Hollywood's Hellfire Club: The Misadventures of John Barrymore, W.C. Fields, Errol Flynn and the Bundy Drive Boys

by Gregory William Mank

  For four weeks, John Decker was in Cedars of Lebanon Hospital, reciting Cyrano, terrorizing nurses, hurling bedpans, terrified that his creditors would seize his paintings. As Gene Fowler wrote to Ben Hecht: He had three nurses whom he abused roundly, and there were frequent resignations on the part of the shocked Florence Nightingales. Numerous suggestions made to them by the dying man as to where they could place the bedpans and what they could do to themselves in general (and in particular) caused complaints such as to rouse the facility to threats of expulsion.

  Surgeons removed Decker’s stomach. “Who wants to live without a stomach?” he gloomily asked Philip Paval, who had made him a ring with a miniature death mask of Beethoven. Now Decker never removed it.

  Anthony Quinn constantly donated blood. And on Decker’s final day, an old Bundy Drive neighbor, Harriet DeLaix, a graduate nurse, visited him at Cedars. She noted the ring, and remembered that, despite the surviving handsomeness, “John himself looked like a death mask.”

  His eyes closed, Decker beckoned Ms. DeLaix to his bedside and held her hand with the one not receiving a transfusion. She had brought from Bundy Drive a mock strawberry plant, with yellow flowers. Decker opened his eyes and looked at the plant.

  “The blossoms,” said John Decker, “are the same color that Raphael used for the hair of his angels.”

  Saturday, 8 p.m. June 7, 1947, John Decker died. The cause of death was the gastric hemorrhage, due to cirrhosis of the liver. Phyllis, Alan Mowbray and his wife Lorayne were at his bedside. The artist whom Ben Hecht had called “a one-man Renaissance” and “the broken-nosed Cinderella” had lived 51 years, six months and 29 days.

  John Carradine had a favorite John Decker story — whenever his creditors were about to pounce, Decker would insert his own death notice in the L.A. papers. “Then,” recalled Carradine, “if any of them missed seeing the notice and continued to send bills, Decker would return the bills with a copy of the death notice. That would usually persuade even the most relentless creditor to abandon the chase and let poor John Decker ‘rest in peace.’”

  This was the real RIP. Decker’s estate was nil and his creditors were out of luck.

  The funeral, of course, was a combination art show, boozefest, charity drive, horror show and robbery.

  Honoring Decker’s wish, Phyllis arranged with the Utter-McKinley Mortuary, 8814 Sunset Boulevard, to conduct the wake at 1215 Alta Loma. The studio bar would become an altar, festooned with candelabra and flowers. Decker paintings would hang in tribute, and the tableau was to evoke Van Gogh’s bier. Mary Lou, who had been hav-ing “battles” with her mother and had gone to live with an aunt in Toledo, returned to Los Angeles for her stepfather’s wake.

  Phyllis Decker in mourning

  A special funereal feature: Decker’s John Barrymore death-bed sketch would rest atop the lower half of the casket.

  Tuesday, June 10, 1947, 1:30 p.m. — the funeral began. Utter-McKinley had delivered corpse and casket to Alta Loma, where the black-widow-weeds Phyllis — who’d sent orders to the undertakers to be sure to darken Decker’s mustache — was distressed to see it still too red. She darkened it herself with her mascara as Decker’s portrait of her, Wife with Pearls, hung on display beside Decker’s portrait of Barrymore, The Royal Vagabond.

  The studio filled up with the Who’s Who mourners. Pallbearers were Alan Mowbray, Dr. Frank Nolan, Anthony Quinn, Vincent Price, Norman Kerry (the Silent screen actor who’d played the romantic hero of the 1925 The Phantom of the Opera, and Decker’s pal), and Philip Paval. Gene Fowler was too ill to be a pallbearer, or to even attend the service. Errol Flynn (pointedly not asked to be a pallbearer) and the dreaded Nora were there, despite the recent feud; Flynn had played hooky from a day’s shooting of Warner’s Western Silver River and, as an L.A. newspaper reported, “kept a movie cast of 400 waiting so he might pay a last tribute.” Thomas Mitchell (then acting with Flynn in Silver River) was present. So were Ida Lupino, Red Skelton and his wife, producer Buddy De Sylva, writer Dudley Nichols (who’d worked on the screenplay of Scarlet Street), Peter Lawford, Mocambo manager Charlie Morrison, millionaire Atwater Kent, actor Arthur Lake and his wife, artist Henry Clive… all in all, there were approximately 200 in attendance, the studio so crowded that the mourners overflowed out onto the patio.

