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* T A Y L O R O L O G Y *
* A Continuing Exploration of the Life and Death of William Desmond Taylor *
* *
* Issue 28 -- April 1995 Editor: Bruce Long bruce@asu.edu *
* TAYLOROLOGY may be freely distributed *
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CONTENTS OF THIS ISSUE:
Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle
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What is TAYLOROLOGY?
TAYLOROLOGY is a newsletter focusing on the life and death of William Desmond
Taylor, a top Paramount film director in early Hollywood who was shot to
death on February 1, 1922. His unsolved murder was one of Hollywood's major
scandals. This newsletter will deal with: (a) The facts of Taylor's life;
(b) The facts and rumors of Taylor's murder; (c) The impact of the Taylor
murder on Hollywood and the nation; (d) Taylor's associates and the Hollywood
silent film industry in which Taylor worked. Primary emphasis will be given
toward reprinting, referencing and analyzing source material, and sifting it
for accuracy.
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As mentioned in TAYLOROLOGY #12, the best short recap of the Taylor case yet
published is found in the Time-Life "True Crime" series. Unfortunately, the
series has been discontinued, and is no longer available from Time-Life. But
one book dealer who still has copies for sale is Edward R. Hamilton, Falls
Village, CT 06031-5000. Ask for "UNSOLVED CRIMES: True Crime", Catalog
Number 61842X. The price is $9.95 + $3.00 shipping.
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Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle
One of the top comedy stars of the silent film era was Roscoe "Fatty"
Arbuckle. Like William Desmond Taylor, Arbuckle worked for Famous Players-
Lasky (Paramount). Arbuckle's arrest and trial on manslaughter charges in
1921 was Hollywood's first truly major scandal. Although eventually
acquitted after a third trial, Arbuckle's stellar career was finished. On
the day William Desmond Taylor was murdered, the second Arbuckle trial was in
progress.
Four substantial books have been written about Arbuckle, all of which
are useful but none are definitive. THE DAY THE LAUGHTER STOPPED and
FRAME-UP! deal mainly with the scandal and are aimed at the mass market.
Although interesting and sympathetic, those two books are not really
scholarly and are lacking references, nevertheless they should be read if you
are seeking information on the scandal and the three trials.
Two scholarly books on Arbuckle were finally published last year.
ROSCOE "FATTY" ARBUCKLE: A BIO-BIBLIOGRAPHY by Robert Young, Jr., is a
fine work, well-written and filled with references, although the 80-page
biography portion of the book is rather short. But there is a major gap in
the biography: almost all information about Arbuckle's stellar years came
from later interviews and articles. The many contemporary interviews and
at-work observations written during Arbuckle's stellar years were not even
referenced in the book's bibliography. Indeed, the magazine and newspaper
bibliography in Young's book is primarily a bibliography of the scandal which
destroyed Arbuckle's career, and of his subsequent come-back attempts--it is
not a bibliography of Arbuckle the silent comedy star. The book does contain
a very nice Filmography, Videography, and Chronology, but it's too bad that
Young didn't wait until Oderman's book was published, so Oderman's additional
information could have been incorporated into the Chronology. Young's book
does have some good nuggets of information not found in Oderman's book, and
there are a few instances where Young is more accurate than Oderman.
ROSCOE "FATTY" ARBUCKLE: A BIOGRAPHY OF THE SILENT FILM COMEDIAN, 1877-
1933 by Stuart Oderman is clearly the best book of the four as far as
information about Arbuckle's life and screen career is concerned, even though
no filmography is included. As with Young's book, there should have been
much more career information gathered from contemporary sources. The trial
coverage includes many reminiscences from Arbuckle's wife, but testimony is
primarily taken from the NEW YORK TIMES and the unverified FATTY ARBUCKLE
CASE (which Young shuns), rather than from the San Francisco newspapers or
the Yallop and Edmonds books (which were utilizing court transcripts).
Still, Oderman's book does the best job of bringing Arbuckle to life.
Those who are interested in the film career of Roscoe Arbuckle usually
want to know most about his "Comique" years--the years between 1917 and 1919:
when Arbuckle had complete creative control over his own productions, when
Buster Keaton was part of Arbuckle's comedy team, and when Arbuckle's
popularity as a comedy star was second only to Chaplin's. All four books are
lacking sufficient information on the Comique period--Oderman's book
certainly has more than the others (with over 30 pages covering the Comique
production period), but there are only about a half-dozen contemporary
sources briefly cited within those pages--the rest of the information is from
later interviews and books.
Another book on Arbuckle still needs to be written--a book dealing
primarily with Arbuckle during his years as a film star, and extensively
drawing from as many contemporary sources as possible.
Below are some press items which supply some information not mentioned
in the previous four books, and which could be used as a few starting points
for further research into the 1917-1922 period. Included is Arbuckle's own
account of the fateful events which took place on September 5, 1921. The
concluding items indicate Arbuckle's reaction to the Taylor murder.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
March 10, 1917
MOTOGRAPHY
"Fatty" in Chicago
You, if you have been reading Motography, know that some time ago the
Paramount Pictures Corporation captured Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle, erstwhile of
Keystone, and, as Joseph Hopp, president of the Chicago Exhibitors' League,
styles him, "the modern Falstaff."
On the evening of February 27 Paramount and the exhibitors of the
middle west celebrated the big comedian's new association with a banquet at
the Hotel Sheridan, Chicago. "Fatty" was there, also President Adolph Zukor,
of the Famous Players-Lasky Corporation, and other prominent personages.
About 150 people were present, including a large number of exhibitors,
exchange-men and representatives of the daily and trade press.
At the speakers' table were--from left to right in the picture--Max
Goldstine, manager Chicago Artcraft office; James Steele, treasurer
Paramount; Roscoe Arbuckle; Joseph Hoop, Adolph Zukor; Mrs. Arbuckle (Minta
Durfee, on the screen); Mrs. Alfred Hamburger; Alfred Hamburger, prominent
Chicago exhibitor; S. J. Stoughton; Paramount's new middle west
representative.
The burden of the musical words of the speakers introduced by
Toastmaster Hopp was "better, cleaner pictures." Paramount was many times
congratulated on the acquisition of so prominent and wholesome a laughmaker
as "Fatty." The latter, Mr. Zukor brought out, has not asked a big salary
but has wished to succeed or fail according to the merits of his productions
and to profit or lose in proportion. "The greatest art of all," said Mr.
Zukor, "is to make people laugh; and we didn't feel that Paramount could
furnish an absolutely complete art to the public until it had acquired the
best comedian on the screen."
The good natured "Fatty" was cheered enthusiastically when he was
introduced. Between his stories he told that he had for the past three years
produced his own comedies and that he now had an arrangement by which he
could work for himself and a great distributing company at the same time. In
mentioning the hardships of his trip from Los Angeles to New York, Fatty
stated that at one time the party had been without food for three hours.
The other speakers were James Steele of Pittsburgh, treasurer of
Paramount; Mrs. Alfred Hamburger, who made the finest speech of the evening,
urging that the new art of pictures should be free, and complimenting
Paramount on its wholesome productions; William Jefferson, husband of Vivian
Martin; Louis Anger, representing Joseph Schenck of New York; Herbert Warren;
A. Siegfried, an exhibitor of Decatur, Illinois; Louella Parsons, Chicago
Herald...
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
April 7, 1917
MOTOGRAPHY
"Fatty" Arbuckle in Statuettes
Paul Beygrau, artist, designer and sculptor whose work for the King of
England won him notice, has modeled a life-like statuette of the famous
comedian who recently joined Paramount to make for them two-reel comedies for
all exhibitors. These odd little figures are being distributed throughout
the country by Western Novelty and Doll Mfg. Co., of Seattle, Washington.
Exhibitors are planning to use them in connection with their window and lobby
displays.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
April 27, 1917
VARIETY
"Fatty" Arbuckle made a hit Sunday night as the leader of the Strand
orchestra, showing how a temperamental musician would put them through the
"Poet and Peasant" overture. He had made a little speech about himself and
his picture, and then, announcing that he was a musician "by birth," borrowed
a baton and kept the house laughing until he picked up his coat from the
floor, and leaving the music scattered all around, ducked in the darkness and
disappeared.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
May 5, 1917
MOTOGRAPHY
Big Film Ball
Almost every prominent screen actor and actress in New York was present
at the "Motion Picture Charity Ball" at Terrace Garden. The ball was given
for the benefit of the Red Cross and the charitable nature of the affair
resulted in bringing out a much larger crowd than usual...
The first part of the entertainment consisted of a concert by a
symphony orchestra of fifty pieces and led by Hugo Reisenfeld, conductor of
the Strand Theater orchestra. The patriotic airs were easily the favorites.
At ll o'clock the dancing began, followed shortly by a military drill by the
Peer Fife and Bugle Corps. The dancing then continued until promptly at 12
Roscoe Arbuckle appeared on the floor and gave the signal for the grand
march. The march was led by Mr. Arbuckle with Virginia Pearson and Earle
Williams with Leah Baird. An attempt on the part of Arbuckle to trip the
light fantastic at the close of the grand march was quelled instantly by the
other dancers.
It is estimated that there were at least five thousand people present
and these showed no disposition to leave early. Every one remained until the
end...
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
July 14, 1917
LITERARY DIGEST
"Fatty" Arbuckle Off The Screen
A popular saying has it that "nobody loves a fat man," but an older
adage declares there is an exception to every rule. In this case Roscoe
Arbuckle is the exception. His elephantine form and jolly grin appear on the
bill-boards at every movie between New York and Frisco. He has capitalized
his avoirdupois. And how much is the capital? Well, it might be better form
to wait and let him tell that himself.
Mary B. Mullett, who presents a very intimate and interesting study of
Arbuckle in the New York Sun, started to frame a question as to the financial
return on that capital of flesh, but "Fatty" promptly interrupted her,
saying:
"You're going to ask how many hundred thousand dollars a year I get out
of this business. In the first place, I don't know yet. I haven't been my
own producer, director, and general boss long enough to know whether I'm
going to make a million or ten cents. And if I did know I wouldn't tell.
"Every moving picture star on earth claims to get $10,000 a week. Some
of them do, too. But when I was on a salary I think I was the only star that
didn't shout about earning half a million a year. What's the use? If
audiences don't like you they'll think you're lying about your salary. And
if they do like you it won't be because of what you get but of what you do.
"That's the way I've always felt about it. Now that I'm working for
myself I realize that I'll earn what I'm worth, no more. I'm in the
manufacturing business and what I'm making is laughs. If you figure that
every laugh I get is worth at least a thousand dollars to me you'll
understand why I get up every morning at seven o'clock to try to be funny."
"Fatty" had been "doing" a scene for a new play, and he sighed as he
eased himself into a chair. Says the writer in The Sun:
After he sat down he achieved the apparently impossible by crossing one
leg over the other knee. And every time he got up and sat down he did it
again. Each time I saw the performance beginning I secretly bet with myself
that he couldn't make it, but I always lost.
