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

by Gregory William Mank

  “I never satisfied that kid,” claimed Quinn, referring to his young self, “but I think he and I have made a deal now. It’s like climbing a mountain. I didn’t take him up Mount Everest, but I took him up Mount Whitney. And I think that’s not bad.”

  Quinn had also made peace with approaching death, and wrote in his memoir:When my time is called I wish to go out in style. There will be no pine box sunk six feet under ground, no urn to be placed on a mantel and forgotten. No. I have thought this through. There will be my dozen children, carrying me up a hill in Chihuahua and leaving me to rot in the hot sun. I can picture the scene, transposed over the fertile ground of my youth. (I have the specific hill mapped for my executors.) I will be laid to rest at the top of the rise, a feast for the vultures. My children will go back to the rest of their lives, and the birds will peck at what is left of me. They will lift me up, piecemeal, and defecate me out all over the countryside, returning me to the earth from which I had sprung, leaving me forever a part of all Mexico.

  For better or worse, this isn’t the way it happened. Quinn’s final film was 2001’s Avenging Angelo, and he spent his final years at his Rhode Island estate, where he opened a restaurant. Aware of his approaching death, Quinn reconsidered those defecating vultures and requested the city of Bristol allow his burial on his estate. The city agreed, sanctioning the “Quinn Family Cemetery.” On June 3, 2001, Anthony Quinn died in in Boston, finally brought down by lung cancer, renal failure and respiratory failure. He was 86. There was a private funeral on the estate with about 40 relatives and friends, and later a public memorial service at Bristol Baptist Church. Actor Franco Nero spoke, as did former New York mayor David Dinkins.

  Anthony Quinn left his fortune only to widow Kathy and their two children; the other ten children received nothing. The Anthony Quinn Library stands on the site of his boyhood home in Los Angeles, on what is now Cesar Chavez Avenue. A branch of the L.A. library system, the building also houses the actor’s collection of photos, memorabilia and scrapbooks.

  There’s also a famous Bundy Drive Boys relic — John Barrymore’s Richard III black armor, which Quinn had bought at the auction of the actor’s effects in 1942. A librarian there told me a ghost story, with true conviction, that the armor once escaped its plexiglas case and took a nocturnal stroll around the library.

  Quinn’s line in Zorba the Greek might have been a coat-of-arms motto for all the Bundy Drive Boys: “A man needs a little madness … or else he never dares cut the rope and be free.”

  Phil Rhodes, John Barrymore, and the remains of 419 Bundy Drive

  Chapter 22

  Useless. Insignificant. Poetic.

  May 2, 2006; As the May sun battles the Pacific clouds, Bundy Drive Boys historian and collector Bill Nelson and I drive west along Sunset, turn and park near 419 N. Bundy. The “For Sale” sign swings outside.

  Rita Saiz has lived here for 25 years, has decided to move on. Caught on the freeway, she sanctions us by cellphone to enter the house — a trusting soul, she’s left the back door unlocked.

  The house has magic about it. It’s changed — a pool now sparkles in the back yard, where Mary Lou’s duck used to waken Decker from his hangovers, and there have been some additions made over the decades to indulge the Southern California mania for cubic space. Yet the old charm is still there, as is the fabled oak door with Decker’s unicorns and motto. I climb the twisted steps to get an overview of the hearth and its mantel, the ancient chandelier and the old ceiling beams. We take a peek down at the catacombs-like cellar, where Decker kept his treasure chest.

  Yes, the imagination goes amok, realizing that this is the old gathering spot of Decker, Barrymore, Flynn, Fields, Hecht, Fowler, Hartmann, Carradine, Quinn, Mitchell, Mowbray, Young… all of them at their best here. Yet something else is in the air… energy, a spirit, spirits…

  Rita Saiz arrives, an auburn-haired dynamo adorned in a turquoise pants suit. Bill Nelson refers to her as a “Mexican Auntie Mame,” and she has sold the house, but will be taking the historic Decker door with her. She changes from her black spiked heels to more comfortable shoes, and talks about 419 N. Bundy and, she insists, its ghosts.

