by Jackie Ganiy
In 1896, Reatha Dale Watson was born in Yakima, Washington, to a newspaper editor and his wife. Reatha’s intelligence, wit, and creativity lent themselves from the start to artistic pursuits, as did her ardor for anything exotic. It would be this inner wellspring, bursting her every seam to get out, that would later lead her to claim that her 'real' parents were French and Italian nobles descended from Napoleon, and that she was really born in Richmond, Virginia. Her two half-siblings, two full-siblings, and the Census, among other things, reveal these stories as merely her way of reclaiming her mundane existence in a way that better suited her tastes. Then, however, the press loved a good story, and she dangled fresh intrigue above their hungry mouths like a killer whale trainer at SeaWorld. One such morsel, dropped casually in an interview later in life, held that she was abandoned by her parents in Los Angeles at the age of four, left alone to roam the streets as a waif, and from there, clawed her way to fame. The Census and a newspaper article or two say different, but with a creativity switch stuck in the “on” position literally all the time, she probably could not help herself. She was never abandoned by anyone, least of all her parents. They christened her “Reatha”. How exotic is that? She asked to be called “Beth”, and “Beth” it was, at least while she was home.
The family moved to Portland, Oregon in 1900. In January of 1904, her parents brought seven-year-old Beth to a lot sale, which was covered in the local paper. She was chosen to take the tickets of those who won a free lot. Both ticket holders tipped her five dollars, and she declared, “Now I am going to buy a doll buggy.” Both of her proud, natural parents beamed. They remained in the area for about a decade, and Beth attended a convent school. In 1910, they moved Fresno briefly, where Beth’s mother had her privately tutored at home and then they moved again, to Los Angeles, within a year.
Now fourteen and in the city of angels, Beth took every opportunity to run off both on her own, and with her older half-sister, Violet, exploring the stores, and clubs, and people. She was in love with improvisational dance, as made popular by the exquisite Isadora Duncan, and began performing in clubs and cafes, and in burlesque shows. Beth usually lied about her age to get in the door. The sight of this ravishing child, moving to the beat of her own soul, must have made grown men wet their pants. She was spotted by authorities, brought in, banished from her new cultural mecca by the judge, for being too beautiful. This first banishment from the city was for her protection.
At sixteen, Violet and a male companion, C.C. Boxley, picked her up under the pretense of taking her up the coast to the beach. They heard Beth was entertaining men privately, as well as dancing, and planned to take her away away and cajole her into making them some money. Beth’s mother had been uncomfortable when Violet arrived that day to retrieve a photo of hers, because they had not been getting along. Trying to keep the peace, she repressed her discomfort, while Violet slipped away with Beth. When she noticed Beth was gone, she called police, and a nationwide search began. The aspiring kidnappers had Beth write a note to her parents, and mailed it from San Francisco, hoping to cover their tracks, but Police knew that Violet’s daughter was still in school in Tacoma, and aimed catch them there. The next day, with the story in every paper and all over the radio, they decided to take Beth back home and pretend they had no idea what all the fuss was about. Charges were brought, and Beth even testified against Violet in court, but the case was later dropped. Officials noted that they could not be certain that Beth had not been a party to the plan. Still, what could possibly come next in this young girl’s life? How about an honest-to-goodness cowboy sweeping her (literally) off her feet that very same year?
Beth was driving though the area around Yuma, Arizona, not long after returning from her first kidnapping. The family has moved to El Centro, California, and Yuma was a closer target for her curiosities than Los Angeles. She would say later that she was performing in western films there, but as of yet no one has ever seen any of them. Out of the blue, she was scooped up out of a slow-moving convertible by a man on horseback, and carried off into the sunset. Who needs movies when things like this happen to you in real life? His name was Jack, and he owned a ranch nearby. Beth was still only sixteen, and must have been swept off her feet by the romance of it all, because she agreed to marry him on the spot, and soon became Mrs. Beth Lytell. Romance can only take one so far, especially for a such stunning little thing not meant for the isolation and lack of exotic culture on a windswept desert ranch. She began to pine for the attention and adoration she had enjoyed back in the big city, and this broke Jack’s heart. He must have realized, after storming out on her for the hundredth time frustrated by her inability to see the rustic riches laid out before her, that he would eventually lose her forever. He rode his horse for hours in the pouring rain that day, sulking. When he finally came back, he was shaking with fever. He died two days later from a broken heart. Ok, he technically died from pneumonia.