It was an acrobatic triumph. But it was also a side-light on his
character. For if there is one thing Roscoe Arbuckle has made up his mind
about it is that he won't be the ordinary fat man. He won't sit like a fat
man. He won't dress like a fat man. And, above all, he won't depend on his
diameter and phenomenal circumference to make people laugh.
When he is out of the movies he looks like a modern Beau Brummel under
a magnifying glass. He has fifteen pairs of shoes. But he sighed again as
he declared that he works so hard he never has time to wear them. His
clothes are always immaculate. It sounds as if he gave a lot of thought to
his personal appearance. He does. But it is for just one reason.
"There's nothing in the world so repulsive," he said, "as a fat man who
isn't well dressed."
Arbuckle does not depend solely upon his flesh to be funny; in fact, he
warmly resents any intimation that he is only funny because he is fat. He
declares that he never tries to get a laugh by getting stuck in a door or
window, and as to his weight and its commercial value he says:
"If I didn't do anything but weigh 320 pounds and wear queer clothes I
might get six laughs. In a half-hour picture-play I've got to get sixty or
go out of business.
"People ask me if I ain't afraid of getting thin. Great Scott!! If I
knew how to lose 150 pounds I'd show them! I didn't choose to weigh sixteen
pounds when I was born. I weighed 180 pounds when I was only twelve years
old, but I didn't wake up in the night to tell myself how glad I was. Not on
your life! I didn't want to be fat then and I don't want to be now. And if
I couldn't be funny without being fat I'd get another job.
"If work and worry would make me thin you'd have to hunt for me with a
microscope. How long do you think it takes to make a picture that you'll
laugh at--maybe--for half an hour? It takes me a solid month, and it costs
$40,000 in cash."
Arbuckle writes his own scenarios, but, unlike the usual author, he
develops his play before he works out the scenario. Of his methods he says:
"In the first place, I make up my own plays. I don't write them.
I make them up as I go along. I have a general idea in my head when we
begin, but I don't have a written scenario or even a synopsis. I try out
every scene I can think of, working out the business by actually rehearsing
it.
"And all the time I'm rehearsing out there I'm trying to devise funny
little twists that will get a laugh. You saw an instance of it just now.
"That's the way I make a picture. By the time I'm through I have about
15,000 feet of film--and all I need is 2,000 feet. I've got to skim the
cream off that milk. I go over all the films and pick out the best scenes.
Then is the time I write the story. I make out the scenario from the scenes
I intend to use.
"In this scenario every scene is numbered. When I have it finished I
take the reels, find the scenes I want, cut them out, and put them in
numbered pigeonholes. I write the titles that connect up these scenes and
then everything is in shipshape order for making up the necessary two reels."
Arbuckle had said that he catered to the children in his business, and
in reply to a question if he were fond of them, he replied:
"I like children themselves. When I don't like them it's their parents
I dislike through them. It ain't the kids' fault when they're measly. It's
mostly their mothers that make 'em so."
Looking more than ever like a chastised cherub, Fatty sighed
prodigiously. Then his face broke into one of his beaming smiles as he said:
"I know one thing. I'd a heap rather make people laugh than make 'em
cry. It's a darned sight harder to do. Sometimes I think I've picked out
the worst job in sight. If you don't believe me, try to be funny for thirty
solid minutes yourself. After that you'll want to be a villain or a vampire
just by way of a little relaxation."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
August 31, 1917
VARIETY
"Fatty's Profit"
The Rolls Royce car Fatty Arbuckle has been decorating around Broadway
for the past year will no longer be driven by him, it having passed to the
possession of Hiram Abrams of the Paramount.
Mr. Arbuckle now has a Pierce-Arrow that cost him $6,500. He sold the
Rolls Royce for $12,000 after having paid $5,500 for it a year ago.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
October 20, 1917
MOTOGRAPHY
Fatty Arbuckle Hesitates a Day in Chicago
On his way to the Pacific coast, where he will continue to produce two-
reel comedies for Paramount, Fatty Arbuckle spent October 4 in Chicago. With
him were Lou Anger, manager of the Comique Film Corporation, as Fatty's
company is called, and Herbert Warren, who has charge of the fun-making
scenarios. The latter has just married Valerie Bergere, the well known stage
star of New York.
Fatty drove home one vital point during his conversation with
Motography's representative when he said, "A picture is only half done when
it reaches the exhibitor. At least 50 per cent of the value and pulling
power of the picture depends on the way in which it is advertised and
presented. Music is the most important thing of all in showing a picture."
Mr. Arbuckle's company is to work in the Balboa studio, at Long Beach,
which has been leased for the coming season...
During his stay in Chicago, Mr. Arbuckle was entertained by Manager Max
Goldstine of the local Paramount office.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
March 22, 1918
VARIETY
Fatty Arbuckle has the distinction of being the first godfather to
Western troops. He has adopted Company C., 159th Infantry, at Camp Kearney.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
April 26, 1918
VARIETY
"Fatty" Arbuckle, who has been held up six times within three weeks by
real--not film--highwaymen on the Long Beach Boulevard, has been sworn in as
a special deputy sheriff. The corpulent originator of laughs says he is sick
and tired of "coming through."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
August 11, 1918
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
Buster Keaton, fellow comedian and best friend of Roscoe "Fatty"
Arbuckle, is off for "somewhere in France" to show the Huns how he and Fatty
fall in comedies--only Buster says the boches are going to do all the
falling, with himself as director.
Three weeks ago Buster departed for Camp Kearny after the completion of
"The Cook," which will be the next "Fatty" Arbuckle comedy to be released by
Paramount. At that time "Fatty" Arbuckle and his company gave Buster a
farewell party at the famous Jewel City cafe in Seal Beach. An impromptu
minstrel and vaudeville show featured the affair. Buster was the recipient
of a handsome leather wallet from the company. When he opened the wallet he
discovered $100 nestling within. Officers from Company C, One Hundred and
Fifty-ninth California Infantry, which is Arbuckle's adopted organization,
were present.
Before Buster was out of quarantine Company C, One Hundred and Fifty-
ninth Infantry, received orders and the comedian asked to be allowed to go
along. He is now on his way "over there."
"Fatty" Arbuckle, Al St. John and Lou Anger rushed to San Diego to bid
Buster "good luck." Another little surprise was in store for Buster,
however. "Fatty" Arbuckle confided to the new soldier that he had a goodly
portion of his weekly salary coming every week for the duration of the war.
And that is why his mother received his first war check at her home in
Muskegon, Mich., this week.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
November 1918
Julian Johnson
PHOTOPLAY
[from "An Analytical Review of the Year's Acting"]...Roscoe Arbuckle
shares comedy honors this year with Chaplin--though no comedian, it must be
admitted, even approaches Chaplin in personal variety and appeal. But
Arbuckle's material--his own make--has, in the main, been consistently funny
and human. He has surrounded himself with good people. He has made good
productions. He has kept moving. "The Bell Boy," it seems to me, was his
year's ace.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
November 10, 1918
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
"Fatty" Arbuckle, in order to take advantage of the increased
facilities afforded him at the Lasky studio, deserted his own plant last week
to finish "Camping," his new Paramount comedy. This is the first comedy
company to work at the Lasky plant and everyone took some time off to watch
the jovial ones at work. To the surprise of all not a sound emanated from
the Arbuckle sets. No pies were thrown and nothing was smashed. The day's
casualties were nill. Without exception they were amazed at the seriousness
of the comedians and the strict attention paid to the slightest detail by
"Fatty" who not only acts, but writes, cuts and directs his own pictures.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
December 1918
Elizabeth Peltret
PHOTOPLAY
(from an interview with Alice Lake)...In four years of work in
"slapstick" Alice Lake has had but three accidents which were at all serious.
One happened during the making of "Moonshiners," a recent Arbuckle comedy,
when a horse she was trying to mount stepped on her foot (she is not a
particularly good horsewoman). Fortunately she was standing on a sandy
surface, so that no bones were broken, but she suffered with her foot for
weeks afterward.
..."The funniest looking accident we ever had," she said, "was when
Roscoe Arbuckle was making 'The Bell Boy.' A crazy old elevator we were
using fell to pieces and I was dangling in mid-air on the end of a rope. One
of the boys was inside of what was left of the elevator and I was left
whirling around in space while he was being rescued from the debris.
..."I've noticed this about comedies," she remarked. "The gags that
seem funniest at the studio, will often look dead on the screen, while
something which hasn't made you smile on the set, will make you shriek with
laughter when you see it in the picture!"
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
March 3, 1919
Louella Parsons
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
Nobody loves a fat man has been put into disuse by Fatty Arbuckle.
Everybody loves Roscoe Arbuckle, and fatter than he they do not exist. He is
round, fat, jolly and the essence of good nature, the characteristics one
looks to find in a man of the Arbuckle rotundity and if they be missing feels
that day lost.
Well, they are not missing in Roscoe Arbuckle, comedian and chief
Paramount laugh getter. Everything a comedian should be is present in
"Fatty." He radiates good nature, cheerfulness and a pleasant day. He has a
constant pleasant day. He has a constant rendezvous with happiness and not
even a speaking acquaintance with gloom.
These things I know, though I haven't seen Mr. Arbuckle for many and
many and many a day. The last time we met was in Chicago right after he had
signed a contract with Adolph Zukor. Mr. Zukor made the trip from the Coast
with Mr. Arbuckle and gave a banquet for his newly acquired star when he
reached the stopping point of their trip. So it seemed particularly fitting
the next time I should pass the time of day with the cheerful Mr. Arbuckle
should be in celebration of signing another Zukor contract.
My invitation was for luncheon. Fatty being one of those people who
enjoy good food, believes every one else has the same thought, and so we were
to meet at the Famous Players-Lasky offices at 12:30 and chat over a lamb
chop or club sandwich. It started out to be simple enough, but it ended by
being a banquet with oysters, bouillon, chicken, salad and Cliquet
substituting for the ham sandwich I usually grab for my noonday feast. And
instead of our going to a nearby automat or to Childs we went to Sherry's
with eight other guests--and all of them men.
This is the way it happened. Mr. Arbuckle has several ideas in the way
of leading ladies in his mind. Those he had on the screen, and Joseph
Schenck, E. Ludvig, Marcus Loew and a number of the men interested in the
Arbuckle Company were invited into the projection room to pass judgment on
these fair ones. Never did any prima donna have a more rigorous test than
these two would-be Arbuckle leading ladies. They were given an examination
as to the looks, screen appearance, facial expression and histrionic ability
that would make the rest of these screen struck girls believe walking on the
ocean a comparatively easy task to passing the examination required to become
a leading lady.
By the time we had looked at Mr. Arbuckle's choice in a screen partner
it was nearly 2 o'clock, and so the eight men who are interested in making
the Arbuckle comedies the big comedy bet of the year, all betook themselves
to Sherry's, and Fatty and I just naturally took ourselves along and we had
such a good time I decided doing interviews was a job that any one would like
to have.
Adolph Zukor and Roscoe Arbuckle are great pals. Mr. Zukor has a
personal liking for the good natured Roscoe, and admits after many years of
handling temperamental and ungrateful stars, Roscoe is refreshing and one of
the reasons he likes the film business. Because Mr. Zukor likes his star,
busy as he is, he went way out to Kansas City to meet the California train
and to get the Arbuckle signature to a long-term contract.
