Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Raoul Walsh The True Adventures of Hollywood's Legendary Director
Raoul Walsh The True Adventures of Hollywood's Legendary Director
Screen Classics
Series Editor
Patrick McGilligan
Von Sternberg
John Baxter
Some Like It Wilder: The Life and Controversial Films of Billy Wilder
Gene D. Phillips
15 14 13 12 11 5 4 3 2 1
Acknowledgments ix
Prologue: A Wild Ride 1
Filmography 405
Notes 447
Selected Bibliography 465
Index 471
ix
x Acknowledgments
happy to benefit from their help. I hope that I have emerged from the life
with a book that understands the man in a deeply truthful way.
Some thanks are in order. I could not have gathered the large col-
lection of Walsh materials I needed without the help of Ned Comstock,
whom again I have to call the brilliant overachiever running the Cine-
matic Arts Library at the University of Southern California. Ned should
probably be listed as the coauthor of almost every fi lm-related book that
sees publication these days: he’s a gifted researcher and archivist and
a stickler for detail who is forever hunting down, photocopying, and
generally manifesting indispensable materials for those of us who simply
write and look at him with awe. I am, as always, indebted to him.
Luckily for this book, Walsh’s nephew on Mary Walsh’s side, Hank
Kilgore, and his wife, Sue, gave unselfishly of their time to help me un-
derstand the personal side of Walsh. The Kilgores generously opened
the doors of Walsh’s home to me, searching through Raoul and Mary
Walsh’s photographs, letters, and personal documents, laying them out
before me so that I could get to know Walsh the family man. They also
put me in touch with the wonderful Hisayo Graham, Walsh’s secretary
in the 1960s and later his good friend, who traveled a good distance to
meet with me and let me interview her. I also thank George Walsh Jr.,
Walsh’s nephew, who spoke with me patiently on the phone several times
about his uncle and his father, George, Raoul Walsh’s younger brother.
I am also indebted to Kevin Brownlow, the fi lm historian, scholar,
and film preservationist extraordinaire, who likewise researched, pho-
tocopied, and generally shopped in his own amazing archives for me so
that I could understand the richness of Walsh’s silent film career. Kevin
has a direct pipeline to every film, fi lmmaker, and performer who graced
the silent screen, and I have benefited enormously from his generosity.
Walsh was, if anything, an endearing and much-loved friend to
many people in his long life. Luckily for me, when he was already in
his eighties, he met the literary agent Bob Bookman, then a student at
Yale, whom Walsh came to love as a son and in fact called his “Number
One Son” in the numerous letters he wrote to him that Bob shared with
me—along with Walsh’s original manuscripts for his novels and autobi-
ography and a painting or two that Walsh, ever the diligent artist, gave
him.
I am very grateful to Sandra Joy Lee and Jonathan Auxier, curators
Acknowledgments xi
and who opened his home to an interview with me. A nod also to Toni
D’Angeli in Rome, whose book on Walsh is a brilliant piece of critical
analysis. Toni’s web magazine, La furia umana, published an early draft
of my work on Walsh’s They Drive by Night.
I owe a great debt to Walsh’s colleagues who agreed to interviews
and who shared their memories of the man: to my hero, the awe-
inspiring Olivia de Havilland, who graciously spoke to me by fax from
her home in France (and to the wonderful Robert Osborne, TCM’s
great host, who fi rst put me in touch with Miss de Havilland); to the
beautiful, indomitable Jane Russell, who invited me to her home more
than once to talk about Walsh and about her own colorful career; to Sir
Ken Adam, the brilliant art director, who corresponded with me from
his home in England and sent some wonderful photographs; to Bryan
Forbes, the formidable writer-director and a close friend of Walsh’s; to
the ever-entertaining Richard Erdman, Hugh O’Brian (who also offered
an evening of splendid magic tricks), and Harry (Dobe) Carey Jr.; to
Kirk Douglas, who patiently emailed me with answers to my questions;
to Walter and Susan Doniger, who also showed such patience with my
many questions; to Jack Larsen, who has great stories to share; to Peter
Newbrook, the cameraman who gave me some of the funniest stories
about Walsh during the early 1950s; to Joan Leslie, who provided me
with a vivid portrait of Walsh on the set of High Sierra; and to Tommy
Cook, who also talked to me about working with Walsh.
