by Siân Evans
Now a national celebrity in her adopted country, Josephine accepted lucrative sponsorship deals to endorse beauty products. During her time in France she learned French, Italian and Russian, and how to fly her own two-seater plane and she starred in four movies. Tellingly, she never made a Hollywood film, but in France she became a cultural icon, fêted in a way that could never have happened at that time in the country of her birth. Indeed, it was on a transatlantic voyage back to America in the mid-1930s, where she had been lured by a lucrative offer to appear in the Ziegfeld Follies, that Josephine was reminded of the racial discrimination then inherent in her own country. An unnamed movie actress travelling on the same ship refused to dine at the same table as Josephine Baker, on the grounds of her colour. After fulfilling her professional obligations in America, Josephine Baker was glad to return to France, where her stellar talent was more important than her race, and her achievements brought her acclaim, wealth and instant recognition.
By the 1920s the nature of fame itself was changing. With the arrival of the mass media, illustrated newspapers and newsreel films, a person could become a celebrity almost overnight. In previous eras achieving fame was a slow, almost sedimentary process; people became renowned for what they did, such as winning wars, writing epic poetry or inventing a better mouse-trap. By the 1920s and 1930s, because of the growth of photography, film and popular culture, being famous was a matter of being instantly recognisable, often all over the world. Charlie Chaplin, shortly after making his first silent films in Hollywood, visited New York and was amazed to see his image on giant billboards and posters all over town. In real life he was unrecognisable without his make-up, but his alter ego was everywhere, instantly identifiable by millions of enraptured strangers who were unaware of his very existence just weeks before.
One of the many attractions of transatlantic ocean travel for a certain sort of person was the possibility of rubbing shoulders with the famous. First-class travellers avidly scanned the printed passenger list, a copy of which was supplied to each cabin. Along with those who were household names only to their own relatives, they might find an intoxicating mix of royalties, aristocrats, heads of state, politicians, noted beauties, captains of industry, sporting heroes, millionaires and maharajahs, and stars of the stage and silver screen, all aboard on the same voyage. Second-class passengers’ names were also listed and provided to first-class cabins; there was a certain amount of social permeability between the two superior strata of accommodation. However, no reference was made to the vast majority travelling below in third class; it was assumed that they would be of no interest to their social superiors.
The choice of ship was important too. Smaller vessels tended to be more friendly in atmosphere, and passengers with large but fragile egos often preferred to lord it on more intimate ships, rather than risk being out-gunned by more stellar personalities on the bigger liners. The larger ships had a reputation for attracting cliques, especially in first class. Common interests quickly led to the formation of social groups; there were the sports enthusiasts, bridge players, poker fans, the steady drinkers, the dance fanatics, the seasickness sufferers and the inveterate gossips. ‘The Atlantic is rich in personalities. Most of the great of the earth at some time or another have been seasick on its bosom,’6 remarked Basil Woon. Famous authors, thespians and performers often attracted a coterie of fellow passengers keen to scrape acquaintance. However, star-spotting on an ocean liner was not always plain sailing. While the public areas and deck spaces were designed so that people could mingle, some VIPs preferred to travel in cloistered privacy. Large self-contained suites with individual balconies and high-end, discreet service allowed the reclusive passenger to avoid public scrutiny for the entire voyage, if desired. Enigmatic actress Greta Garbo rarely left her cabin while afloat, and on one occasion managed to avoid the waiting press altogether by disembarking in a borrowed stewardess’s uniform. Film stars needed to be beautifully dressed and coiffed when ‘on duty’; Marlene Dietrich only appeared in public at dinner, though she did time her arrival for maximum effect, taking to heart the advice of her friend Noël Coward: ‘Always be seen, dear, always be seen.’