The Girl Too Beautiful was heartbroken, and returned to LA to resume her infiltration of the entertainment business, hanging onto her married name for a while to accentuate and support the inevitable tale. When she wasn’t busy being crowned Miss Too Beautiful by judges, and being kidnapped by cowboys, she wrote stories and poems. Damn, was there anything this girl didn’t do? Her explorations of the culture of show business extended further into partying (AKA drinking). She gave a harrowing account of being kidnapped (not again!) by three people at a particularly wild affair, and being gang-raped for hours. What was it about this woman that made people think they could just spirit her away and do what they wanted with her, and never realize they were not the hunters, but the hunted? Obviously, being coveted beyond reason is one of downsides to possessing great beauty, and Beth experienced it all too often, but, like an alchemist, she could transform the lead of base attention into the gold of influence, notoriety and cold, hard cash. Nature would throw her in the path of a wild horse again and again, and each time, she would emerge riding it like a pony.
In 1914, plied by silky words and expensive gifts, she married wealthy, prominent attorney Max Lawrence. Not twenty-four hours into the marriage, the cops arrested her new husband, and threw him in jail for bigamy. He already had a wife and three kids, and his real name was Lawrence Converse. Converse was so distraught that he screamed as they were slamming his cell door, “I had to possess her magnificent beauty!” He banged his head on the wall for two days, later solving everyone’s problems by dying of blood clots in the brain. Beth had been married and widowed twice, and she wasn’t even eighteen. You go, girl! Her beauty was not only arresting, it was also, apparently, a deadly weapon. In court, police and social services officers actually discussed the need to protect all Los Angeles men from Beth. Later that month, the courts once again exiled her from the city, and sent her back to her parents. Beth somehow had the law building her legend for her. There was a cost, though. The film studios shut her out over the controversy.
In 1915, she formed a dance partnership with dancer Philip Carville, and they danced their way across the country, performing in some of the most elegant supper clubs. Another panting admirer, Phil Ainsworth, entered her life, following her from city to city, begging her to marry him. She eventually did, probably just to get him off her back. Ainsworth presented himself as a gentleman of means, but was not. The jig was up when he went to jail for check forgery. Apparently, he had been lavishing his bride with jewelry, clothing and extravagant trips, all with stolen money. He was sent to San Quentin to think about things, and Beth was again left alone. For the rest of his life, Ainsworth insisted that she was the most beautiful creature ever created.
Beth entered a period of wild abandon, having numerous affairs, one most notably with younger, unknown writer, Ernest Hemingway. Her drinking and cocaine use increased, and she often quipped, “I never sleep more than two hours a night! I have better things to do.” She was also fond of saying “I like my men like I like my roses... by the dozen.” She loved dance, art and lite
rature, and was attracted to men who shared those interests. She thought she found a kindred spirit in Ben Deely. Ben was much older, an alcoholic, and a compulsive gambler, and like all the rest, worshipped the ground she walked on. They would do all-night, slam writing/drinking/drug sessions that would often stretch on beyond sunrise.
The movie business was in its infancy when she decided to write screenplays for films. This is a woman who had the face that launched a thousand ships, yet wanted to be behind the camera, rather than in front of it. That’s how deep she was. Of course, everything fell into this woman’s lap, and success, as a screenwriter was near instant. She ended up writing six scripts for Fox Studios, before pressure from directors and casting agents to appear in front of the camera finally caused her to drop writing for stardom. It’s like Elizabeth Taylor hunched over in a writers meeting, pen in hand... as if that would ever last for very long. Stepping before the cameras at last, she became Barbara La Marr.
