David Bret - Jean Harlow: Tarnished Angel

Tarnished Angel

DAVID BRET

First published in 2009

by JR Books, part of Aurum Press Ltd

7477 White Lion Street, London, N1 9PF

www.aurumpress.co.uk

This eBook edition first published in 2014

Copyright 2009, 2014 David Bret

David Bret has asserted his moral right to be identified as the Author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the authors and publishers rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly

eBook conversion by Quayside Publishing Group

Digital edition: 978-1-78131-343-5
Softcover edition: 978-1-90677-934-4

This book is dedicated to Eartha Kitt and Yma Sumac and Les Enfants de Novembre.

Noublie pas la vie sans cest comme

Un jardin sans fleurs.

W riting this book would not have been possible had it not been for the inspiration, criticisms and love of that select group of individuals who, whether they be in this world or the next, I will always regard as my true family and autre coeur: Barbara, Irene Bevan, Marlene Dietrich, Ren Chevalier, Axel Dotti, Dorothy Squires and Roger Normand, que vous dormez en paix. Lucette Chevalier, Maria da F, Jacqueline Danno, Doris Day, Hlne Delavault, Tony Griffin, Betty and Grard Garmain, Annick Roux, John and Anne Taylor, Terry Sanderson, Charley Marouani, David and Sally Bolt. Also a very special mention for Amlia Rodrigues, Joey Stefano, those hiboux, fadistas and amis de foutre who happened along the way, and mes enfants perdus. Thanks too to Mikey Blatin and Theo Morgan. And where would I be without Jeremy Robson and the munificent team at JR Books? Likewise my agent Guy Rose and his lovely wife, Alex? Also to my wife, Jeanne, for putting up with my bad moods and for still being the keeper of my soul.

And finally a grand chapeau bas to Jean Harlow, for having lived.

David Bret

H er lodestar was extinguished no sooner than it had ascended, yet her legacy has endured for more than 70 years. On the screen she epitomised the fun-loving, wise-cracking trollop. She was the original tart with the heart who drove men wild, and made wives jealous of their husbands thoughtsbut unlike contemporaries such as Mae West, she conducted herself on and off the screen with such coarse innocence that rarely caused offence save to the stuffy National League of Decency and the Hays Office, in whose Black Book virtually every Hollywood star eventually ended up, therefore minimalising the power of these moral fools. And yet away from the spotlight she was nothing like the public perceived her to be.

Throughout her short life she was cruelly manipulated by just about everyone who came into contact with her. Her megalo-maniac motherobsessed by money and the religious cult she latched on tofailed to achieve anything in life, so she set out to make life hell for those around her, most especially the daughter she always referred to, even in adulthood, as The Baby. Her father was a weak man who could not have cared lesshis one desire had been to get his troublesome wife out of his hair once and for all. Jean Harlows stepfather mixed with gangsters and low-life, and both mentally and sexually abused her while spending half of her salary on needless luxuries and a string of mistresses. Hypocritical movie moguls pretended to like her but only used her, paying her a pittance of what their other stars were earning while they were earning 10 times the amount she was for the same studio.

Considering her natural beauty and sparkling personality she could have had only the very best, yet her choice of men bordered on the amorously blind. She never showed the remotest interest in any of her handsome, matinee idol co-stars, not until William Powell came along, towards the end of her lifeand only then because he slotted into the sophisticated older-man category she had become obsessed with, while searching for a father figure to offer her the spiritual comfort she had missed out on as a child.

When her first husband announced that he wanted her to settle down and have a family, her stepfather menaced him into granting her a divorce she did not want, and forced her to have the first of several abortions. His successor, a man who beat her mercilessly and almost certainly contributed to her death, was more than twice her age and subjected her to one of the messiest scandals in Hollywood history, a mystery which has never been properly solved to this day. Her third husband, also many years her senior, failed to keep up with the pace of being mere Mr Harlow. Between these spouses were mobster, bootlegger and drug-dealer lovers, a gay journalist who took her most closely guarded secrets to the grave, and the actor William Powell, who almost married her, unceremoniously dumped her, then came back to fork out $25,000an enormous sum at the timefor her tomb.

Jean Harlow was an enigma, the original Blonde Bombshell, completely uninhibited. She made no secret of the fact that she never wore underwear, bleached her pubic hair to match that on her headand was never afraid of showing this to journalists, if they asked. She answered the door to her dressing room in the nude, with such a lack of exhibitionism that most visitors did not blink. Most people thought her fearless, yet deep inside she was little more than a timid, confused child. Her first few films were nothing short of appalling because she was typecast as the heartless slut who uses men, and pays the price. Then all of a sudden her career spiralled when, having been given roles to suit her innate screwball talents, MGM realised that they had struck goldnot that this made the studio treat her with even a fraction of the respect she deserved.

Jean Harlow was the original monstre sacr. This is her story.

She filled the eye and imagination with the impact of her looks and personality. I never saw a star with more personal magnetism. Her stardom was of the immediate moment of her presence, of stunning good looks, of unbounded vitality which needed no grafted additions or embellishment.

Jesse Lasky Jr

S he was born a little before 8pm on 3 March 1911, at 3344 Olive Street, in one of Kansas Citys more opulent districts. Her mother was a handsome, 22-year-old society climber born Jean Harlow, who always insisted on being called Mama Jeanand who in most contemporary reports was noted as having wildly eccentric behaviour. Her father was Montclair Carpenter, who practised at the local dental college.

Later in life, the Jean Harlow everyone knew and loved would apply the dictum, Fuck em and forget em, to most of the men in her life. It was a trait she inherited from a hard-edged mother whose morals left much to be desired. And just as the future Jean Harlow would spend much of her life under her mothers thumb, so Mama Jean lived in fear of her staunch Presbyterian father, Samuel, a wealthy property developer, largely because he was the one financing her schemes and foibles.