Men like C.E. Toberman had realized nearly ten years earlier that the sleepy city of Los Angeles had to start moving west toward the ocean. There was as yet no real thought to developing the San Fernando Valley but by 1913, the water vital to expanding Los Angeles basin was already being planned and the aqueduct which would snake its way hundreds of miles from Mono county to the north was underway. The movie industry which began in Brooklyn and Long Island was moving to Southern California with the alluring promise of cheap land, outdoor locations within easy reach and nearly 350 days a year of sunshine. The balmy climate and the cheap land advertised extensively throughout the east had been bringing people to the west for some time. They were a curious lot, these modern day settlers. I think it was Frank Lloyd Wright who said that if you tipped a map of the United States, everything that wasn’t nailed down would end up in Los Angeles. And that was just about it. Land swindlers and religious fanatics, health food advocates and aspiring actors all found a home in L.A.
However, no matter how much money they made, actors and Jews were rarely if ever allowed into the most fashionable residential district of the time. The old Wilshire district of Hancock Park frowned on these nouveau riche movie people and found ways to exclude them from their clubs and golf courses. It was quite natural then, that these latter day gods and goddesses of the silent silver screen found their way into the vacant hillsides of Hollywood and a few years later moved even further west to build what is now Beverly Hills as a separate city of their very own.
For every Hollywood star I think it is safe to say that there were at least a thousand hopefuls of all ages living in the rooming houses, hotels and cottages that lined Franklin Avenue, Melrose and Santa Monica Boulevard. There were thousands more working in various studio office and crew jobs that formed the vast support systems needed to produce movies at the fantastic rate they were being turned out to meet the ever increasing box office demand.
From small towns all over America, the young hopefuls who had won a dance contest, a beauty pageant, anything even vaguely resembling show business, flocked to Hollywood. When they arrived they found themselves in fierce competition with the dancers from the Broadway chorus lines and the comics of vaudeville. Yet still they came with a suitcase full of dreams and a couple of dollars in their pocket.
Hollywood was a very small town in those days and if you could figure out how to get there you could figure out how to meet people and find a place to stay without too much trouble. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was how to get into the movies.
It was customary to line up in front of the casting offices of the studios for two reasons. If there was a picture casting for bit parts and extras there was the possibility of work. But even if there wasn’t any work, it was one of the best ways to find out what was going on at the other studios. Mother told me that actors got paid five dollars a day which included their wardrobe, unless it was a costume picture and there was no such thing as an eight hour day. In other words, there was no overtime and there were no unions. In fact, the Screen Actors Guild wasn’t created until 1934, and when it was, mother was among the first 200 charter members. But by that time she was a big star. She also told me that it was common practice for the actors who did get work to kick back two or three dollars out of the five they were paid to the person who hired you. If an actor or actress didn’t kick back, they didn’t work that studio the next time there was a picture casting. It was damn hard to support dreams on two or three dollars a day when you were really lucky to get a couple days work a month.
In-between lining up at studio casting offices where the chances were one in a hundred of getting a job, everyone who wanted to get into movies and be a star worked diligently at the next most important part of creating a career … “being seen”. Being seen meant getting invited to parties and then getting invited to the right parties. Being seen meant getting your name into the gossip columns which meant going somewhere with someone better known than yourself no matter who they were or what you thought of them. Being seen meant making sure that the way you looked attracted attention … any kind of attention … so that in addition to the beautiful people there was always an ample contingent of the outlandish and the freaky. Being seen meant spending hours dreaming up schemes of noticeable behavior patterns and idiosyncrasies of every conceivable kind. Entrances and exits were elaborately planned one-act plays all designed to “be seen” … to ensure heads turned and people inquired as to the identity of the player. If you didn’t start out with any readily identifiable neurotic behavior you simply created some. If you couldn’t afford glamour you became outrageous … anything to be noticed. This was a separate world altogether with it’s own set of values that had nothing to do with the rest of the world. Here as no where else, make-believe was real and everybody wanted in. It didn’t matter for an instant how you got where you were going because the studio publicity departments would make up their own stories for the public once you got there. Everyone was after the same thing … stardom … and they would claw and fight or fuck anything that walked to get there one step ahead of you. There was no protection from the kickbacks and the casting couches and no one felt bad if you didn’t make it. If you failed that was just one less body in competition for the attention and the jobs. Fairness and morality were irrelevant and had been left behind in all the little towns across America.
The absolute mark of social acceptance could only be bestowed by one Hollywood invitation. Among the many luminaries that sparkled brilliantly none were more awesome than the unofficial royal family of Hollywood, the self appointed king and queen of tinsel town, Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford. An invitation to Pickfair was universally acknowledged as the only legitimate indication that one had attained recognition in Hollywood.
Try as she might, the jazz baby ingenue with the big eyes, frizzy hair and the movie magazine contest name could not break the social barriers of Pickfair.
