Bringing Up Oscar: The Story of the Men and Women Who Founded the Academy

by Debra Ann Pawlak

  Louis B. chose the Selig Zoo because it was the cheapest place in town. That was a funny lot, with wild animals roaming around just like the actors. The lions and tigers were toothless and tame, but if you didn’t know that, it was rather frightening, coming ’round a corner and suddenly running into one.

  After settling in at the new facility and adjusting to the beastly neighbors, Mayer tapped the services of attorney Edwin J. Loeb who, in addition to his legal advice, offered Mayer his friendship and ultimately his secretary. By the time Mayer arrived in California, Loeb’s good nature and professional expertise were well known throughout the film community. The popular attorney now had a long list of movie clientele whom he also included in his social circle. Film folks from actors to writers to producers to studio heads called upon Loeb when they encountered legal concerns, complex contracts, tricky negotiations or even when they just felt like a good game of poker.

  Loeb and his wife, Bessie, had been married for eight years and, much like the Mayers, were raising two young daughters. Prominent members of their community with strong family ties to Los Angeles history, newcomers appreciated the Loebs’ hospitality. With an air of grace, Loeb even gave up his skilled secretary, Florence Browning, when Mayer asked her to work directly for him. The movie man’s explanation was simple: “That’s the kind of people I want working for me. I want high-class people.”

  At work, Mayer immersed himself in everyday studio business. Instead of staying inside his small office closing deals, he roamed the premises watching and absorbing the mechanics of movie making. He spoke with cameramen, set builders, actors and writers. Driven by a deep inner fear of failure, Louis B. Mayer was determined that one day, his would be the most recognized name in the motion picture industry. Like the lion sporting his unchallenged crown in the jungle, Mayer sought respect.

  With a couple of motion picture notches in his California belt, Mayer dissolved his business interests on the east coast. By 1920, he was fully committed to making west coast films and hired successful director John M. Stahl to help him. The ever-particular Stahl and his slow methodical manner of movie making often annoyed the impatient Mayer who preferred immediate results. Stahl’s painstaking care of pre-production details paid off in the end, however, when his films came in on time and within budget. Mayer’s irritation was usually countered by his satisfaction with Stahl’s final products. The director’s morally upright movies were always in line with Mayer’s vision—wholesome entertainment with just the right amount of sentiment tossed in. Stahl echoed Mayer’s standards when he shared his own thoughts:

  To me, the ideal picture would be the true life of a young man [or] woman, from the time of their meeting until later life. Their courtship, marriage, and trials and tribulations of wedded life.… The result, though, should be a masterpiece, one in which humanness would be the predominating element.…

  Mayer hired another experienced director, Fred Niblo, who recently worked with Douglas Fairbanks on his swashbuckling adventures, The Mark of Zorro (1920) and The Three Musketeers (1921) at United Artists. Not just impressed with Niblo’s work, Mayer also noted his self-confidence and polished image. The director definitely had that “class” factor Mayer was always after. Nor did it hurt that both men shared a passion for classical music. Niblo, now married to second wife, actress Enid Bennett, had an infant daughter, Loris. He also had a son, Fred, Jr. from his first wife, Josephine Cohan, who died in 1916. Cohan, the sister of theatrical great George M., was one of the famous Cohan family members who performed throughout the world.

  The Niblos lived in an upcoming area called Beverly Hills. In 1923, many major Hollywood players also populated the new community. As more people poured into the area, the utility company couldn’t keep up with the influx. Water became an issue. Beverly Hills was threatened by annexation to Los Angeles in order to tap into the larger city’s water supply. Many influential residents who worked in the movie business banned together protesting the takeover. A vote was held and the annexation was defeated 507 to 337. Beverly Hills remained independent and, in 1924, the city funded the drilling of additional wells. Today a “Monument to the Stars” stands at Beverly Drive and Olympic Boulevard honoring Fred Niblo and the seven celebrities who fought back: Douglas Fairbanks, Mary Pickford, Will Rogers, Conrad Nagel, Tom Mix, Harold Lloyd and Rudolph Valentino. Not bad company to keep.

