RKO Radio Pictures

by Richard B. Jewell

  Two weeks after Love Affair opened, the last of RKO's Astaire-Rogers pictures was released. As if Pandro Berman's problems with George Schaefer were not vexatious enough, the troubled production history of The Story of Vernon and Irene Castle might have convinced any studio head to take an extended vacation.

  The idea for the film had come from Irving Berlin, who in 1934 suggested to Berman that the story of the Castles would make a good vehicle for Fred and Ginger.21 The Castles had been precursors to Astaire-Rogers, a charismatic husband-wife team who danced their way to fame during the early years of the twentieth century. Just when their talent and renown reached its peak, Vernon died tragically, thus making their story a natural for a Hollywood biopic.

  Pandro Berman pursued Berlin's suggestion for some time without success. Finally, he reached a tentative agreement in early 1937 with Irene Castle McLaughlin (she had remarried), who believed that only Fred Astaire was capable of portraying her dead husband. Astaire was anxious to do the role and agreed with Mrs. McLaughlin on one other crucial detail: Ginger Rogers should not be cast as Irene.22 The studio not only promised the widow that a wide-ranging search would be launched to find the perfect leading lady; it also gave Mrs. McLaughlin story approval, agreed to hire her as technical advisor during the shooting, and acceded to her demand that she design all of the leading actress's costumes.23 Obviously, RKO wanted to make this picture in the worst way.

  Mrs. McLaughlin worked with Oscar Hammerstein on the treatment, which she happily approved toward the end of 1937. George Stevens was set to direct, but a delay in production was necessitated by the difficulty in casting a leading lady. It appears that from the beginning, Berman wanted Ginger Rogers for the part, but he went through the motions of attempting to find someone else for months. Finally, he convinced Astaire and Irene McLaughlin that the picture would never be made unless they accepted Ginger. They reluctantly agreed and it was scheduled for production in the fall of 1938. By that time Stevens was fully occupied with Gunga Din, so RKO borrowed H. C. Potter from Sam Goldwyn to direct. George Haight was hired to produce since Berman was too busy overseeing the entire program to give it his full attention.

  It is not difficult to understand why RKO gave Irene Castle McLaughlin so much influence over the making of the film. Evidently, Pan Berman and other company officials believed she would be valuable to the creative process or, at worst, prove a minor annoyance. Little did they realize that McLaughlin would become a raging virago, disrupting the production work from beginning to end. One can sympathize with her to a point. RKO was filming the story of her life, and naturally she wished it to be as accurate and affecting as possible. But her demands and complaints were nitpicky at best, outrageous at worst, and based to a certain extent on her own desire to squeeze some extra income out of the biopic.

  The battles between McLaughlin and practically the entire production staff could fill a small book, so what follows is only a compact summary. One major subject of dispute involved the costumes. Ginger Rogers, who had no great fondness for the woman she was portraying, disliked most of Irene McLaughlin's designs and asked Walter Plunkett to modify them. This brought an immediate protest, and threat, from McLaughlin: “I cannot let any other designer collaborate on the designing or share in the credits on these particular clothes. Having designed most of the clothes I wore during our successful career, you [Berman] may feel sure I am up to the job…. If someone else makes them up or ‘modifies' them, and I did not see them until the test was run, and then did not like them—it would perhaps mean a serious delay to you.”24

  As shooting continued, the crew soon became weary of Mrs. McLaughlin's continual demands. Hoping she would get the message, they proceeded to make the picture as best they could and to ignore her as much as possible. McLaughlin, however, was stiff-necked to a fault. In a December memo to Pandro Berman concerning an objectionable coat, she fulminated:

  My contract, naturally, you are familiar with, so I will refrain from going into the authority it gives me on the dressing of the Mrs. Castle role, except to say that should I find, at any future date (even after the picture is released) that the coat, I had rejected, was being worn or depicted on the screen in “The Castles” picture, I will be forced to exact retribution. It seems necessary to take this type of stand as, time and time again, things have been slipped over on me and used in spite of my insistance [sic] that they were not acceptable to me.25