The better-known liners cultivated their pet celebrities, offering them preferential rates. The fierce commercial tussle between various shipping lines to convey eight glamorous Ziegfeld Follies girls to Europe in 1923 was won by French Line, whose triumphant marketing declared ‘every French boat is a little Paris’. European royalty held an exotic allure for many; Queen Marie of Romania was a frequent Atlantic traveller who was willing and able to ‘play to the gallery’. Hints about their aristocratic fellow passengers were used to attract aspirational potential customers. The shipping companies’ PR departments made the most of well-known personalities, taking photos of their glamorous shipboard life, and issuing images and interviews to the press. Those who had no intention of meeting their fans would travel with a posse of pals to keep interlopers at bay. Disappointed observers could nevertheless closely watch their habits when they did appear in public. One might note that the Prince of Wales had adopted the American fashion of only eating with a fork held in his right hand, that Charlie Chaplin favoured heavyweight reading matter such as Stoddard’s Revolt Against Civilisation, or that Gloria Swanson’s husband, the Marquis Henri de la Falaise, was an accomplished tango dancer. Such small but authentic details, providing proof of proximity to celebrity, were often the cherished highlights of the voyage and would be retailed to their friends and family on the passengers’ return.
Familiar faces often patronised particular shipping lines because they liked being attended by the same stewards, stewardesses and pursers. Gloria Swanson favoured the chic vessels of the French Line. Percy Rockefeller liked the Olympic. The France was a particular favourite with actors, writers, singers and society types, but business travellers tended to prefer the massive Cunard ships such as the Aquitania or Mauretania, or American ships such as the George Washington. Anna Pavlova favoured the Leviathan. The Prince of Wales liked the Berengaria, while his mistress, Thelma Lady Furness, preferred the Majestic. Brigadier-General and Mrs Cornelius Vanderbilt, the acknowledged leaders of New York society, patronised the Mauretania.
Cunard was the first shipping line to introduce its own on-board photographers in the late 1920s. Casimir Watkins came up with the idea while sharing a mid-Atlantic cocktail with a Cunard director on the Berengaria. Borrowing £500 from an uncle, he set up a photographic company called Ocean Pictures. Their first studio was on the Lancastria, but they later acquired the exclusive rights to provide professional on-board photographic services on the prestigious Queen Mary and the Queen Elizabeth. The company’s professional snappers were briefed to take attractive pictures of the passengers on these prestigious vessels, but they had to behave with decorum and ensure the images flattered the subject. The photographers would work through the night to develop the negatives and make multiple prints in the ship’s darkrooms, so that passengers could order copies for themselves the following morning for a modest fee. The best shots would then be released to the press when the ship docked; a photo-opportunity was the quid pro quo for celebrities, and usually they were happy to co-operate with the company’s press initiatives, seeing it as part of their own publicity. For ordinary passengers the presence of professional photographers on the ship added to the glamour of the experience. The 1920s were a golden age of photography, when people wanted affordable, flattering portraits of themselves, as mementoes of a particular voyage, and as gifts for friends and family.
The docking of any prestigious liner always attracted a mob of newsmen and photographers, known as the Gangplank Willies, desperate to get on board to interview celebrities of all types and nationalities. The first-class section of the ship would be besieged by journalists and photographers, swarming on to the ship like pirates seeking their bounty. Hard cash would be offered to hitch a ride on any boat going out to meet an incoming liner, in order to be the first aboard. The New York pap
ers had dedicated news desks covering the arrivals and sailings of the famous on international ships. The journalists’ speciality was to startle a celebrity into providing a revealing quote or piercing aperçu – as one newspaperman remarked, ‘An ocean trip makes people want to talk.’
