The company decided to experiment by releasing the film in late July, traditionally a taboo period for expensive pictures because the stifling summer heat tended to keep people away from movie houses. The theory was that since other companies were tossing only low-level product into theaters at this time, Mary of Scotland would stand out in bas-relief. The concept seemed to work at first; initial box-office returns were very good. However, the film soon began to falter, and it rapidly became apparent that Mary of Scotland was going to flop. It did—to the tune of a $165,000 loss.
Pandro Berman's next Hepburn project was a novel by Netta Syrett entitled Portrait of a Rebel. As mentioned earlier, Hepburn found the material “mediocre,” while Berman believed in it strongly. The central character, Pamela Thistlewaite, seemed a perfect Hepburn heroine. A nonconformist in strict Victorian society, Pamela asserted herself on such subjects as a woman's right to work, to choose her own husband, to live alone, and to read whatever she pleased.
Its title changed to A Woman Rebels, the final product confirmed the actress's worst suspicions. The public demonstrated its aversion to the character and the picture by assiduously avoiding theaters that presented it. A Woman Rebels cost only $574,000, a modest amount for a Hepburn vehicle, but lost $222,000—even more than Mary of Scotland. Following her ingratiating per Cormance in Alice Adams, Katharine Hepburn had starred in three successive pictures that hurt her career. Rather like Helen Gahagan bathed in the flame at the end of She, RKO's most important actress was withering away rapidly. Sam Briskin, Pan Berman, and the other RKO executives appeared unable to do anything to reverse her diminishing appeal.
Figure 16. Mary of Scotland (1936). Victor McLaglen visits the set and chats with Katharine Hepburn and director John Ford. McLaglen had recently captured the Best Actor Academy Award for his work in The Informer, which Ford directed. (Courtesy of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences)
Pandro Berman's campaign for more prestige pictures ended with Winterset, another play by Maxwell Anderson. Berman believed this thinly disguised rumination on the Sacco and Vanzetti case could become another Informer. Anthony Veiller, now considered one of RKO's best writers, went to work on the adaptation. His biggest challenges were the elimination of most of Anderson's blank verse dialogue and the substitution of a happy ending for the original tragic denouement. When Veiller's script was finished, playwright Anderson lavished praise on it:
The Veiller version of Winterset is extraordinarily ingenious in construction, and keeps the atmosphere so well that I begin to believe it may turn into one of the best pictures ever made. It has the weird power of The Informer, with the addition of an attractive love motive. The picture technique is an actual advantage in telling the story, especially in the early scenes.…Some of this is only skeletonized, and could be given more flesh and blood with a word or two here and there, but in the main I like it and I'm sure it will be effective.35
This must be one of the few extant examples of an artist actually complimenting someone for tinkering with his work.
Released at the end of 1936, Winterset impressed most of the critics. However, unlike The Informer, it won no major awards and fared less well with audiences. Although it almost broke even (with a $2,000 loss), its indifferent box office, along with the Hepburn failures, convinced Leo Spitz that high-minded, sophisticated productions were not the ticket to RKO success. Soon, his thinking would favor the opposite type of movie.
Sam Briskin must have been pleased when he learned he had been allocated $13 million to complete forty-one pictures (another seven releases would be provided by independents) for the 1936-1937 season.36 It would be his first complete program and represented the largest appropriation given a studio head in RKO's history. Yet he was still having problems in the fall of 1936. The major difficulty involved locating and purchasing acceptable story material. If good material existed, RKO was not having much success acquiring it. A September letter from Spitz to Briskin indicated that the studio expected nineteen A pictures during the season, to be made for an average expenditure of $510,000 each.37 From the beginning of the program in September until December, however, only one A picture, Swing Time, was released by RKO. The studio, under Sam Briskin's stewardship, was not living up to its obligations.