  There were popping flashbulbs, wreathes of roses, gladioli and dahlias, loud weeping, considerable drinking and baroque surprises. In his 1991 book Reporters, Will Fowler recalled Phyllis’ sister Blanche hugging him and weeping of the deceased, “He was such a great piece of ass!” Presumably she wasn’t so effusive that the widow heard her.

  What everybody did hear were the comforting words of the Rev. S. Mark Hogue, pastor of the Westwood Congregational Church. He kept it simple and noted, to knowing smiles and weeping, that Decker was together again with John Barrymore and W.C. Fields. The most memorable moment came, as previously noted, when the flowers decorating the Barrymore death-bed sketch frame fell as the Rev. Hogue intoned “Let us pray.”

  Come the finale of the service, and the assemblage heard Decker’s recording of lines from Cyrano de Bergerac, which he had made six weeks before his death:To sing, to laugh, to dream, to walk in my own way and be alone…. I am too proud to be a parasite and, if my nature wants the germ that grows towering to heaven like the mountain pine, or like the oak, sheltering multitudes — I stand, not high, it may be, but alone!

  It was Cyrano’s “No thank you” soliloquy, and John Decker’s defiant last words.

  The hearse traveled south to Inglewood Cemetery, followed by a large limousine carrying the pallbearers. Philip Paval remembered one of them remarking, “Where are the sirens? John would have loved that.” As Paval described the cremation:We arrived at the cemetery chapel and carried the casket into a small anteroom where there was an iron grate like a fireplace. It was a fireplace all right; the gate slowly opened and there was the oven. One of the attendants came and lifted the lid of the casket (as we were witnesses to the cremation, we had to make sure it was John) and said, “Gentlemen, this is John Decker.” Alan Mowbray spoke up and said, “Well, if this isn’t John Decker, he took a hell of a beating for the last six weeks.” The iron grate opened and the casket was rolled into the furnace; the gate closed again and we could hear the flames starting. The attendant came and asked if we would care to watch the cremation, which is permitted. So we all went back and looked through the hole in the gate facing the room. Their business must have been good as there were many aluminum boxes stacked in one corner. Through a small hole in the roof we could see smoke coming up the chimney. I looked through the round circle in the gate and saw John raising himself; Dr. No-land said that the heat does that.

  It was a morbid spectacle, and Anthony Quinn was rattled as they left Inglewood Cemetery: “I don’t like cremations. I would rather be buried in the good earth with a tree growing up from my grave.”

  The show went on and on. The pallbearers returned to Alta Loma, where Charlie Morrison sent lavish food and drink from the Mocambo, complete with a waiter. Phyllis accepted a few drinks and finally went to sleep, while the more devoted mourners, as Paval recalled, “held a regular old-fashioned wake” that “lasted for days.” They told their favorite Decker sagas and played his recordings time and again.

  Naturally, there was a blasphemy of sorts. A mourner managed to steal one of Decker’s paintings, The French Scene, which he’d painted in 1944. The painting showed a priest and children in a public park, and Decker was so proud of it he’d refused to sell it. Gordon Levoy, Decker’s attorney, assured the guilty party no questions would be asked if he/she returned it via insured mail within a week. Various Decker disciples have alleged that the culprit was Alan Mowbray, but this seems out of character. Shortly after the funeral, Mowbray hosted a big party for Phyllis and, to raise money for the insolvent widow, raffled off one of Decker’s paintings and raised $1,500. Thomas Mitchell won and promptly returned the painting so it could be raffled again. In Pava
l’s opinion, “Alan Mowbray proved himself a very fine friend for that generous gesture.”

  All the while, Will Fowler was involved trying to get contributions in money to pay for the funeral and blood to repay Cedars for the many blood transfusions. There’d be little money or blood forthcoming.

  There was basically no estate. Decker’s handwritten will dated August 7, 1946 left everything to Phyllis. The October 18, 1947 Los Angeles Times noted that “Decker’s holdings consist only of furnishings, books and paintings worth less than $1,000.” Fortunately a legal loophole noted that one’s work as an artist could not be considered part of one’s estate — otherwise creditors would have ransacked the studio. Phyllis had petitioned that she and Decker owned 1215 Alta Loma in joint tenancy, and hence the home/studio was not included in the estate.