Shipping companies deliberately cultivated the press in order to garner valuable publicity for their vessels, and the calibre of stars and VIPs to be found on them. With the growth of portable cameras and flashbulbs, photographers were able to take shots of celebrities as they disembarked in Southampton, London or New York, and reporters from the papers could glean a few words from a notable if they met them at the gangway. There was often an unseemly scramble for pole position on the dockside when it was known a particularly photogenic or newsworthy individual was setting foot on dry land, but it was a symbiotic relationship as both the celebrity and the media outlet benefited from the encounter. As Cunard’s Commodore Bisset remarked, ‘Very few celebrities are shy of reporters. That is one reason why they are celebrities.’7 Evelyn Waugh wrote:
The classic ground for the sport is a liner arriving in New York. New Yorkers still retain a friendly curiosity about their foreign visitors – indeed, believe it or not, a bulletin is printed and daily pushed under your door in the chief hotels, telling you just what celebrities are in town, where they are staying, and nominating a Celebrity of the Day.8
To satisfy this human appetite, the reporters come on board with the first officials and have ample time before the ship finally berths to prosecute their quest. They are not got up to please. Indeed, their appearance is … a stark reminder of real life after five days during which one has seen no one who was not either elegantly dressed or neatly uniformed. American papers have at their command most prepossessing creatures of both sexes, but they choose only those who look like murderers to greet visitors. They are elderly and, one supposes, embittered men. They have not advanced far in their profession, and their business is exclusively with the successful. Their revenge is a ruthless professionalism. They look the passengers over, and make their choice, like fish-brokers at a market. One of their number, the grimmest, stalks into the lounge, breaks into a distinguished group, taps an ambassador on the arm and says, ‘The boys want a word with you outside.’9
Of course, the vast majority of transatlantic passengers were not celebrities, and their reasons for travel, no matter how pressing and potentially life-changing to them as individuals, held no interest for the Gangplank Willies, whose natural prey were already household names.
However, transatlantic travel between the wars did provide the means and the opportunity for ambitious but impecunious American women looking for opportunities abroad, and Paris drew them like a magnet. The irrepressible collector of international celebrities, Elsa Maxwell, made a lucrative career as a professional party planner, gossip columnist, press agent and impresario. Her success lay in avidly cultivating the wealthy and introducing them to rising stars, thereby improving her patrons’ social standing and assisting her protégés’ finances. Bumptious, homely-looking and publicity-mad, her living came from ‘gifts’ and ‘loans’ from the rich. For decades Elsa frequently travelled the Atlantic with her British-born lover, the socialite, heiress and classical singer Dorothy Fellowes-Gordon, known as ‘Dickie’, forging alliances between the wealthy but socially gauche, and the more decorative but cash-strapped figures of the world of showbusiness.
Paris was the scene of her first great success: shortly after the Armistice, Elsa, who was living in New York with her girlfriend, was asked by Mrs Edward Stotesbury, the American banker’s wife, to accompany her recently divorced daughter, Mrs Louise Brooks, across the Atlantic to Paris. Louise needed relaunching in European society, as there was considerable stigma attached to divorce in the United States. The Stotesburys bankrolled the trip, paying for Elsa’s passage, and they all stayed at their family house in the Rue des Saints-Pères. The scintillating parties that Elsa threw on behalf of her client in Paris established the young woman at the heart of the city’s social life. Louise fell in love with Douglas MacArthur, the youngest brigadier-general in the US Army, and they married in 1922.
Elsa was suddenly in demand everywhere in society, and many wealthy people wanted her to arrange parties of all sorts for them. They imagined that this fat, jolly, bossy woman was important and well-connected. By pretending to be indispensable, Elsa made herself so. She was essentially a self-made woman, a social entrepreneur from a nebulous background, who created a lucrative role for herself as a ‘fixer’ and party planner. Her invention of the novelty party was adopted wholeheartedly by the Bright Young Things of the 1920s. Treasure hunts organised by Elsa guaranteed the participation of the gilded young, hell-bent on fun, competing to locate the pompom off a sailor’s hat, the hairs from an admiral’s moustache, or the undergarments of a fashionable soubrette. She also created the murder mystery party, a thoroughly British phenomenon that took London society by storm, as it combined snobbery with violence. Her events provided thousands of words of copy for newspaper gossip columnists, helpfully tipped off in advance by Elsa herself, and their printed stories titillated or scandalised the readers.
Elsa found notoriety through novelties such as the ‘Come As You Were’ party in Paris, in 1927. Elsa’s messengers handed an invitation to each of sixty guests at random hours of the day and night. Each recipient was asked to attend dressed exactly as they were when they received their invitation. The Marquis de Polignac cut a dashing figure in full evening attire, except for his missing trousers. Daisy Fellowes had her lace pants in her hand. Bébé Bérard wore a dressing gown, had a telephone attached to his ear, and shaving cream on his face. Several gentlemen who rated honour above vanity attended in hairnets. The party was the sensation of Paris.