"I would go further than that," Mr. Zukor said. "With all the stars I
have had Mr. Arbuckle is the least temperamental and the most appreciative."
A compliment which Fatty returned with a shower of wit and good natured
repartee. Between the oysters and the soup Fatty told me moving pictures
were not his whole life.
"Ah," said I, "you have deceived me; you are leading a double life."
"Tis true," he said, "and what is more I admit I am not entirely true
to Mlle. Cinema."
"Tell me the worst," I begged.
But Roscoe was spared this humiliation by Lou Anger, his business
partner, who said Mr. Arbuckle spent much of his time in the county hospital
in Los Angeles studying surgery. His best friend is a surgeon, explained Mr.
Anger, and Roscoe would rather go to an operation than eat--which, Mr. Anger
added, is going some.
Then followed all the hidden scandal. If Roscoe had not wedded Mlle.
Cinema, he would have devoted his life to surgery. A neat operation to Mr.
Arbuckle is more beautiful than an exquisite painting.
"I wouldn't, you understand, be one of those pill giving M.D.'s. Not
on your life. But I would like to know how to use the knife. I have watched
doc take out so many appendices, I believe I could do it myself. Ever seen
an operation?"
And when we shudderingly admitted we had never seen one and we believed
we could live without ever being called in as a witness to such an affair,
Mr. Arbuckle proceeded to draw a picture of a bone operation he had seen in a
lad's leg wherein his doctor friend by simply shifting the position of a bone
made this important member as good as new.
"Nothing to shudder at," said Roscoe. "It is a pretty sight to see doc
work. I have taken Charlie Chaplin to the hospital several times and now he
is talking in medical terms."
A party to see New Orleans by lamplight was planned with Mr. Arbuckle
as the chief see-er. Before the luncheon was over Roscoe was inviting every
one to join the party and be a member of this personally conducted tour,
guaranteed to see the sights first hands under his guidance.
"Roscoe loves company," said Lou Anger. In fact in Los Angeles he
cannot escape company. Every Tuesday night he comes into the Alexandria for
dinner on his way to the fights. There are about six or seven lounge lizards
--sitting bulls, Guy Price calls them, because they sit and sell more film
than the world has ever seen. First one will spy Fatty and then another one.
"Going to the fights?" he will ask.
When assured that such is Mr. Arbuckle's intention, the waiting one
says, "Got an extra ticket? I will go along."
The extra ticket being in evidence, the hanger-on then invites himself
to dinner as Mr. Arbuckle's guest. After dinner he jumps in Fatty's car and
as a self-invited guest sees the fight. After the fights he suggests a ride
to Vernon and a light supper with wine. When deposited at length at the
Alexander door, the willing guest says:
"Roscoe, old top, you might look me up next Tuesday evening."
And, said Mr. Anger, they get away with that stuff.
Some men might resent such a thing as putting them in the easy-mark
class, but it is one of the nice things about Roscoe Arbuckle that he is like
a big boy in wanting to share with his friends the good things which have
come his way. He is quite unspoiled--happy and in his happiness giving
pleasure to the many people who call him friend.
These things I had whispered to me some months ago by a certain little
girl whom Fatty had given his friendship and advice. To those who think the
Arbuckle life is one round of continual pleasure, it might be well to hear
how he went out of his way to befriend this girl when things looked black for
her. I shall like him always for that, though he modestly refused to admit
he had done more than any other man would do when I spoke to him of this
young woman.
And now about Fatty and Mabel. Fatty says he would love to have Mabel
for his leading lady, and has always selected his heroine with an eye to the
Normand type. And Mabel says she would like to have Fatty for her leading
man, because they work well together, and there you are. Only Mabel is tied
up with a Goldwyn contract and Fatty is signed with Paramount. So it looks
as if this wish of the public to see Mabel Normand in Arbuckle comedies will
not be realized for the present, at least.
While we are wishing, Fatty will continue to believe the world is a
comedy for him to pick and choose his subject. He will go on his way making
folk laugh and be glad, which after all is the greatest accomplishment one
can have--to be able to make the world laugh. And Roscoe Arbuckle has that
gift, one he can well be proud of, and one which he has always used to the
best advantage.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
April 13, 1919
Margaret Ettinger
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
(Los Angeles, April 8)--The benefit given by the Evening Herald on
Saturday night was one of the biggest events of the year and all the proceeds
were given to the Salvation Army. Douglas Fairbanks appeared in a strut all
his own. The Sennett Bathing Girls came in "clothes that never saw the sea."
Roscoe Arbuckle did a single; so did James Jeffries and James J. Corbett;
Fred Niblo in "Impromptu Remarks," Ruth Roland in a song and dance special.
Carter De Haven and Flora Parker De Haven in "Vaudeville Reminiscences," H.B.
Warner in a monologue and Charlie Murray in his favorite role of "Ladies and
Gentlemen," all helped make a corking good program.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
April 13, 1919
Louella Parsons
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
On the last day of March, as guest of William Wrigley, the chewing gum
and baseball magnate, "Fatty" Arbuckle tossed the first ball in the opening
game of the season between the Pasadena, Cal., team and the Chicago Cubs.
The day was a glorious one; a real California sky overhead and every
one in gala attire, almost Summery in tone. "Fatty" was busy working on "The
Bank Clerk," but he could not resist this appeal. So he replied to the
invitation:
"I like Mr. Wrigley's gum and I can't refuse to do this. Incidentally,
I'm pretty strong for the national game, too."
So he went to Pasadena in a high-powered car, chatted with the magnate,
met many people of prominence and then tossed up the little white sphere,
thus starting the ball rolling in earnest in a hard-fought game.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
May 4, 1919
Margaret Ettinger
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
Roscoe (Fatty) Arbuckle will be owner of the Vernon Tigers unless an
unforseen hitch halts the negotiations now pending. Arbuckle is to buy the
stock now controlled by Thomas Darmondy and is to serve as president of the
ball team. Fatty also has leased part of the Glendale studio owned by Louis
Gasnier.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
May 25, 1919
Margaret Ettinger
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
The grandstand was filled to capacity on the day that Roscoe Arbuckle's
baseball team made its first appearance. In compliment to Fatty a number of
the companies stopped work and hied to the baseball grounds. Bessie
Barriscale and her husband, Howard Hickman, and party occupied one box. Tom
Mix, his manager, Eddie Rosenbaum, and Mr. and Mrs. E. J. Le Saint another.
Jack Pickford, Lew Cody, Lou Anger and many other "movin' pitcher" people
were there to cheer the Tigers on. Fatty, Al St. John and Buster Keaton put
on a side show. Dressed in the garb of the Vernons they staged a game all
their own, using a plaster paris bat and ball. The result when ball and bat
met may be imagined.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
June 1919
Alfred Cohn
PHOTOPLAY
(from an interview with Roscoe Arbuckle)...
"Every 'gag' in a production is as carefully analyzed after it has been
released as it is during the course of production. An entire five-reel
dramatic photoplay may depend entirely on one situation and still be a
success. A two-reel comedy to be successful must have a dozen laugh
producing situations or 'gags' and must never lag for a moment.
"The same plot can be done over and over again in the so-called
features but the comedy without new gags is a failure. That's why most
comedy directors, after a while in the business, go around talking to
themselves instead of giving out interviews. It's a hard life."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
July 27, 1919
Margaret Ettinger
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
Scarcely a week passes without a notable showing of the picture folk,
socially...This week the assemblage was such a tremendous affair that it
caused quite the biggest commotion of anything thus far given.
The occasion was the automobile races at Ascot Park, in which almost
every star and director of the West Coast participated. Besides, there was a
parade of the motion picture stars, so those who did not race appeared on the
track at any rate, and gave an exhibition fashion parade, garbed in their
latest Paris creations and riding in their newest Rolls-Pack-Arrow cars.
Among the entries in the fast races were: Marshall Neilan, Tom Mix,
Carter De Haven, Douglas MacLean, Donald Crisp, Henry King, Roscoe Arbuckle,
Lew Cody, Al St. John, Ed Flannagan, Larry Semon, Earl Montgomery and Joe
Rock. The fashion parade included a stream of pictureland's best known
actresses: Blanche Sweet, Anita Stewart, Peggy Hyland, Bessie Barriscale,
Priscilla Dean, Enid Bennett, Pauline Frederick, Gertrude Selby, Virginia Lee
Corbin, Juanita Hansen, Lila Lee and Dorothy de Vore...
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
August 15, 1919
VARIETY
The Arbuckle comedy staff went to San Francisco and staged burlesque
stunts at the ball yard where Arbuckle's team, Vernon Tigers, were playing.
Fatty, the papers said, was a riot.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
October 28, 1919
Ray Frohman
LOS ANGELES HERALD
...Roscoe was in a jovial mood. He had just been making up sleep after
staying up all night cutting his latest film. The worries of owning the
Vernon ball club--he did then--had not reduced his noble--shall I call it, by
courtesy, "chest."
For, he explained, he "just bought them to please Anger." Anger is his
manager, you know, and Anger is a baseball "bug."
All Fatty did, he said, was to be "president and sign checks." Anger
was his personal representative and general manager, and "it kept him in good
humor."
As the sale price of Fatty's pictures is contracted for during the
coming two years or so, he didn't buy the club as an advertisement, he said--
he won't make any more money by it that way.
"I can't go to the ball game any more, Lou," exclaimed the pyramid of
flesh. Anger's other name is Lou. "It makes me too darn nervous. After two
hours and a half of that, I can't do anything else I want to. The excitement
makes my stomach feel bad."
Our most famous human dirigible was a prodigious study in brown.
From his auxiliary chin--as big as anyone else's chin proper--and the
reserve supply of cartilage he wore at the back of his neck, down past that
noted waist line (whose dimensions I didn't inquire because large figures
give me a headache), and on down to his dainty feet, he was in brown--hat,
hair, tie, suit, sox, shoes. Light blue eyes completed the monstrous
picture.
"My first part was that of a picaninny kid," sprouted Fatty, letting
the light in on the dark shadows of his past.
"It was one night with the Webster-Brown Stock Company at Santa Ana,
when I was eight years old. I got it because I was always hanging around the
theater. I lived there then. I was born in Smith Center, Kan., but have
lived in California ever since I was a year old."
Fatty, be it known, was the baby--a 16-pounder at birth!--of the whole
family. There were nine children. Only one other, a sister, was fat. Even
now, Fatty only weighs 275 pounds--and two dozen jockeys would weigh about
that much.
He earnestly assured me that he didn't "get that way" from too much
eating or drinking; and in view of the high cost of food and drink, and the
fact that Fatty will only net about $3,000,000 from his latest contract,
I could easily believe it.
But rumble on, "thou ocean" of pulp.
"My first role was a 'fat part!' Salary? Fifty cents.
"When I asked for the job they told me to go home and get my shoes and
stockings but I knew my mother wouldn't let me come back. So they blacked my
legs and feet, too. I knew I'd get a licking when I got home.
