “I was personally present when Howard Hawks made several suggestions for changes in connection with the adaptation of said story, and I personally know that several of the suggestions made by Howard Hawks were actually used in filming said motion picture.… In my opinion … the suggestions of Howard Hawks strengthened and improved said motion picture.”

  Hawks responded to First National’s charges by issuing a total denial of everything the studio claimed: no, he did not refuse to work on Chances; no, it was not true that in Warner’s office he “threw on his desk the books mentioned in his affidavit, or any other books, or that I stated I would not make any of them”; no, he had not asked Warner to enter into a separate agreement to make one film per year of his own choosing; no, “it is not true that my services cannot be replaced, but on the contrary it is true that First National secured the services of another director to direct … Chances”; yes, it was true that he participated in one story conference concerning the film, “but it is not true that in said conference I made or offered no suggestions of my own. On the contrary, I talked in extenso … and I now state that a great many of the suggestions that I made were actually used”; but no, “it is not true that I refused to work.”

  A succession of demurrers, delays, and broken trial dates, and requests for restraining orders was paraded through the court all spring. By far the most extraordinary document filed during the entire proceedings was a statement by Hawks denying everything First National and their high-powered allies stated was special about him. A blanket admission that he possessed no special skills whatsoever, it may be the biggest lie Hawks ever uttered, and is worth printing nearly in its entirety for its full astonishment value:

  This defendant denies that he has developed or has a method or technique of directing motion pictures, and/or of doing and/or performing the other duties of a motion picture director which were or are peculiar or unique to himself alone, or which cannot be or are not duplicate
d by any other motion picture director. Said defendant denies that he has or is possessed of the ability to do or perform all of the special duties of a motion picture director … or in an unusual or extraordinarily able manner, and/or as a result thereof, to produce or direct high-class or exceptionally successful motion pictures. Defendant admits that he has directed and produced in the last past several years a total of nine motion pictures, some of which motion pictures have been and are financially and artistically successful to a certain degree, and alleges that other of said motion pictures which he has directed and produced are motion pictures which have not been financially or artistically successful. Defendant admits that he directed the motion pictures entitled The Dawn Patrol and The Criminal Code; the defendant has no information or belief upon the subject, and basing his denial upon said ground, denies that each of said motion pictures has been or is highly successful, or that each of said motion pictures is or has been declared by motion picture critics and reviewers to be among the best motion pictures produced; defendant denies that by reason of his ability … or by reason of the successful character of motion pictures directed or produced by him, he has acquired or has a nationwide reputation as an outstanding and/or unusually able motion picture director, and denies that the defendant commands or has commanded a high salary.

  Hawks concluded by confessing that when he signed the First National contract, he “had been unable to obtain work for a great many months,” and therefore “was compelled to and did accept such provision in said contract” that he might not have otherwise.

  Already irritated with Jack Warner and Hal Wallis for refusing to make a court appearance on the specious grounds that neither was actually an officer of First National, the judge in April denied the company’s application for a temporary injunction against Hawks and Caddo. Two months later, with Scarface about to roll and a trial date yet to be set, the matter was suddenly dropped. The big boys had failed to stop Hughes and Hawks from proceeding with their reckless, independent film, but there would be other places to ambush them down the road. In the meantime, what might have seemed like a logical solution before all the legal huffing and puffing began was agreed to out of court: Hawks’s old First National contract was torn up and a new one was signed, stipulating that immediately upon completing Scarface, Hawks would return to First National to make one film a year for two years. With First National pleased to be saving a degree of face, the deal was signed June 22. The next day, Hawks, having got what he wanted, started shooting what would always remain his favorite film.