Myrna Loy gave Loretta some competition in The Truth About Youth (1930). Loretta may have had star billing, but it was Loy who again walked off with the film. Loy was billed fourth as Kara, an exotic dancer who catches the fancy of an orphan, whose guardian (Conway Tearle) is disturbed that his ward, nicknamed “The Imp” (David Manners), is behaving too impishly for a responsible adult. Although engaged to Loretta’s character, he is so smitten with Kara that he marries her. Learning that The Imp is not a millionaire, Kara dumps him. To prevent scandal, the guardian convinces everyone that he was Kara’s lover. The real revelation—which would have evoked howls if Loretta had not played the final scene with such touching conviction—is her admission that her true love is not the ward, but his guardian. Cuddling up to the fifty-two-year-old Tearle, Loretta further demonstrated her talent for turning dross into silk. She even convinced cynical reviewers that a May-December (or at least May-September) romance was possible. And, to top it all off, she received $4500 for her efforts—$2250 more than Manners.
Of all Loretta’s 1930 films, the Samuel Goldwyn production The Devil to Pay, was her least impressive. Goldwyn, who had great respect for writers, particularly playwrights, happened to be in London, where he was introduced to Frederick Lonsdale, one of the foremost practitioners of drawing room comedy—the kind that was sophisticated and humane, but not acerbic. Unable to offer Goldwyn a play, Lonsdale provided him with a story that seemed perfect for Ronald Colman, whom Goldwyn had under contract. Dissatisfied with the way filming was proceeding under Irving Cummings’s direction. Goldwyn replaced him with George Fitzmaurice; Goldwyn did the same with the female lead, who was another Cummings, Constance. Constance Cummings was a fine actress who, although American born, resided in England. To Goldwyn, however, she did not sound British enough. Loretta inherited the role but could not master the accent. Goldwyn may have assumed, on the basis of her films, that Loretta was the ideal ingénue. She was that, but not as the fiancée of a grand duke. Despite the diction lessons Goldwyn ordered, Loretta was out of her element, although she was thrilled to be working with Colman, the fantasy lover of her girlhood. Rakishly handsome, he moved with masculine grace, wore suits like a second skin, and spoke in a voice that was soothingly urbane. He played William Leeland, the playboy son of a wealthy father, who falls in love with Dorothy Hope (Loretta), the daughter of another wealthy father. Once Dorothy encounters Leeland, the grand duke is only a memory. Complications arise with the appearance of Leeland’s ex-lover (Myrna Loy in a minor role). Since this is a Frederick Lonsdale story, the right couples pair off at the end. All that is lacking is a summary curtain line, Lonsdale’s specialty. But then, the playwright only supplied the plot, not the script.
Elegantly gowned, Loretta acted with an effervescence that at times threatened to bubble over. But what really detracted from her performance was her smile: She seemed to be smiling with her teeth. Part of the problem was lipstick that extended her lips, instead of just coloring them. Loretta was not meant for elongated lips. In time, she learned to apply lipstick—or insist that it be applied—more subtly and to smile more naturally. But any teenager who goes from film to film (Loretta had seven films in release in 1929, eight in 1930) is bound to encounter a road block, sending her on a detour until she could get back on the main road in a more suitable vehicle. The Devil to Pay was her detour. Goldwyn disliked it. But even though the film was not a success, Loretta emerged unscathed. Who would quibble about the performance of a seventeen-year-old with the face of an angel and the form of a wood nymph?
Beau Ideal (RKO, 1931) fared better as Beau Geste (Paramount 1939). Loretta was only in the film because she was on loan to RKO. At eighteen, she was unable to express the emotional state of a young woman whose lover is imprisoned in a North African cistern where inmates either die or slit their wrists—details that she (but not the audience) is spared. Her inability to connect with the character is the result of the male-centered script, which details the deliriously implausible story of a man who enlists in the French Foreign Legion to rescue his boyhood friend. The plot is so tightly knotted that the unraveling requires an even greater suspension of disbelief than the entwining. The rescue mission is accomplished, thanks to an Arab woman determined to leave the desert and move on to Paris! Loretta is wasted as the object of both men’s affections. She tended to resort to silent screen acting whenever she was saddled with a part to which she could not relate: face averted to suggest reluctance, hand against brow to indicate grief/dismay/despair, and a voice so hysterical that the dialogue was inaudible, perhaps because it was not worth hearing. The problem may also have been her director, Herbert Brenon; this was the second, and last, time she would be working with the chair-thrower. Brenon started in the silents in 1912, winning an Oscar nomination for Laugh, Clown, Laugh. He was less successful in the sound era, and although he lived until 1958, his film career ended in 1940. He may well have coached Loretta in the only brand of emotional expression that he understood. Fortunately, Loretta only had a few scenes in Beau Ideal, which was not her finest hour—or anyone else’s.