It was rumoured that Elsa Maxwell always crossed the Atlantic with fourteen trunks and a hatbox – the trunks for her press clippings, and the hatbox for her other dress. It was true that she had no interest in clothes and always wore either business attire of matching skirts and jackets, or a $20 evening dress picked off the rack of a department store. The reason was simple: her clients and friends were inevitably chic, slim and well-dressed, while she was burly and rather plain. By always wearing the same simple clothes, Elsa did not competence; instead she cultivated a deliberate impression of competency and continuity. However, she did harbour a rakish taste for cross-dressing, and rarely resisted the opportunity to appear as some particularly masculine figure from history, such as Napoleon, at one of the many fancy-dress parties she pioneered. Appropriately enough, fancy-dress events became regular features of shipboard entertainments throughout the 1920s and 1930s.
So famous did Elsa Maxwell become as a publicist and ‘fixer’ that she was offered an unusual commission to liven up the sleepy Italian resort of the Lido of Venice. This sandy strip of large hotels and beach huts, located a short boat-ride from the ancient maritime city of Venice, had long been a summer resort for the Italian middle classes, providing families with a relaxing seaside break, interspersed with occasional cultural excursions across the lagoon to the treasure trove of Venice itself. Elsa accepted the challenge; she greatly valued what she called ‘the hypodermic value of an occasional celebrity’, and was also adept at spotting talent among her showbusiness acquaintances. By calling in some favours from her elite clientele, she threw a very well-attended party in the Venice Lido for the fashionable and popular Queen Marie of Romania in 1921, at the stylish Hotel Excelsior. The following summer, 1922, Elsa further developed the resort’s trend-setting reputation by returning with Dickie, and ‘a young man with an unusual, almost Mongolian countenance’, whom they had met at a party given in Oxford by Sibyl Colefax. The young man was Noël Coward, and he accompanied them as their guest to the Lido where Elsa and Dickie had been commissioned to organise a society party for the Duke of Spoleto. The party was a great success, and thanks to Elsa’s efforts, Venice and the Lido became the fashionable place for the international set
to gather in the summer, the romantic haunt of Cole Porter, Emerald Cunard and Lady Diana Cooper.
By constantly flitting between America and Europe, Elsa made herself the doyenne of international society and showbiz. In later years she based herself at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in New York, but she was equally at home in Paris, mingling with the ‘beautiful people’. While aspirational Europeans of all stripes were heading to America hoping to be ‘discovered’, there was a corresponding wave of Americans heading for Europe, often prompted by the much reported activities of social fixers such as Elsa Maxwell and her coterie of the international set. Europe as a fascinating, vibrant destination increasingly appealed to Americans of all ranks and incomes in the mid-1920s.
Writer Basil Woon noted in 1926: ‘Drinks, divorces and dresses are the principal reasons why Americans go to Europe.’10 Transatlantic travel to the Old World attracted the hedonistic, the curious and the newly single. In America there was a renewed general interest in overseas travel. ‘How’re you gonna keep them down on the farm, Now that they’ve seen Paree?’ was a popular vaudeville song in the States, and reflected the desire of ordinary Americans to explore Europe, often – though not necessarily – for the most high-minded reasons. Cities like Paris, London, Berlin and Amsterdam offered ample opportunities for cultural tourism as well as leisure and pleasure, in exchange for hard foreign currency, and a few American dollars went a long way in post-war Europe. The exuberant counter-culture of showbusiness, dance, music and especially avant-garde art particularly attracted Americans to Paris. They read tantalising articles in their newspapers and magazines about the artistic avant-garde, whose aspiring painters and writers could live on a few dollars a day in the more bohemian quarters of Paris, the world’s most beautiful city. There was wonderful cuisine available for a fraction of what it would cost at home, and an artist could be free of the strictures of Prohibition.