Barbara’s perfect face flashed across the silver screen, in small roles and then in larger ones. Soon she was a sought after leading lady, starring in such blockbusters as The Three Musketeers (with Douglas Fairbanks), The Prisoner of Zenda, Arabian Love, The Eternal City and many more. The money rolled in. It was the 1920s, the jazz age, and The-Girl-Too-Beautiful was billed as “the most beautiful woman in the world.” She bought a mansion in the hills, dumped her drunken husband, and proceeded to live a life Fitzgerald could only write about. She threw lavish parties that people talked about for years afterwards. She was so stunning that her contemporary, Mary Philbin, recalled nearly fainting at the sight of her, shimmering in her dazzling designer gown, at a Hollywood premiere. In addition to her great beauty, she was known for her wit, her humor, her generosity and her intelligence. Talk about the whole package, Barbara was the whole package with the rest of the store thrown in for good measure. They don’t make them like this anymore, folks.
Creatures so exquisite and extraordinary do not last long in this world. On the set of Souls For Sale, in 1923, she slipped and sprained her ankle. The studio doctor gave her morphine so that she could keep working. Really? What was wrong with aspirin? Now, in addition to booze, she became a morphine addict. The great decline had begun, but not before she threw the world a few more classic film gems. While filming St. Elmo, she and costar, John Gilbert, had a passionate affair. Both were achingly beautiful, sensitive souls, and of course, tragically doomed. What a sight they must have been, smoldering into each other on a giant, flickering screen. Around this time, Barbara spent some time in Texas, returning home with a baby. She claimed her bay was adopted, but many in the business believed she had the child out-of-wedlock, and pretended to adopt in order to maintain respectability. Hayes hadn’t raised his ugly head yet, but an illegitimate birth would have destroyed her career. She named the baby Marvin Carville La Marr (Carville? Wasn’t that the last name of her dance partner way back when?), and he became the one bright spot in what was soon to become a very dark period for Barbara.
Also in 1923, she met and married her fifth and final husband, cowboy actor Jack Dougherty, and by all accounts, the marriage was a happy one. But by then, Barbara was in trouble. She was struggling with her addictions, eating too much, sleeping too little, and it showed. She gained weight, looked tired on the set, and got sloshed and stoned during shoots. The weight gain upset her more than anything, and she went on a crash diet that consisted of morphine, highballs and fasting. There was even a rumor that she swallowed a tapeworm to speed up the process. She was still always the first in the door to the clubs and parties, and the last to leave. Wow. People think Lindsay Lohan is a party girl. All of this affected her work, and Metro canceled her contract.
Undaunted, she moved to First National, and continued her work at an insane pace. Did she know something no one else knew? Metro executive Paul Bern fell passionately in love with Barbara while she was in her free-falling years. Bern would later go on to marry Jean Harlow, then kill himself over her. How did this rather unattractive, sinister-looking little man manage to get two of the most gorgeous actresses in history to be with him? Was he that good? Anyway, he begged Barbara to take time off and try to get clean, but she either would not, or could not, stop. She was shooting up, sniffing coke, and swigging vodka on the set of her last film, The Girl from Montmartre, when she collapsed. This shooting star was about to flame out. She never finished The Girl from Montmartre. Her marriage was already crumbling and only Bern remained by her side. Her ugly secret was out, and the Hollywood community, predictably devoid of compassion, treated her like a leper. She slipped further into illness, falling into a coma, and finally dying on January 30, 1926. She was twenty-nine. Her official cause of death was tuberculosis and nephritis, but everyone knew it was life that killed Barbara. Oh yeah, and drugs. Forty thousand mourners attended her funeral. Suddenly, she wasn’t a leper anymore, just a tragedy that no one saw coming, and everyone was sorry about. There really is nothing like the hypocrisy of Hollywood. She was ravishing, even in death, her coffin open for everyone to see what had been lost. Her lovely face draped with a sheer, white lace death-shroud. After all is said and done, we are left with one question. Is it really possible to be too beautiful for this world? For Barbara La Marr, it was.