  As Mayer continued churning out his moderately successful pictures, the money he made from one film was usually put right back into his next production. When bill collectors appeared at his office door, he often collapsed in front of them in the dramatic grip of a well-timed “heart attack.” The dismayed moneymen would almost always back off for a bit, only to return again when Mayer was feeling “better.”

  By 1923, Mayer needed help running his studio. He wanted someone qualified to produce pictures, assist with the business, make sound decisions, and have the solid backbone to deal with the multiple personalities on the lot—not to mention the critters. Mayer’s good friend Edwin Loeb knew just the man. Loeb’s best buddy was currently running Universal Studio, but the young man was no longer satisfied working for “Uncle” Carl Laemmle, and wanted out. Loeb arranged a meeting between Louis B. Mayer and the very young and talented Universal executive, Irving Thalberg.

  Thalberg’s confidence and authoritative demeanor, combined with his boyish looks, intrigued Mayer. Besides, Thalberg’s earlier showdown with director Erich von Stroheim had left Hollywood atwitter. When Mayer met Thalberg for the first time, Mayer shared his concerns about a film that was currently in production at his studio. The director intended to shoot several scenes depicting naked women, which went against the wholesome image that Mayer envisioned. He asked how Thalberg would handle the situation. Without hesitating, Thalberg declared that at Universal, there would be no debate. He was the producer and his decisions were final—not the director’s or anyone else’s. Mayer liked his answer and his self-assurance. No doubt, he also glimpsed that “class factor” he so valued. After their meeting, Mayer asked Loeb to relay a message to the youthful producer: “Tell him if he comes to work for me, I’ll look after him like my own son.”

  And so, on February 15, 1923, one of Hollywood’s most remarkable love-hate relationships began. Mayer had just one rule—his daughters were off limits to Thalberg. Well aware of the young man’s unstable heart, Mayer made no secret of the fact that he didn’t want a widowed woman on his hands. Once this matter was understood, thirty-seven-year-old Mayer and twenty-three-year-old Thalberg were inseparable. Despite their differences, they made a dynamic team. Mayer cut a hardy figure compared to Thalberg’s fragile form. Mayer relished the spotlight while Thalberg shunned it. Mayer was flamboyant, Thalberg modest. Together, however, they were potent as Mayer was content running the business while Thalberg oversaw production.

  When Marcus Loew, owner of Loew’s Theaters and Metro Pictures, bought out Goldwyn Pictures, he needed a responsible man in charge. His lawyer recommended Mayer for the job. After intense negotiations, Louis B. Mayer Productions merged with Metro Pictures and Goldwyn Pictures to form Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer (MGM). With Mayer officially named First Vice President, Loew wanted to put his son, Arthur, in charge of production. Mayer demanded Thalberg and refused to budge on the issue, and so Thalberg stayed on as Second Vice President and Supervisor of Production. Arthur Loew was out before he even got in.

  Mayer also persuaded the successful Head of Production at Warner Bros., Harry Rapf, to join them. The men shared a similar philosophy—movies were meant to entertain. Rapf was the driving force behind most of the Warners’ successful movies from 1920 to 1924. It was Rapf’s discovery of Rin Tin Tin that saved the brothers from bankruptcy. The “triumvirate,” as the press dubbed MGM’s big three, were charged with turning a profit and providing Loew’s Theaters across the country with first-rate movies. The mega-merger was reported in the L.A. Times on April 18, 1924:

  The merger greatly increases the already vast number of th
eaters owned, controlled or operated by Marcus Loew. The Capitol, New York, the California and Miller’s theaters in Los Angeles, the Ascher Circuit of twenty theaters in Chicago and houses in Seattle, Tacoma, Washington and Portland, Oregon all of which were controlled or operated by Goldwyn, are now added to the Loew chain. This makes Marcus Loew the director of approximately 350 theaters in all parts of the United States.

  MGM moved into the former Goldwyn studio located on Washington Boulevard in Culver City. Originally built by producer Thomas Ince in 1915, the complex sat on more than forty acres. MGM also inherited the Goldwyn trademark—a roaring lion surrounded by a banner emblazoned with the words “Ars Gratias Artis” or “Art for Art’s Sake.” Publicity man Howard Dietz had come up with the logo in 1921. A Columbia University graduate, he was inspired by an image of a lion, the university’s mascot, which appeared on the cover of The Jester, a school publication. He then incorporated the Latin phrase, something one of his professors liked to write on the blackboard. Of course, no one actually heard the lion roar until the advent of sound.