Even so, the receivership problem was beginning to seem solvable. In November the Rockefellers agreed to accept 500,000 shares of common stock in a reorganized Radio-Keith-Orpheum as payment for their claim, thus clearing the way for the long-awaited reorganization plan. The plan called for $33 million in new capitalization, corporate simplification through the merger of several subsidiary companies (RKO Studios, Inc., the RKO Distributing Corporation, the RKO Pathe Studios Corporation, Ltd., and three others) into RKO Radio Pictures, Incorporated, and the issuance of new common stock.38 Shareholders would receive one-half new share for each share of the old RKO common they held. The company's other creditors (in addition to Rockefell er Center) would also receive stock equal in value to the amount of their claims.
In addition to canceling the $9,100,000 debt, the Rockefeller Center arrangement was supposed, once again, to give RKO a participation in the operation and profits of the two Radio City theaters. A new rental rate of $2 per square foot (reduced from $2.75) was also agreed upon for the office space RKO occupied in Radio City.39 The agreement between RKO and the Rockefellers was set to last for twelve years.
According to the Motion Picture Herald, “the reorganization plan should not meet with any serious opposition and may have the court's approval by March 1.”40 This prediction was overly optimistic. Several problems soon became apparent, problems that would delay the company's emergence from receivership. Nevertheless, one important fact was now apparent. No matter what happened, the Rockefellers would play a significant role in the future of RKO.
While all this activity was taking place, RKO's board chairman, Merlin Aylesworth, remained above the fray. Early in 1936, Aylesworth resigned as president of the National Broadcasting Company, though he continued to serve as vice-chairman and a director of the radio network. He severed all ties with NBC in October.41 Finally, after almost four years as a high official of the movie concern, he would be able to give his undivided service to RKO. But this was truly odd because there was not very much for him to do, or very much he could do. The company's direction was now being plotted by Floyd Odlum's men—Leo Spitz and Sam Briskin—and Aylesworth represented something of an excrescence on the corporate body.
Aylesworth's stated reason for parting company with NBC was a desire to devote more time to RKO in his position as chairman of its board. That would actually translate to devoting himself to an old pastime—preaching the gospel of radio-film harmony. He once again began to advocate more radio-movie cooperation in July. Calling radio the “best friend” of motion pictures, he proposed a new working arrangement to aid both industries.42 Aylesworth was in a better position to make his plea than ever before. Many motion picture stars were now appearing regularly on radio, despite the grumblings of exhibitors. Joan Crawford, Shirley Temple, Clark Gable, and Marion Davies were only a few of the performers realizing munificent salaries (up to $25,000 per week) for their broadcasting efforts.43 RKO's biggest name, Fred Astaire, signed an agreement with the Packard Motor Car Company in 1936 for a series of NBC radio shows, thanks to a personal request from Pandro Berman, acting on behalf of Aylesworth.44
In addition to denying that radio “de-glamorized” Hollywood stars, Deac Aylesworth continued to challenge the contention that broadcasts cut into box-office receipts: “The motion picture is grossly mistaken when it says that the radio keeps people in their houses, thereby cutting off potential theatre patronage.…Except in the summertime, Saturday and Sunday evenings are still the best days for the box office grosses. Yet there are more good radio programs broadcast on those evenings than any other night.”45 Aylesworth's prescription for mutual cooperation was simple: more utilization of radio to exploit pictures, more freedom of access
for radio use of film personalities, more technical assistance from film companies in the development of commercial television.
Now that Aylesworth was solely allied with RKO rather than both the movie company and NBC, one movie executive began to claim that the studios had a “double agent” in their midst. Jack Cohn, vice-president of Columbia, became a spokesman for the anti-radio faction. In August he answered Aylesworth, calling his mutual cooperation philosophy “ridiculous” and charging “treason within the ranks.” Cohn debunked the contention that radio “plugging” helped to sell pictures and urged “drastic steps to force producers to bar their stars from the air.” He also spoke sympathetically of exhibitors whose business had supposedly been damaged by radio cooperation. Cohn concluded: “Radio is competition for the motion picture, and no arrangement can be worked out for an amicable arrangement under which both will benefit. We have met the competition in the past and we will continue to meet it in the future. And we will do it when and if television becomes a commercial reality. But we are treading on dangerous ground, selling ammunition to the enemy, when we lend our stars for the enhancing of competing programs.”46
Jack Cohn's bluster was disingenuous. Columbia had few stars to exploit—on radio or otherwise. Thus, Cohn was clearly attempting to ingratiate his company with theater owners since Columbia had nothing of consequence to gain from a radio partnership. In fact, Aylesworth's (and Sarnoff's) position now had the upper hand. Movie personalities were appearing on national broadcasts every evening, and most of the studios had come to understand the advantages of this exposure.