  Later, the filmmakers discovered why Mrs. McLaughlin was so adamant about the costumes. With the assistance of her business manager, George Enzinger, she planned to release a line of clothes based on the costumes when the film was finally in circulation. Thus, the picture was to tie in with her own merchandising scheme, and so all the gowns, dresses, hats, and miscellaneous apparel worn by Ginger had to be her creations.26 Mrs. McLaughlin was concerned with authenticity, but potential profits also appear to have been a major consideration.27

  Among Mrs. McLaughlin's other grievances, which she proclaimed loudly to anyone who would listen, were Ginger's refusal to cut her hair, Ginger's “inability” to perform the dances precisely as she had done them, H. C. Potter's “insubordination,” the shooting script, which McLaughlin insisted deviated from the original story she had approved, the portrayal of the scene in which she learns that her husband has died, the film's title (she also had approval rights on that), and literally hundreds of other details. Arlene Croce's study of the Astaire-Rogers series of films states that, toward the end, McLaughlin “went roaring” into the California antivivisection campaign and left the company “to finish the film in peace.”28 This is inaccurate, for she continued to harangue the studio throughout production and afterward. In late February 1939, her lawyers sent RKO a letter demanding damages for the many violations of her contract and warning that legal proceedings would be instituted unless an agreeable settlement could be reached.29 In addition to paying her $5,000, RKO managed to negotiate a settlement by appealing to her vanity. Her name was to be included in the credits of the film no less than three times.30 All in all, RKO had expended $40,000 on McLaughlin: $20,000 for the story, $15,000 for her services as advisor and costume designer, and $5,000 to settle the contract dispute.31 Still, the money seemed insignificant compared to the turmoil she had caused.

  The final scene of The Story of Vernon and Irene Castle practically cries out for allegorical interpretation. After Vernon dies in an airplane accident, Irene receives the news while waiting for her husband in a local hotel. She looks out into the garden where Vernon has hired a band to recapitulate all the important songs of their lives together. Superimposed over the scene we see the two of them, dancing immortally. The death of Vernon (Fred) also represents the death of Astaire and Rogers as the foremost dance team in the world and the conclusion of RKO's most famous and satisfying series of films. And the ghostly imagery suggests that the two dancers (Fred and Ginger) have entered the realm of myth—they will symbolize, forever, the epitome of style and beauty in the musical form.

  Another Astaire-Rogers picture was contemplated in 1940, but it was wise to end the series here. The two stars both wished to move in new directions, and this production was their second straight financial failure (a $58,000 deficit). The careers of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers were far from over, even if their RKO collaboration had come to a close. They would dance together one more time—for MGM rather than RKO—in The Barkleys of Broadway (1949).

  The 1939 sales convention took place in June at the Westchester Country Club in Rye, New York. There, George Schaefer unveiled the most audacious production program in company history, promising to spend “a minimum of $21,000,000 on ‘39–40 product.”32 The $14,844,000 January estimate had obviously proven inadequate. The enumeration of coming attractions suggested that the studio and its affiliated independents had been busy acquiring well-known literary properties. The Hunchback of Notre Dame, Ivanhoe, The American Way, Abe Lincoln in Illinois, Swiss Family Robinson, Tom Brown's School Days, and Anne of Wi
ndy Poplars (from a novel by the author of Anne of Green Gables) were all scheduled for production.33 Several of the new unit arrangements were revealed at the convention, including the ones with Towne and Baker and Gordon and Goetz. Schaefer had also signed some impressive actors who would be appearing in future RKO productions, including Charles Laughton, Raymond Massey, Carole Lombard, John Wayne, and Claire Trevor. None of these individuals had inked exclusive contracts with RKO, but the lineup surely sounded more promising than Joe Penner, Parkyakarkus, and Lily Pons. One month after the convention ended, Schaefer made an announcement that overshadowed all of his previous ones: Orson Welles and his Mercury Productions Company were about to join RKO on an exclusive basis.