  MGM formally opened its doors on April 26, 1924. The official ceremony took place on the studio’s front lawn with all the pomp and circumstance that Mayer, along with the U.S. Army and Navy, could muster. As Fred Niblo hosted the event, planes flew overhead showering flowers on the crowd that included over 300 military men in uniform. Congratulatory telegrams came from U.S. President Calvin Coolidge and the current Secretary of Commerce, Herbert Hoover. Even Harry and Jack Warner sent their good wishes. Mayer, flanked by his assistants Rapf and Thalberg, took center stage, which was bedecked in the patriotic red, white, and blue. In his melodramatic fashion complete with tears, the new headman promised the group: “This is a great moment for me. I accept this solemn trust, and pledge the best that I have to give.”

  Mayer’s good friend and poker partner, Edwin J. Loeb, along with newly hired Loeb attorney George Washington Cohen, assisted with legal matters surrounding the new company. The twenty-nine-year-old Cohen and his wife, Carolyn, had recently welcomed their first son, Donald. Loeb soon introduced Cohen to the legalities of moviemaking. Cohen kept one foot in the law firm and the other in Hollywood for the next twenty years.

  With Mayer holding the title of first vice-president, he earned $1500 per week. His associates, Thalberg and Rapf, each pulled in $650. There was one difference, however. While Mayer and Thalberg were allowed 20 percent of the overall profits, Rapf was given 25 percent of the profits from just three of his films. Thalberg and Rapf had adjoining offices identical in size. They shared a projection room and their secretaries worked together in the same office space. In the beginning, the two were very much equals and worked as a team to launch MGM.

  Mayer, Thalberg and Rapf hired writers, directors, actors, cameramen, set designers, and prop men. They established entire departments for make-up, wardrobe, and publicity. Mayer controlled the budgets, handled the politics and basked in the hype. Thalberg, with his flair for storytelling, supervised day-to-day production from start to finish. He often worked more than sixteen hours each day, cramming all he could into every moment. Rapf also oversaw daily production and continued flushing out major new talent like Lucille Fay LeSueur and Maria Guadalupe Velez de Villalobos, soon to be known as MGM royals Joan Crawford and Lupe Velez, respectively.

  Mayer retained the services of Goldwyn’s prized art director, Cedric Gibbons—another “classy” employee. The well-educated Gibbons, with his striking good looks, was as debonair as any actor he might have mingled with. During his tenure with Goldwyn, his reputation as a cutting edge set designer flourished. As head of MGM’s Art Department, he became a celebrity in his own right; his contract allowed him credit on all of the new studio’s major productions. From MGM’s beginnings until he retired thirty-two years later, his name was listed on over 1500 films.

  Gibbons, who revolutionized the way movies looked with his sleek yet elegant Art Deco style, is often credited with bringing three-dimensional sets to the movies, effectively replacing painted backdrops. In deference to those early film actors who, after taking off their gloves, pinned them to the canvas scenery, Gibbons was sometimes referred to as “the man who put the glove on the mantelpiece.” Now, he was about to stamp his own brand of glamour on MGM films making them stand out with panache and style—just the kind of “class” Louis B. Mayer was looking for.

  Gibbons wasn’t the only employee acquired through the merger. The overworked matinee idol Conrad Nagel enjoyed great success at Goldwyn’s. His popularity kept him working on back-to-back films with hardly any breaks. At six feet tall with blonde hair and blue eyes, his timeless goods look and matinée idol status assured him a spot at MGM. The married actor and father, who enjoyed tennis and swimming, had a wholesome image that appealed to Mayer’s penchant for refinement. Nagel was also known around the Goldwyn lot as a connoisseur of pretzels. He liked them so much that he set up a pretzel box in the studio’s cafeteria. Nagel enjoyed a good crunch and all employees were encouraged to help themselves at the actor’s expense. No doubt, MGM was anxious to retain his services and perhaps his pretzel box, too.