"From then till 1913 I was on the stage. I did everything from singing
illustrated songs to clown and acrobatic acts. I was considered 'fair,' like
the rest of them.
"I was in dramatic, and principally musical, stock most of the time.
"My first real professional engagement was in 1904, singing illustrated
songs for Sid Grauman at the Unique theater, San Jose, at $17.50 a week.
"I played character stuff in Morosco's Burbank stock company here, and
went all through China and Japan with Ferris Hartman in musical comedy.
"Tenor? No, baritone. I lost my voice in Manila in 1913 playing in
'The Toymaker' with Hartman--that's why I went into movies.
"I was only 'on' in the first and last acts. I went out in back of the
theater and barked at a dog who barked at me. Pretty soon I had the whole
canine neighborhood barking. When I went back I couldn't sing a note!
I couldn't even talk for three weeks!
"Yes, I sing a little now for my own amusement, but I wouldn't bore
anybody else with it. I wouldn't dare to.
"My last appearance on the stage in a part was with Hartman in
Yokahama, when I was 26. I'm 32 now. With his company I played the Mikado,
and Koko, and Katish--a female of the species."
Just then a "Hello, Fat!" vibrated through the atmosphere as an auto
disgorged Hiram Abrams, general manager of "The Big Four."
After that, Fatty's "confession" continued only amid a rapid-fire
staccato, "kidding" interrogation from Abrams, who seems to have missed his
real vocation, interviewing. Elgin Lessley, the only man who ever
photographed Fatty for the screen (unless two or three cameras were being
used at once), also was "on stage" for the repartee about "opposition" and
"real actors," etc.
"What is your real name? What school did you attend? What
university?" demanded Abrams all in one breath.
"Through the fourth grade!" answered Fatty, forgetting his Santa Clara
college days.
"I got my first movie job at $40 a week with Keystone," continued the
hippopotamic comedian, after Abrams and I had run out of breath. "For a
month I walked around out there without working. Every time I turned around,
Sennett was looking at me. To this day I guess he doesn't think I'm funny.
"But somebody does--Zukor will pay me over $3,000,000 for the 22
pictures I began making last March and selling outright to the Famous Players
company. It'll take me about two and a half years to make them.
"I played mostly policemen in the two or three hundred pictures I was
in at Keystone, but I played everything from cops to GRAND DAMES. Mabel
Normand and Ford Sterling were there, and Sennett and Henry Lehrman were the
directors. All my mechanical knowledge of pictures I learned under the
direction of Lehrman, who directed all but about two of my pictures.
"During my three and a half years there I was never starred or even
featured--the exhibitors played me up. Then I formed a partnership with
Joseph M. Schenck--he's the husband of Norma Talmadge and director of both
Norma and Constance--had my own company, and released through the Famous
Players on a percentage basis.
"I'm working now on the fourth picture under my new contract--with the
same people, but on a 'flat rate' basis--making my own pictures, directing my
own company.
"How did I become a star? I don't know how it happened. It just
happened. When I look at my old pictures I can't tell how it happened!
"It was only last March that I began to be a real star. When you can
sell outright 22 pictures in advance of making them, when they accept you on
your face value, you're a star."
One word more--and this is the most important of all--from the puffy
mass of adipose tissue whose income makes that of the President of the United
States look like a sick nickel and whose genius I had so much belied in my
thoughts.
"I'VE NEVER USED MY WEIGHT TO GET A LAUGH YET! That is, used my size
as the subject for humor.
"You never saw me stuck in a doorway or stuck in a chair. If you'll
analyze my pictures you'll see that they are humorous in themselves, except,
of course, that the audience remarks about the agility on account of the
weight.
"Titles, trademarks don't count. It's all no good unless the picture
is funny.
"You only star in movies from picture to picture. If two or three
pictures are bad, you're not a star any more. It's a constant worry. That's
why movie people are temperamental. It's a terrible strain!"
P.S.--And yet, despite this "strain" neither Roscoe's own figure nor
his bank book shows signs of emaciation!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
November 3, 1919
Reed Heustis
LOS ANGELES HERALD
This is, primarily, the story of a small young studio down Culver City
way and of a large, young fellow.
To mention the name of a studio is to mention the young fellow. And
here you have it--Arbuckle.
Roscoe Arbuckle, if you remember, has been played up in type time and
again as the young Behemoth who, once seated, needs a block and tackle to
start him on his way again.
But this is wrong, entirely erroneous.
Roscoe is not so fat--that is, not in the way he has been hailed as
being.
Moreover, once seated in a chair he needs nothing to get him under
steam again. He can do that all by himself.
We know a lot of persons who know Roscoe who will wager that he can get
over 100 yards of terrain in almost 10 seconds--well, 12 anyway, and if you
ever traveled 100 yards--hoof power--in 12 seconds, you realized you were
spurning the earth.
That for Roscoe and his rotundity.
In breezing into the Arbuckle studio--which is merely stage space and
equipment stuff rented from a producer named Henry Lehrman--in breezing into
the studio you will first of all meet Lou Anger, one of the many pioneers who
put windshield eyeglasses on the peak of popularity.
The windshield glasses serve a double purpose. Not only do they add to
the general de luxe of the person so equipped, but they afford a shield
behind which the wearer may plot and plan at leisure and unobserved.
A gentleman may think many things when hidden behind the optic shields
and his audience gain no inkling of what it's all about.
This went wrong only once. And that was when, in his salad days, Anger
was wearing the glasses and a sweet young thing breezed into his office.
Lou's glasses immediately fell off, for "what" said he, "was the use of
keeping 'em on. Taking them off helped my eyesight and she knew what I was
thinking about, anyhow." You see?
You will find Roscoe upstairs in his dressing room, one of a series of
rooms which reminds one strongly of Atlantic City and the bathhouses there.
Roscoe's dressing room is composed of a lounging room--where no one is
permitted to loaf; a shower bath section and a dressing room. Also a strong
armed young gentleman with a bottle of alcohol--external purposes only--and a
wicked gleam in his eye.
It is this man's duty to grab Roscoe, as we have said, to slap him on a
slab upon his--that is--well, face down and give him the knuckle drill with
the external alcohol as the unguent.
This massage having been duly completed, Roscoe shaves to the quick,
dons fresh clothes, from socks to suspenders, and orders up one particular
car, which, according to Roscoe, possesses one fault: the rear wheels skid
and bounce most menacingly. Having explained all this to you, Roscoe
carefully puts Lou Anger beside him at the wheel and invites you to ride in
the rear.
But we've taken Roscoe from the studio before we've hardly planted him
there. So behold him--not de luxe, but clad in the old familiar one-piece
pants--at work.
No entrances nor exits to these pants. When Roscoe's in, he's in.
Sewed up for the day, so to speak.
With Roscoe will be Buster Keaton, also sewed up. Buster is the
pleasant faced young acrobat who will rise to stardom some time in April and
who truly beyond the mere laudations which are so easy to write and which so
seldom ring true is of big league timber.
Roscoe and Buster and Dan Crimmins--the same Dan Crimmins who starred
years ago in "By the Sad Sea Waves"--are on the stage and due for a mess of
water stuff. It is a chill October morn, too, but never mind that. The
three boys must be wet and wet they get. Each in turn dives into a big vat
of water standing on the stage and then go into their "gag," which consists
largely of resuscitating Dan, nearly drowned, by a means of a garden hose and
a flow of ice water.
Earn their salaries! Thrice over.
Then Buster and Roscoe warm up, go through a sort of clog dance--not
for the camera, but for the corpuscles--which ends in the familiar thunk, de
thunk, thunk, thunk, the last two thunks when Roscoe and Buster do a fall
which shakes even the stage and many a stout heart.
Leave them there for a minute. We'll pick 'em up later. Let us visit
Jean Havez and Harry Williams, "gag" men, whose chief aim in life is to
discover something new in the world. And it's a tough old job.
Jean is as rotund as Roscoe and has spent most of his life in writing
lyrics for musical shows and all that. Had a finger in a mess of Broadway--
the other Broadway--productions. And is now enjoying the fruits thereof,
plus the Arbuckle harvest.
Harry, too, has followed the same line. Songs, the writing of them,
have been his chief asset. Remember that soul stirring ditty, "Oh, let us
have just one more drink, and then we'll all go home?" That's Harry. And,
if we know anything about Harry he has, until recently, had a mess of these
little drinks.
You will hear Lou Anger pattering around overhead massing with bills
and discounts and other things and wondering if such and so comes F.O.B.,
C.O.D., or C.O.N., the latter meaning, "Cash on the Nail."
Back to Roscoe. Here we find that Molly Malone, Roscoe's leading
woman, has arrived, done up in dainty overalls and silk shirtings and the
rest of the atmosphere. Molly is toying with the making of a handkerchief,
a sheer little thing. It may not have been a handkerchief--we didn't look
too closely.
Harry McCoy, the juvenile, is with the party by this time, garbed in
cavalry officer boots and filled to the ears, like the mocking birds--with
song. He imitates Al Jolson in something about playing poker with Pocahontas
and you could almost swear Jolson was at your elbow. We hasten to add that
Harry wore more than those cavalry boots.
Then the luncheon call.
Havez is a noted trencherman; chili and beans, pork sandwiches, pumpkin
pie, maybe a glass of milk and no encores. Harry Williams the same. Lou
Anger pulls a wheeze: "This apple pie is immense." It goes over well. Lou
repeats. It goes just as well a second time and Lou marks it down in his
book for future use.
Then back to the studio, more of the water stuff and then as they say
in continuity writing, we reach the sequences which deal with the dressing
room: the alcohol rub and the car with the bum rear wheels.
We head for home, after having learned that Roscoe's camera man is
named Elgin Lessley--here we pull a Lou Anger wheeze--"look out"--no, we made
a mistake--"watch out," and while we're heading for home seated just above
those jackrabbit wheels, we'll delve a bit into the history--that is the
family history of the Angers, the Arbuckles and thus bring into the scene a
noted baseball pitcher, Byron Houck.
Lou Anger is Arbuckle's business manager and confidant. Lou is married
to Sophye Barnard, than whom no more patriotic woman ever lived.
Miss Barnard--the then Miss Barnard, is the singer who laid New York at
her feet when she featured "Poor Butterfly," the song, at the New York
Hippodrome. Miss Barnard during our share of the world war was one of the
devoted women who gave their entire time to making the Red Cross Shop and
Eighth and Alvarado streets a monumental success. Day and night Miss Barnard
labored singing, planning, welcoming and--seeing that visitors spent money to
help the boys abroad.
Miss Barnard is--you may believe us--a very fine young woman. She has
a sister, Kathryn, who married Byron Houck, the Vernon ball pitcher, who, in
his turn, was one greatly responsible for Vernon winning the Coast league
championship this year.
Thus, Byron Houck becomes brother-in-law to--well, figure that out for
yourself.
And meantime we get home O.K. O.K, the hind wheels having done their
best or their worst, but when one's fingers are sunk deep into the
upholstery, it is to laugh at swerving wheels and skidding tires.
