RKO Radio Pictures

by Richard B. Jewell

  No company sales convention was held in 1938, so the announcement of the 1938-1939 program came later than usual. Deciding to make sure his pictures were “on celluloid and not on paper,” Pandro Berman waited until August to release a full description of the year's coming entertainments.38 RKO had “more notable attractions in production and actually on film for early fall release than at any time in the company's history,” according to Berman, who named Room Service, Gunga Din, Leo McCarey's Love Match (final title: Love Affair), and a new Astaire-Rogers musical as the top offerings soon to be available.39 Fifty other features were also promised.

  Berman's public disclosure masked the fact that his production operation was wrestling with its own set of problems. Gunga Din had begun shooting without a finished script and looked as if it would far exceed its budget. Likewise, the McCarey picture had run into unforeseen difficulties and would go before the cameras without much of a script at all. And, because of their elevated costs, the Astaire-Rogers films were no longer sure box-office winners. Still, Pandro Berman had been on the job for less than a year, and prospects for the future were already looking brighter than they ever had during the Briskin period.

  Back in New York, a skirmish between financial titans was drawing to a conclusion. From the very beginning, the Rockefeller family had been unhappy with the entry of Floyd Odlum and his Atlas cronies into the RKO equation. They were particularly upset by the efforts of Peter Rathvon to convince the courts to reduce the Rockefeller Center claim against RKO in the receivership deliberations. They were also offended by the way that Spitz and Briskin had been placed in charge without any input from them or David Sarnoff. And they became more disgruntled as RKO's fortunes sank under the leadership of the Odlum men. Their board members had supported the ouster of Sam Briskin; by late summer, they had Leo Spitz in their crosshairs.

  At this point, a new and rather surprising individual enters RKO's melodramatic narrative: W. G. Van Schmus. Van, as the Rockefellers called him, had been managing director of Radio City Music Hall since they wrested control of the theaters from RKO in 1934. He was well liked and respected by his employers, especially Nelson Rockefeller, who had emerged as the family member most involved in RKO business. On June 2, 1938, Van Schmus wrote Nelson, recommending George J. Schaefer for an executive position at RKO. At the time, Schaefer was in charge of distribution at United Artists. The Music Hall had presented nineteen weeks of UA films in 1937, and Van Schmus expected it would show even more in 1938, thanks to the cordial relationship that had developed between the two men. Van Schmus described Schaefer as being “very friendly and cooperative.”40 Two weeks later, Schaefer had lunch with Van and Nelson, who took an instant liking to him. Nelson wrote Sidney Kent, an executive with Twentieth Century Fox: “I was very much impressed with Mr. Schaeffer [sic] and feel more strongly than ever that he is the man for the job.”41

  Floyd Odlum also knew and respected Schaefer and had talked to him about possibly joining RKO. But Odlum had some lesser executive position in mind, whereas Van Schmus and Nelson Rockefeller envisioned Schaefer replacing Leo Spitz as corporate president. The situation was complicated by the desire of UA management to retain Schaefer—he would soon have to make up his mind whether to sign a new contract with the company.

  In September the stew pot really began to boil. By then, it had been pretty well decided that Leo Spitz had to go. Odlum seemed resigned to this outcome but preferred that his man, Peter Rathvon, succeed Spitz. Merlin Aylesworth reemerged at this juncture and began attempting to broker a deal in which George Schaefer would become corporate president and Ned Depinet president of the picture company, with Aylesworth possibly taking up his old position as chairman of the RKO board. Van Schmus continued to press for George Schaefer to become RKO's leader, and Nelson Rockefeller became fully committed to the idea.42 The different parties needed to reach a consensus soon because United Artists was leaning on Schaefer to re-up.

  By the end of the month, David Sarnoff had been persuaded that Schaefer should be RKO's corporate president, and Floyd Odlum had given in. But he was not happy about it. Still unconvinced that Leo Spitz had done an inadequate job and should be replaced, he insisted that Spitz's exit be handled tactfully.43 He also drafted a press release indicating that “Mr. Shaeffer [sic] was nominated for the position by the Rockefeller interests.”44 Since he was being blamed for RKO's decline during the past couple of years, Odlum wanted to make sure that the Rockefellers would bear responsibility for the George Schaefer administration.

