Copyright © 2016 by Tracey Goessel
All rights reserved
Published by Chicago Review Press Incorporated
814 North Franklin Street
Chicago, Illinois 60610
ISBN 978-1-61373-407-0
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Goessel, Tracey.
The first king of Hollywood : the life of Douglas Fairbanks / Tracey Goessel.
pages cm
Summary: “The first truly definitive biography of Douglas Fairbanks, the greatest leading man of the silent film era”— Provided by publisher.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-1-61373-404-9 (hardback)
1. Fairbanks, Douglas, 1883–1939. 2. Actors—United States—Biography. 3. Motion picture producer and directors—United States—Biography. I. Title.
PN2287.F3G84 2015
791.4302'8092—dc23
[B]
2015018526
All images are from the author’s collection unless otherwise indicated
Interior design: Nord Compo
Printed in the United States of America
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This digital document has been produced by Nord Compo.
TO MOM AND DAD,
WHO BOUGHT ME THAT FIRST 8MM PROJECTOR
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication Page
Introduction
1 - The Father of the Man
2 - The Heroine’s Likable Younger Brother
3 - Stage Stardom
4 - Triangle (as in Company)
5 - Mary and Charlie
6 - Triangle (as in Love)
7 - Citizen Doug
8 - United
9 - Love and Marriage
10 - “Having Made Sure I Was Wrong, I Went Ahead”
11 - Prince of Thieves
12 - The Fairy Tale
13 - Buckling Down
14 - Death . . .
15 - . . . and Taxes
16 - Mischief and Music
17 - Around the World in Eighty Minutes
18 - Castaway
19 - “Felt Terribly Blue . . . Although I Was Laughing”
20 - A Living Death
Acknowledgments
Filmography
I. Triangle
II. Artcraft
III. United Artists
Notes
Introduction
1. The Father of the Man
2. The Heroine’s Likable Younger Brother
3. Stage Stardom
4. Triangle (as in Company)
5. Mary and Charlie
6. Triangle (as in Love)
7. Citizen Doug
8. United
9. Love and Marriage
10. “Having Made Sure I Was Wrong, I Went Ahead”
11. Prince of Thieves
12. The Fairy Tale
13. Buckling Down
14. Death . . .
15. . . . and Taxes
16. Mischief and Music
17. Around the World in Eighty Minutes
18. Castaway
19. “Felt Terribly Blue: Although I Was Laughing”
20. A Living Death
Bibliography
Index
Introduction
* * *
WRITERS HAVE STRUGGLED TO capture Douglas Fairbanks in words. To Michael Sragow, he was “Gatsby on a jungle gym.” To Edward Wagenknecht he was “the Yankee Doodle Boy whom George M. Cohan had put on the stage when the eagle screamed more lightheartedly than he does today.” To those of his generation, he was simply “Doug.” This seemed to suffice.
To most people today, however, Douglas Fairbanks is not even a forgotten man—he was never known in the first place. Almost all who were alive when he was in his heyday are gone. Even among the cinephiles he is a neglected figure; Turner Classic Movies has never made him Star of the Month, or even of the Day. Although he preserved every film and turned multiple negatives over to the Museum of Modern Art before his death, a disgraceful number were allowed to deteriorate to powder. Yet he was the most popular male star of the silent era, recognized the world over. In 1924, a peasant in remote China or Soviet Russia might not have known of Abraham Lincoln, but he knew Douglas Fairbanks. His films crossed all language barriers. His sunny cheer and astonishing athletic prowess spoke to the virtues of America in an era when America had no self-doubts about possessing any.
But if the man is nearly forgotten today, why study him? He is, after all, only a movie star. Unless a star was a genius (think Chaplin or Keaton) or retains iconic status (Bogart, Wayne) or lived such a tremendous train wreck of a life as to be a juicy cautionary tale (insert your choice here), there seems to be little point.
But Fairbanks merits attention. He would have been the first to agree that he was no genius (although the skill and wit with which he handled the instrument of his body is akin to that of a virtuoso). He was an icon of his time, but time and memories fade. And for most of his life, he handled himself very intelligently. No train wrecks here.
He deserves our attention because although we do not recognize it, he is still here. When we settle in once a year to watch the Oscars, it is because he cofounded the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. When we see the latest release from United Artists, it is because he formed the distribution company that gave independent producers a venue to sell their works. If we enjoy The Wizard of Oz or Gone with the Wind, we likely don’t realize that the man who directed those films got his first chance as a director from Douglas Fairbanks. When we drink in the glories of Technicolor, we do so because his intervention saved the company. When we think of Beverly Hills as the place for the rich and famous, it is because he bought and remodeled a hunting lodge and moved into it when the area was nothing more than scrubby hills. When celebrities navigate the depths and shoals of fame with grace, it is because he and his equally famous wife established the pattern. When we try to get tan in the summertime, it is because he made being dark fashionable in an era when paleness was a virtue. When we see Superman put his knuckles on his hips and assume the hero’s stance, it is because the young artist who first drew him based the character’s bearing on that of his hero: Douglas Fairbanks. When Batman goes to the Bat Cave, it is because the creator of the comic strip drew his inspiration from Fairbanks’s The Mark of Zorro. When we see Mickey Mouse (particularly in the early years), it is because his creator wanted a mix of Douglas Fairbanks and Doug’s best friend, Charlie Chaplin. Walt Disney even stipulated that he wanted Prince Charming in Snow White to be modeled after Fairbanks, although it is hard to argue that his animators got very close. Prince Charming was bland. But there was nothing bland about Douglas Fairbanks. He made all the leading men of his era look sick.
