To Liesel and Molly
People of the same trade seldom meet together, even for merriment and diversion, but the conversation ends in a conspiracy against the public....
ADAM SMITH
Every morning, to earn my bread,
I go to the market where lies are bought.
Hopefully
I take up my place among the sellers.
BERTOLT BRECHT
It is not unusual in human beings who have witnessed the sack of a city or the falling to pieces of a people to desire to set down what they have witnessed for the benefit of unknown heirs or of generations infinitely remote; or, if you please, just to get the sight out of their heads. Someone has said that the death of a mouse from cancer is the whole sack of Rome by the Goths.
FORD MADOX FORD
Contents
* A page of photographs introduces each chapter
FOREWORD
Glen David Gold
I was born in Hollywood in 1964 at Cedars of Lebanon Hospital. Although intended for civilians, Cedars was funded by industry titans Will Rogers, Joseph Schenck, and Jack Warner back in the 1920s. Apparently my birth was made a little easier by a fund-raising campaign started by Al Jolson, who was specifically interested in expanding the maternity ward. The man had a lifelong thing for the word mammy , it turns out.
Marilyn Monroe had her appendix out there, and soon after, the slightly spoiled patient Elizabeth Taylor ate meals sent to her from Chasens while being serenaded by violinists hired by Richard Burton.
Later, courtesy of a check from Max Factor, Cedars moved west, where it expanded to include the Burns and Allen Research Institute. My old birthplace became the Church of Scientology, the emergency entrance located on a cross street now called L. Ron Hubbard Way. See, in Hollywood, even where youre born is part of the cult of celebrity. The towns urban history is indistinguishable from the visions generated by the power of movies. I was born into City of Nets .
Little else has been written about cinema thats like Friedrichs classic book. Assured, scholarly, gossipy, omniscient, intimate, Dickens filtered through Kevin Starr, Friedrich knew exactly when to take the trivial seriously and vice versa. The narrative isnt easily described except as that Trojan horse its about Hollywood in the 1940s. Its so much more than thatits a genuine epic in the sense of its being a creation myth, with sex and violence and humor and, above all else, resonance. You cant read this book without seeing the hidden rooms of the 1940s that gave us the culture we have today, Cedars of Lebanon included.
I cannot wait for you to read about Brecht writing musicals for M-G-M. Or the tragedy of Gene Tierney and the Hollywood Canteen. Or Jack Warner collecting for the United Jewish Appeal with a rubber truncheon. Those are little moments in a much larger opera about the strange relationships among reality and art and desire and fear. In these pages I learned that America became America because Hollywood led it to its future, taking its hand in the dark, the smell of popcorn in the air, palm trees fifty feet tall on the screen, the promise of a pretty girls kiss yet to come, all seduction and all as real as light penetrating celluloid.
But thats big-screen stuff. Now, as movies are once again under siege, this time not from television but from what were now calling digital media, we can turn to Friedrich to help us figure out whats nextno doubt something transformative and greedy and hilarious and strange. We know the past isnt dead. But thanks to City of Nets , Ronald Reagan is eternally bedridden and delirious before a grim Knute Rockne, Sunset Boulevard is always a grimy thrill, and the fire just about to consume the city, the match thats been waiting to ignite since Nathanael West struck the tinder in 1939, is still waiting for the perfect light.
Glen David Gold is the author of the novels Sunnyside and Carter Beats the Devil .
I n 1939, the year of Gone With the Wind , of Ninotchka , of Wuthering Heights and The Wizard of Oz , the leading moviemakers of Hollywood could with some justification regard themselves as conquering heroes. The assorted film studios, which really produced nothing but a series of flickering images, had by now become the nations eleventh-largest industry. They created some four hundred new movies every year, attracted more than fifty million Americans to the theater every week, and grossed nearly $700 million annually. Just a decade later, Hollywood was in a shambles, its biggest studios losing money, its celebrities embroiled in charges of Communist influence, its audiences turning to television. And a community that had once taken in newcomers as diverse as William Faulkner, Alfred Hitchcock, and Thomas Mann now drove away anyone who disturbed its conventions or aroused its fearsaway with Charlie Chaplin, Ingrid Bergman, Orson Welles.
This is the story, then, of a great empire built out of dreams of glamour, dreams of beauty, wealth, and success, and of that empires sudden decline and fall. It is a social and cultural history of Hollywood during the decade of upheaval from the start of World War II to the start of the Korean War. Some marvelous movies were created during these years: Citizen Kane , for example, The Maltese Falcon, Double Indemnity, All About Eve. And not only movies; Manns Doctor Faustus was written here, and so was Brechts Galileo , Stravinskys Rakes Progress. And then, scarcely ten years after David Selznick had triumphantly opened Gone With the Wind , he was walking along a deserted street at dawn and saying to a companion, Hollywoods like Egypt. Full of crumbling pyramids. Itll never come back. Itll just keep on crumbling until finally the wind blows the last studio prop across the sands.
Hollywood has survived, of course, but everything has changed since the decay of the great studios. Filmmaking is taught in universities now, and the white-haired survivors of the golden age are cajoled into telling their stories to young interviewers with tape recorders. Is this book then just another exercise in nostalgia? No, I would like to try something quite different, starting with an unorthodox new rule: No more interviews. Surely there is no one of any importance in Hollywood, dead or alive, who has not been interrogated over and over again. And in no other field of history, not in Hitlers Berlin or in Roosevelts Washington, have so many interviews grown into so many ghost-written autobiographies. These works include not only major figures like Chaplin or DeMille but even such ephemeral talents as Jackie Cooper and Veronica Lake. In other casesBarbara Leamings Orson Welles, for example, or Mel Gussows life of Darryl F. Zanucka favored biographer has been granted such extensive interviews that the result is just as authoritative, for better or for worse, as an autobiography. All in all, just about everybody has spoken.
What is needed now, I think, is not more tape-recorded interrogations but rather a new effort to synthesize what has already been said, to combine, to interpret, to analyze, to understand. I have read about five hundred books on Hollywood, ranging from scholarly studies of the Holocaust in films to exhaustive analyses of Raymond Chandlers screenplays to the lubricious memoirs of Hedy Lamarr, which she has formally denied writing, dictating, or confessing. The most remarkable aspect of all these books is how isolated from one another they all are.