  Phyllis, mourning her husband, was determined, despite her insolvency, to provide him a final memorial. She aimed for the loftiest locally available: the “Circle of Immortality” of the Memorial Court of Honor at Forest Lawn Memorial Park, Glendale. She had William A. Valentiner, Director Consultant of the Los Angeles County Museum (and Decker’s old accomplice in the aforementioned Rembrandt Bust of Christ fraud), make her pitch to Forest Lawn. On July 24, 1947, Dr. Hubert Eaton — Chairman of Forest Lawn, and its founder — personally sent Phyllis a copy of the letter he’d sent to Valentiner:I am afraid someone does not understand. Money cannot buy anything within the Memorial Court of Honor. No one can recommend any person for “Immortality” within the Memorial Court of Honor. The Council of Regents of the Memorial Court of Honor is the only group having the power to select “Immortals.” The Regents operate solely through their “Committee on Research of Famous Persons” which is constantly at work. In fifteen years only two persons have been selected as “Immortals.”

  Beneath the Last Supper Window and the marble floor of the Memorial Court of Honor are crypts which money cannot buy. They are reserved as gifts of honored interment for famous Americans who have contributed outstanding service to humanity. The illustrious dead of England are entombed in Westminster Abbey. In the United States, military and government dignitaries are interred in Arlington Cemetery. There has long been a need for a place of honor dedicated to the nation’s lay great, and it was to service this need, that the majestic memorial Court of Honor was created by Forest Lawn. The Press of the United States has reputedly referred to it as the “New World Westminster Abbey.”

  Eaton’s letter noted that the Memorial Court of Honor was only for those who had fame “of a lasting quality” and had achieved something “for humanity at large.” Eaton noted that Mount Rushmore sculptor Gutzon Borglum was in the Memorial Court, as was “I Love You Truly” songwriter Carrie Jacobs-Bond. The letter’s inference was that John Decker surely was not in their league. Eaton wrote that he’d pass on Valentiner’s suggestion to the Secretary of the Council, who’d refer it to the Committee on Research. “You, of course, realize that no Regent will ever admit that any particular name has ever been voted upon,” concluded the letter.

  Of course, John Decker’s ashes never got anywhere near Forest Lawn, Circle of Immortality or otherwise. Philip Paval put out the word that Decker required a proper final resting place, and Edward G. Robinson — long ago rejected as a prospective Bundy Drive Boy — was among those who contributed to a fund for that purpose. Phyllis, however, became unhappy with the idea and the money was returned.

  The story goes that the ashes somehow ended up on a shelf at Westwood Cemetery, which later became the trendy final destination for Marilyn Monroe, Donna Reed, Natalie Wood, Darryl F. Zanuck and his wife, and many more. Phyllis apparently never paid for a niche and eventually received a bill for the ashes’ rental. The late Will Fowler claimed that he had interceded for Phyllis, learning that Bob Yeager had purchased Westwood, and reported that Phyllis soon received a letter from Yeager — informing her that Decker’s ashes had been scattered in the rose garden and marking the account “Paid in Full.” He allegedly added on the statement, “Anything for a friend.”

  There are many legends in Hollywood. This, as will be noted later, is apparently one of them.

  Phyllis Decker hoped to keep the John Decker Gallery — which Errol Flynn apparently deeded over to her — a going concern at Alta Loma. She presented a show of his works March 26, 1948, and wrote in the program:John Decker lived as he painted — vigorously and brilliantly. He would have held no brief for the perpetuation of a “shrine” for any personal commemoration. In presenting this first posthumous exhibition of John’s work, I do so in that same spirit and without conventional solemnity.

  However, money troubles and zoning issues eventually forced Phyllis to close the gallery and sell the property to Paulette Goddard. There was also the concept of a film tribute, under the aegis of none other than Jim Fleming, Errol Flynn’s rowdy sidekick. Shooting began with Thomas Mitchell and Philip Paval participating, but troubles abounded that would have delighted Decker (the cameraman shot some footage with the lens shut, fuses exploded and shut down the power, etc.). The project collapsed.

  Jim Fleming never completed his movie but he got a consolation prize: in 1949, he married Phyllis.