  “When did you first feel the presence of a ghost?” I ask.

  “The first second I came here,” Rita replies.

  The ghost is really sweet. After a while, when I caught on that he liked booze, I started lighting a candle and putting it on the fireplace mantel. And it would evaporate! If it were good whiskey, good Scotch, it would evaporate — but if I put in red wine, it would get full of fungus in one day. The ghost wants Scotch, expensive stuff… He ain’t cheap!

  Rita warms to her topic:I was always intrigued by the energy in here, because I’m intuitive and I’ve always known there’s another life form of energy. I’d go into a trance, and a trance is your creative soul and you’re connected with God. So I realized that all those guys are here — Decker, Flynn, Barrymore, the others — because they had found a matrix here, away from the reality of their lives. It was — and is — a safe haven for them.

  Her excitement mounts and her eyes flash:Decker’s ghost, Flynn’s ghost, Barrymore’s ghost — all of them are here! They’re all partaking! Decker’s the cool guy. Errol Flynn is the more social one — a trickster, always fooling around, dressing up, getting naked, being stupid — that’s him. I think he’s “bi” — “I’ll be your girl, I’ll be your boy, I’ll be whatever you want me to be!” He’s beautiful, like an angel. And Barrymore? He’s like Lady Macbeth — very scandalous! I knew nothing about him, but by his energy - OH! Barrymore’s a “tripper,” the director, the conductor, the voyeur, because he’s so flipped out! He’s watching the circus. He is the circus!

  She becomes more serious:In their time, these men had a lot of things going on — the Depression, and all that horrible stuff, and that’s why they went cuckoo. But it wasn’t really “cuckoo” — it was their essence. They’ve been telling me all these years — you don’t die, there’s another essence, a fifth dimension — a forever. We’re going to live just a temporary life here, 100 years or less — and they’ve been saying don’t waste a minute in sadness. We’re all going to have difficulties, but the difficulties are only to take you on to the next level.

  They all saw the joke of life, and they teach us not to be scared. There is no bogeyman. Get the essence of love and happiness and joy, and share it with people. All that matters is to leave a legacy of happiness, and to give someone else an inspiration — like they gave us.

  It’s suddenly very still. The sunshine has finally fully emerged and fills the room.

  We clown with Rita awhile, posing with foils (she fences) by the fireplace. As we drive away on Bundy Drive, I take one final look at the house that is knocked to the ground and becomes just a memory.

  Rita Saiz and Mary Lou Warn

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Researching and writing a book is often a great adventure, and sometimes these adventures seemed to have been fated to be.

  My curiosity about the Bundy Drive Boys goes back to the mid-1960s, when I saw an old photograph of John Barrymore as Svengali. He seemed to epitomize, simply by his picture, the old-time theatrical spellbinder, and I soon learned he had been both the century’s most exciting Shakespearean actor and a catastrophic self-destructive alcoholic. My 15-year-old morbid interest spiked when I saw the silent Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and came away believing the passion and madness Barrymore conjured up in his magnificent dual performance exceeded anything the most daring rock bands of the ‘60s were offering.

  His brilliance and tragedy also struck me as perhaps something very personal.

  I visited the downtown Baltimore library to check out Gene Fowler’s Barrymore biography, Good Night, Sweet Prince. On the bus, I glanced at a page mentioning the Bundy Drive Boys. For over 40 years, the various members of the gang who gathered at John Decker’s studio fascinated me. Indeed, years ago on a research trip for another project, my wife and I drove up Bun
dy one morning to take a look at the house, and spent a few moments imagining all the genius and revelry that exploded there all those years ago.

  Then came the night in 2006 when my friend and colleague Charles Heard called and said he and Bill Nelson were seeking a writer for a project on the Bundy Drive Boys. I instantly thought the quirks of fate that, for so many of us, seem to tag along faithfully with our favorite obsessions.