Lucille LeSeuer arrived in Hollywood in January 1925 as one of the lucky newcomers. She already had a signed MGM contract. At the studio during the day she did the usual stand-in and bit parts while at night she danced in exhibitions and contests.
She became Joan Crawford a year later through a movie magazine “name the star” contest sponsored by MGM. Between 1925 and 1928 she appeared in 20 films, averaging four to five a year. But it wasn’t until “Our Dancing Daughters” released in 1928 that she finally got close to stardom.
After an incredibly short four years, with 20 pictures to her credit and stardom virtually assured, there was still no hint of that invitation from Pickfair. However, Joan Crawford was not one to give up easily. In 1929 she married the prince of Pickfair, Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. The columnists acknowledged the union with mixed reviews. True, it seemed to be a love match but it was no secret in Hollywood that Joan Crawford never ceased trying to better herself. But Hollywood’s royal family was evidently less than ecstatic about the entire affair and ironically for the new Mrs. Fairbanks there was still no invitation to Pickfair! For a while neither the prince nor his showgirl were particularly welcome. It was only at Douglas’ firm insistence that nearly a year later, she was finally invited to lunch.
Years later mother said that she didn’t think they ever really liked her. They never made her feel comfortable or particularly welcome. But, regardless of in-law problems, her career continued to climb. During the next four years she made over a dozen more films. She acquired polish and glamour and Douglas helped her acquire some good manners and good taste.
The remake of Rain released in 1932 was a dismal failure. The critics and the public responded with mixed feelings to this extreme departure in Joan Crawford’s public image. Simultaneously the newspaper columns and movie magazines reported that the Fairbanks marriage was saddened by miscarriage.
It may well have been that the young star in her late twenties had a miscarriage. But it is equally true that her mother-in-law, “America’s Sweetheart” of less than a decade before, was
horrified at the prospect of being called grandmother. In those days it was barely acknowledged by the major studios publicity departments that their stars were married, never mind having babies! If it was unglamorous to have a baby it was unthinkable to be called a grandmother. It simply wasn’t done, it had never been done and it probably shouldn’t start now. This was hardly the era of dowager queens.
Abortion or miscarriage, the results were the same. There were neither children nor grandchildren from this marriage and it ended in the spring of 1933.
Because Joan Crawford had become a full fledged star by now, the number of pictures she did each year began to decrease to two or three. After her marriage to Fairbanks failed she devoted herself to her career and her love affair with Clark Gable. In Gable she found her match. He was a man big enough, charming enough and strong enough to deal with her spirit, her drive and her ambition. But he was also a married man and any permanent liaison was impossible.
It was during this time that she considered adopting her niece and namesake, Joan. Her brother Hal had divorced his wife of only a few years leaving her with a baby girl. Although the incident received a good deal of publicity, the adoption never went through.
Then in October of 1935 she remarried. This time it was to Franchot Tone.
Franchot was the epitome of the cultured, well educated gentlemen. His family tree went all the way back to the American Revolution and he had ancestors who were master silversmiths rivaling Paul Revere. He was from the eastern establishment and had made substantial achievements on Broadway and through membership in the famous Group Theater. Not only did he have breeding, impeccable taste and a respected family, he was also an intellectual and an “actor’s actor”. They made several films together before and after they were married but he never became a real Hollywood star.
Mother was fascinated by his stories of the Group Theater and the acting lessons patterned after the great Russians Boleslavski and Stanislavsky. Having never taken formal lessons in anything but singing and dancing, she badgered him to teach her what he’d learned. She told one hilarious story about the first time he agreed to give her one of the exercises. It had to do with something he called “sense memory” and it was intended to make the actor aware of possibilities beyond the obvious. It was to get you away from thinking just about the dialogue and the character and into the deeper meaning of relationships and motivation. In short, the exercises were designed to develop potential and untapped areas of emotion and physical sensations. She sat on the floor near him, enthralled by the way he explained what “real” actors went through to perfect their craft and what attention they paid to inner life and motivation. She waited with rapt attention while he gave her a short course on method acting, something she’d heard about but never known anyone to ask how it worked. Her big eyes followed his every move and noted each gesture. Finally, the lecture was over and he was ready to give her the very first exercise. The big moment had come. She hardly dared to breathe. As she listened attentively to the instructions, her heart sank.
Franchot had obviously decided to start at the very beginning. Since he was not normally given to practical jokes, that could be the only explanation for what was to follow. As the details unraveled it became clear that what Franchot had in mind for her was to be a carrot! She was to stand like a carrot, think like a carrot and feel like a carrot. For some several minutes she stared at him during the conclusion of his description. Then there was total silence while the full impact of what was expected of her crept through her consciousness. It was not what she had anticipated. However, this was the famous “method” of which she had heard so much and she was determined to give it a try. Slowly she rose to her feet and took her position as a carrot. No one will ever really know the extent of her performance as the ill-fated carrot because at this point in the story she burst into laughter. She said that she told Franchot that she thought this was ridiculous … she was never going to be cast as a carrot and she couldn’t imagine how in the world this could possibly help her career or get her better parts. That was the end of the acting lessons.