  In 1942, after John Barrymore’s death, Ben Hecht had written:They’re dying off, all my exuberant and artistic friends who were the landmarks of a mirage known as Happy Days. They came bounding into the Century like a herd of unicorns… they were a part of the last high old time when news was made by madcaps rather than madmen, and they were sustained through hunger, calumny and hangovers by the conviction that they were improving the world. Now whenever one of them falls, brought down not so much by the barrage of years as by disillusion and a drop too much of alcohol, I mourn doubly. I mourn the passing of another of the moonstruck gentry, and of the era that specialized in hatching their dwindling tribe. Every time one of these battered old iconoclasts waves good-bye, that era grows dimmer and all its carnival fades a little more.

  It was truly the proverbial end of an era. John Barrymore’s 1942 death had wracked the Bundy Drive Boys, as had Hartmann’s in 1944 and Fields in 1946; now, with John Decker gone, the saga was over and the gang disbanded, even though various prominent members still had years to go.

  The death hit all the men hard. Thomas Mitchell returned for a time to New York; so did Anthony Quinn. Errol Flynn mourned in character. Notes by Jack L. Warner, prepared for a talk with MCA agent Lew Wasserman and included in Inside Warner Bros. (1935-1951) as “undated, circa June 1947,” report troubles on the Western Silver River:So there will be no further misunderstanding, our company is reserving the right to keep track of the things that transpire during each day the picture [Silver River] is in production.

  If Flynn is late, if liquor is being used so that from the middle of the afternoon on it is impossible for the director to make any more scenes with Flynn, if liquor is brought on the set or into the Studio — we must hold Flynn legally and financially responsible for any delay in the making of this picture.

  We may go so far as to abrogate the entire contract and sue him for damages…

  As Rudy Behlmer, Inside Warner Bros.’ editor, notes after this inclusion, “Apparently, from all evidence, the practice continued — or at any rate resumed a short while later.”

  “The death of Decker has of course saddened me greatly,” the ailing Gene Fowler wrote to Ben Hecht, “because there are not many of his kind walking the earth now. I am beginning to feel like a survivor, alone and without my toys.”

  Part IV

  The Aftermath

  In the poet’s eye, Time is a circus, always packing up and moving away. And he asks us to remember how happy its music made us.

  — Ben Hecht

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Shuffling Off the Mortal Coil

  The first to go after Decker was the patrician Roland Young, who died of natural causes June 5, 1953 at his home on West Ninth Street in Manhattan. When he died, the 65-year-old Bundy Drive Boy had his second wife,
Dorothy Patience May DuCroz Young, whom he married in 1948, by his side.

  Young had performed only occasionally during the last years of his life. Movie roles included Bond Street and You Gotta Stay Happy in 1948, The Great Lover in 1949, Let’s Dance in 1950, and St. Benny the Dip in 1951. His final film performance was in the 1953 Spanish-made Aquel Hombre de Tanger (released in the U.S. as That Man from Tangier). TV appearances included The Chevrolet Tele-Theatre, Pulitzer Prize Playhouse, Studio One and Lux Video Theatre.

  Few actors have ever captured Roland Young’s humor and elegance.

  The next to go — six years after Young and 12 years after John Decker — was Errol Flynn.

  In those dozen years, Flynn seemed to imitate Barrymore’s Jekyll-to-Hyde downfall, degenerating physically and emotionally before the public eye. The antics and publicity never ceased. In The Intimate Sex Lives of Famous People, Irving Wallace, Amy Wallace, David Wallechinsky and Sylvia Wallace reported: Despite his constant sexual urges, Flynn rarely bragged about his endurance as a lover, but did claim to practice Oriental sexual techniques learned during a stay in Hong Kong. He was concerned about being able to perform whenever called upon, and was known to apply a pinch of cocaine to the tip of his penis as an aphrodisiac. His enjoyment of sex was heightened by watching other couples make love at the same time, and he also got a tremendous kick out of exhibiting himself — with a full erection — to his “straight” male friends. Flynn even installed a one-way mirror in his home so that he could obser ve his houseguests making love. He often indulged his taste for kinky sex in Mexico, where one could see men and women copulate on stage or have intercourse with animals. Flynn made no apologies for his self-proclaimed “wicked ways” and even urged his son, Sean, to follow in his footsteps, once sending the lad $25 for “condoms and/or flowers.”