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Hooray for Hollywood?

The ‘Live Your Truth’ pioneer has burnt her bridges. What now? / Maisie in Hollywood / Part Seven

Read Part Six — The Gypsy Joyride Had To End, It Couldn’t Go Forever — here

When talkies came in she was in demand, but by the mid-thirties she was considered past her shelf-life, even for the character she generally played, a society matron. As her film career wound down, she drew on the contacts she’d forged in her decade on sets to gather and verify information which she fed to established gossipmongers, getting paid per item that made it into print. That day-late-dollar-short existence drove her, eventually, to peddle her scoops to publications directly.

She wrote as Elda Furry to avoid infuriating the columnists on whom she still depended, but she’d begun to sign her pieces Hedda Hopper, the name she would make world-famous. Her column Hedda Hopper’s Hollywood ran in the Los Angeles Times until her death in 1966. How’d she get from Elda Furry to Hedda Hopper? I’ve told the story elsewhere. For those who missed it, I’ll tell it again.

Hedda’s birth name was Elda Furry. She began as a chorus girl on Broadway in second-rate shows. (Ziegfeld, during an audition, called her ‘a clumsy cow.’) She joined a theater company run by DeWolf Hopper, a matinee idol turned producer, and toured with it.

In 1913, she became his fifth wife. His previous wives were Ella, Ida, Edna and Nella. The similarity in names caused upsets. He sometimes called Elda by the name of one of his former wives. Consequently, Elda Hopper paid a numerologist to tell her what name she should use. Her answer was “Hedda”. Thus did Elda Furry become Hedda Hopper.

B.P. Schulberg, knowing her to be on the periphery of a group based in a bungalow on Holborn Hill Drive, promised her preferential access to Paramount’s top talent in exchange for digging up dirt on Bea Wanger and tarnishing her so badly no one would work with her under any circumstances.

The reshoot of Canary had resulted in an embarrassing mess. That, of course, was not Maisie’s fault. Louise Brooks–she’d had the title role of the canary chorus girl–had also refused to return for the redo. The larger part of the blame for a disastrous remake belonged to her.

Brooks had flown the Hollywood coop, never to return. Maisie was back in town. B.P. took his ire out on her. She and her manager must not be picked up anywhere, in any capacity, not even to sweep floors.

The intellectual aspirations of Bea’s group were Hopper’s aspirations. To be embraced by that circle would be a shot in the arm to her ambition; she was no gossip-mill-ghoul, she had a higher calling.

She was invited to dine on Holborn Hill. Bea called her. “My dear,” she said, “Bill Fields says I must meet you.”

Hopper had been issued an invite to shut Fields up, he and Maisie were long-time friends from back east. Hedda got her summons, was graciously entertained on several occasions, then given a brush off. Hedda’s resentment of well-meant advice (in regard to her literary endeavors) alienated the community of serious strivers. Hedda was pushed out, over Bea’s objections.

She’d been well thought of on Broadway, at the center of the social swirl there. The New York intelligentsia, artists, writers, old money, new money, all folks who’d made their mark in the world, she’d been deemed fine company by all of them. On Holborn Hill, she’d been scorned. By a pack of nobodies! She was pissed.

The Friends of the House (the term applied to those who made themselves to home on Holborn Hill on a regular basis) were, by and large, smart-alecks.

Eager-beaver infants (they made her feel so damn old) tend to be dismissive of widely accepted mores. Dalton Trumbo and his cohorts sized the newcomer up immediately. She was a rigid thinker, a supporter of the status quo, desiring only that her position in the world be considerably cozier.

Her distaste for those she viewed as rabble-rousers was evident. Her wise-cracking dinner companions took turns voicing their extreme opinions, to her clear discomfort. Bea tried to shut that down, to no avail. They knew she was enjoying it.

“These boys,” Bea told Hedda as she walked her out the door, “this is how they treat anyone who aspires to write. This was an initiation rite, don’t take it to heart. They are already treating you as an equal. You may congratulate yourself on making an excellent first impression.