  Like Gibbons and Nagel, writer Carey Wilson was also a Goldwyn alumnus. He penned several successful films for the studio and was recognized as one of their top writers. Outside of work, Wilson had once rented a house with two of his buddies, fellow Goldwyn writer Paul Bern and a young actor named John Gilbert, who had recently split from his second wife, actress Leatrice Joy. By the time Wilson joined MGM, however, he was a married man with a family. He and his wife, former dancer Nancy Everett, had a daughter, Nancy Hope, born in 1921.

  A dedicated stamp collector and avid reader, Wilson subscribed to over 150 monthly publications and owned over 10,000 books. In addition, he liked to tinker in his own machine shop located right behind his house where he especially liked to build radios. He also enjoyed photography, woodcarving and clay modeling. He was once described as a “gadgeteer” by the press: “Carey’s the kind of guy who, when you ask him the time will tell you how to make a watch.”

  One of Wilson’s future writing partners, Benjamin Floyer Glazer, was also hired by MGM after an earlier success, A Trip to Paradise (1921), which was written for Metro Pictures. Prior to the merger, Glazer worked for Louis B. Mayer Productions. Impressed with Glazer’s ability to translate European classics for American audiences, as well as his past theatrical experience, Mayer brought him into the MGM fold. Still married to Alice, the couple had no children.

  Wilson and Glazer teamed up to write the romantic drama Sinners in Silk (1924), an early MGM film featuring Conrad Nagel. This romantic drama whose tagline proclaimed, “here is the truth about today’s flappers and lounge lizards!” also featured future gossip doyenne Hedda Hopper. Glazer then adapted another Molnar work, Fashions for Men which turned into Fine Clothes (1925) starring Lewis Stone under the direction of John M. Stahl. Next, he teamed up with the Hungarian-born Erich von Stroheim and co-wrote The Merry Widow (1925) starring silent megastar John Gilbert who became one of Glazer’s closest friends.

  In 1926, Glazer wrote a sizzling photoplay based on Hermann Sudermann’s novel The Undying Past. John Gilbert was cast to star as Leon von Harden with Lillian Gish as his leading lady. Instead of the highly paid Gish, however, a newly signed contract player from Sweden took on the role of Felicita. When Greta Garbo cozied up to John Gilbert for the first time in Flesh and The Devil (1926), the cameras caught the earliest sparks of a fiery love affair that spread into their personal lives. When director Clarence Brown yelled “Cut!” the lovebirds continued nuzzling even when the cameras stopped rolling causing many embarrassing moments for the rest of the cast and crew. The couple’s steamy chemistry, candid passion and smoldering clinches sent spectators swooning, even though in real life, Garbo stood a shattered Gilbert up at the altar. Although Garbo never married, Gilbert took two more wives, but divorced each one.

  As the new studio took shape, Thalberg and Rapf presented two very
different leadership styles. Where Thalberg was poised and polished, Rapf was rough and rude. The twenty-something Thalberg charmed the staff with his good sense of humor while the forty-something Rapf often growled out his orders. Thalberg displayed a gentle side; Rapf protected his tough-guy image, afraid a little tenderness might be mistaken for weakness. Before long, Thalberg became the favored producer despite the irritating way he jingled pocket change or bounced a gold coin off his desk during meetings.

  Thalberg immersed himself in MGM moviemaking from pre-production to post-production. He reviewed scripts with writers; he approved costumes and sets; he had the final word on casting and was a master at editing. No detail escaped his attention. Thalberg demanded perfection—or at least as close as he could get to it. Writers, directors, actors, everyone sought his advice on everything from sets to scenes to editing, making him notoriously late for appointments. Director Clarence Brown claimed it was always worth the wait:

  You would be working with your writer, and you would come to this scene in the script. It didn’t click. It just didn’t jell. The scene was no goddam good. You would make a date with Irving, talk to him for thirty minutes, and you’d come away with the best scene in the picture.

  Thalberg also inherited his share of headaches resulting from the multiple mergers. His old nemesis whom he had fired at Universal, director Erich von Stroheim, was back—this time with a nine-hour drama, Greed (1924) based on the novel McTeague, A Story of San Francisco written by author Frank Norris and originally published in 1899. Throughout filming, von Stroheim carefully followed the book making sure to include every detail, which resulted in the extremely long film. Mayer and Thalberg would not release a movie that required patrons to pack a lunch.