by Jackie Ganiy
A few months before filming on Saratoga began, Jean and her mother attended a plethora of events in Washington DC, including lunch with Eleanor Roosevelt—as well as twenty-two other functions—all within a two-day period. Exhausted, both mother and daughter returned to Chicago with severe influenza. Jean still had to complete Personal Property though, and was on her feet and at the studio within days.
Everyone noticed a change in her appearance. Where there had always been a perfect figure was now a bloated one with a puffy face. Lacking her previous energy, she often seemed confused and out-of-it. Her relationship with Powell consumed her, and she remarked to a friend, “I can’t stand it anymore. He’s driving me crazy. He’s breaking my heart.” Binge drinking surfaced pent-up rage at how her life had turned out, and the rage was unleashed on Mama Jean—who often served as her verbal punching bag—railing at her until she passed out. Jean would have no memory of what she had done or said after she woke, and her physical deterioration was mostly blamed on alcohol.
When filming on Saratoga started, people couldn’t help but notice how ill Jean looked. She brushed off their concerns, saying she never really got over the Washington trip and her bout with the flu. A persistent oral infection from a botched wisdom tooth extraction two months earlier would not leave her alone, itself a constant reminder of the operation in which her heart had stopped and she nearly died. Saturday, May 29, was her last day on the set, and she was so ill—dripping with sweat and doubled over in pain—they tried to take her to the hospital, but she wouldn’t allow it. Fevered, bloated, infected, and yet there she was, grinding away, trying to do everything that was expected of her, just like she had done her whole life.
By Monday morning, Mama Jean summoned a doctor to Baby’s bedside in their Beverly Hills home. On Tuesday, Jean did something she had never done, and called in sick to work, spending the rest of the day fretting over it. On Wednesday, delirious with pain, she fell asleep, then woke up refreshed, seeming much improved. She had a light meal and read. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief, then things went all to hell.
Thursday, Jean’s pain intensified, and she became delusional. Mama Jean desperately sought a second opinion, fearing the attending physician, Dr. Fishbaugh, was fumbling in his attempts to make her well. She was right. He had misdiagnosed her. What she didn’t realize was that all the doctors in the world couldn’t make Baby well. She was dying from acute nephritis, kidney failure, and in the days before dialysis machines, that was a death sentence. She had been living on borrowed time for a decade, since the scarlet fever virus caught her at camp all those years ago, and quietly left her with permanent hypertension and kidney disease. Another doctor was finally called in, who correctly concluded that the situation was hopeless before bursting into tears.
By Saturday, she had stopped urinating and was excreting her bodily toxins through her pores. She reeked of ammonia, and was in excruciating, unrelenting pain. Clark Gable was horrified, ashamed of his own inability to suppress the revulsion when he saw her. Her body was doubled in size from fluid retention, and her breath was a shocking blast of noxious corpse air. “It was like kissing a dead person, a rotting person,” he lamented.
Powell didn’t even show his face until Sunday, probably because he was busy going out with another actress, Bernadine Hayes. Jean was happy to see him, but complained that he looked blurry, before she lapsed into a kind of fevered trance. An ambulance was called, and she was admitted to the hospital. By Monday, her brain was swollen, and pressing against her skull. Powell dropped by on the way to work, so kind of him to find the time. He emerged from her room, a changed and devastated man. His eyes were swollen shut from crying. Her aunt Jetty urged her to get better, to which she replied, “I don’t want to.” Aunt Jetty left in tears. Two-and-a-half hours later, at 11:38 AM on June 7, 1937, Jean Harlow was dead. She was twenty-six years old.
Headlines around the country blared “Jean Harlow Dead”, “Harlow Dies”, “Illness Takes Harlow”, but the most poignant one, from The New York Daily News, showed gorgeous Jean in profile, throwing back her head and laughing, as if she didn’t have a care in the world. It simply read, “Beautiful Jean Harlow Dies”. The funeral was a star-studded, MGM-produced circus, complete with celebrity singers and tributes. Powell arrived, barely sitting through the service successfully, before losing it completely and having to be escorted away. Guilt is a powerful thing. Mama Jean saw to it that he paid for his transgressions towards Jean, thirty grand to be exact, to fund the white marble mortuary chamber, located in the priciest dead real estate neighborhood in the country, the Grand Mausoleum’s Sanctuary of Benediction at Forest Lawn, Glendale. Of course, the room was big enough for more than one, so rather than waste the space, she saved a spot for herself.