In addition, RCA's sound recording and theatrical sound business now held approximately equal sway with that of Western Electric. The company's annual report for 1936 revealed that “contracts covering the use of RCA Photophone recording equipment in picture production were consummated with Columbia Pictures, Warner Bros., 20th Century-Fox, RKO Radio-Pictures, Pathe News, and Walt Disney Pictures, and other contracts are being negotiated. In theatre equipment and service, RCA enjoys a substantial share of the business.”47 Thus, the principal goals that had drawn David Sarnoff into the motion picture business back in 1928 had been accomplished. No wonder he had decided to peddle RCA's controlling interest in RKO to Floyd Odlum.
RKO sailed into 1937 on the strength of its best showing since the early years of the company. On the whole, movie corporations had enjoyed a remarkable year in 1936. Reports by United Press and other reliable sources indicated that industry grosses were $250 million greater than the previous year and that estimated weekly theater attendance had increased to 81 million, up 10 million from the 1935 weekly average.48 The Depression had moderated throughout America with most of the studios reaping remarkable benefits:
Motion picture shares on the New York Stock Exchange gained $162,636,250 in market value during 1936 on a wave of prosperity that swept the industry and the country and promised further advance in the new year.
With film earnings definitely “in the black” for the first time since the late depression, the market value of listed picture stocks increased for the fourth consecutive year, totaling $825,456,250, as of the close on December 28. This compared with $666,820,000 at the end of 1935 and $402,973,125 at the close of 1934.49
The improving business climate enabled RKO to report a net profit of $2,514,734 for 1936. Significantly, theater operation showed the biggest gain in profits—$1,414,886 in 1936 as compared to $87,063 in 1935. RKO Radio Pictures, Inc., the production entity, reported a profit of $1,088,384.50
The corporate logo, announcing the commencement of each of its films, now proudly proclaimed “RKO Radio Pictures Presents,” instead of just “Radio Pictures Presents.” This was in line with the consolidation of various subsidiaries into the producing concern, but it also suggested a change in corporate identity. Now known principally as “RKO,” rather than “Radio,” the studio could assert an independence from broadcasting and a full commitment to film that had been questioned in the past.
The symbolic detachment from radio was further augmented in February 1937 when Merlin Aylesworth quit the company to join the executive staff of the Scripps-Howard chain of daily newspapers.51 The move was not unexpected; though chairman of the RKO board, Aylesworth had not had much input into the running of the organization since Odlum's men had taken power. The board of directors voted that he should receive a parting gift of $25,000 “in consideration of his services to this Corporation.”52
It was ironic that Merlin Aylesworth chose this particular moment to desert the world of motion pictures. A week before his departure, the Motion Picture Herald indicated that his efforts to make allies out of radio and the movies had borne fruit: “Increasing attention is being given by producing and distributing companies, large and small, to organized use of radio facilities as an outlet for publicity, either institutional or for a particular picture. The home office publicity forces have geared their machinery to manufacture ideas and material designed to turn the air outlet to best advantage and in many cases the radio release bureau has become one of the most important cogs in the department.” The story proceeded to outline the various uses of radio by all the studios (even Columbia).53 Merlin Aylesworth had finally won; his ideas had been vindicated. The victory must have seemed rather hollow, however, for now he had to forget about show business and turn his attention to the prosaic world of print journalism. Replacing him as chairman of the RKO board would be Leo Spitz.