  Nelson Rockefeller was furious. He put together his own “material for the basis of a press release in connection with the RKO situation.” After asserting that the Rockefellers had “done everything in our power to cooperate with the Atlas Corporation in working out a reorganized plan [for RKO],” he alluded to the problems of agreeing on “sound management” and then stated that his family was giving up: “we feel there is nothing further to be gained by our participating in these discussions and that we can take no further responsibility in connection with the management of the reorganized company.”45

  Cooler heads prevailed, and neither press release was ever made public. By midmonth, George Schaefer had been announced as the new president of the corporation.46 Odlum made sure, however, that word leaked out concerning which ownership group had backed Schaefer for the job.

  Leo Spitz negotiated a graceful, and lucrative, exit. Journalists reported that Spitz had not been fired, but allowed to return to his legal practice. For several months, they claimed, he had been voicing a desire to shed the RKO job. Company publicists obviously did a good job of helping Spitz save face. He had worked hard for RKO, and he continued to address himself to the company's needs until the very end.

  For example, just before departing RKO, Spitz began encouraging his producers to consider making a different type of film. After heaping praise on Garson Kanin's first picture, A Man to Remember, Spitz continued:

  The more recent pictures that seem to be doing the best business throughout the country are BOYS TOWN, YOU CAN'T TAKE IT WITH YOU and FOUR DAUGHTERS. It is noteworthy that all of them are down-to-earth simple stories. It seems that the public, in seeking refuge from the complex problems of life today, confused as they are by the unrest and disturbances prevalent throughout the world, find escape for at least a couple of hours in a make-believe world, in which the way of life is simple and which they understand. This type of picture is apparently serving that purpose.47

  Spitz did not demand more pictures like A Man to Remember or Mother Carey's Chickens, but the implication was clear. Leo Spitz's recommendations in 1938 had run the gamut from melodramatic action films through exploitation pictures to down-to-earth, sentimental entertainments.

  Spitz's principal bequest to RKO was the continuing series. Although other studios had been profiting from inexpensive pictures that presented the same actors playing the same roles in picture after picture, RKO had dawdled in this area. The studio did make the Hildegarde Withers mysteries—first starring Edna Mae Oliver and then Helen Broderick—but these had expired in the mid-1930s. While RKO had neglected the category, Paramount had sponsored the adventures of Bulldog Drummond; Twentieth Century-Fox, Charlie Chan; Warner Bros., Perry Mason; Columbia, Nero Wolfe; and MGM topped everyone with the “Thin Man” and Andy Hardy family pictures.

  It was a sensible, if not exactly original, move for Spitz to insist RKO initiate some series pictures in 1938. Two resulted: the Saint and Annabel. The Saint series, based on novels written by Leslie Charteris, featured a suave private detective who solves homicides with the same self-possession and style that he displays while selecting the correct wine. Louis Hayward played the role in the original, The Saint in New York, which proved a definite triumph ($180,000 profit on a production cost of only $128,000), thus ensuring the continuation of the series. Hayward, however, would not play the role again; George Sanders replaced him in the remaining RKO pictures.

  Lucille Ball was chosen to portra
y Annabel, a Hollywood actress whose press agent (Jack Oakie) decides she must live her parts before she plays them. Thus, in the first effort, The Affairs of Annabel, Annabel spends a month in prison before tackling a prison picture. The Affairs of Annabel was also a minor success, meaning there would be, at the very least, a second installment. RKO had been tardy in climbing on the series bandwagon, but it would make up for that during the next few years.

  Pandro Berman was allowed to continue as production head in the Schaefer administration, even though his first year on the job had been less than scintillating. Still, most of the true clunkers had been prepared under Sam Briskin. They included Hitting a New High (loss: $431,000); Joy of Living (loss: $314,000); Radio City Revels (loss: $300,000). And Bringing Up Baby (loss: $365,000).