“Come again, bring a piece you’ve written, and they’ll evaluate it and offer their best advice. Be ready to have your thinking questioned on every level. These whiz-kids know their stuff. They are as rough on me, I promise you. Show these pecker-heads you can take it and they’ll respect you. Honey! They’re sweethearts really, this is your trial by fire. Don’t give these hooligans the satisfaction of being able to hoot every time your name is mentioned.

“Look, we have a rollicking time every Thursday night, a merry meal, followed by three thirty-minute slots to present a piece of work. I’m signing you up for a week from Thursday. Come back for it. Show these jokers what you’re made of.”

Hedda did go back, with something she hadn’t dared to show to anyone. In the Hollywood pond she swam in, the effort would have been praised to her face, then, behind her back, savaged. This crew would give it to her straight, and keep their mouths shut about it. Bea would see to that.

She’d sauntered through life, a so-so wife, dancer, actress. Her success as a gossip-specialist was still mighty iffy. Twenty years earlier she’d gotten herself out of Podunk, Pennsylvania. It was time to reinvent herself again. She yearned to do something important with the time remaining to her, to be more than a footnote in Hollywood history.

Half the people in Hollywood are either working on a screenplay, or thinking about it. Walk up to anyone at a party, ask, how’s it going with the script?, you’ll be repaid with annoyed looks, or you’ll have your ear talked off.

Hedda had seen as broad a slice of life as anyone could boast of, from rag-tag road-shows to the glitter of the Great White Way to the grandest balls the Manhattan elites could throw together. She’d write about her true-life experiences, quietly, telling no one. She‘d been a failed chorus girl, then a failed actress. She didn’t want to become known as a failed screenwriter too. She’d spring it on the world when her photo-play was as good as it could be. She’d hoped to ingratiate with the writer community on Holborn Hill, and learn from them.

She paid the bills any way she could. She appeared in plays, and taught English to newly arrived European actors. She took a run at selling real estate. She failed spectacularly as an actor’s agent. The divorced single mom was living in a three room basement apartment in Glendale.

Schulberg made his offer. Hedda grabbed it. A two-fer! Payback–to destroy Maisie as a box-office phenomenon for good and all (Walter was shopping the has-been mouse around to minor studios) would be to deny Bea those healthy paychecks–and to make a friend of the head of Paramount could not fail to be a powerful boost in her latest line of work.

She began a campaign attacking the still-beloved-by-moviegoers imp:

America’s Sweetheart, owning the hearts of America’s Precious Children, is touting a nicotine habit to our kids. That’s what it amounts to. She smoked her head off in ‘The Letter’. It was a savage spoof meant to take Swanson down a peg, but our babies, loving Mulot from the kiddie-shorts, demanded to see it.

From there, she was cast in ‘Partners in Crime’ as a cigarette seller. I admit it, it was cute. Then genius promoters marched her out in her ciggy-gal outfit at press events, had her offer candy smokes to gullible infants, flogging the filthy habit to five-year-olds.

Scuttlebutt, dear hearts, is she’d been written into ‘The Canary Murder Case’, as another ciggy-gal. They knew a good thing, why monkey with it? Her golden scenes were tossed for her refusal to play ball on publicity. But for that, Peachy would have had another chance to dazzle our small-fry with her disagreeable antics.

Parents, it’s time to put your foot down. She’s out at Paramount. If another studio lays claim to her, give them the cold shoulder. She cannot continue to charm our vulnerable youngsters with her ugly behavior.

Her handler, a generous income lost, is going to make a buck off her any way she can. This Peachy, what will she be put to selling next? Peach schnapps? A natural, right? Yum! Tastes like sody-pop! She’ll be photographed brandishing a just-her-size-adorable tiny bottle. Fits into a lunch box! Playground entrepreneurs will add it to their array of seductives. I shudder to think where it may end.

It was nonsense, of course, a rabbit of a scandal, pulled out of her soon-to-be famous hat, but that’s the kind of scandal Hopper excelled at. For a considerable period, she was the most hated–and feared–woman in Hollywood.

Maisie’s wholesome image was her stock in trade. In the eyes of the nation, she was Cracker-Jacks, Babe Ruth, and banana-split sundaes rolled into one. Hopper pounded away at her week after week, turning her into a threat to the Mom-and-Apple-Pie, American-Way-of Life.