She and Franchot lived in her house at 426 North Bristol. Together they finished the remodeling process and her friend William Haines had decorated it in a combination of modern and antique furniture. Franchot had a lot of beautiful family silver including a massive tea service. The formal dining room had shelves built into one whole wall to provide a permanent display for the exquisite pieces. When they were married she was a big star and he was just a leading man. Despite her box office setback during the next few years, she remained a star and he made little progress becoming one. It was a disappointment to her and a serious disadvantage to him. It became painfully clear that he missed New York, the theater and his own way of life. He constantly lived in the shadow of her stardom even though he was a well known and highly respected actor.
It was during the years of this marriage that she became a wine connoisseur and learned about gourmet foods. Franchot taught her to appreciate fine art and literature, antiques and gracious living. Her dinner parties were impeccable. The long dining room table which could easily seat twenty was set in the most formal manner of Europe, the linen and silver and crystal all coordinated to create the perfect elegance. In the front basement there was a locked wine cellar stocked floor to ceiling with the finest wines money could buy. Three walls had wine racks built in and the temperature was controlled to age the precious liquids properly. The jazz baby turned slick sophisticate movie star was finally becoming a lady.
When Franchot’s friends from the east would come to Hollywood they practically headquartered at 426 North Bristol. Some would actually stay there but others would just hang out around the pool. This entire atmosphere was totally foreign to them, something they’d only read about. They were the New York crowd, the Group Theater people. They all talked the same language and shared many of the same experiences. Franchot and his New York buddies would sit around for days on end drinking and talking about the good old days. She didn’t relate to most of what they were saying and didn’t really care about the majority of the people. She was too busy trying to salvage her sinking career. 1936 was her last big box office year and she knew that the pictures MGM was giving her to do were getting progressively more shallow and less successful. On the other hand, when her MGM friends and the ever-present publicity folk gathered for a fun afternoon of gossip and “shop talk”, Franchot seemed uncomfortable and out of place. Then there were Franchot’s little flirtations which always threatened to turn into affairs. She was always busier working than he was and it irritated her enormously that he found time to be amorous with others and wasn’t more ambitious. The gap between them professionally grew even though she had become aware that her career was not progressing well. This marriage had not produced any children either and when she actually caught him having an affair with another woman she threw him out of the house. The divorce was final in April of 1939.
If her marriage to Fairbanks can be said to have given her the mark of acceptance and respectability, the marriage to Franchot gave her culture and elegance. She kept the silver and the antiques and added periodically to the wine cellar. She planned superb dinner menus and artfully arranged the place cards which designated careful seating arrangements. The library shelves were adorned with beautiful collections of rare and esoteric leather bound books, some of which she had taken the time to read. She still preferred to read the funny papers and liked cookies with butter on them, but she was at long last a lady.
But she was alone again after two unsuccessful marriages, numerous attempts to have children and fourteen years in pictures. And, she wasn’t getting any younger. Publicly, her birth date was always reported as March 23, 1908, but grandmother told me once that she was actually born in 1904. That made her closer to 35 years old in 1939 when I was delivered to her.
CHAPTER 3
My official papers simply say “Girl” born in the afternoon of June 11, 1939. My real mother was a stud
ent and my father a sailor and neither one of them wanted to take responsibility for me. So, from Hollywood Presbyterian Hospital to a private adoption broker to 426 North Bristol Avenue I traveled when I was only a few weeks old.1
In no time at all I was a chubby, smiling baby named Joan. My towels were monogrammed “Joan”. The silver picture frame with birth statistics is monogrammed “Joan” and the small bible given to me as a baby says “To little Joan”. Only a few weeks old and I was to be Joan Crawford, Jr. An awesome responsibility. There are pictures of me in my scrapbook with mother holding me, feeding me from a bottle, bathing me. Baby Joan laughing and crying and doing nothing but just lying there in the satin lined bassinet. There are dozens of pictures of naked baby Joan and smiling baby Joan. There are candid snapshots and 8x10 professional photographs of mother holding me. Beautiful, gossimer mother and child portraits which capture some of the eternity of that special relationship. At long last she had her baby and she never let go of that preciousness.
She took me with her wherever she went. I slept in dressing rooms and studio sound stages. I traveled in the car with her from the time I was only a few months old. She saved every bit of hair cut from my head, every tooth from my mouth. All were carefully sealed in envelopes and labeled in her generous handwriting. There were gifts for which she wrote little notes … “to my beautiful infant” …” I love you my darling, beautiful child” … notes I could not read and only she knew about.
Mommie Dearest Page 2