Sadly, vaudeville presentations in the RKO theaters could not help the situation. The combination of variety acts and movies had been declining for years, its anachronism speeded by radio and talking pictures; the controversial double-feature policy in most of the nation's theaters proved lethal. Many of them simply replaced the live acts with a second film. Thus, vaudeville sank to its lowest point, continuing to exist only in the largest cities. The Loew's circuit, which five years before had scheduled shows in thirty-six of its houses, used vaudeville regularly in only three theaters in 1935. RKO held out longer than most of the other chains. It still featured stage bills in Chicago, Cleveland, Cincinnati, Dayton, Rochester, Boston, and other cities, but dropped the Brooklyn, Detroit, and Schenectady combinations.51 During the next twelve months, many of these houses would adopt film programs exclusively, as vaudeville faded from the American scene.
The entry of Floyd Odlum into RKO's business affairs presupposed a shake-up of the company's officers. The first step was the naming of Leo Spitz to the presidency of Radio-Keith-Orpheum. Merlin Aylesworth moved upstairs, replacing David Sarnoff as chairman of the RKO board of directors. Newsweek reported that Spitz's closest friend was John Hertz, a partner in Lehman Brothers, but also stated that film exhibitors considered him “the country's foremost authority on how to turn movie house losses into profits.”52 A native of Chicago trained as a lawyer, Spitz had served as a counsel to the Balaban and Katz theater chain and to the advisory board of Paramount. His advice concerning the reduction of long-term theater leases and methods for cutting expenses was credited with making that company's reorganization possible.53
Odlum's decision to hire Spitz took place without consultation. He did not bother to discuss it with the receivership trustee or Sarnoff or the Rockefellers or any of the other interested parties.54 This was a mistake, for the friction it caused ignited a small fire that would flare up again and again for years to come. RKO affairs were now the concern of several different very powerful individuals who would rarely agree on the best course of future action.
Upon assuming the RKO post, Leo Spitz “let it be known that the company's operating organization would not be disturbed, at least pending a study of its corporate needs, and that the survey would be as much for reorganization purposes as to familiarize himself with operations.”55 He left for Hollywood in mid-November to study studio operations firsthand. Spitz remained for about a month, meeting the heads of the major companies and consulting with J. R. McDonough, B. B. Kahane, and other members of the West Coast staff.
By the end of the year, the executive line-up was complete. Samuel Briskin was named vice-president in charge of RKO production. Briskin came to RKO from Columbia, where he had been general manager of Harry Cohn's studio for eight years. Before that, he had worked in the sales department of C. B. C. Film Corporation, the company that became Columbia. Since much of his industry experience had been outside the creative sphere, Sam Briskin's production abilities were hard to predict. Leo Spitz evidently hoped for a smooth transition. B. B. Kahane, J. R. McDonough, and Ned Depinet were all slated to remain with RKO, although their precise future duties were amorphous at this point. Each was made a vice-president of the corporation.56
December 23 was Sam Briskin's first day on the job. He described it in a telegram to Leo Spitz: “Herewith first days report. Arrived studio ten thirty a.m. Left six. Spent day informally discussing matters with Ben [Kahane] and Mac [McDonough]. Expect continue do this for balance week per your suggestion. This should make everybody happy as fits in with your plans.”57
Briskin would soon discover that the studio was not in as good a condition as he had hoped. After Floyd Odlum entered the company's affairs in October, McDonough and Kahane became hesitant to make contracts, approve purchases of story material, and so on.58 The two men realized that changes would likely occur and deemed it imprudent to effect any major commitments. Thus, it would take Briskin several weeks just to get the machinery back up to speed. Once again, RKO's penchant for periodic transformation was interfering with its ongoing production activities.