Bea instructed Walter to drop his promotion of them. They’d hold off, wait to see how the public reacted to Hopper’s bad-mouthing. In the meantime, they had another possibility they wanted to explore.

She could return to Broadway, but that possibility didn’t thrill her. Pabst loved her, he’d whip up something for her. But that political situation over there? No thanks. What else? She could write. She would write.

“Girl,” she told Bea . . . “Us gonna be screenwriters, honeybun, that’s our new racket. The clunkers made, we can do way better. Dumbo will advise us, he’s got a handle on it. He’s landed a job in the story department at Warner. He’s got a foot in the door.”

Her stars were aligned. William Powell had just moved from Paramount to Warner Brothers. When Maisie made up her mind to do something, you got on board, or got out of her way. Or got run over.

William Powell wasn’t the best looking man in Hollywood, but he had style. On the sets, between scenes, she would sit on his lap and sing, “I love him . . . because . . . I don’t know . . . because he’s just my Bill. Not that he made out words, but he picked up a tune. He responded first with disbelief (was it all in his head?), then confusion, eventually–whatever–acceptance.

He was not the celebrated leading man he would become. He was assigned to, programers, they were called, films that turned a profit but set no one on fire.

“Nobody but nobody,” Maisie complained to Bea, “gets what’s special about him. Sure, he’s a bit bug-eyed. But he’s a charmer. In the right project, he will shine. I’m going to write him the right project. We’re going to write it. You’re no slouch in the come-back department. We’re his ticket to better and he’s ours.

“He’s been in a run of murder mysteries, as a gentleman detective–they got that much right. Canary, a clunker. Greene, another. How hard can it be to construct a smart murder mystery? Let’s put our thinking-caps on. We’ve got this marvelous library here. A whole shelf on poisons. What’s that about?”

Holborn was a de facto clubhouse, with a lovely sunroom, a patio, and small pool, the necessities of film-colony existence, not grand, but more than adequate. It was a very pleasant place to be.

“Those books are not mine,” said Bea, “Our friends, practically living here, have ganged their research material, share and share alike in these tough times the way to go. Their books parked chez moi, it’s an excuse to make Holborn Hill their office, arriving in time for lunch, remaining for dinner, and never a lock on the liquor cabinet. I don’t mind in the least. I want that to continue. We’re a lifeline. Case in point, our sweet Dumbo. Christ! You’ve got me doing it. No more Dumbo, please. Let’s call him by his proper name, shall we?”

“He’ll think I’m mad at him. I never call him Dalton.”

“I gather you mean to solicit his help with our screenplay. Listen, kid, he’s busy with his own work. As far as promoting us at Warner, he’s a peon, he has no pull. If he did, he’d have sold something of his own.”

“He’s getting there. It’s coming.”

“Dalton Trumbo is Plan A. What’s Plan B? You always have a Plan B.”

“Ya, Plan B is Billzie. He’ll get it made for us. We won’t slap my name on it, for obvious reasons. It’s your baby. Dalton will see it gets to Billzie, and give it a plug. He’s had stuff published, his opinion counts. Bill knows you. He’ll read it, out of courtesy. There are directors who think a lot of him. He’s never gotten a bad notice , that I know of. He’s frequently cited the bright spot in a dud production. If Bill likes our script, there’s a good chance he can put it over for us.”

“We have several screenwriters dug in here. Let’s get them on it. Here’s the way they repay our hospitality.”

“Ya! We set up a weekly workshop, read out our latest brain-farts, and ask for comments.”

“You ever been in a writer workshop? I wrote a novel once. Thought I was the next Elinor Glyn. Got disabused of that notion real fast. A workshop can be brutal.”

“Brutal is good. The betterment of the piece, that’s what matters. Not our silly egos, for God’s sake.”

“We may have another problem. It has been said, Too Many Cooks Spoil The Broth.”

Maisie grinned. “You know me, I take a position, I defend it vigorously. Mama always said I was the worst stubborn-as-a-mule brat she ever borned, and that’s saying something, what with all the litters she squeezed out.”

Bea rolled her eyes.

Coming Next: Maisie in Hollywood / Part Eight / Ready to Rumba. Read it here

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