Budd Schulberg - Moving Pictures: Memories of a Hollywood Prince

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Moving Pictures

Memories of a Hollywood Prince

Budd Schulberg

For Ad and B. P., my parents

motion-picture pioneers

and for Sonya and Stuart,

with love

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Ad Schulberg, and B. P. Schulberg, circa 1928

Edwin S. Porter, the director of The Great Train Robbery, with an early version of the film projector

Pat Powers, Adolf Zukor, Mrs. Zukor, Al Kaufman, and B. P. Schulberg, in front of the Santa Fe Chief

Ad, B.P., and Joe Roche

Jerry Mayer and B. P. Schulberg patting the head of a lion badly in need of a hairdresser

The Schulberg library

Jackie Coogans birthday party, with Marjorie Lesser, Julian Buddy Lesser, Budd Schulberg, and Sonya Schulberg

B. P. Schulberg, Ad, and baby Budd

Leon Errol, Al Kaufman, Buddy Rogers, Jack Okie, Jessie Lasky, B. P. Schulberg, Clive Brook, Ruth Chatterton, a mystery couple, Eddie Goulding, Harry Green, and Mike Levee

The Mayer-Schulberg studio north of downtown Los Angeles

B. P. Schulberg and Ad, circa 1927, on a trip through the Panama Canal

Margaret LeVino, Ad, Robert Z. Leonard, Judge Ben Lindsey, Marion Davies, and Harry Rapf on a Hollywood Moorish patio

Ad and her three children, Budd, Sonya, and Stuart, circa 1928

Ad on the Schulberg tennis court, circa 1928

Elinor Glyn, 1928

Budd Schulberg, age 8

Star William Gargan in Living on Love; the clipped corner indicates this still was killed by the Hays office because of this nudity

On the set of The Spoilers: Budd Schulberg, Marian Shauer, John Cromwell, Mel Shauer, Sonya Schulberg, Stuart, B.P., Ad, and Sam

The three Schulberg children, circa 1929

A rare photo of the entire Schulberg family

A letter to Budd from Clarence Darrow

The L.A. high school tennis team, 1931

Budd Schulberg after he won the Malibu Beach Tennis Tournament from Irwin Gelsey

Sylvia Sidney and Cary Grant in Thirty Day Prisoners

B. P. Schulberg and Sylvia Sidney, circa 1932

Mrs. Eddie Goulding, British writer-director Eddie Goulding, and Ad, in St. Moritz, 1932

The 1930 wedding of two of Hollywoods noble families: the Mayers and the Selznicks

Budd Schulberg at about the time he left for Dartmouth

I GENESIS

1

BETWEEN ME AND my childhood is a wall. I struggle with some half-remembered incident, and it is like a loose stone in the wall. The loose stone may be a chance word or a dimly remembered face, the faintest fragment of a memory. I work at that fragment with the fingers of my mind, until I am able to pull it out and hold it in my hands. Now it is a little easier to loosen another stone, and another, until I have made a hole large enough to crawl through. On one side of the wall is a man in his sixties who has seen almost everythingmarvelous days when life cries out Yes Yes Yes! with Molly Bloom, and days so dark that I begin to question Faulkners Nobel confidence that man will endure. On the other side of the wall is the infant who has seen almost nothing except fingers and toes and the dim boundaries of an airless room.

To tell my story from the point of view of the infant who becomes the child, the youth, and the adult is to employ a familiar literary device but one that has never seemed altogether scrupulous to me. But to write it from the hindsight, the so-called wisdom which is really that of the navigator making corrections for errors, is equally unsatisfactory. The one-year-old lives on in the man of sixty-odd and the sixty-odd was there in the frightened one-year-old who didnt know where he was or why he was; the mind is the same one, merely battered, challenged, and improved. This is not the complete story, the accurate replay, this is only what the one-year-old, and all the progressive years that inhabited the body identified as budd schulberg, have been able to piece together. I am my own team of archeologists digging down in time, and the memories are scattered shards, a haphazard collection until they are assembled. If sometimes the four-year-old thinks or talks like a man of sixty, or the sexagenarian sounds more like a child of four, you may charge that to the inevitable failures in the methods of personal archeology. Or to the failure of this sort of dichotomous collaboration.

So I invite you to follow me through the wall. Peer into the door of the splendid New York apartment house on 120th Street, facing Mt. Morris Park, where I opened my eyes for the first time. I was in a small, Victorian-cluttered bedroom of a three-room apartment off Fifth Avenue in a comfortable middle-class section of upper Manhattan called Harlem. The young Jewish doctor who lived in the building handed me to my mother, Adeline. Barely out of her teens, weighing only ninety pounds, she was frail, sensitive, and pretty in that wistful Mary Pickford-Lillian Gish way that was the style before the flappers displaced them in the Twenties. Young Adeline had been carried across the ocean in her mothers arms, the Jaffe family on the run from the Cossacks who terrorized their native Dvinsk, the lowly village-sister of Minsk and Pinsk that was in Poland or Sweden or Germany or Russia as the tides of history changed the flags but not the bottom-dog status of the Jews in the ghetto near the river Dvina. Practically all Adeline could recall from that brief period was a trip to St. Petersburg with her mother Hannah, escorted by her uncle, a diamond-cutter to the Czar, one of the few Jews allowed to enter that hallowed Russian Orthodox capital. There Grandmother Hannah woke in terror. In a nightmare she had seen a plague settle over Dvinsk, killing her children. When she took the next train back she found that her dream had been a subconscious flash of reality. An epidemic had swept through the ghetto and the three children next in age to baby Adeline were dead. Hannahs best friend who lived in the adjoining cottage had lost all her children and had drowned herself in the well.

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