The tragedy of Jean Harlow isn’t only that she died so young, or that she never seemed to find lasting happiness. The real tragedy is that she didn’t want the movie star life at all. She really wanted the house with the white picket fence, the nice husband and kids. Other people wanted it for her. The studios wanted to make money off her, her mother wanted to live vicariously through her, and the public just wanted to want her. Fame sought her out, not the other way around, and she was too passive to fight it, too sweet to just say, “Fuck it!” and walk away. That’s the real tragedy.
If you manage to talk your way past the bulldogs that guard the Grand Mausoleum at Forest Lawn, and the treasure trove of celebrity tombs locked inside, you will find her, hidden down a short hallway, resting in all her white marble splendor. The crypt doesn’t bear her name, just two little words—simple words ripped from the grieving core of she who chose them—mark the resting place: “Our Baby”.
Dorothy Stratten
It had been one of those insufferably hot August days in the San Fernando Valley, a suburb of Los Angeles. Something didn’t smell quite right in the downstairs bedroom of one of the nondescript tract houses in a certain nondescript, middle-class neighborhood. When the room’s locked door was broken open at 11 PM, the aftermath of a nightmare unfolded before shocked faces. Two nude human bodies lay inside: a woman face down across a low waterbed, most of her head blown away, and a man on the floor whose head bore a gaping hole, and whose eye dangled from its socket. A 12-gauge shotgun was under him, blood and ants were everywhere. Just a few days ago, the pulpy mess that now lifeless and strewn across the bed had been celebrating the honor of being Playboy’s Playmate of the Year. Her name: Dorothy Stratten. The man whose brains oozed lazily onto the floor: her husband, Paul Snider. What the hell happened?
Born on February 28, 1960, in Vancouver, British Columbia, Dorothy grew up in a rough, lower middle-class environment. When she was three, her father left her mother, Nelly, for another woman. When she was eight, Nelly married a violent man who broke her younger brother’s arm in rage. Nelly left that man, finding herself on her own with three kids to raise, and not many options. Dorothy performed the role of surrogate parent to her brother and sister while Nelly toiled most of the day, and part of the night, away in menial jobs. She was especially close to her little sister, Louise, whom she had cared for since infancy. Dorothy was not a particularly beautiful child, and she grew into an average-looking teen with average dreams.
Dorothy in high school.
One facet of her appearance would command attention, however, and when small time hustler, Paul Snider, walked into the Dairy Queen where she was working, he spotted it in an instant. Dorothy had an amazing body, and even under her Dairy Queen uniform, her youthful breasts swelled atop her long, slim torso. They were the breasts of a curvaceous babe paired with the lithe form of a model, and best of all, she seemed completely unaware of it! Visibly shy and naive, she was the perfect victim. Paul said to his companion, “That girl can make me a lot of money!”
Dorothy and Paul
Paul Snider was a promoter, shady entrepreneur, pimp, and an avid reader of Playboy Magazine. In addition to ogling the centerfolds, he actually read the articles (sho
ck!), and when it offered a twenty-five thousand dollar reward for the discovery of an unknown of the “girl next door” type to pose for the 25th anniversary edition, a bounty hunting he did go. He never waited for opportunity to knock; he actively sought it out. There it was, quietly taking burger orders and avoiding eye contact, in all its doe-like glory: a towering blonde with gorgeous grey eyes and a boatload of potential that only he could see, or so he thought. He silently thanked fate for kindly dropping it into his lap, and began putting the older man moves on this innocent, doe-eyed Bambi.
Dorothy was so utterly, so completely unprepared for this, and along with her total lack of experience in romance, she fell hard for Paul’s rather hackneyed lines and laughably transparent come-ons. Paul always kept his eye on the prize, keeping his own interests front and center, while keeping his cash cow passive and prone by feigning genuine love and protective instincts for Dorothy.