  Howard Hawks's production of Bringing Up Baby is one of those touchstone films that RKO is remembered for. Its germination began in the spring of 1937 when story editor Bob Sparks introduced Sam Briskin to a witty tale that Hagar Wilde had published in Collier's magazine.48 Briskin felt the story would cost too much to translate to the screen but expressed an interest in hiring writer Wilde.49 Howard Hawks was then casting about for a property and, liking the story immensely, talked Briskin into letting him tackle it. Wilde joined the RKO staff shortly thereafter to work with Dudley Nichols on the screenplay. From early on, the picture was designed to star Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant.

  Despite Briskin's warnings that the film would have to be made on a moderate budget because of Hepburn's feeble drawing power, Hawks encouraged his writers to give full rein to their comic inventiveness. The first estimating script came in at 242 pages, the revised draft at 194 pages, and the final shooting script at 202. Given a certain amount of overwriting, this still represented a mammoth amount of material. By the time the picture was ready to begin production in September 1937, the budget had been set at $767,000 for a fifty-one-day shooting schedule.50

  This was way too much from Briskin's point of view, but the studio head had little choice in the matter. If he stopped Hawks at this stage, RKO would have to write off the substantial costs already accrued, plus pay its commitments to Hepburn, Grant, and others. Bringing Up Baby started shooting and the situation soon evolved into a full-fledged nightmare. Hawks, working slowly and painstakingly, fell far behind schedule. Associate producer Cliff Reid's job was to keep nudging the director in the right direction, but he proved totally ineffectual in his efforts to speed things along. Sam Briskin also failed to inspire the imperturbable Hawks; he was forced to quit the studio while the film was still in production. The original fifty-one-day schedule eventually ballooned to ninety-three days, with completion finally attained on January 8, 1938.51 The final budget amounted to a ruinous $1,073,000. It should not have surprised Howard Hawks very much that, shortly thereafter, J. R. Mc-Donough began negotiations to sever the relationship between RKO and the director.

  Figure 18. Bringing Up Baby (1938). A publicity still taken on the studio lot with Cary Grant, “Baby” (the leopard), and Katharine Hepburn. This renowned screwball comedy would be Hepburn's last picture for RKO. (Courtesy of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences)

  The film turned out to be a brilliant comedy, one of the best of the 1930s. RKO officials, however, winced instead of laughing. Even the excellence of the production could not overcome Hepburn's stigma and the inflated negative cost. Bringing Up Baby was a resounding flop, hastening the departures of both Hawks and Hepburn from the ranks of RKO contract talent.

  Pandro Berman also suffered a pair of serious disappointments. His personally produced Carefree became the first Astaire-Rogers film to lose money ($68,000). The musical still attracted $1,731,000 in film rentals, but its negative cost ($1,253,000) was $250,000 more than that of Shall We Dance and practically guaranteed it would end up in the minus column. This undoubtedly upset Berman, but the outcome of Room Service troubled him even more.

  This farcical play about a hotel that serves as a haven for three crazy and thoroughly unscrupulous theatrical producers became a big hit on Broadway in May 1937. A furious bidding war ensued among the studios. Lillie Messinger, Robert Sparks, and Leo Spitz all were sold on the potential of Room Service, and RKO eventually won the auction, paying an unprecedented $255,000 to authors John Murray and Allan Boretz.52

  The notoriously weak RKO male-talent roster caused problems in casting. After considering and rejecting Joe Penner, Parkyakarkus, Jack Oakie, Burgess Meredith, and others for the major roles, Sam Briskin decided to go outside and offer the Marx Brothers a shot at the picture. There was considerable resistance to the idea. Robert Sparks, producer Edward Kaufman, and even Leo Spitz attempted to change Briskin's mind. Briskin himself felt unsure about putting Groucho, Harpo, and Chico in Room Service, but he believed this solution could provide some box-office insurance. As he wrote Leo Spitz:

  For many reasons I would…like to see them [the Marx Brothers] in ROOM SERVICE. The primary reason is, of course, the question of cost. It is my opinion that it will cost somewhere around $800,000 to make ROOM SERVICE with ordinary name actors…. In spite of the fact that I know ROOM SERVICE will get plenty of road playing time and will be an important playing property by the time we make the picture, I am wondering if we can afford to make an $800,000 picture without any names. On the other hand, I think the picture with the Marx Brothers in it will cost about $1,100,000. From a purely business point of view I think it is safer, when we are spending this kind of money, to have names in it.53

  Sam Briskin's arguments won out; the manic comics were cast in the three primary roles.