  For all the decades of interest, this was a daunting project. Realistic assessment of the mythical gang was a challenge. Several books were more annoying than helpful. Some writers had seen the gang as no more than wicked, sybaritic creatures who egged on each other’s slow suicides. Others chronicled their capers with a sophomoric I-love-bad-boys approach that missed the torment and genius that made them who they truly were. Even the brilliant Gene Fowler, Bundy Boys literary giant and charter member who wrote Good Night, Sweet Prince and Minutes of the Last Meeting, had a love and compassion for these men that caused him sometimes to pull his punches — and, through no fault of his own, was writing at a time when major publishers wouldn’t have printed the gang’s more baroque excesses.

  What came clear throughout my research was the odd but touching mutual affection the Bundy Boys had for one another. These men both celebrated the demons that charged them, while they also tried to protect each other from them. As in any classical tragedy, catastrophe was inevitable. Of course, there was humor too, but for all the Comedy and Tragedy colliding and exploding in the book, the dominant theme was the love story.

  My gratitude goes first to my co-authors. Charles Heard not only recruited me for this project, but also was a cordial host (along with his lovely wife Sherry) during my research trips to Dallas, including the icy night when I was stranded at their home and they insisted on sacking out on the floor so that I could have the bed. Charles provided me access to John Decker’s own personal and voluminous scrapbooks, on loan to him from Decker’s stepdaughter Mary Lou Warn. These, of course, were a major key to chronicling and fathoming the enigmatic Decker. Charles, who owns an impressive collection of Decker paintings, had many discussions with me about the book and he eloquently zeroed in on the fascination of the Bundy Drive Boys when he spoke of the Greek myth of Daedalus and Icarus. As Charles noted, Icarus’ soaring flight on the wings crafted by his father Daedalus was inspiring, but what people remember most vividly in the ancient fable is Icarus’ dizzying and fatal fall into the sea. I gratefully appreciate Charles’ continuing trust and our ongoing friendship on this, our third project together.

  Bill Nelson’s enthusiasm for all things Bundy Boys never wavered through the surprises and crises of this book’s writing and production. Bill’s no-bounds generosity included, during my weeklong research trip to Los Angeles in May of 2006, actually moving out of his own quarters while I occupied his lodgings. (As such, I slept every night under John Decker’s painting of Sadakichi Hartmann — which has, in its upper left corner, Decker’s Barrymore-at-Calvary tribute — peacefully and with no nightmares.) Bill took me to the Bundy Drive house (which we visited just before its destruction), made several trips to Dallas and Pennsylvania to collaborate and shipped so many books cross-country. It was also Bill who found in the Irving Wallace Archives at Claremont College various interviews with John Decker, conducted in 1940/1941 for a magazine story called Heroes With Hangovers that presumably was never published. These invaluable interviews gave Decker a voice in our story. Bill’s boundless energy and altruism on this project merit him the award for the project’s true above-and-beyond-the-call-of-duty hero.

  Adam Parfrey has been a cordial and encouraging publisher whose personal enthusiasm for this topic has been a great asset.

  For their interviews, I thank:

  • Ronald J. Fields, the grandson of W.C., Emmy winner for W.C. Fields: Straight Up and author of the books who spoke with me about of his celebrated ancestor with color and candor.

  • Phil Rhodes, veteran actor, makeup man and Barrymore idolater, for a wealth of memories and his delightfully raucous Barrymore impression. Phil’s trust and generosity included sending me one of John Barrymore’s own oversized scrapbooks, which had been in the possession of John’s ex-wife Dolores and now is part of Phil’s awesome archive of Barrymorebilia.

  • Rita Saiz, film producer/director and real estate agent, who gave us the run of her home, 419 N. Bundy Drive, and spoke sincerely and vivaciously of the ghosts and positive energy that romped there before the house’s recent and lamentable destruction.

  • Mary Lou Warn, John Decker’s stepdaughter, who grew up in one of the strangest households anywhere, and emerged strong, confident and humorous, and provided unstinting help and encouragement along with her delightfully expressed memories and insights.

  I’m also grateful to the late Constance Moore, leading lady of W.C. Fields’ You Can’t Cheat an Honest Man, who spoke with me about that film’s chaotic shooting; and the late Marian Marsh, John Barrymore’s leading lady of Svengali and The Mad Genius, who generously shared her memories of Barrymore with me.