After checking out the merchandise and deflowering her, he promised to pay a professional photographer to shoot nudes of her for the Playboy contest. Dorothy, a decent girl with a real mother and a genuine middle-class upbringing, was horrified at the suggestion that she remove her clothes in front of a stranger, then have the resulting photographs sent off so more strangers could see them. But if Paul was anything, he was persistent. Endless hours of cajoling and pleading gave way to angry tantrums and threats. Eventually, he bullied her into submission. She was probably just too tired to argue any more. Paul forged Dorothy’s mother’s signature on the photographer’s permission form, and the resulting spread was sent off to Playboy. Dorothy’s life would never be what it had been again.
Hugh Hefner, editor-in-chief of Playboy, spent most of his adult life as a connoisseur of beautiful women. He had an uncanny ability to recognize a diamond in the rough, to see beyond the awkwardness of inexperience, and realize the commercial potential of a girl that could easily be overlooked by others. When Hef set eyes on the corny layout of Dorothy’s photos in the darkroom at Playboy headquarters, a sly smile must have taken shape on his lips.
Eighteen-year-old Dorothy was flown out to Los Angeles the very next day. It was the first time she had ever been on a plane. Alas, Paul was not invited. It was against her mother’s wishes, and at Paul’s urging, that Dorothy threw herself into a lifestyle that epitomized decadence in the post-disco era of the late 1970s. One of the main temples of decadence was Hugh Hefner’s Mount Olympus in Beverly Hills: the Playboy Mansion. Dorothy, with her hickish naiveté, exhibited a Marilyn Monroe-esque quality that had the famous—and her potential rivals—paying close attention. The mansion had no shortage of beautiful girls, yet Dorothy stood out, and not just for her looks. In fact, she wasn’t exceptional in that sense when compared with the other Playmates and models. Her face was ordinary, taking on a kind of over-the-top, '80s-style glamour only when in professional makeup. Her figure was fantastic, but the other mansion bunnies had great figures as well. No, Dorothy stood out in ways much harder to convey in word. She possessed an ethereal innocence best captured with the still camera, as Marilyn did, an effect far less pronounced on video. To say the camera loved her is a terrible understatement. The image of a woman-child posing in sexually explicit ways is tremendously appealing to a lot of men. Hefner knew this, and he exploited Dorothy’s appeal like the brilliant businessman he was. During an interview with A&E Biography on Dorothy in 2000, he spoke in tired clichés that nonetheless seemed heartfelt. “She was the sweetest person I ever knew; the epitome of the girl next door. She lit up a room. All the corny phrases were true about Dorothy.”
Back in Vancouver, Paul stewed, bitterly second-guessing the decision to let Dorothy move to L.A. without him. Incessantly pestering the photographer of the original photo shoot for any word on her, the photographer finally shut him up by doing a complimentary shoot of Paul, playing to his boundless ego. Paul looked like a '70s pimp in the photos, wearing white bellbottoms, flowery polyester shirts (buttoned down to unleash his chest bush, ugh!), a heavy gold chain, and pants so tight they could have been paint. He peers into the camera with a stomach-churning come-hither look, his upper lip curled up ever so slightly beneath that awful, porn star mustache. Yet there was a darkness in his eyes that the camera captured perfectly, a blackness that sets ones teeth on edge. Three months after Dorothy moved to Los Angeles, so did he.
Dorothy must have been so deflated when he showed up, insinuating himself into her new, glamorous life. Spending time at the Playboy Mansion, she had rubbed shoulders with movie stars and directors, been treated like a princess by Hugh Hefner—who was grooming her to be August’s Playmate of the Month—and here comes Mr. Weasel, with his awkward, cheap looks, his appalling social skills and his possessiveness. Video of Paul’s first visit to the mansion shows him trying to be cool, but coming off pretentious and creepy.