A very special thanks to essential fi lm scholars for me: Peter Bog-
danovich and Richard Schickel, both of whom took great care to talk
to me about their friend Raoul Walsh. The generous John Gallagher,
who selflessly shared with me some essential interviews he conducted
with Walsh’s colleagues, also made this book richer and sent me Walsh
movies I wouldn’t have otherwise seen. I admire John’s scholarship to no
end. I also thank the D. W. Griffith scholar Tom Gunning and the USC
scholar Nicholas Cull, who shared with me information about Walsh’s
fiasco with Warner Bros. over the production of the film PT 109 in the
1960s. I also thank George Stevens Jr. for his emails to me concerning
that episode and Connie Martinson, the wife of the director Leslie A.
Martinson, who directed me to Nicholas Cull’s work on the subject. My
thanks also to Christa Fuller for talking to me about the friendship be-
Acknowledgments xiii
tween her husband, Sam Fuller, and Walsh; and to Jeanine Basinger for
an early and enlightening phone conversation about her friend Walsh.
My gratitude goes to Gregorio Rocha, whose documentary on the lost
footage of Walsh’s early work on Pancho Villa was illuminating, as was
my brief correspondence with him. Also, I thank my friend and fellow
writer Alan K. Rode.
I give thanks many times over to my friends at the Margaret Herrick
Library at the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences in Beverly
Hills: the research archivists Barbara Hall and Jenny Romero as well as
the always diligent photographic archivist Faye Thompson. To my long-
time friend at the UCLA Arts Library Special Collections, Lauren Buis-
son, who pulled Twentieth Century–Fox production files in a jiffy when
I needed them. Also at UCLA, thanks to the archivist Julie Graham, and
a special thank you to Mark Quigley at the Film and Television Archive,
who made available to me so many of Walsh’s early silent films. At the
Museum of Modern Art, I thank Charles Silver, curator of the Film
Department, who arranged a screening of Walsh’s The Loves of Carmen
for me and who pulled fi les and offered up some great Walsh stories.
I also thank Joan Miller, the archivist at Wesleyan University’s Cin-
ema Archives, who gave me unlimited access to the papers of Raoul
Walsh that the library holds. Along those lines, I cannot thank enough
my indispensable and consistently sharp archival research assistant,
Karl Ljungquist, who put in order so many Walsh documents and
helped enormously with assembling Walsh’s intricate filmography and
this book’s index. I also thank Leith Johnson, a former archivist at the
Wesleyan University Cinema Archives, the very helpful Emma Furderer
and Kathleen Dickson at the British Film Institute, and Jared Case, the
film cataloger at the George Eastman House in Rochester, New York. I
am also grateful to Elizabeth Anthony for providing information about
the actress Alida Valli’s involvement with Walsh’s fi lm The World in His
Arms and to Theresa Schwartzman, who so long ago alerted me to Gre-
gorio Rocha’s documentary The Lost Reels of Pancho Villa. Thank you,
also, Claire Brandt, the matriarch at the indispensable Eddie Brandt’s
Saturday Matinee in North Hollywood, California, which has videos,
photographs, and DVDs that exist nowhere else on the planet. Thanks
also go out to researchers at the Harry Ransom Library at the University
xiv Acknowledgments
When Raoul Walsh was fi fteen years old, he awoke one night from a
dream that left him shaking. He trembled as much from dread as from
a half-formed sense of excitement. In a sleep that seemed as much night-
mare as fantasy, he saw that his beloved mother, Elizabeth, had suddenly
died. He could make no sense of it and could no longer reach out to
touch her. An overwhelming sadness took over. But at the same time
he had a sense of something startling: he now stood on the brink of a
fabulous journey, a great adventure that offered escape from the hole he
felt had just been shot through the middle of his heart.