He was the top male star of his generation for a reason. He was a lot of fun. He was engaging, creative, visually witty, and a force to be reckoned with. He shaped our idea of the hero to fit his own loopy mold, and it has never been the same since. He married the most famous woman of his generation, herself a powerhouse of formidable dimensions. Together they were called the King and Queen of Hollywood. This was hyperbole, of course, but only just. When his untimely death came, real kings and queens sent their condolences.
His story is also the story of the birth of an industry—the transition of the movie business from a nickel novelty to a worldwide phenomenon. He was not merely an actor in this scene; he was a producer, a distributor, a theater owner. His influence was prodigious.
And he did these things as the product of a bigamous marriage who was raised in a household deserted by its breadwinner when he w
as a mere five years old. He never finished high school. But he was the winner of the genetic lottery, having a healthy body that would respond to rigorous training; a handsome, amiable face; an intelligent determination; and an affable, good-humored, resilient nature. On top of it all, he had perhaps the most disarming smile in history.
1
The Father of the Man
* * *
IT IS A TALE TOLD in every history of Douglas Fairbanks, the all-purpose story to encapsulate the essence of the man in the activities of the child.
The setting was a middle-class section of Denver in the mid-1880s, the midst of the Gilded Age. A sturdy, nut-brown boy of three (some place the event on his birthday) had once again climbed onto the roof of an outbuilding on his parents’ property. Up until now, his cheerful, look-at-me flips and graceful leaps had always served to extricate him from great heights. But this time, something went wrong. He fell.
He cut a gash that extended full across the left side of his forehead—an imposing, semi-lunar flap that would be visible in close-ups for the rest of his days. The human scalp is well vascularized, and children’s heads are disproportionately large; the bleeding must have been impressive. The family version of the story included a brief loss of consciousness—with a twist. The boy, they claimed, had always been taciturn and unsmiling. But upon coming to, and being told what had happened (“You fell off the roof, darling!”), he did the unexpected. He laughed, joyously. He had fallen off the roof! How delightful!
It seemed to capture the nature of the man the world would come to know—or at least the construct he was to present: the dashing cavalier, enduring risks and injuries while performing his dazzling stunts, laughing at fate. “A smile at the right time has won many a battle in the prize ring and in the warfare of life,” he once said. The anecdote is irresistible.
The reality, as recalled by the leaper in question almost forty years later, was a little more realistic. “I was three years old,” he wrote:
In company with my brother Robert, I was climbing along the edge of a roof that projected from a dug-out which was used as a sort of barn at our home in Colorado. Disaster overtook me and I fell from the dizzy height of possibly seven feet.
I recall now the shrill cries of my nurse and the warm glow of satisfaction that mingled with my pain when I found myself the central figure of a thrilling drama. I think that occasion decided my future, for as soon as it became apparent that the eyes of the world, so to speak, were upon me for the moment, I began to act.
Although I had a considerable gash on my forehead, the injury was not nearly so serious as it looked. Realizing, however, that this was my great moment, I set up a howl that kept me the center of attraction for quite a while. . . . I managed to put on such a dramatic performance that I all but sent my mother into hysterics.
This rings truer to human behavior. Children hit their heads; they cry.
But we want to see Douglas Fairbanks as he presented himself, or packaged himself, really: the man who, whatever tempests life (and a host of pesky villains) would throw at him, would come up smiling.
But the reality rarely matches the myth. The awful truth remains: while he often would arise, teeth and eyes glittering, showing a defiant smile and laugh to the world and its villains, there were other times when he simply cried. But even then—and this is characteristic of the man—he found a certain satisfaction in being the center of a great drama.
This same mythmaking challenges the examination of his family story. So shaded and decked in self-imposed myth are his forebears that we cannot even unearth some of them. But his paternal grandfather’s story can be found. Lazarus Ulman was approximately twenty-five years old when he arrived through the port of Philadelphia in 1820 from Baden, Germany. Little is known of him except that he was registered as a servant and was Jewish. He must have been a man of extraordinary initiative, intelligence, and luck. A mere ten years later he was the owner of 560 acres of land north of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, and the head of a household that included wife Lydia, children, and servants. His occupation was listed variably on the national census as “merchant” and “butcher.” The former seems more likely. Family history describes him as a major mill owner in the central part of Pennsylvania. The fourth of his nine children, Hezekiah Charles, was born in Berrysburg on September 15, 1833.