Meanwhile, although Deac Aylesworth had been kicked upstairs, he was still pursuing his crusade to link radio and film. He traveled to Hollywood late in the year when a newly completed National Broadcasting Company studio, strategically located next door to the RKO plant, was dedicated in gala ceremonies. Will Hays, Al Jolson, May Robson, and Jack Benny also participated in the celebration, which was broadcast throughout the country.59 Aylesworth recognized that a more conducive atmosphere for movie-radio cooperation now existed in the film capital. Recent months had witnessed MGM's use of a broadcast hookup to plug The Broadway Melody of 1936, with Paramount following suit for its Big Broadcast of 1936.60 Believing that his message of “wedlock” between radio and screen would be received more warmly on this occasion, Merlin Aylesworth proclaimed: “Those engaged in production for the screen will now have opportunity to offer their talent directly through the medium of radio…. It will carry the entertainment of the world's greatest personalities into the forgotten corners of the earth.”61
Nevertheless, there was still some opposition to Aylesworth's position. If motion picture stars appeared regularly on radio broadcasts, it seemed logical that this could diminish their box-office appeal and subtract from nightly theater attendance. Martin Quigley, ever mindful of the plight of exhibitors, editorialized in the Motion Picture Herald: “Radio competition is not a theory but a fact. Whether it is liked by the industry or not, it is here and doubtlessly is going to stay. We do not regard the situation as one warranting violent alarm, but neither do we construe the circumstances as justifying any high note of exultation on the part of Hollywood…. Before this we would like to have seen some evidence that what is called co-operation in this case means something like a reasonable division of benefits between the two high contracting parties.”62 The theater owners who subscribed to Quigley's journal were undoubtedly pleased that Aylesworth's last radio experiment, the Hollywood on the Air program, had bombed, largely because none of RKO's major talent could be convinced to appear.63 The program was no longer on the air.
Merlin Aylesworth would not have much input into the next phase of RKO's history. Floyd Odlum had become the company's principal figure, and he had placed his own men in its key positions. It might, however, have been advantageous for Odlum to have adopted a more measured approach before making changes. Besides not alienating other important behind-the-scenes powers by hastily appointing Leo Spitz as president, Odlum might have taken a closer look at studio operations. The McDonough-Kahane collective he was uprooting had turned in a very creditable performance in 1935. The year-end corporate statement showed profits of $684,733.64 It was the first time RKO had made money since 1931, and film production deserved a large portion of the credit.
Still, it would be unwise to lavish too much praise on B. B. Kahane and J. R. McDonough. Under their associate producer system, the creative work was basically farmed out to others, especially Pandro Berman. And Berman had an extraordinary year, numbering Roberta, Alice Adams, and Top Hat among his several successes. Certainly Kahane and McDonough had input on story selection, casting, and general production matters, but they were not like David O. Selznick in 1932—they did not scrutinize every element of company product as it took shape. Thus, it is difficult to determine just how responsible the two men were for the happy results of 1935.
All of this, in the final analysis, is mere academic speculation. Floyd Odlum liked what he saw happening in the industry: 1935 was the best year since 1930, with all the studios posting profits except Universal. He believed RKO to be a good investment and was in a position to shuffle the RKO corporate deck, considering neither McDonough nor Kahane vital to the hand he wished to play. Berman, however, was untouchable. His unit would ride out the administrative retrenchment intact and completely unaffected.
6. “An awfully long corner”
The Spitz-Briskin Regime (l936-1937)
The initial period of Odlum stewardship turned out to be particularly troublesome. Management shake-ups, now seemingly regular company events, had always proved disruptive, but this one churned the waters more than most. Leo Spitz and Sam Briskin were both mystery men as far as RKO's employees were concerned, and their unfamiliar personalities magnified the usual trepidation that accompanied executive realignment. The situation was different from that created by the promotion of M. C. Cooper or J. R. McDonough or B. B. Kahane into positions of authority, because each of these men had prior service with the company. Spitz and Briskin did not.