A last word. If you who read are dazzled by the stories of Arbuckle's
wealth, remember this: Roscoe hustled for it--and in his memory are stories
of meals he missed, hungry, grey days. Now he's in the sunshine.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
December 12, 1919
VARIETY
[following an announcement that Ince, Sennett, Neilan, Tourneur and
Dwan had joined together to form Associated Producers, an independent film
alliance]...Roscoe ("Fatty") Arbuckle arrived in New York Monday morning.
Asked if there was any truth in the report he contemplated joining the
combination of directors, he stated he had been approached, but had no desire
to enter into the business end of the game.
He added that he had had a lot of fun monkeying with the baseball game,
and having sold out, now contemplated buying the Los Angeles ball club,
merely for his own amusement.
"I have all the money I want," he said, "and at the conclusion of my
present contract, I will stop making pictures myself, but may be interested
in having others appear before the camera, just to keep occupied. While I am
east, I am having 'Buster' Keaton make a picture on his own. Let 'em all
have a chance. I don't want to be hoggish."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
May 30, 1920
Frances Agnew
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
Probably the most expensive cast ever assembled will be that for the
production of "Arizona" to be given as a benefit for the Hollywood Post of
the American Legion at Clune's Auditorium, June 3, 4 and 5. It will be an
event long to be remembered and a credit to the generosity of film folk.
Theodore Roberts is stage director, having the original script which was sent
to him by the author, Augustus Thomas.
Dustin Farnum will play Denton; Hobart Bosworth, Colonel Bonham; Ethel
Clayton will be Estelle; Theodore Roberts, Henry Crosby; William Desmond,
Tony Mascano; Bessie Barriscale, Bonita; Lewis S. Stone; Sergeant Keller;
Roscoe Arbuckle, the Doctor; Sessue Hayakawa, Sam, the Chinaman; Gloria
Swanson, the Schoolma'am; Wanda Hawley, Lena; Lydia Yeamans-Titus, Mrs.
Canby; Milton Sills, Captain Hodgeman; and Bryant Washburn, Lieutenant.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
June 1920
Delight Evans
PHOTOPLAY
My intention had been to have a quiet, serious talk with Roscoe
Arbuckle. I see now how wrong I was. Just as we entered the dining-room,
Fa--Mr. Arbuckle sneezed. He couldn't help it. Neither could you. But--it
came at the wrong time--and I'm never going to criticize again that old film
situation in which the hero and heroine, successfully hid from their pursuer,
spoil it all with a good, healthy, old-fashion kerchoo. That's what Roscoe
did. Immediately it was as if he was the only customer. The captain and the
waiters came running and fairly begged him, with tears in their eyes, to
accept the best table...
"I'm giving up slapstick," said Roscoe, "I've signed a new contract to
make only features in the future. I'll do 'Brewster's Millions' and 'The
Travelling Salesman' instead of the two-reelers which take me twenty-four
hours a day to make--and I can't sleep nights when I'm making one. No--I'm
going to let the other fellow have the trouble of directing--and devote my
own time to thinking up original comedy touches..."
Roscoe said dreamily the show he'd enjoyed most, not even excepting the
new Ziegfeld Roof, was "Abraham Lincoln."
And that, after all, it was serious things that counted--you have to
take things seriously to make good.
And that he's never going to let anything unlifelike creep into his
comedies.
And he likes Harold Lloyd's work...
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
October 24, 1920
Frances Agnew
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
(Los Angeles, Oct. 18)--And last Monday was the day that Buster Keaton,
Metro comedian, also celebrated a birthday, his twenty-fifth. The party
given in the evening by the star's father and mother, Joe and Myra Keaton,
was enjoyed by everybody associated with the funmaker, from his big boss of
affairs, Lou Anger, down to the office boy, Luke McGluke, while other guests
were Roscoe Arbuckle, Viola Dana, Shirley Mason, Alice Lake, Lew Cody and
Bernard Durning.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
November 19, 1920
VARIETY
Arbuckle Marrying?
(Los Angeles, Nov. 17)--Supposedly reliable sources here are buzzing
with word of the matrimonial plans of "Fatty" Arbuckle and Dorothy Wallace,
former Ziegfeld show girl, now said to be in New York buying a trousseau.
The marriage will take place in New York, according to the bridegroom's
confidants, though starting talk to this effect may be another of his
practical jokes or a return play on the part of his friends.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
November 26, 1920
VARIETY
Roscoe Arbuckle failed to leave New York on the Imperator last week,
but his baggage left by that steamer. The trouble was "Fatty" had too much
farewell party and both he and Fred Ward missed the boat. He sailed in the
Aquitania Tuesday.
Regarding the report of marriage Arbuckle stated before sailing that
one could never tell what might happen in France and he might come back with
a French wife.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
November 30, 1920
NEW YORK HERALD (Paris edition)
Aquitania Lands "Fatty" Arbuckle
Cherbourg, Monday--The Cunard liner Aquitania arrived here tonight in
bad weather. The passengers landed about 9:45 p.m. and left at 10:15 for
Paris...
One of the first to land here was Mr. Roscoe Arbuckle, known in all the
world's moving-picture shows as "Fatty," he was met by a number of
representatives of film companies and stated that he was delighted with the
prospect of seeing Paris.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
December 1, 1920
NEW YORK HERALD (Paris edition)
French Receive "Fatty" Warmly
That Roscoe ("Fatty") Arbuckle, the American movie star, is as popular
in France as in his native country has been firmly established by the
reception accorded him during his first day in Paris yesterday. From his
arrival at the Gare Saint-Lazare from Cherbourg yesterday morning at six
o'clock until the curtain was rung down on the final scene at the Folies-
Bergere, which "Fatty" attended as a special guest last evening, he was fully
occupied, and when he turned in last night after going forty-eight hours
without sleep, he took pains to give instructions that he be not awakened
early this morning.
An hour before "Fatty" was scheduled to leave Claridge's Hotel, where
he is stopping to get a daylight view of Paris for the first time, numbers of
persons, mostly Frenchmen, began to gather outside the hotel, and when at
eleven o'clock the cinema star stepped into the automobile awaiting him, a
group of about three hundred people had congregated, all anxious to see the
beaming, chubby, rosy "Fatty." The car, which was adorned with two large
American flags, hesitated for a minute while movie and camera men took their
shots before it headed for the Arc de Triomphe.
At the Arc de Triomphe "Fatty" alighted to place on the spot where the
Unknown Soldier is to lie a handsome bouquet of flowers, which a young French
admirer had presented to him before leaving the hotel. He then drove to the
Bank of France and subscribed liberally to the French loan before lunching at
Claridge's Hotel.
The movie actor was received at 4 p.m. at the offices of the "Matin,"
where his reception was the most demonstrative of the day. Hundreds of
Frenchmen and many Americans crowded into the building to get a glimpse of
jovial, happy "Fatty." But those outside, the several hundred others left,
were far from being satisfied and began to set up a howl. Meanwhile three
French girls had managed to get close enough to the movie idol to kiss him on
both cheeks, in spite of his inate bashfulness. Finally a stand was
improvised for him outside the "Matin" office, and for the first time during
the day everybody was able to get a full view of "Fatty."
Then a member of the "Matin" staff made a short speech in which he
cordially welcomed the actor to France, telling how "Fatty" had helped to
cheer and comfort the French nation during its trying period. "Fatty," in
response, immediately drew a laugh when he declared that "the only place in
America to get a drink is the police station."
"Fatty" had scarcely entered the door at the Folies-Bergere last night
before he was recognized by the whole house, which was particularly crowded
because of his expected appearance. As he moved toward the seats reserved
for his party, murmurs of "There's Fatty! There's Fatty!" ran through the
audience.
Mr. Arbuckle told a correspondent of the New York Herald last evening
that he thoroughly enjoyed his Transatlantic trip, which was decided upon
just two days before the ship sailed. He expects to remain in Paris for two
weeks before going to England. While crossing he was a great favorite with
the passengers, being permanent guardian of the "pool" on the ship.
"It is needless to say that I appreciate the warm reception that has
been extended to me by the French," he said. "I have always had the greatest
admiration for this country and although I have seen but little of it as yet,
I feel quite satisfied that I shall want to remain here much longer than I
can. I was especially impressed by my reception at the 'Matin' office."
"Fatty" was recognized wherever he went yesterday by many French
people, who waved or cheered or gathered about the automobile containing his
party. His one drawback was that he cannot speak French. "But you don't
have to speak French over here to be understood," he added.
Accompanying him is Mr. Fred Ward, a retired movie actor, of New York.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
December 2, 1920
NEW YORK HERALD (Paris edition)
"Fatty" Arbuckle, the American movie star, will be the guest of honor
at the second of the series of dances given by the Women's Auxiliary, Paris
Post No. 1, American Legion, which is to be held on Saturday evening
[December 5] at Salle du Parthenon, 64 rue du Rocher.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
December 6, 1920
NEW YORK HERALD (Paris edition)
"Fatty" Arbuckle's sojourn in Paris has been cut short, and he will
leave tonight for a short visit to London before sailing for America on
December 15. He had expected to stay here two weeks before going to England,
but a cablegram from New York telling of urgent business at home caused a
change in his plans.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
January 9, 1921
Frances Agnew
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
(Los Angeles, Jan. 3)--Much has been written and a lot said to the
effect that Cupid has been interested in the affairs of Roscoe (Fatty)
Arbuckle and Dorothy Wallace. The latest story printed locally Friday had it
that Mr. Arbuckle, who has just returned from New York, would announce the
engagement at his New Year's Eve party. We couldn't get in touch with Miss
Wallace, but denials were forthcoming from the rotund comedian via the Lasky
publicity office who insisted that the story was merely the result of the
batch of rumors which have been floating around the colony of late.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
March 19, 1921
DRAMATIC MIRROR
Fatty Arbuckle was in Cleveland last Thursday. During the afternoon he
appeared personally at the State Theatre where his picture "Brewster's
Millions" was the current feature.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
May 1921
Cal York (Adela Rogers St. Johns)
PHOTOPLAY
The American Society of Cinematographers (which Fatty Arbuckle says is
French for cameramen) gave a ball at the new Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles
the other evening that was quite THE social event of the season, pictorially
speaking.
Roscoe Arbuckle helped lead the orchestra part of the evening and did
very well, but his prize performance of the night, to my way of thinking, was
the last dance, which he had with a lovely little Follies girl. The rotund
comedian had had a hard day, apparently, the evening had been long--and
rather wet--and Roscoe went to sleep on the floor, resting his head gently
against his partner's rosy cheek and continuing to move his feet occasionally
to the music. If they covered more than six feet the whole dance, San
Francisco is a suburb of New York.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
August 6, 1921
DRAMATIC MIRROR
Roscoe (Fatty) Arbuckle and his company which includes Lila Lee,
returned to Hollywood last week after filming scenes for "Freight Prepaid" in
Chicago.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
August 7, 1921
Louella Parsons
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
Roscoe Arbuckle has lost eight pounds. The hot weather in Chicago did
it, assisted by the row he had with the waiter at the Congress Hotel.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
September 11, 1921
LOS ANGELES EXAMINER
Late in 1920 "Fatty" sailed for France, and was greeted there so
enthusiastically that he was severely injured. A number of men in a crowd
attempted to carry "their hero" on their shoulders, but they did not
calculate his avoirdupois carefully enough, and "Fatty" fell to the pavement.