Williamsport, to the north, offered better schools, to Lazarus’s mind, so he moved the family there. His oldest child, Joseph, became a merchant like his father. Edwin, older than Hezekiah Charles by two years, became a dentist. H. Charles, as the younger brother preferred to be called, began at fifteen as a clerk in his father’s business, progressing at seventeen—at least according to his family—to a two-year stint founding and running a small publishing business in Philadelphia.*1 After this, he studied law in New York City under one James T.*2Brady.† Four years later, in 1856, he was admitted to the Pennsylvania bar. By 1860, H. Charles was approaching twenty-seven, living in Lycoming County, Pennsylvania, and married to twenty-one-year-old Lizzie. He was the father of two daughters, one-year-old Kate and newborn Alice. The household even had a servant. Lizzie was Christian, and H. Charles now was as well, having been baptized the same day he was married. But his five years of peaceful—and evidently lucrative—law practice were interrupted by the Civil War.
Demonstrating the sort of leadership that would later characterize his youngest son, H. Charles organized Company A of the Fifth Regiment of Pennsylvania Reserves and marched them 108 miles to Harrisburg, arriving in early May 1861. By the end of June he had been commissioned as a captain, and within a matter of weeks the company was involved in the occupation of Piedmont, Maryland. They were attached to the Army of the Potomac in March 1862 and saw action at Manassas, the Battle of Mechanicsville, and Bull Run. Had he not been mustered out in December 1862 for a service-related injury, Ulman would have been in the Battle of Gettysburg. This, of course, is presuming he would have survived to see it; before the unit was disbanded, it had lost 14 officers and 127 enlisted men to war wounds, and another 68 to disease. Disease killed more than soldiers; he and his wife buried their nine-month-old son, Jonathan, in March 1863.
But postwar H. Charles’s fortunes improved, and by 1870 he was living with his wife and two daughters in Middleton, an affluent community in the New York borough of Richmond, now known as Staten Island. His estate was valued at $20,000—a highly respectable sum at that time. The household was up to three servants now, and an 1873 passport application states that he was traveling to England for reasons of health “and to join my family there.” The document attests that he was five feet seven and a half inches tall, with black hair and dark eyes. Contemporary photographs suggest a figure of Byronic romanticism: long, flowing locks of hair; steely eyes with an intelligent gaze over a Roman nose; and—in later pictures—a hint of the double chin that his son would sport for all his days. His leadership abilities were still in play, and by 1876, he was the first president of the American Law Association, the precursor to the American Bar Association.
Ulman’s trajectory appeared to be headed in a comfortably upward direction. No one could have reasonably predicted that within four years he would have abandoned his family, his home, and his law firm and be bigamously married to a beautiful young widow fifteen years his junior. Her name was Ella Adelaide Marsh Fairbanks Wilcox (no small story there), and she was very, very unlucky in love.
Of all the figures in Douglas Fairbanks’s life, his mother is the hardest to pin down. She was probably born April 15, 1846, but she had a feminine tendency to move the year forward with each subsequent census—and each marriage. Information concerning her parentage is vague. She claimed to have been born and raised in the South, but Douglas Fairbanks Jr. declared that she was born outside of New York City. Neither her mother nor father can be tracked down with any certainty. Family histories are silent on the subject, although all agree that she had a younger sister, Belle. Ella’s story only comes into focus with her firs
t marriage, to John Fairbanks III on May 6, 1867, in New York City. He reportedly was the holder of not-inconsiderable property in New Orleans, where they moved after their marriage and where their only child, John, was born in 1873. They lived at 494 Jackson Avenue, a block from the Mississippi River.
Their fortunes declined precipitously, however, when a partner cheated the elder John out of his portion of the business. Worse, he contracted tuberculosis. Appeals for help were made to Fairbanks’s New York attorney, who happened to be H. Charles Ulman. He was evidently unable to do much. John Fairbanks’s health declined along with his fortune.
Sister Belle, meanwhile, had married one Edward Rowe of the mercantile trade, and in 1871 the Rowes joined the wave of northern carpetbaggers and moved to Macon, Georgia. Thus, when in 1874 Ella decided she needed family support, she elected to take her ailing husband and their infant son to Macon, to join her sister. The locals, almost sixty years later, still remembered the pair as striking. “The most distinguished looking man I have ever seen,” recalled one. “And a woman, petite, dainty . . . exceedingly.” The kind attentions of the local church ladies were unable to save the day, however. Not only did Ella’s husband die within a few months, but also Edward Rowe would end up dead that same year.*3
The two widowed sisters were now alone with their children, John (“a beautiful blond boy”) and his cousin Adelaide. But Ella was not to be alone for long. Enter thirty-four-year-old Edward Wilcox.
Little is known of Edward A. Wilcox of Macon, Georgia, other than a local’s recollection that he was a “fascinating personality, a successful man, and rather a dandy in dress.” Some claim he was a judge, but evidence suggests he was a cotton broker with an estate valued in 1870 at $7,000. He was not a native Georgian, having been born in South Carolina. But one thing is certain: he was a fast mover. He and Ella exchanged vows in Bibb, Georgia, on January 4, 1875, less than eight months after John Fairbanks’s death. If she married in haste, she had evident cause to repent at leisure. Mr. Wilcox, according to family whispers, drank. And when he drank, he “was probably abusive.”
The First King of Hollywood Page 1