Morale at the studio fell to a low point in January 1936, amidst rumors that Sam Briskin planned a thorough housecleaning. The problem was such that B. B. Kahane sent Briskin a memo asking him for a statement “to correct the impression…that the studio is due for one of the biggest shake-ups in film history.”1 It is not possible to determine if Briskin actually complied. The rumors were, however, unfounded; no indiscriminate firing squad appeared on the scene, and RKO continued to function with essentially the same team of employees as before.
Nevertheless, difficulties beset the studio throughout 1936. Among them would be relations with the company's biggest stars, the production of a group of disappointing pictures, and the continuing inability of the organization to free itself from the stigma of receivership. It soon became apparent that 1935 had been a felicitous year for the company, but not a stepping stone to greater accomplishment. Even though the business climate throughout America continued to warm, and a couple of the RKO releases would generate large profits, the new year and the new regime would not revitalize the company.
Sam Briskin had developed a reputation as a tough, stubborn, aggressive executive at Columbia Pictures. His no-nonsense approach had helped pull Columbia up from poverty row to a position of respectability. He was, in the words of director Frank Capra, a “hit-first type.”2
Briskin faced numerous challenges in his new position. Pandro Berman's unit could be counted on to handle the company's most important product, but otherwise, Sam Briskin found himself with an untidy situation on his hands. Most of the films in progress when Briskin took over the studio were mediocre efforts designed to fill out the 1935-1936 program. Except for Berman's Follow the Fleet, none of these pictures turned out to be particularly successful. Several promised A efforts—such as Sylvia Scarlett, The Witness Chair, and The Lady Consents—fell far short of top quality, thus raising the ire of exhibitors who had booked the RKO product for the full year. Briskin refused to accept the blame for this situation, but admitted he had not been able to do much about it. Writing company sales manager Jules Levy in April, he stated:
I fear that there is nothing to do but to complete the program and plan ahead sufficiently in advance for next season to have plenty of A pictures that are really A's, and to release them in such a manner that at least every fourth, fifth, or sixth picture will really be an A.…You will have to bear with me and remember that these things were either prepared or in work when I entered the Studio, and, therefore, there was nothing to do but to salvage the money already invested, except in such cases where it looked absolutely hopeless, and make the best of the situation.3
Even though Briskin had to rely on Pandro Berman for a substantial percentage of the A films, he had minimal oversight of Berman's unit. Leo Spitz had taken an immediate liking to Berman and promised him that he would have to answer only to the corporate president. Berman, perhaps inspired by Mary of Scotland, which he felt was going to attract excellent reviews as well as substantial audiences, began thinking of producing additional highbrow entertainment. He consulted Spitz about the idea rather than Briskin, making a strong case for the purchase of an antiwar play, Idiot's Delight, by enumerating the box-office successes of such Warner films as A Midsummer Night's Dream, The Petrified Forest, and The Story of Louis Pasteur.4 Spitz wrote back, promising to try to purchase Idiot's Delight (he was unsuccessful—MGM won the bidding war for the property), even though he felt the reports on the Warner Bros. pictures were greatly exaggerated. Nevertheless, he told Berman he was committed to “quality product” if “made in such a manner as to have wide appeal.”5
Meanwhile, Briskin was dealing with a number of vexing personnel problems. One of them almost cost the studio its most valuable performer. As mentioned previously, Fred Astaire had misgivings about his future with RKO. The company was too volatile to suit him, and he felt ill at ease with the new leadership. Negotiations on his new contract stalled in late January because some of the clauses he insisted on were considered impossible by Briskin, Spitz, and others. Chief among those clauses was one that would have given Astaire the right to name the leading lady in each of his pictures.6 He was still hoping to cut the cord that tied him to Ginger Rogers.