The dread that touched the young Walsh that night was no fiction.
Just two days earlier, his beautiful and much-beloved mother, Elizabeth
Walsh, had died of cancer at the age of forty-two, leaving behind a de-
voted husband, three children, and a household she had filled with end-
less storytelling and fanciful flights of imagination. For Raoul Walsh,
the grief was almost unbearable. As he wrote in his autobiography more
than seventy years later, “I was quite unprepared for the sudden blow
that left me motherless at fi fteen. . . . Mother passed away in the big
master bedroom into which I used to steal and beg for one of her stories
about an earlier America. . . . Where before I had loved it, the place
became unbearable. . . . The terrible thing was that she was gone and I
was only half a person.”1
Not only did the stories cease; so did Elizabeth and Thomas Walsh’s
renowned dinner parties, where the Walsh children sat at the table in-
fatuated while listening to the ramblings of a Lionel Barrymore or a
John L. Sullivan in the time it took to fi nish one course and move on to
another.
1
2 Raoul Walsh
So adrift was young Walsh that he could not understand his life now
or what lay in store. His only recourse lay in creating another kind of
dream that encapsulated a great adventure, one that, perhaps unknown
to him then, began the moment his mother died: it would last a lifetime.
He jumped so quickly into fantasy that he may even have imagined the
adventure that lay before him. The line between what was true and what
was fantasy became blurred—but either way he embarked on a wild ride.
The fantasy came quickly: Walsh’s father, Thomas, seeing how Eliza-
beth’s death devastated his oldest son, encouraged the boy to travel so as
to escape. Thomas’s brother, Matthew, was about to set off on the high
seas for Cuba, and Thomas made certain that his son was on board when
Matthew’s schooner, the Enniskillen, sailed out of Peck’s Slip in New
York City in one week’s time. From now on, only the telling mattered.
In this moment, Raoul Walsh created the fundamental subject of his
life—and of his art to come. He knew how to escape great sadness by
dreaming, then creating, an adventure of his own making, one shaped by
his own design. His escape was forged from a schism in his psyche that
he would come to articulate in storytelling, that he would come to count
on. The pervasive mourning that had left a hole in his soul responded
easily to the sense of imagination and fantasy that leaped up to fill it.
Adventure and fantasy offered the only viable means of escape from
the grief that, ironically, he never would escape. These two—grief and
adventure—locked themselves together in his mind. It would be ironic
that the grief he felt at the loss of his mother gave his art great range;
he escaped repeatedly because he had to. Now only “half a person,”
Walsh had to fill in the other half of himself, and he would do it through
adventure and storytelling.
Forced to make friends with sadness, Walsh, unconsciously, per-
haps, took that sadness with him into stories he told himself. As he got
older, his great sense of storytelling served him well when, on the cusp
of his twenties, he found his way into the fledgling movie industry, where
storytelling could fill huge movie screens. Telling stories to others, he
found fictional characters persistently embarking on an adventure of
some kind. His fi lm art would depict great action that, emotionally and
physically, drove his characters forward—their sense of duty more often
than not triggered by a sadness, a mistake, that they leave behind. As it
did in Walsh’s early life, sadness haunts the tragic outsiders Roy Earle
Prologue 3
and his girlfriend, Marie, in High Sierra; while they make plans to evade
the police, their actions stem from a desperate need to save their own
lives. In Walsh’s fi rst Warner Bros. outing, The Roaring Twenties, al-
though Jimmy Cagney’s Eddie Bartlett returns home from the war with
great expectations, his life spirals downward as he makes one mistake
after another in trying simply to make a legitimate living. A sense of
sadness also underscores White Heat’s Oedipally deranged Cody Jarrett
as he unintentionally maps out his climb to chaos, ending in his fiery
demise in Walsh and Cagney’s hugely iconic 1949 outing.