...His most recent escapades, however, were in the dignified Congress
Hotel in Chicago this summer.
"Fatty," with James Cruze and Ed Keyes, directors, were lunching in the
hotel dining room, with Joe Greenberg, a waiter, serving the trio. For the
delectation of all "Fatty" took a club sandwich and flattened it on his head,
making Joe double up in guffaws.
"Mr. Arbuckle," he said, "you're the funniest man I ever saw," to the
tune of "Fatty" throwing a sandwich past the waiter's nose.
"Wait," said "Fatty," here's a funnier one," and, according to reports,
he proceeded to slam a platter of creamed chicken in the waiter's face.
Joe fled, dripping creamed chicken as he ran.
But in a few minutes he returned with two officers and "Fatty" had a
free ride to the Clark Street Station, where he was compelled to put up a $50
deposit for his appearance in court. As he never appeared for trial, Judge
Haas forfeited the bail.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
July 12, 1941
Alan Hynd
LIBERTY
[The following is from a lengthy serialized biography of Joseph
Schenck, based on interviews with him. After charges were filed against
Arbuckle concerning the death of Virginia Rappe, Schenck contacted Arbuckle.]
"Tell me, Roscoe," said Joe, "are you guilty of any crime in connection
with this death?"
"Joe," said Arbuckle, "as God is my judge, I wished that girl no harm.
The whole thing was an accident."
"Have you any money [for the legal defense], Roscoe?"
The comedian shrugged, and his chubby face took on the expression of a
boy deeply hurt. "You know me, Joe," he answered. "I spent it as fast as I
made it."
"All right," said Schenck. "I have a hundred thousand dollars for you.
There's more where that came from if you need it."
Arbuckle began to cry. "Don't blubber," said Schenck. "Tell me. What
does Minta think of this mess?"...
"She's sticking by me," said the film clown. "She believes in me,
too."...
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
December 24, 1921
Mrs. Minta Durfee Arbuckle
MOVIE WEEKLY
The True Story About My Husband
As surely as God is above me, and I believe in Him very sincerely,
I know that Roscoe Arbuckle did not do the thing for which he has been made
to face trial.
My reasons are as powerful as they are simple. He has told me what
happened and what did not happen in that hotel room, and I believe him. And
I know, after thirteen years of married life, that he is not that kind of a
man. He simply could not do such a thing.
I first heard of his trouble when I walked into a hotel parlor and saw
a newspaper with the name "Arbuckle" in great headlines. It was a terrible
shock. My first thought was that he had been killed in some motion picture
stunt. Then the fear came that perhaps there had been an automobile accident
--perhaps he had killed someone with his car, but I knew that he is such a
splendid driver that that could hardly have happened.
Then I learned what really was the matter, and my first thought was to
get to him as quickly as I could. I knew that he could not be guilty, but I
wanted to hear the from his own lips the true story of the affair, and I
wanted to be with him in his trouble. It was for that reason and no other
that I traveled three thousand miles to San Francisco, and it is because I
believe implicitly and firmly that what he has told me is the absolute truth,
confirming my own trust in him, that I have been with him ever since.
The moment that I learned he was in trouble, I knew there was only one
place in the world for me, and that was with my husband, for he is my
husband, although differences of temperament--and nothing more, except
perhaps a little stubborn pride on both sides--have kept us apart for five
years. When this affair happened, the little things over which we had
disagreed seemed utterly unimportant.
Perhaps I have old-fashioned beliefs about marriage, but it always
seemed to me that a real wife must be as much sweetheart, friend, pal, and
even mother, as wife. I'm not pretending to be a saint, and I like a good
time as well as anybody, but being a wife has always appealed to me as a
life's work.
When we like anyone, we Durfees, we like them for a long long time. My
faith in Roscoe Arbuckle is too great to be shaken by any attacks upon him,
even if they were supported by real proof.
It hurt me when the rumor spread that I had come to him because I was
looking for notoriety or because I had been paid to do it, as was intimated
in some places. I am his wife, and my place was with him. I believe that
even if we had been divorced I would have come, just the same. I could not
have seen the man I know to be the victim of unjust accusations, face his
trouble and not have me with him.
As for the party itself, knowing Roscoe Arbuckle as I do, I can very
easily understand his share in it. Mr. Arbuckle is just a big, easy-going,
good-natured boy. I can understand just how he found himself the host that
afternoon, without ever intending to invite anybody there. As a matter of
fact, he did not invite any of the guests. The party was not his suggestion.
Other people got the crowd together, and simply used his rooms.
Mr. Arbuckle has told me that so far as the liquor that was there is
concerned, he actually does not know where it came from or how it got there.
Perhaps the best proof of that is that with all the bills he has had to pay,
he has never paid one cent for the liquor that was served--and in these days,
no one gets liquor without paying for it.
I can picture him that afternoon as the involuntary host at a party not
of his invitation or suggestions; perhaps enjoying it, for although he
scarcely ever starts a party himself, he likes company and enjoys being with
people. Certainly no one can blame him, if the party became noisy and too
lively. As a matter of fact, he has told me that he did complain of the
actions of certain members of the party and told them that they were going
too far. Perhaps that very thing aroused a spirit of revenge that was
responsible for the charges made against him.
As for Virginia Rappe, the minute I saw her name in connection with the
case it made me more sure than ever that my husband was being made the victim
of circumstances. I do not want to say anything against her; in fact, both
Mr. Arbuckle and myself urged from the very beginning that nothing be brought
into the case that would tend to besmirch her character if it could possibly
be kept out. We were not responsible for published statements attacking her.
That was done by other persons, evidently fearing that we would try such
measures and wishing to forestall us. They were very much mistaken. Nothing
has been farther from our thoughts.
I knew Virginia Rappe as long as Mr. Arbuckle did. Henry Lehrmann, her
manager, was also my director at one time. I knew the girl, not only from
personal acquaintance but from acquaintance with many of her friends.
I do not believe that Virginia Rappe was a conscious factor in any
maneuver directed against Mr. Arbuckle. If there were a deliberate plot
against him, I do not think that she knew anything about it. She was in Los
Angeles, financially hard up, out of work and unable to get help from her
friends. She came to San Francisco, I believe, merely on a pleasure trip.
She went to that party, not because Mr. Arbuckle invited her, but because she
was asked to meet Ira Fortlouis, a gown designer and salesman, who had seen
her and thought she would make a good model. That we know from the words of
Fred Fishback, who told us that Mr. Fortlouis had seen Miss Rappe, had
admired her possibilities as a model, and finding that she was in San
Francisco, asked to meet her.
If Miss Rappe had not died, I believe that nothing would ever have been
heard of the affair, because there would have been nothing to talk about.
There are hundreds and hundreds of just such impromptu parties all the time.
People drink and dance and have a good time, and no one is the worse for it.
I believe that the whole trouble started when someone who thought that
Mr. Arbuckle would be an "easy mark" and perhaps was further moved by anger
against him for some reason, seized on Miss Rappe's death as the reason for
wild statements and unfounded charges. It is difficult to discuss that point
without making direct accusations, and that I prefer not to do, but it seems
perfectly evident to me that this motive was back of the whole thing.
Ever since he was a boy--and he practically grew up with our family--
Mr. Arbuckle has been careless with money. He never considered expense.
Money simply meant the means of getting what he wanted, of enjoying himself,
of helping other people. Incidentally, helping other people is the way a
great deal of his money has gone. He has been most generous with me, even
since our separation. He has supported relatives. He has always been ready
to help anyone who needed it. He has half a dozen pensioners about whom
nobody but his own people know. Even during his trial, when he knew that the
tremendous expenses he was under and the loss of the salary he had always had
were making him actually a poor man, I have known him to give $5 bills to
beggars who stopped him on the street.
And speaking of expenses, I want to say that Mr. Arbuckle and no one
else has been paying the costs of his trial and all the rest of it. It has
been said that the motion picture interests were behind him. They were not.
Every cent has come out of his own pocket or out of mine.
As a matter of fact, so far from receiving support from the picture
interests, Mr. Arbuckle has been out of a job since the day after he was
arrested--out of work for the first time since he began his motion picture
work. He did not know it until after I came to him. I learned it just
before I left New York; learned that as soon as the news reached the East, he
was dropped. It was a terrible shock to him. He has always had such faith
in his friends, that it hurt him very much.
With a reputation of being a good spender, always ready to listen to a
hard luck story, and not at all a good manager of his own business affairs
because of this generosity, it is no wonder that he attracted people who were
after him for what they could get, to put it bluntly.
I know of many cases: men who have persuaded him to give them money,
girls with whom he was friendly who have actually made him a joke because it
was so easy to get money away from him. Everyone thought of him as an easy-
going fellow, ready to accept people at their own valuation, and not at all
difficult to manage. I can see just how a clever and unprincipled man or
woman who was looking for an easy victim would select him.
Moreover, Mr. Arbuckle has been not only financially successful but
prominent in his work. There is something about success and prominence,
particularly in the theatrical world, that makes men and women targets for
the malice of others. As soon as an actor becomes known in his profession,
it seems to inspire lies and slander and scandal about him, started by those
strange people who believe that the theatre and good morals cannot go
together, and helped along by people who should know better, but who seem to
take a delight in repeating unproved gossip, and the more scandalous gossip,
the better.
I was not surprised, then, when the moment the news of his trouble
became known, the newspapers were filled with the most malicious attacks on
him. It hurt me terribly, of course, as it hurt him, but it is one of the
penalties of being well-known; there is always someone waiting for the chance
to do just that thing.
Mr. Arbuckle and I want just two things: first, of course, that he be
cleared of these charges, and then that the public we love so much will take
him back into favor, not because of any material interests, but because it
will mean that the public recognizes that he is the innocent victim of a
malicious attack rather than the terrible creature he has been painted.
He wants, particularly, to have the women and children of the theatre-
going public know his innocence and receive him again as they have always
received him. He always has the children in mind when he makes a picture; he
never does a scene that could offend or that would be harmful for a child to
see. In all the many pictures he has made, he has never appeared in a scene
that has been censored.
A great deal was said when the trial began about there being women on
the jury. Some people expressed surprise that our attorneys did not try to
get a jury entirely of men. They thought, I suppose, that women would be
unwelcome because of the traditional stand of a woman in judging a case
involving such charges as are brought in this case.
Absolutely the contrary was true. We did not try to keep women off the
jury. We all hoped that women would be drawn, and Mr. Arbuckle and I were
delighted when the final selection left five good sensible women in the jury
box. Both of us have great faith in a woman's intuition, and we were
perfectly confident that the women would give us a fair deal.
And speaking of women, I do want the women of the country to know that
in spite of all the insinuations and ugly stories that have been circulated
since this thing began, Roscoe Arbuckle is the most modest of men. Certainly
I should know. I have been his wife for thirteen years. For eight of those
years we were hardly out of each other's sight, and in all those eight years
I never remember a single action or a single word that, by the farthest
stretch of the imagination, could be called even immodest, to say nothing of
vulgar or lewd.