  With William Seiter directing and Berman personally supervising, the production phase went beautifully. Before shooting began, the estimated budget was reduced to $950,000, and Seiter actually brought it in for $884,000. For once, an RKO picture had been made for considerably less than anyone expected. The high spirits and prospects continued when a print was screened for the New York executives. Ned Depinet wired Berman: “Feeling mighty good today and still laughing over ROOM SERVICE which we saw this morning. Our crowd roared at many funny situations and thoroughly enjoyed themselves from start to finish. You have done a fine job with this show. Please tell Bill Seiter, Marx Brothers and those responsible how happy we are over this riotous entertainment.”54

  Regrettably, audiences did not find the film riotous. The Marx Brothers represented part of the problem. Their brand of surrealistic humor was uniquely their own, and all of their scripts had been carefully fashioned to showcase the well-established personalities of the threesome. With Room Service, the big question was whether to alter the personae of the Marxes to fit the play, or to remold Room Service to accommodate the expected Marx characters. The latter path was chosen, thus compromising a property that the studio had paid a huge sum to purchase. Instead of a fresh new comedy, Room Service emerged as just another Marx Brothers picture. The only obvious omission was the usually obligatory musical per formances by Harpo and Chico.

  Figure 19. Room Service (1938). Chico Marx, Harpo Marx, director William Seiter, producer–production head Pandro Berman, and Groucho Marx pose on the set. The play, whose rights RKO purchased for the princely sum of $255,000, did not yield a successful movie. (Courtesy of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences)

  The most expensive property ever purchased by RKO, made on a respectable budget, nevertheless resulted in a loss of $340,000. Pandro Berman was not totally to blame, since Sam Briskin had signed up Groucho, Chico, and Harpo. But Berman was now both production chief and the film's producer, so it was ultimately his show. And a poor one at that.

  Pandro Berman's teaming with Leo Spitz, lasting less than one year, became the shortest regime in company history—thus far. This was certainly not Berman's fault, and it wasn't really Spitz's fault either. His fate had been determined by the results of his earlier partnership with Sam Briskin. Since the company's financial fortunes did not perform a quick about-face after Briskin left, Spitz soon became RKO's
latest dead man walking.55

  Leo Spitz was handing over RKO to George Schaefer at yet another disadvantageous moment. The corporation barely managed to eke out a profit of $173,578 in 1938. The “Roosevelt recession,” the president's ill-considered decision to cut back (or cut off) funding for many New Deal initiatives, was causing trouble for many industries including the movies.56 Box-office receipts had slumped during the spring and summer months.57 Certainly there was not as much cause for alarm as there had been in the dark days of the early 1930s, but profits would definitely be harder earned from now on than they had been during 1936 and 1937.

  The totalitarian influence and burgeoning war clouds in Europe also represented matters of concern. European film receipts had been declining for some time, principally because of the growing intransigence of the governments in Germany and Italy. Thanks to the Nazis, Austria and Czechoslovakia were eliminated as markets for American movies during the year. In addition, a new Films Act was passed in Britain in April 1938, adding significant restrictions on American operations in that country.58 Closer to home, the big news was a lawsuit filed by the U.S. government in July aimed at forcing the major companies to divorce their theater holdings from their production and distribution concerns and ending the distribution practice of block booking. A formal statement that accompanied the filing of charges against the major studios read, in part: “It is the belief of the Department of Justice that certain rearrangements must be made in the moving picture industry in order to maintain competitive conditions in the future. Those rearrangements require a more constructive effort than mere prosecution for past practices. The aim of the civil suit which is now instituted is to accomplish those arrangements under the guidance of the court. In the opinion of the Department, this can only be done by proceedings before a judicial tribunal.”59