  James Bacon, veteran Hollywood columnist, provided co-authors Charles Heard and Bill Nelson an interview in October of 2006, for which we are grateful.

  Ned Comstock, curator of the University of Southern California Performing Arts Archive, was invaluable as always, providing dozens of stories on Decker and the gang from the Los Angeles Times.

  The late Will Fowler sat down for a videotaped interview with Bill Nelson, providing, among other things, a detailed eyewitness description of what very likely was John Decker’s most infamous forgery.

  The late Irving Wallace for his enormously helpful interviews with John Decker, titled Heroes with Hangovers.

  G.D. Hamann’s books Hollywood Scandals in the 1930s and Hollywood Scandals in the 1940s include the actual accounts from the various Los Angeles newspapers and were enormously helpful, especially in chronicling the Errol Flynn rape trial.

  Roger Hurlburt loaned me the original personal correspondence between Gene Fowler and Dr. Harold Thomas Hyman, regarding Barrymore’s private demons and his family history. Mr. Hurlburt, who also owns the original John Decker Barrymore Deathbed sketch, also provided the original hospital and autopsy reports related to Barrymore’s final illness.

  Leslee Mayo, now at work on her own book on Decker forgeries, was of enormous assistance in validating the details of Thomas Mitchell’s “Rembrandt” and William Goetz’s “Van Gogh.”

  Scott Wilson, Indiana-based historian, was quite helpful with his information on the graves and final disposition of the various principals in this book, and revealed the sad-but-true account of John Decker’s burial arrangement — at considerable odds with what has been routinely and erroneously reported elsewhere.

  Valerie Yaros, curator of the Screen Actors Guild archive, kindly provided me copies of the SAG papers of Alan Mowbray, Bundy Drive Boy and SAG founder.

  Thanks are due to Steve Beasley, the late DeWitt Bodeen, Richard Bojarski, the late Henry Brandon, Glenn Bray, Audrey Higer, Ron Hugo, Doug Norwine, Kelley Norwine, Victoria Price, Arianne Ulmer, Tom Weaver.

  Finally, I must thank my wife Barbara, who worked with me around the clock to help make this book meet its deadline. It couldn’t have been done without her, as is the case with all the books I’ve written over the past 30 years. The Bundy Drive Boys, as a group, have never been enormously appealing to women — in fact, most of the men’s wives hated that they were a part of the pack. I was relieved when my wife came to appreciate the men and their madness.

  My co-authors and I have referred to this work as The Uncensored Minutes of the Last Meeting, and the job at times has been an emotional wringer. Barrymore and Fowler were quick to lambaste anyone trying to “explain” them or pity them, so my apologies to their noble shades for any excesses in that area.

  In a sense I feel as if I’ve lived with the ghosts of Barrymore, Decker, Flynn, Fields and the gang, and sharing their triumphs and disasters, even vicariously
, has been a rollercoaster ride. With the book finally finished, we know better than to offer it to the ghosts with understanding or apologies.

  Nevertheless, it surely comes with respect … and affection.

  Gregory William Mank

  Delta, PA

  March 16, 2007

  Bibliography

  Books

  Astor, Mary, A Life on Film. New York: Delacorte Press, 1967, 1969, 1971.

  Bacon, James, Made in Hollywood. Chicago: Contemporary Books, Inc., 1977.

  Barrymore, Diana and Gerold Frank, Too Much, Too Soon. New York: Henry Holt and Company, 1957.

  Barrymore, Elaine and Sandford Dody, All My Sins Remembered. New York: Appleton-Century, 1964.

  Barrymore, Ethel, Memories. New York: Harper and Brothers, 1955.

  Barrymore, John, Confessions of an Actor. Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1926.

  Barrymore, Lionel (with Cameron Shipp), We Barrymores. New York: Appleton-Century-Crofts, Inc., 1951.

  Behlmer, Rudy (Editor), Inside Warner Bros. (1935-1951). New York: Viking Penguin Inc., 1985.