  Welles had been on the RKO radar screen since late 1937. His Broadway production of Shakespeare's Julius Caesar electrified story editor Lillie Messinger, who raved about it to Leo Spitz. She concluded, “There must be some place in a Studio for this kind of talent.”34 Spitz was not interested in Welles at that time, but George Schaefer began to court him in May of 1939. By then, Welles had become a national celebrity, largely because of his “War of the Worlds” radio broadcast on Halloween night 1938, which petrified many inhabitants of the Eastern Seaboard.

  George Schaefer finally signed Welles and Mercury Productions on July 22, 1939. The agreement was for two pictures that Welles would write, produce, direct, and act in. Many sources have called this deal a unique, carte blanche contract. It was certainly unique, but did not give Welles as much freedom as has been supposed. For example, RKO had the right to approve the basic story and the budget, which was not to exceed $500,000. Otherwise, control of the productions, including the editing, would rest wholly with Welles.35 Unless the new director departed radically from the story or exceeded a half-million dollars in expenditures, RKO could not interfere in the making of either film. This was definitely unprecedented; a neophyte filmmaker had been granted a contract with a Hollywood studio guaranteeing he would be able to work in total freedom.

  The addition of Welles and his Mercury Productions group was a coup for Schaefer, but it was also perfectly in sync with his new unit-production strategy. Welles—like Goetz and Gordon, Towne and Baker, Wilcox, and others who would join the company in the next couple of years—would be expected to create innovative, artistic motion pictures that energized the RKO brand, making George Schaefer's company stand out. Without an understanding of this context, the Welles saga at RKO might seem an aberration. It was, instead, simply part of George Schaefer's master plan.

  There was room to question the wisdom of the plan itself. The individuals signed by Schaefer were not industry veterans. Some, like Welles, Wilcox, and Goetz and Gordon, had no Hollywood experience at all. The ability of others, such as Towne and Baker and Harold Lloyd, to produce successful films was suspect. It is little wonder that Pandro Berman was shocked and angered by many of George Schaefer's decisions. Schaefer, during his initial year in office, took several sizable gambles. If they paid off, he would soon be elevated to full “mogul” status in Hollywood. But if they did not…

  By the time of the Orson Welles announcement, relations between Pandro Berman and George Schaefer had reached such an impasse that the two men were hardly communicating with each other. Berman retained his title, though Schaefer had essentially usurped his authority as RKO production leader. J. R. McDonough was now the intermediary, conveying all the important studio information to Schaefer in New York. A supplemental agreement was worked out in September that allowed Berman to terminate his obligations to RKO four months early.36 This agreement was later amended, so that Berman could continue working on two pictures—The Hunchback of Notre Dame and Vigil in the Night—until they were completed.

  Schaefer did not recognize it, but he was losing a very valuable man, as the production history of the Ginger Rogers comedy Bachelor Mother illustrates. The movie was based on Kleine Mutti (Little Mother), a picture produced by a subsidiary of Universal in Hungary.37 G. B. (Buddy) DeSylva had first purchased the rights from Universal, then sold the property, along with his services as producer, to RKO in August 1938. Norman Krasna took on the script assignment and, working in concert with prospective director Garson Kanin, completed the screenplay in late February 1939. The studio announced an early March start date for the production.

  Ginger Rogers, however, had acute reservations about the project, based principally on her distaste for the script. Two days before the film was to begin shooting, she wrote Berman:

  I have just read [the script of “Little Mother”] again and am writing you merely to go on record as having said: “The characters affect the story instead of the story affecting them. Instead of working laughs out of natural situations—we do it differently—we build our situations around a laugh. Why, I don't know. There is no love between these two people and a story that has a boy and girl as its leading characters is expected to be a love story. The thing that is wrong with “Little Mother” is that it leaves too much to the imagination as far as their love is concerned.

  ………………………………………………………………………. .