No one who makes eight movies in one year, as Loretta did in 1931, can expect an octet of winners. The nadir was the provocatively titled I Like Your Nerve, intended as a showcase for Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. Fairbanks’s name appears above the title, with Loretta’s heading the supporting cast as the stepdaughter of the finance minister of an unnamed Latin American country who attracts the fancy of an American playboy (Fairbanks). His attempts to liberate her from an arranged marriage strain credibility to the breaking point, as the narrative keeps sagging like a rotting tennis net until it collapses in tatters. Except for the playboy’s blazer, white pants, and sexy smile, it is hard to know what Loretta’s character saw in him. Orry-Kelly, who usually knew how to dress Loretta, designed a wardrobe that may have been chic, but which was more suited to a runway model than a convent-educated virgin, who should have been dressed demurely in a plain skirt and high-necked white blouse set off by a cross. Instead, Loretta looked like a budding fashionista. Even her makeup was ill conceived. If the film were in color, her lips would have photographed as lush red. Her eyes were dramatically lined and her lids visibly shadowed, her hair looking more sprayed than combed. As a contract player, Loretta had no choice but to take the role. After all, that was her job.
“Whoever breaks the Divine Law forfeits the right of way,” warns the opening title of The Right of Way (1931). The film proves its thesis indirectly. Charles “Beauty” Steele (Conrad Nagel, sounding as effete as Clifton Webb in his heyday), is a cocky lawyer who prides himself on being a showman in the courts. Steele is mired in a loveless marriage and saddled with a debt- ridden brother-in-law, who has stolen money from a trust fund. Attempting to regain the money, Steele is attacked by thugs and tossed into the river, from which he is rescued by a man he has successfully defended. Now an amnesiac, Steele is nursed by a postmistress (Loretta). The inevitable happens: They fall in love, his memory returns—and Steele ends up getting shot by his brother-in-law, who in those pre-code days, when social and sexual mores were loosely enforced, gets away with it. Nagel has a great death scene, envisioning the angel of death dressed in white, whom he asks: “Have we been properly introduced?” Eyes close, hand goes limp, Loretta tears up. Fade Out.
The Right of Way jacks the Enoch Arden story up a notch, asking what might have happened if Enoch had developed amnesia, found his perfect mate, and been murdered. The film is quite the opposite of Tennyson’s poem, in which Enoch’s wife, Annie Lee, believing him dead, remarries. Upon his return, Enoch takes a last look through the window of her new home, disappears into the night, then tells his tragic story to a tavern owner’s widow, and subsequently dies. Nagel overacted at times. Loretta, to her credit, seemed to believe in the script’s creaky contrivances. She was effective, even convincing, although the film was not.
CHAPTER 4
Sacrificial Wives, Shop Girls, and Proud Proletarians
Ever sinc
e 1906, when the first nickelodeons made their appearance, exhibitors had looked for ways to lure women to their theaters. Initially, these were converted storefronts, which were stuffy and often uncomfortable—particularly those in working class and immigrant neighborhoods. In time, the nickelodeons improved and looked more like typical movie theaters, but they were never on the order of the movie palaces. While the theaters had no problem attracting children, who at least in 1907 comprised a third of the audience, women tended to avoid them, particularly because they seemed disreputable. Once exhibitors realized that female patronage could give their theaters respectability, they wooed these patrons outrageously: A Boston nickelodeon began “offering free admission … to women for prenoon shows.” Other exhibitors offered women and children half-price admission, a policy that soon became widespread. Throughout the 1930s and 1940s, “dish night” was common in neighborhood theaters; included in the price of admission was a piece of dinnerware—a plate, a cup, a saucer, a gravy boat, a dessert dish. Today, these pieces are antiques, labeled “Depression dishware” and priced accordingly.