Even earlier than these postwar fi lms, darkness defi nes the society
Walsh paints in his silent fi lms Regeneration, The Honor System, and
What Price Glory? just as it manipulates his soldiers’ and renegades’
adventures later on in the 1950s films and wreaks havoc in the lives of
his 1950s women, especially Mamie Stover and the four women holed
up at a ranch in The King and Four Queens. Walsh’s darkness is more
often than not driven underground in his characters’ psyches. They look
to be moving forward, yet a tinge of world-weariness shows on their
faces, in the way they move, in the choices they make.
Throughout the 1910s and 1920s, Walsh wrote and directed at a
fever pitch. He took a huge chance and traveled through seven states to
fi lm the achingly difficult The Big Trail, a fi nancial gamble that didn’t
pay off and that instead sent him reeling for the next decade until he
rebounded when he landed at Warner Bros., the studio that oversaw his
golden period of storytelling. During this time of great success, Walsh
never appeared to challenge the system he worked within. If anything, he
looked to be its best yes-man, taking work when, as he liked to say, the
studio dropped off a script on his front lawn the morning after he had
just fi nished shooting the previous one. He said yes because he lived in
a much deeper psychological place; he lived in his filmic adventures and
kept them as a great protection. While the social world around him saw
tragic events envelop other directors’ art—responses to two world wars,
for one, and the Great Depression, for another—Walsh kept moving at
lightning speed, his pictures seeming unscathed by that real world and
existing instead in a dream state, the state induced by making movies.
He escaped that far more dangerous world and stayed inside his own
fictional intentions.
This seeming doubleness—existing in one world (looking like a yes-
4 Raoul Walsh
and wavy brown hair, he had movie-star good looks and a personality
that strutted. Underneath that persona, however, Walsh was a serious
soul, determined to get a picture wrapped on time and on budget. He
never fudged on that goal in his fi fty-plus years in the business.
As Walsh grew older, the press saw him not so much as a wild spirit
as a humorous man whose life spilled out onto the public through end-
less anecdotes; he told crazy stories about his antics with Errol Flynn,
Jimmy Cagney, and Humphrey Bogart. He quipped endlessly about
prostitutes he had known, about cowboys and bandits he had run with,
about getting drunk with the legends who visited his set, with the crew
he adored more than any other bunch.
But these were stories, part of the adventure, part of the fiction he
learned to wrap around himself so that he would not really be seen.
“Let’s get the hell out of here!” he often yelled out on the set when a
scene wrapped. Part humorous, part serious, the quip is the essential
Walsh—the man half in but at the same time half out the door, perpetu-
ally ready to bolt, to leap and walk quickly away, and to disappear into
the dark corners of a soundstage where no one could find him but where
everyone always knew he was just the same.
1
When Albert Edward Walsh was born on March 11, 1887, in New York
City, the moving-picture business was little more than a fl icker in the
country’s collective consciousness. George Eastman would not produce
or market celluloid fi lm for another year, and the earliest known fi lm
on record, W. K. L. Dickson’s Fred Ott’s Sneeze, was still four years
away. So was Thomas Edison’s move to file patents for the Kinetograph
and Kinetoscope, neither of which would be displayed until the Chicago
World’s Fair in 1893. By the time the fi rst nickelodeon opened in Pitts-
burgh in 1905, Walsh would be eighteen years old, having left home for
the adventures he so craved—the fantasies movies are made of.
Yet the stories that the soon-to-be renamed “Raoul” Walsh would
write and direct were already taking shape around him. In New York
City, the Bowery that he later put on film was already a sprawling tene-
ment full of lower-class concert halls, brothels, and flophouses, an area
Walsh soon relished as a childhood hangout. The ships and schooners
that he spent hours sniffing out as a kid and that billowed into huge
proportions in his fi lms Captain Horatio Hornblower and Blackbeard
the Pirate already stirred his imagination—there they were, docked at
New York’s Peck’s Slip, a romantic neck of the city that Walsh and his
younger brother, George, loitered in regularly. Even the gangs on the
Lower East Side were taking over Hell’s Kitchen and adjacent neighbor-
hoods that Walsh later re-created on the “New York” streets of Warner
Bros. for The Roaring Twenties, his Cagney-Bogart gangster picture.