Astaire at this time had two years of obligation remaining to RKO. Thus, when it began to look as if no compromise were possible, Briskin started formulating plans “to crack through with as many pictures as possible in the next two years, even if it meant carrying one or two on the shelf after his [Astaire's] contract with us was up.” The RKO lawyers were instructed to go over Astaire's present contract carefully to determine how many pictures could be required of him. In the course of this scrutiny, a question arose concerning “whether or not because of the peculiar wording of the contract” the studio had to begin photography on the next Astaire picture (eventually entitled Swing Time) by February 12, 1936, or breach the agreement.7 The RKO legal staff decided it would be sufficient to start dance rehearsals by that date. Since the film was not ready for principal photography (there was not even a script yet), Sam Briskin breathed a sigh of relief. To be safe, though, he sent the contract to Mitchell, Silberberg and Knupp, a law firm on retainer to the studio, for an opinion. Briskin was shocked by their reply: there was no doubt in their minds that if RKO failed to commence photography by February 12, Fred Astaire would have just cause to terminate his obligations to the company.
Briskin, in concert with the lawyers, came up with a plan to avert the disaster. Taking into account Astaire's perfectionist character, the company informed him that shooting on the new picture would begin on February 12 without the customary rehearsal period for dance routines. The ploy worked. In a letter to Leo Spitz, Briskin described Astaire as jumping “clear out of his skin” and agreeing quickly to an alteration in the contract: “We succeeded to-day in getting a letter which, in the opinion of our attorneys, unquestionably protects our rights under the contract and eliminates our worries as to a breach. Incidentally, we ascertained that Astaire and his managers were aware of this clause in the contract and were quietly praying and hoping that we would not attempt to start photography of the picture.”8
The battle did not end there. On February 16 Alfred Wright, Astaire's attorney, sent the following letter to RKO:
Upon the direction and with the authority of Mr. Fred Astaire…I hereby notify you that, because of your failure to submit for his approval, the advertising used in connection with the pictures produced by you in which he appears…, because of your continued and continuing violations of the provisions of his contract resulting from using or licensing the use of his name and photograph in advertising other than in connection with motion pictures in which he appears, and because of your failure to pay to him the amount of money due under the terms of his agreement with you…, and for each of said reasons Mr. Astaire has elected to and does hereby terminate his said contract (as amended) with you and I hereby notify you of his election so to do.9
The studio responded by sending Astaire a check for $10,000 (owed him for his participation in Top Hat) and having its law firm prepare a letter stating that there had been no breach. This evidently placated the dancer because he chose not to pursue the matter. In March a new deal was finally concluded giving Astaire a substantial salary increase, a larger percentage of the profits of his films, and the right to choose his female costar in at least one picture each year.10 Catastrophe had been avert
ed; Fred Astaire would continue to perform in pictures exclusively for RKO, at least for a few more years.
The Katharine Hepburn situation was altogether different. While Astaire was still riding the crest of national popularity, Hepburn's reputation nosedived in 1936. The principal reason was Sylvia Scarlett.
The making of Sylvia Scarlett could provide ample ammunition to those who believe in autocratic studio control. George Cukor, whose last RKO film had been the triumphant Little Women, was borrowed from MGM and given a free hand to film the Compton Mackenzie novel without studio interference. Hepburn also adored the property and, coming off the success of Alice Adams, was in a stronger position to assert herself than usual. Together, they made the picture their way while the RKO executives, including Pan Berman, who produced, sat back and hoped that the Little Women magic would once again operate. Cukor felt it had; after filming was completed, he believed they had created “something really fine.”11
What a shock it must have been to all when the film had its initial preview in Huntington Park. Both Cukor and Hepburn have similarly described the audience's brutal rejection of the picture and the unrestrained anger of Pandro Berman toward them after the screening.12 There was even talk of scrapping Sylvia Scarlett entirely, but the production cost too much ($641,000) to bury in some film vault. It was released early in the year, prompting a flood of bad reviews, irate letters from exhibitors and movie patrons throughout the country, and anemic box-office receipts. The only individual who emerged unscathed from this disaster was Cary Grant, whose comic performance was singled out for praise by numerous reviewers.
Figure 13. Sylvia Scarlett (1936). Filming Cary Grant in the ocean. Grant was one of the few participants whose reputation was enhanced, rather than damaged, by this production. (Courtesy of the University of Southern California Cinematic Arts Library)
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