He is minutely careful about his dress. Even in our own home, he is as
particular with the members of his own family as he is with strangers. It is
an actual fact that in all the years I have been his wife, I have never seen
him when he was not clothed.
A great deal has been made of the fact that on the afternoon of this
party, Mr. Arbuckle was wearing pajamas and a dressing gown. On the face of
it, without any explanation, it sounds odd--that a man should receive guests,
including women and some women who were strangers to him, in such a costume.
As a matter of fact, the explanation clears up everything. Not long before
the trip to San Francisco, Mr. Arbuckle was accidentally burned with muriatic
acid. It was a serious burn and very painful, and he had to wear a thick
cotton dressing. He always had his clothing made rather tightly fitting in
order to keep him from looking any fatter than he is, and tight clothing over
the burn was anything but comfortable. Whenever he could, he wore loose
clothing, and that was why he was dressed in pajamas on the day of the party.
Remember, he did not suggest the party; it simply moved in on him, as they
say, and the whole thing happened so unexpectedly that he let his costume go.
And I wish the people who have criticised his attire could see the
pajamas and the dressing gown. The pajamas were of the thickest silk he
could buy, as heavy as the heaviest linen. The dressing gown was of thick
brocade, lined with heavy silk, and it was long enough to reach to his ankles
and double-brested. Actually, although his costume was informal, he was much
more thoroughly covered than any man on the tennis court or the beach.
In line with his modesty regarding dress, I want people to understand
Mr. Arbuckle's personal modesty, particularly with women. As a matter of
fact, he prefers to be with men. He likes nothing better than to get a crowd
of men together and sing and laugh and enjoy themselves like a crowd of
college boys.
All his life, Mr. Arbuckle has been embarrassed by his size. He has
believed that women could not like a fat man, and for that reason he has
hesitated even more than might be natural about developing friendships among
women. He is not the type of man who caresses a woman. If he likes a girl,
he will tease her or make her presents or generally be nice to her, but he
will never think of putting his hands on her. In fact, he carries it so far
that it is almost an obsession.
Knowing that trait of character, I cannot imagine him doing what it has
been said he did. I have known all about his affairs, and I know that he
never forced his acquaintance on a woman. If she were friendly, and he liked
her, he could be good friends, but he has always been so conscious of that
traditional "nobody loves a fat man" idea, that it has influenced him in his
friendships.
For eight years I was constantly with Mr. Arbuckle, and in all that
time I never heard him use vile language or tell disgusting stories or do
anything of that sort. He likes a good time, but he likes a clean good time.
He likes machinery, and loves to tinker with the cars. He is fond of dogs,
and likes nothing better than to take a day off and wash our three dogs. He
and the big St. Bernard have wonderful times. Mr. Arbuckle gets into his
bathing suit, and puts a tub in the garage, and he and the dog are perfectly
happy there for half a day.
In the eight years that followed our marriage, I came to know my
husband in every particular. Few married couples are together as much as we
were in those years.
We met at Long Beach, where he was principal comedian in a musical
comedy company and I was in the chorus. We were married in 1908, and for the
next eight years we were hardly out of one another's sight. Not very long
after our marriage, we went to Los Angeles, where motion pictures were just
beginning to become a great industry. We found work at the same studio,
doing comedy pictures.
Every morning we rode to the studio together. All day long we worked
in the same studio and the same picture. In a year and half I played with
Mr. Arbuckle in forty-seven pictures.
If either of us went anywhere in the evening, the other always went
along. I was brought up in the belief--they call it old-fashioned now--that
a wife's place was to suit herself to her husband's wishes, and to go where
he wanted to go. In fact, I so thoroughly fitted myself into Mr. Arbuckle's
life, that I almost lost my own interests. He does not care for reading, and
I am very fond of it. I love books, and I love to find my own problems
solved in them. However, he did not care particularly for reading, so I let
my books go. It was the same with other things. His interests became mine,
absolutely.
Perhaps we made a mistake by being so much together. It is the safest
thing for married couples to take an occasional vacation from each other.
I know that now, but you couldn't make me believe it then. We had our
careers. Roscoe was on the way to becoming a star, and I was doing well with
my work. We were both busy, and busy people are often nervous and irritable.
Two busy people in a family frequently clash, not because of any dislike, but
simply because they get on each other's nerves, and neither one, because of
the continual strain of work, has the time to acquire sufficient calmness to
meet the other's needs.
Roscoe has no great faults; that I know. But he is human and like
other men, he has his minor difficulties. He has always been inclined to be
stubborn in spite of his easy-going nature. It sounds like an impossibility,
but every wife will know that it can be true.
Well, if he can be stubborn, so can I. Probably our separation was as
much my fault as it was his. We began to clash a little, probably over some
very unimportant thing. He wouldn't admit that he was wrong, and neither
would I. He is like a boy; he wants to be coaxed; and as for myself,
I cannot force myself on anyone, least of all a man, if I have the slightest
feeling that I may not be welcome.
So we simply got on one another's nerves, and it never got properly
straightened out, until this thing happened, and all our little disagreements
were swept out of sight.
Even during the years that we were separated, we were friends. We
corresponded frequently; Mr. Arbuckle often called me up over the long
distance telephone when I was in New York and he was in Los Angeles; and
whenever he was in New York, he came to see me. That doesn't sound much like
being enemies, does it?
All during the trial, I have sat in the courtroom and prayed over and
over a little prayer that Mr. Arbuckle would be cleared and that the real
truth would become known. I dislike to make direct charges concerning
anyone, but I can simply say that the circumstantial evidence that was
brought out against Mr. Arbuckle sounded to me very weak indeed, and as for
direct accusations, I do not believe them. It seems perfectly clear to me
that every circumstance developed in the case can be explained as effectively
in Mr. Arbuckle's favor as against him, and as for anything further, it must
be remembered that Mrs. Delmont, who first made the charges and who was
really the only one to accuse Mr. Arbuckle directly, was not put on the stand
by the prosecution. Surely they would have insisted upon her testimony,
unless they did not believe her story after all, or unless they feared that
we could discredit her.
I know that Roscoe Arbuckle is innocent, and that he will be acquitted,
but I hope that the case will go so that he is clearly acquitted on the facts
and not simply by legal technicalities. As much as he wants his freedom from
these charges, and as much as I want it, it will mean little if he is still
under a cloud. He has been deeply hurt in many ways during this affair. He
has seen fair-weather friends fall away from him, and he has learned the
value of his true friends.
Roscoe Arbuckle looks on every man, woman and child who has ever
enjoyed him in the films as his friend, and those friends he wants to keep.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
December 31, 1921
Roscoe Arbuckle
MOVIE WEEKLY
Roscoe Arbuckle Tells His Own Story
The hardest thing I have ever done in my life was to keep still for the
twelve weeks between September 10th, when I heard that Virginia Rappe had
died in a San Francisco hospital, and November 28, when I went on the witness
stand to tell my story for the first time.
As soon as I was told that I was being held responsible for Miss
Rappe's death and that I would have to clear myself in the eyes of a jury and
of the world, I wanted to tell the truth. No one but myself could tell the
whole truth of the affair, for no one else knew. Other people knew part of
the story, and some of them thought that they knew a great deal more than
they really did, but I alone could tell everything.
However, I realized that my attorneys knew best and that if I spoke too
soon there would be danger of hurting my case and that the wisest thing would
be to keep silent until the right time came to speak. So although I did not
look forward with any pleasure to going on the witness stand--no man likes to
have to defend himself against charges that he knows are unjust--I was really
glad that at last the chance had come to let the whole world know that I was
not guilty of the crime charged against me.
I did not hurt Virginia Rappe in any way whatever. I never had any
intention of hurting her. I would not hurt any woman.
Whatever motive inspired the people who accused me, it was not
knowledge that I had done the thing they said I did. It seems almost
impossible to me that anyone could be so cruel and malicious as to make such
terrible charges against a man without the most positive proof to support
those charges, and yet that is what happened.
I was accused of saying and doing things that never entered my mind,
and not only that, but things I did say and do were twisted and
misinterpreted until they sounded very different from the truth.
People have talked about me as entertaining a gay party in my rooms at
the hotel that day. It has been referred to again and again as the "Arbuckle
party."
It wasn't my party at all. The only person who came to those rooms
that day at my invitation was Mrs. Mae Taube, with whom I had made an
engagement to go driving in the afternoon.
Other people invited all the other guests. Most of the guests I had
never seen before that afternoon. Miss Rappe came at the invitation of Fred
Fishback, and he invited her at the suggestion of Ira Fortlouis, who had seen
the girl and thought she would do for a model. Mrs. Delmont came with Miss
Rappe. I really don't know how the others happened to come. The first thing
I knew, they were there, and that was all there was to it.
I had arisen that morning about 11 o'clock, and had put on my pajamas,
bathrobe and slippers. If I had had any idea that people were coming to the
rooms, I certainly would have changed my clothes, but, as I say, the people
simply walked in. When they were there, they made themselves at home, went
back and forth between the rooms, and I had no time to dress. I hadn't
invited them, but they were in my rooms, and I couldn't be rude.
There were three rooms in the suite, 1219, 1220 and 1221. The sitting
room was 1220, and the other two were bedrooms, one on each side of the
sitting room. Most of the time the people stayed in 1220, but they went into
the other rooms whenever they wanted to.
Early in the afternoon I saw Virginia Rappe go into Room 1221. I did
not see her come out again. It was almost time for my automobile to arrive,
and so I went into Room 1219, which was my bedroom, intending to dress.
I had no idea that there was anybody in the room.
I closed the door into 1220 and locked it, because the people were
going back and forth between the rooms, and I wanted to keep them out while I
was dressing.
I went straight to the bathroom, and as I opened the door, it struck
against something. I pushed in, and saw Miss Rappe lying on the floor,
clutching her body with both hands and moaning. Of course, I thought right
away that she was ill, and my first thought was to help her.
As quickly as I could, I picked her up from the floor and held her
while she suffered an attack of nausea. She seemed to be very sick, but she
had been drinking some liquor, and I thought that was the trouble.
And by the way, the liquor which was served that afternoon was not
mine. All I know about it is that Fred Fishback went to the closet in Room
1221 and brought out a couple of bottles of Scotch whiskey and a bottle of
gin. Some orange juice and seltzer were sent up from downstairs, and
everyone helped himself to drinks. Miss Rappe drank gin and orange juice,
about three drinks.
As soon as Miss Rappe was able, I helped her out into the room. She
said something about wanting to lie down, and I set her on the edge of one of
the beds. She lay down, and I lifted her feet to the bed and left her there
for a minute, as I thought that she was simply ill from too much liquor and
would be all right if she could lie quietly.
I stepped out of the room for a minute, and when I came back, Miss
Rappe was lying on the floor between the two beds, again clutching her body
and moaning. All this time she said nothing that I could understand, just
moaned and seemed to be in pain.
I picked her up and laid her on the bed. Then I went out into 1220,
and found Zey Prevost [Prevon] there.