6
Becoming Raoul Walsh 7
Out West, mythic heroes had already made a place for themselves
somewhere in Walsh’s imagination. Just seven years before his birth,
Wyatt Earp, whom Walsh later claimed to have met on a Hollywood
back lot, had just joined his brothers at the OK Corral and gunned down
the Clanton boys. Buffalo Bill Cody, whom Walsh said used to stop by
his family’s brownstone when he was a kid to sample his father’s fi ne
wines, had just set up his fi rst traveling show in 1883. Sitting Bull had
surrendered his rifle to General Alfred Terry, who five years earlier had
directed the campaign that ended in the Lakota chief’s victory over Gen-
eral George Custer at Little Big Horn—a battle no one would reimagine
as romantically as Walsh did when he later directed They Died with
Their Boots On at Warner Bros. studios.
Fiction and myth followed Walsh so closely throughout his life that
it almost seemed as if he’d forged himself from them. If he was not creat-
ing a story for the big screen, he was creating one for his own life—a
way to explain himself to himself and to others so as to weave his life
inexplicably into legend. The line between what was fiction and what
was fact would always be blurred in his imagination; he would be the
last one to fi nd a distinction between them. Speaking to reporters and
to his myriad of fi lm-buff followers, Walsh loved to tell a good story; no
one ever knew whether it was truth or embellishment. Although it was
well-known that he was raised in New York City, Walsh thought noth-
ing of changing that story for dramatic effect. Sometimes he was born in
Montana, at other times in Texas. Even better than the “stretchers” that
escaped the lips of Huck Finn—in a novel published, serendipitously,
just two years before Walsh’s birth—Walsh’s stories could be taller and
wider. No one loved a stretcher more than he did.
“I’m not a Mortimer,” Cary Grant yelps to a cabbie at the end of
Frank Capra’s Arsenic and Old Lace, “I’m the son of a sea captain!”
“I’m not a cab driver,” the cabbie yelps back, “I’m a coffeepot!” Walsh
could have easily joined the choir, himself yelping, “I’m not just the son
of a man named Thomas Walsh of New York City; I’m a fiction of my
own making, and I’ve slipped off the page, off the screen, and into the
public eye.” This might be the defi ning quip about Raoul Walsh’s life;
the stories constantly changed, the identity tipped slightly to the left or
to the right. One layer of self slipped away in the telling to reveal a new
one. These are very much like his fictions that hit the movie screen: one
8 Raoul Walsh
Lost in History
The truth is that fiction may always be on Walsh’s side when it comes
to knowing the details of his early life. Walsh will always have the last
word on the way the story plays out simply because very little of what
he concocted in interviews and in his autobiography can be proved or
disproved. There is scarce historical record to shed light on his ancestors
before they landed in the United States or to allow us to know how
many arrived and created new lives once they came to the United States.
Walsh’s version of his ancestors’ arrival, told in his autobiography, will
always reside in the fortunate province of myth—that imaginary nar-
rative that takes over when historical fact recedes or becomes lost. The
landscape of his past lay wide open and waiting for him to walk into and
fill with his own stories by the horse load.
“In the late 1870s,” Walsh wrote in his autobiography, “Thomas
Walsh, my father, emigrated with three brothers from their native Ire-
land, bound for America by way of Spain. The roundabout route was
necessary because the four, in company with my grandfather, had staged
a breakout from a Dublin jail, where the British had sent the senior Walsh
for subversive activities; a Spanish ship was the only available means
for their reluctant flight from the old sod. As my uncle Matthew told
it, Grandfather was the rebel and his sons, using a stolen laundry van,
contrived to release the old man from jail after shooting it out with the
Becoming Raoul Walsh 9
guards. He was wounded during the escape and died at sea before the
ship reached Spain. . . . According to Uncle Matthew, the ship’s Spanish
captain, Don Raul Almendariz, took a liking to my father, and my fi rst
name (somehow or other with an added ‘o’) was one of the results of this
remembered friendship.”1
This narrative, sounding not unlike one of Walsh’s 1950s sea pic-
tures, is easy to like and difficult to dispute, even if Walsh’s fi rst wife, the
D. W. Griffith ingénue Miriam Cooper, refuted one part of it: the way
Walsh picked up the name Raoul. According to Cooper, while Walsh was
working as an actor on the New York stage during his early twenties, his
friend Paul Armstrong thought the name Albert could be improved on.