Strangely, considering the concerns about A film production that existed at the end of 1936, Sam Briskin began fussing with the Bs in early 1937. He called a meeting of his producers, which included Leo Spitz, Ned Depinet, and other high company officials, where he outlined a new policy regarding B films. In essence, the Bs were to be broken down into two categories: “intermediates” costing between $300,000 and $400,000, which would generally serve as vehicles for potential stars and unusual stories; and “programmers,” designed to cost no more than $115,000 each and enable the company to fulfill is product obligations. When news of the meeting was communicated to the trade papers, no mention of the cheap productions was included. Instead, Briskin was quoted as saying that budgets for the B pictures “are to be increased from 25 to 30 percent in the effort to elevate films in this classification to the point where they can play first run and single feature houses with success.”54
Briskin omitted the information, however, that for most B productions his producers had been instructed not to expect musical scores, “extravagant” titles, crane and dolly shots, or even retakes.55 The producers were also being told to keep the footage down to 5,200 feet, because no more “money is grossed on a picture with a footage of 6,200 ft…and on the shorter script we can save a day or two on the schedule and it means nothing to the gross on this type of picture.”56
By May, Sam Briskin and Leo Spitz had grown even more unhappy with the inexpensive films. The quality of Behind the Headlines, Too Many Wives, and others was so low that audiences were actually razzing the films throughout the country. Briskin pointed this out to Lee Marcus, the head of the B production group: “Personally, I have been very disturbed in the past few months…about the quality we were getting in some of these pictures and at the cost of them. I have never had any illusions about making great or outstanding pictures in the ‘B’ group and I am sure no one in New York expects us to win the Academy Award with any of these pictures. However, they are entitled to a quality that is at least fairly good.”57 Briskin proceeded to criticize Marcus for allowing the budgets on these films to average between $120,000 and $130,000, instead of the $115,000 figure that had been stipulated.
Marcus responded with a profit analysis of the previous nineteen films made under his supervision. He had little to say about quality, preferring to concentrate on box-office performance instead. Using this as a barometer, Marcus argued that the key to B pictures' success was not budget, but “names.” Films that included at least one known performer—such as Lee Tracy or Sally Eil
ers or Robert Armstrong or Zasu Pitts—made money; those films without established players inevitably ended in the red. The only exception to the rule was Yellow Dust, a Richard Dix film that, according to Marcus, “shows a loss, not due to cast, but due to excessive negative cost.”58 Marcus defended himself well; for a time, the B unit was left alone and Marcus was encouraged to work more “names” into his films.
Why was Sam Briskin fixated on B pictures when his company needed more As? Because he could not do much about the A problem. RKO was able to turn out only a limited number of A films because of its small group of bona fide stars: Astaire, Rogers, Irene Dunne. Katharine Hepburn had faded and now occupied a kind of limbo between A and B status, although company management still insisted each Hepburn picture was an A. Joining Hepburn in the A-B limbo were such performers as Barbara Stanwyck, Jack Oakie, Lily Pons, and Miriam Hopkins. The team of Bert Wheeler and Robert Woolsey had long been relegated to B status; they completed their last comedy, High Flyers, for the company in 1937 and were dismissed. And Briskin's roundup of new talent had been woefully unproductive. Several radio comedians, including Joe Penner, Milton Berle, and “Parkyakarkus,” were put under contract but none clicked with moviegoers. By September, Leo Spitz was forced to write Briskin suggesting ways in which the studio's investment in these individuals might be “salvaged.”59 Joan Fontaine was also under contract, but no one seemed to know what to do with her. The same was true of Lucille Ball.
The lion's share of the blame for the failure of RKO to develop a solid stock company during this period must lie with its production chief. The studio had always been weak in this area, and Briskin failed not only to upgrade the talent but, in fact, to maintain the level of star power he inherited when he took over the job. Still, Sam Briskin was not wholly at fault. Ned Depinet illustrated the myopia affecting the entire group of officials running the company at the time when he wired Leo Spitz concerning a performer who had been appearing in B cowboy movies since the early 1930s: “Jules [Levy], myself believe would be mistake distribute John Wayne Westerns. He is in same category as dozen others with disadvantage having been sold cheaply and our opinion little prospect of gaining popularity.…He is one of the poorest of so called western stars, seems miscast and his pictures doing little at Universal. We believe would be better to go ahead with George Shelley who has not been identified with cheap western pictures and with whom we would have chance building…worthwhile singing western star like Autry.”60 And, of course, we all remember George Shelley.
RKO Radio Pictures Page 17