I said: "Virginia is sick" and Miss Prevost went into Room 1219.
Mrs. Delmont was not in 1220 when I came out. I know that she has said
and Miss Prevost has testified that they knocked at the door from 1220 into
1219, and Mrs. Delmont has insisted that she kicked as well as knocked, but I
never heard a sound, and when I came out to get somebody to help Miss Rappe,
Mrs. Delmont was not in sight.
She came in a moment later from Room 1221, and went into Room 1219 with
Miss Prevost.
I followed them into the room, and saw Miss Rappe sitting on the bed,
tearing at her clothing. She had both hands gripped in her waist, and was
ripping it to shreds, gritting her teeth and making noises. She tried to
tear the green jacket she was wearing, but she could not tear it. Then she
took hold of her stockings and garters and ripped them off.
I told Mrs. Delmont and Miss Prevost to make Miss Rappe stop tearing
her clothing, but she wouldn't stop. She acted like a person in a terrible
temper, almost beside herself. She didn't scream or say anything, just
moaned and tore at her garments.
One sleeve of her waist was hanging by a thread. I thought perhaps the
best thing would be to try to quiet her instead of opposing her, so I sent
over to her and took hold of the sleeve, and pulled it off, saying: "All
right, if you want it off, I'll help you." All I meant was that she seemed
in an uncontrollable spasm of some kind, and I was afraid that if tried to
argue with her, she might hurt herself.
After that I went out of the room, and when I came back a little later,
Miss Rappe was lying unclothed on the bed and Mrs. Delmont was rubbing her
with a piece of ice. I picked up a piece of ice that was lying on Miss
Rappe's body, and asked Mrs. Delmont what was the idea. It seemed to me
pretty dangerous treatment for anybody but a doctor or a nurse to try.
Mrs. Delmont turned on me angrily and told me to shut up and mind my
own business--that she knew how to take care of Virginia. It made me angry,
for all I wanted to do was to help the sick girl, and Mrs. Delmont was
talking to me in a way I didn't like, so I told her to shut up or I would
throw her out of the window. Of course, I wouldn't really have done it; it
was just one of those things one says in a moment of anger without any idea
of literal meaning.
That is an example of how things I really did say have been twisted and
turned against me. It has been made to sound as if I had said that to
Virginia Rappe while she lay there suffering and ill. I said it, but I
certainly did not say it to Miss Rappe, nor did I mean her when I said it.
I would have been a brute to have spoken to a sick girl like that.
I realized by that time that Miss Rappe was probably more seriously ill
than I had thought, and should have a room to herself, so I went back into
the other rooms and asked Mrs. Taube to telephone to the manager of the hotel
and ask for another room. The manager came up in a few minutes, and told us
where we might take Miss Rappe.
We rolled her up in a bathrobe--she had been lying nude on the bed all
this time, and uncovered except after I had managed to pull the spread out
from under her and cover her with it. Then I took her in my arms and started
down the hall toward the other room. When I was nearly there, she started to
slip from my arms; she was limp and half-conscious, and very hard to hold.
I asked the hotel manager to lift her up a little, but he took her in his
arms and carried her into the room.
After she was put to bed, I told them to get a doctor, and then I went
back to my rooms.
I did not know that Virginia Rappe was even seriously ill until I got
word of her death. I went back to Los Angeles the next day, because I had
reservations on the steamer for my party and my car. There was never any
thought in my mind that Miss Rappe was suffering from anything more than the
effects of too much liquor or an attack of slight illness. The news of her
death was my first intimation that it was serious.
The State's witnesses have testified that they heard screams coming
from my rooms. I know that all afternoon the window was wide open, and any
sound louder than an ordinary conversation could have been heard without any
difficulty; and people who occupied adjoining rooms have declared that they
heard nothing.
They have made a great deal out of some finger prints that were found
on the door of Room 1219--the door that lead into the hallway. Experts have
tried to show that the prints must have been made by Virginia Rappe's fingers
and mine, and that when they were made, her hand was against the door and I
was trying to drag it off.
I don't know where they get such ideas. There seemed to be marks on
the door when it was brought into the courtroom, but I certainly did not put
them there. I am positive that I never touched that door with my hand all
day, as I had not gone out into the hallway, but only into the other rooms of
the suite. Certainly I never touched it in the way they said I did. It's a
mystery to me.
Jesse Norgaard, who said he was a janitor at the Culver City studios
when Miss Rappe and I were both working there, testified that once I asked
him for the keys to her rooms, saying that I wanted to play a joke on her.
I suppose the idea was to show that I tried to force myself into her room
when she didn't want to let me in.
That is absolutely false. I never made any such request of Norgaard,
nor did I offer him money for the keys, as he said I did. In fact, when I
saw Norgaard on the witness stand, I couldn't remember ever having seen him
before. He may have been at the studios, but there were so many people there
that I couldn't remember them all.
All this talk of my having been infatuated with Miss Rappe or trying to
"get her," is absurd. I knew her for several years; we had worked at the
same studios, and I had met her in other places, but that was absolutely all.
I knew when I went on the witness stand that my cross-examination was
going to be as rigid as it could be made, but I had no fear, for I was
telling nothing but the truth. I know that the lawyers tried many times to
catch me on details, but they couldn't, because everything I said was true,
and there was no need to remember what I had said the first time.
No man can do any more than to tell the truth, and it was the truth I
told on the witness stand.
A great many very harsh and unjust things have been said about me since
this affair began and they have hurt me very much. I have always had many
friends, but I found when this trouble came, who my real friends were.
It has hurt me deeply to think that the people to whom I have tried to
give good clean enjoyment for so many years could turn on me and condemn me
without a hearing. I suppose every man accused of crime must expect that,
but it didn't make it any easier for me.
I have been very grateful to the other people who refused to believe
that I was guilty merely because I was accused of crime. There have been
many of them. I have received many many letters and telegrams from people
all over the country, assuring me that they believed in me, and I am glad to
know that I have these real friends.
If everything is straightened out at last and I am cleared of all the
charges, I hope that these friends will be as ready to welcome me back on the
screen as I shall be glad to get back. I like to make people laugh and enjoy
themselves. It pleases me because children are amused at my pictures, and I
have always tried very hard not to do anything in any picture that would
offend or be bad for the children.
One really good thing has come out of all this trouble. It has been
the means of reuniting my wife and myself after five years of separation. We
are happy to be together again, and we have discovered that the things that
kept us apart were very unimportant after all.
Mrs. Arbuckle has been wonderfully loyal to me during all this trouble.
She came all the way across the continent to be with me, and every minute she
has stuck by me. Her faith and love, and the faith and love of her mother,
who is like a mother to me, have been my greatest helps all these long hard
weeks.
While, through the technicalities of the law, I have not been legally
acquitted of the charge of manslaughter in connection with the death of
Virginia Rappe, I have been morally acquitted.
After the organized propaganda, designed to make the securing of an
impartial jury an impossibility and to prevent my obtaining a fair trial,
I feel grateful for this message from the jury to the American people. This
comes, too, after hearing only part of the facts, as the efforts of the
District Attorney succeeded, on technical objections, in excluding from the
jury the statements from Miss Rappe to several people of high character,
completely exonerating me.
The undisputed and uncontradicted testimony established that my only
connection with this sad affair was one of merciful service, and the fact
that ordinary human kindness should have brought upon me this tragedy has
seemed a cruel wrong. I have sought to bring joy and gladness and merriment
into the world, and why this great misfortune should have fallen upon me is a
mystery that only God can, and will, some day reveal.
I have always rested my cause in a profound believe in Divine justice
and in the confidence of the great heart and fairness of the American people.
I want to thank the multitude from all over the world who have
telegraphed and written to me in my sorrow and expressed their utmost
confidence in my innocence. I assure them that no act of mine ever has, and
I promise them that no act of mine ever shall cause them to regret their
faith in me.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
February 2, 1922
SAN FRANCISCO BULLETIN
Word of [William Desmond] Taylor's death was brought to Roscoe Arbuckle,
film comedian, as he sat at the counsel table awaiting the verdict of the jury
in his manslaughter trial, by a reporter for The Bulletin. Arbuckle's eyes
filled with tears. He was visibly affected.
"Taylor was the best fellow on the lot," he said, using a theatrical
expression. "He was beloved by everybody, and his loss is a shock. I cannot
begin to say how much everyone liked him. There has never been a breath of
scandal connected with his name. I cannot understand why anyone would wish to
murder him as he was the last man in the world to make an enemy."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
February 15, 1922
Jack Jungmeyer
LOS ANGELES RECORD
Fatty Philosophizes on Taylor Case
"The American public is ardent in its hero worship and quite as
ruthless in destroying its idols in any walk of life.
"It elevates a man more quickly than any nation in the world, and casts
him down more quickly--quite often on surmise or a mere hunch.
"This latter disposition so curiously at variance with the American
tradition and ideal of justice is just now being driven home particularly to
the motion picture people of Los Angeles on the heels of Billy Taylor's
mysterious murder."
Such was the comment today by "Fatty" Arbuckle on one aftermath angle
of the noted picture director's assassination in his home here on the night
of February 1. He was decrying certain innuendos cast against William
Desmond Taylor, his life and his relationship with women screen stars whose
names have featured the investigations.
Arbuckle is back in his West Adams mansion after his second court
ordeal in connection with the death of Virginia Rappe in San Francisco.
"It is the general inclination, when trouble happens to strike in film
circles, for the thoughtless to whisper, malign and gossip and to speak with
that mock sagacity of the times of 'the inside dope' and 'the low down,'"
continued Arbuckle.
"This was brought out quite forcibly in my own case and has been
accentuated in the case of William Taylor. That I will acquit myself I am
quite sure, but poor Billy is not here to defend himself from speculations
which have no basis in proven fact.
"Taylor lived as he died--a square shooter, absolutely on the level
with his fellow beings, charitable and kind. His death removed from the
motion picture industry one of its outstanding characters. To this hundreds
who knew him best testify.
"And yet, because of that curious and pervading psychology of suspicion
to which I have referred, Billy Taylor's name is in many quarters being
smirched with utter disregard for the facts of his personal and professional
life.
"That is far from the dominant trait of our forefathers, who held a man
innocent until proven guilty. And I know the full weight of this
vilification and innuendo because I was a victim of the same campaign.
"Never in history, perhaps, have men and women been so quickly elevated
to prominence as have the successful folk in pictures. That is because of
the millions before whom they appear via the screen almost nightly. Their
names become household words. Their features widely familiar. They are
virtually next door neighbor to everyone in the land.
"The man and woman who thus accepts as worthy of esteem this filmland
neighbor should do himself or herself the moral honor of refusing to accept
tattle and shouldershrugs in place of fact--as he undoubtedly would in the
case of his respected physical neighbor."
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For more information about Taylor, see
WILLIAM DESMOND TAYLOR: A DOSSIER (Scarecrow Press, 1991)
Back issues of Taylorology are available from the gopher server at
gopher.etext.org
in the directory Zines/Taylorology;
or on the Web at
http://www.angelfire.com/az/Taylorology
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