With the appearance in 1912 of Photoplay, the most popular of the fan magazines, women could enter the magical world of Hollywood. They could read about the stars’ favorite recipes, beauty creams, complexion soaps, shampoos, face powders, and lipsticks. They could see pictures of their palatial homes and of the stars themselves dressed informally. Twenty-five cents could get a fan a copy of the February 1939 Photoplay with a picture of Claudette Colbert on the cover. Inside, there was something for everyone, including stories about the plight of young women trying to succeed in the movie business, typified by Myrna Loy’s tough climb to the top. The issue was well worth a quarter: There was the latest gossip; a preview of spring fashions; candid shots of the stars at a rodeo, playing golf and tennis, and doing calisthenics. Naifs might have assumed that movie people were just plain folks at heart. Others knew better, but that did not stop them from plunking down their quarter.
As the number of female patrons increased, the industry gave them their own genre, the woman’s picture—sometimes termed the “three-hankie movie” or “weepie,” because they feature women suffering nobly at the hands of nature (consumption in Camille, a malignant brain tumor in Dark Victory), men (Rain, Autumn Leaves, in which Cliff Robertson threw a typewriter at a crouching Joan Crawford), a parent (Now, Voyager), or a teacher (The Seventh Veil). Eventually, a gallery of female character types emerged, and they were not just limited to the woman’s picture but transferred easily to other genres. These character types included the virgin (Lillian Gish, Mary Pickford, Doris Day) and the whore (euphemistically called the “hostess,” like Bette Davis in Marked Woman and Donna Reed in From Here to Eternity). But even “the whore” was not a monolithic category: Sometimes she went from sinner to saint and back again (Joan Crawford in Rain); sometimes from saint to sinner (Vivien Leigh in Waterloo Bridge). There was also the “tart,” a cute and perky hooker (Shirley MacLaine in Irma La Douce); the high maintenance call girl (Elizabeth Taylor in Butterfield 8); the noble whore (Claire Trevor in Stagecoach, who helps deliver the baby of a “respectable” woman who otherwise might have died in childbirth); vamps (Theda Bara, Pola Negri); and sex symbols (Jean Harlow, Rita Hayworth, Marilyn Monroe). “Working girls,” sometimes called shop girls or department/dime store heroines, were a diverse lot of hoofers (Ruby Keeler in 42nd Street), secretaries (Jean Arthur in Easy Living), servers (Linda Darnell in Fallen Angel), and salespersons (Ginger Rogers in Kitty Foyle).
Equally significant is the sheer number of films produced during Hollywood’s Golden Age (again, not just woman’s films) that featured women in a wide range of professions: restaurant chain owner (Mildred Pierce), magazine editor (Lady in the Dark), journalist (His Girl Friday), aviator (Christopher Strong), concert pianist (September Affair), opera singer (One Night of Love), stage actress (Stage Door), movie star (A Star Is Born), ballet dancer (The Red Shoes), commercial artist (Laura), high school teacher (Cheers for Miss Bishop), college professor (The Accused), college dean (Woman of Distinction), dress designer (Daisy Kenyon), novelist (Old Acquaintance), poet (Winter Meeting), playwright (Sudden Fear), lawyer (Adam’s Rib), scientist (Madame Curie), athlete (Pat and Mike), physician (The Girl in White).
Loretta played many of these types, although she was never identified with the woman’s film, as were Greta Garbo, Joan Crawford, Bette Davis, and Barbara Stanwyck. Yet, like many actresses in the 1930s and even 1940s, she made a significant number of women’s films, two of which have achieved classic status, Man’s Castle and Midnight Mary, and one that should have, Life Begins. The significance of the others lies in the mixed messages they sent to women.
Big Business Girl (1931) could have jump-started the woman’s movement, particularly after the Constitution was amended in 1920 to grant women the long overdue right to vote. The problem was the denouement, which was another indication of Hollywood’s refusal to allow women the related right to choose a career over marriage and explain to a potential mate that she intends to balance both. A woman’s only other option was to chant the “woman’s place is in the home” mantra, from which Hollywood rarely deviated. Loretta’s character, a college graduate, marries a bandleader who goes off to play gigs in Paris while she heads to New York to become a copywriter. She is an instant success, adored by her womanizing boss, who guarantees her access to the executive suite—a rarity in 1930s Hollywood movies where such an elevation was usually contingent upon a woman comprising her virtue. When the husband comes back, the boss sets him up with a hooker (a charmingly brash Joan Blondell) to establish grounds for alimony. But, always faithful to her marriage vows, the wife saves the day and returns to hubby. If women in the 1930s wanted to believe that marriage was preferable to a career, even though they may be superior to their washed out husbands, Big Business Girl vindicated their desire. Land a husband and see if he will allow you to pursue a career. Otherwise, resign yourself to shuttling between the bedroom, the kitchen, and the nursery.