La Marr on her deathbed.
La Marr lies in state while mourners file past.
La Marr in her coffin.
Section V
By Their Own Hand
What is sadder than the death of a gifted, unique entertainer who is unable to see in themselves what the world seems to see so clearly? Few tragedies compare to the grief caused by the impetuous actions of a star who cannot see past their own abject misery to find redemption in the knowledge that things will get better. Depression is an ugly, ugly thing. It robs the world of the fragile, the beautiful and the delicate. In Hollywood, depression destroys those stars who are too honest to play the game, and too gentle to handle the consequences.
Freddie Prinze
Freddie and Jack Albertson in Chico and the Man
When Chico and the Man premiered in September of 1974, the young Puerto Rican comedian in the title role quickly became a major star. There was no long, drawn-out climb to the top for this man, no heavy-duty setbacks or paying of some significant dues. Freddie Prinze’s rise to the top was a real example of a much overused hyperbole—he was literally an overnight sensation.
Not bad for a kid from Washington Heights in Manhattan. He was born Frederick Karl Pruetzel, to a Puerto Rican mother and a German father, in 1954. He was a chubby child, which made him unpopular in school. His mother introduced him to ballet, in the hope that he would trim down, and become more graceful. “I fit in nowhere,” he said of his boyhood, “I was a miserable fat schmuck kid with glasses.” The ballet worked like a charm, however, and soon Freddie developed a love of performing.
He enrolled in the prestigious Fiorello H. LaGuardia High School of Performing Arts, where he discovered his knack for comedy. But he was already showing signs of the restless spirit that would lead to his early downfall. Rather than stay at the school and further hone his craft while getting an education, he decided to try and make success happen faster. He dropped out at the age of sixteen, and found himself doing standup in New York at one of the most prestigious comedy clubs in the country, The Improv. He had a brilliant, intuitive grasp of comedic timing, and a particular talent for making audiences laugh at otherwise serious subjects. Much of his comedy revolved around the discrimination and harsh stereotyping that Latinos, and other ethnic groups, suffered in white society. Like Richard Pryor before him, he was able to make people laugh at very ugly realities, while pricking their conscience at the same time. He decided to change his last name to Prinze, dubbing himself “the Prinze of comedy,”while often referring to his ethnicity as “Hungarican”.
Freddie was so good that, in 1973, Johnny Carson invited him to be a guest on The Tonight Show, the highest honor a comedian in the '70s could hope to receiv
e. Carson was known for discovering and encouraging new talent. He must have recognized how special Prinze was, because after Freddie’s routine, Carson did something that was almost unheard of—he invited Freddie to come sit with him and chat. Seriously, people were shocked! Carson never did that. It was considered a high enough honor for a first time comedian just to be granted a five-minute stage appearance. A relationship was born, and Freddie became a regular on The Tonight Show, even guest-hosting on occasion. Not bad for a nineteen year old.
Freddie’s high-profile debut on The Tonight Show led to an offer to play the title role in the new NBC sitcom, Chico and the Man. The show was about an elderly white mechanic who hires a cocky “chicano” kid, setting the stage for the comedic exploration of contemporary, interracial issues. It’s almost as if they conceived the show for Freddy. The series was an immediate and huge success for the network, and soon Freddie was offered a five-year, six-million-dollar contract. In 1975, he recorded a successful comedy album, titled Looking Good, which was his catch phrase from the show.
Things were not all that they seemed, however. These were the 1970s, a time unparalleled in American history for its obsession with drugs and drug culture. The entertainment industry was particularly enamored with, and the comedy world was notorious for, its sanctioning of drug dependency amongst comedians who needed to be “on” and energetic late into the night. Who could forget Richard Pryor’s flameout routine, setting himself on fire while freebasing cocaine in his home, or the brilliant Lenny Bruce and his heroin overdose at forty-one?