By 1979, through Hefner’s connections, Dorothy had a Hollywood agent and was appearing in bit parts on television shows such as Buck Rogers and Fantasy Island. She also had a small role in a motion picture titled Skatetown USA. Not exactly the big time, but she was still darling de jour of Hef’s inner circle, and she was August’s Playmate of the Month. She paid the bills by serving cocktails at the Playboy Club in Century City.
Paul busied himself by pretending to be busy and getting the brush off from Dorothy’s A-list circle of friends. Paul was a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. He knew Dorothy was pulling away, and he was not about to let the greatest thing ever to plop into his pathetic existence just walk out. He guilted her into marrying him by pointing out that if he hadn’t walked into that Dairy Queen back in Vancouver, she’d still be working there. He might have been right. Behind even the most vile assertions usually lies a kernel of truth. The wedding photos show him, dressed in a brown prom tuxedo, grinning like the Cheshire Cat, while she towers over him in her halter style wedding dress, forcing a smile, no A-listers in attendance.
Soon the shy Dairy Queen began to come into her own, posing for publicity shoots and conducting interviews to promote her upcoming centerfold. During one interview, an unbelievably rude reporter asks her if she would take her clothes off for him. She is sitting on the grass in a tight red tank top that has a Playboy Bunny emblem embossed in sequins on the front, no bra, and hot pants. Her bright smile vanishes, and she says “no.” Looking hurt at the suggestion, she manages to come off both sad and absurd at the same time, though she has a hard time explaining why she wouldn’t remove her clothes.
Paul had been toiling on a project of his own, his own a brilliant idea (no really!) for an all-male erotic nightclub act consisting of beefcake dancers wearing skintight pants, white collars, cuffs and nothing else. Obviously inspired by the uniform Dorothy wore as a cocktail waitress at the Playboy Club, the concept had nonetheless been previously unexplored. And so The Chippendale Dancers were born. This act was shear genius, and it’s hard to believe that the notion had not been tried sooner. Paul recognized that women had sexual appetites just as much as men, yet there were precious few outlets (still aren’t)— other than romantic entanglements—that catered to those needs. The act, as well as the club that showcased them, was an instant success, but due to low business acumen, Paul found himself on the outside looking in when his investment partners cut him completely out of the action.
Not nice. Tick-tock, tick-tock. The clock began to count down in Paul’s head. Dorothy was all he had now.
Paul’s house at 10881 Clarkson Road, Los Angeles, CA.
The two love birds made a nest of a tract house along side the 405 freeway, and took in renters to help make ends meet. Guess the pay at the Playboy Club wasn’t much better than at the Dairy Queen. A modest income did not stop Paul from trying to live immodestly. He purchased himself a used Mercedes with what little money Dorothy managed to bring in, hanging a customized license plate on it which read “Star 80”: a reference to the bright future he was securing for Dorothy in the coming year. The newlyweds never basked in the warm fuzziness of
their honeymoon period though, as the same old issues kept coming between them—namely that everyone loved her and couldn’t stand him. He accompanied her on publicity gigs and to parties, and it was always the same story. She’d charm everyone with her gentle, unassuming ways, and he’d shadow her like the stalker he was, embarrassing her with his ridiculous clothes and hustler demeanor. He even picked up a cheap imitation of Hefner’s satin pajamas. He was quite the walking freak show.
Then one day, when she managed to shake Mr. Goodbar and sneak off to the Playboy Mansion by herself, she met Paul’s opposite in famed movie director, Peter Bogdanovich. Here was a man of wealth and fame, a gifted filmmaker who broke into the Hollywood scene a few years prior with the gritty, hauntingly beautiful movie, The Last Picture Show. He was fresh off a seven-year relationship with the star of that movie, supermodel turned actress, Cybill Shepherd. Seeing this wide-eyed newcomer off in a corner, he made a beeline for her, and when she had no idea who he was—even after he introduced himself—he became even more intrigued. The two began seeing each other. How their relationship could be explained to Paul in a way he would accept was a problem, so Bogdanovich cast Dorothy in the film he was currently working on, They All Laughed. She had to be on the set every day, and there was nothing Paul could do about it. Perfect!