Loretta was equally convincing as a member of the working class. It was as if she had been whisked from behind the counter and plopped down in front of the camera. You could actually believe that if Loretta waited on you, you would not have to return the merchandise. She played such a character in the deceptively titled Play Girl (1932), looking as if she came straight out of sales. A compulsive gambler (Norman Foster, later to become her brother-in-law) woos and wins her, convincing her that he has a steady job, when he is squandering their money on poker. After becoming pregnant, she learns the truth and demands that he leave. But he returns, repents, and promises to get a job, now that baby makes three.
When Loretta expressed anger and disillusionment, she looked like any woman who discovered that she had been deceived. She delivered her lines with such bitterness that they had a poignant rhythm, each syllable colored with the right emotion. She was an angry shop girl and pregnant wife, whose tolerance had been exhausted. Despite the reconciliation, her character has gone through a cycle of suffering that many women could not have endured. Yet Loretta created a woman of such resilience that audiences knew that, even with her husband’s return, she could survive what lay ahead.
There is a line in Play Girl that, in retrospect, is prophetic. When Norman Foster proves to be a less than satisfactory lover, Loretta tries to activate his libido: “Come on, Gable, get hot.” Little did she know that Gable would “get hot” three years later, and that she would find herself in the same situation as her character.
Play Girl’s message was echoed throughout the period: If you land a better job than your husband, give it up if you want to keep him. Or, as the mother of Lola (Loretta) puts it in Weekend Marriage (1932), “the man you love is worth all the jobs in the world.” The title, Weekend Marriage, was titillating but misleading. Loretta was again paired with Norman Foster. They marry, and when she has the opportunity to run her company’s St. Louis office, he turns to drink and develops pneumonia. Lola flie
s back to New York, only to hear her doctor denounce her as a “modern woman.” Again, the audience is expected to overlook the husband’s inadequacies, ignoring the fact that his wife gets promoted while he loses jobs. Loretta played the final scene as if she believed Lola had made the right choice: Return to your husband and don’t rub his nose in his failures. That may have been fine for Lola, but as an actress, Loretta had to breathe credibility into a script that discredited wives who succeeded while their husbands failed. Loretta was not Lola, yet she was so convincing that it seemed she would make the same sacrifice in real life. A script is a script, however unenlightened. Weekend Marriage was one of six films she made in 1932. She was expected to make Lola believable, and she did. She had a career to pursue and a mansion to maintain.
They Call It Sin (1932) revealed Loretta’s burgeoning ability to balance the extremes of the conventional rich boy/poor girl plot with the excesses of lurid melodrama. She was again directed by Thornton Free-land (Weekend Marriage), who this time realized that hers was a face and a figure to which painterly lighting and flattering camera angles could impart an otherworldly beauty. Loretta was now a blonde, back lit so that her hair seemed glazed with silver, and front lit so that her face was translucent. She wore long billowy dresses that ran down her body, curving around the hips and spilling down to her ankles.
A rising executive (David Manners), sent by his prospective father-in-law to check out the Kansas territory, drops in at a church service, where he is immediately attracted to Marion, the organist (Loretta). He even promises that if she is serious about a musical career, she should contact him in New York. That is all Marion has to hear. She takes off for New York, where she discovers that Manners wants the best of both worlds: Marion and his affluent fiancée. When Manners discovers that a predatory producer (Louis Calhern) has hired Marion as a rehearsal pianist, he turns moralist and, along with his doctor-friend (the always reliable George Brent), decides to enlighten her about the producer’s intentions (which are strictly dishonorable). By this time Marion has undergone a further transformation. Chicly dressed and brandishing a cigarette holder while sipping champagne, she is now a woman of the world—until the patriarchs sabotage her relationship with the producer, who retaliates by firing her and appropriating the music she has written. When Manners accuses the producer of theft, an argument ensues on the penthouse terrace resulting the producer toppling over the railing
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