  If we were to meet these two people in our drawing rooms we would say that they were bores—so why do we make a picture about them? Just because it would be cute to say, “Ginger Rogers picked up a baby and tried to convince her intimate friends that it wasn't hers?” Even the landlady isn't surprised that she has a baby! God! WHAT ARE WE COMING TO!

  Continuing, Ginger expressed genuine fear about the damage the film might do to her career:

  I cannot live on past performances. In this picture “Little Mother” I am Ginger Rogers. And it seems to me that you are relying on me as a personality—instead of an actress with a personality…the same as in “Having a Wonderful Time.” This story is just as sketchy as “Wonderful Time” and I'm afraid that if this story isn't worked on it will end up with the same rank odor.

  ………………………………………………………………………. .

  After all, Pan, people in the industry know—perhaps. I say perhaps, because when anyone's name is on the screen as having written, directed, or produced a vehicle—those are naturally the people who are rightfully blamed for it. But the public blames me! They don't know it's an R. K. O. picture—nor do they care. They know they don't like it—and that I am in it. If you think that this is serious to you, then you know how serious it is to me.38

  Pandro Berman's reply was a combination of tact, salesmanship, and toughness. It also revealed a much more perceptive grasp of the material than the actress had:

  I am terribly sorry that you feel as you do about this picture, and I want you to know that quite contrary to some statements in your letter this picture was purchased because we honestly believed it had a sincere and fine underlying story which would serve as a good vehicle for you, and that our efforts in writing this script have been of fine entertainment quality, and that I for one am proud of the script rather than apologetic about it, and that I think it is better than 90 per cent of the scripts that are made in Hollywood every day, and that I think if you never get a worse one you will be extremely fortunate because this is a difficult business and one that is dependent upon creative talent, and scripts as good as this are hard to create…. I am extremely sympathetic to every point of view you could ever express, because I know how sincere and earnest and helpful you are, [but] I do think that there are times when the judgment of an actor or actress with regard to the entertainment value of a script is colored by their personal and professional ambitions, which compels [sic] them to look at it from an inverted point of view of what constitutes audience values.

  Berman's further remarks may seem self-serving, but they were pretty accurate. Up to this point, Ginger Rogers' career had been skillfully managed by RKO:

  I am anxious to impress upon you the fact which I am sure you do not quite understand, which is namely that I never deliberately put you into anything I do not have the utmost faith i
n, and that you are wrong in assuming that RKO or myself is willing to bandy you about in inconsequential material. Your career to date has been handled more judiciously and more carefully than any woman's in pictures. I do not know an actress today, and I include the Garbos, Shearers, Crawfords, and even Bette Davis who rates at the top of her profession, who has been handled with such a succession of box-office successes and characters beloved by audiences, as you have…. I am prouder of my record with you than I am of any record that has been established over a period of years in the industry by anyone with any particular personality, and I am willing to stand on that record in this matter which in my best considered judgment appears to me to be a picture that cannot in any way harm you and may do you good, because I believe in it.39

  Figure 21. Bachelor Mother (1939). Producer and production chief Pandro Berman visits Ginger Rogers and director Garson Kanin on the set. Rogers's expression suggests that she was not very happy during the making of this film, but it turned out to be one of the biggest hits of her career. (Courtesy of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences)

  Pandro Berman's persuasive powers did not work; he was forced to suspend Rogers without pay when she refused to make the picture. After a short time, the actress grudgingly reported for duty and completed the film without further protest. The outcome must have shocked her and made Berman feel like the proverbial soothsayer.

  George Schaefer viewed the picture in mid-May and immediately pronounced it “a real smash.”40 He was right. When the retitled Bachelor Mother opened in June, it immediately blasted off and did not come back to earth for months thereafter. Since it was considered a solo effort (costar David Niven had not yet gained significant box-office standing), Bachelor Mother boosted Rogers's status more dramatically than any picture since the early musicals with Astaire. Before long, the film became the studio's champion sleeper of the 1930s, earning a profit of $827,000.