The two men came up with Raoul, thinking it sounded more romantic. 2
The truth is slippery.
A few facts about Walsh’s ancestors are known. His paternal grand-
father, George Walsh, was born in County Waterford, Ireland, probably
in the 1820s. The family soon moved to Sheffield, England, where George
grew up, meeting and marrying Walsh’s grandmother, Elizabeth Short-
land, around the year 1850. George became a journeyman blacksmith
(as written on his son’s birth certificate)—or, according to family legend,
a master tailor for the British army. In his autobiography, Raoul Walsh
claims that there were four sons born to his grandfather. But Walsh’s
brother, George, later said that there were, in fact, three.3 Walsh’s father,
Thomas, was born in Sheffield in 1856. In a 1900 New York City census,
he indicated that he arrived in the United States in 1870; he would have
been fourteen years old.
Raoul Walsh’s Irish ancestry seems just as likely linked to his moth-
er, Elizabeth Brough, as to his father. That same 1900 census indicates
that Elizabeth’s parents were both born in Ireland, although their where-
abouts is untraceable after that. Walsh’s story that Elizabeth’s family
arrived in the United States well before the American Revolution seems
untrue. The story he gives of her grandmother being a staunch member
of the Daughters of the American Revolution also seems unlikely. Yet
it is fact that Elizabeth’s father’s surname was Brough. An 1870 New
York census has thirteen-year-old Elizabeth Brough and her ten-year-
old sister, Briedget, living in New York City with an Anne and James
Scanlon, both approximately ten years older than Elizabeth. Most likely
they were family members since George Walsh, Raoul’s brother, often
10 Raoul Walsh
used the last name Scanlon when he fi rst followed his older brother into
the movie business. It may also be true, as her sons later claimed, that,
when she was a young girl in New York City, Elizabeth was considered
by many men to be the belle of the ball.
When Walsh’s father, Thomas, arrived in New York, he found work
in a men’s clothing store. Not long after that he found employment at the
prestigious fi rm of Brooks Bros., where he carved out a successful career.
Family hearsay has it that Thomas was a driving force in the design
department of Brooks Bros. and almost single-handedly put the com-
pany on the map in the years he worked there, helping design military
uniforms for famous clients such as General George Custer and, much
later on, Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders.
Thomas married Elizabeth Brough in 1886 in a ceremony at St.
Patrick’s Cathedral. One year later their fi rst child, Albert Edward, was
born. His brother, George, was born in 1889, and a sister, Alice, was
born two years later.
injecting, “A lot of his uniforms went up San Juan Hill and some of them
stayed there.”7 Walsh wrote that Roosevelt himself pulled some impor-
tant strings to make certain his Rough Riders were outfitted with khaki
uniforms designed exclusively for them by Brooks Brothers (Walsh no
doubt confused the time Thomas worked for the fi rm and the time he
opened his own).
Dinner parties were likely a frequent event in the Walsh household,
even if Walsh’s eighty-four-year-old imagination embellished them some-
what for his autobiography. Guests included Edwin Booth (the brother
of John Wilkes Booth), John L. Sullivan, and the Barrymore clan (the
only documented guests), who lived across the street. When Walsh was a
teenager, the family moved to larger quarters on Riverside Drive, a very
posh part of the city (the address was actually 141 W. Ninety-Fifth St.).
Walsh remembered a guest list that grew in his imagination: “I remem-
ber ‘Buffalo Bill’ Cody stopping by to sample the champagne of which he
had become a connoisseur during his stay in England.” He also recalled
a great singer: “I was not sure what line of work Enrico Caruso was
in until he threw back his head and hit high C to my sister Elizabeth’s
accompaniment. Fresh from her fi rst piano recital at Carnegie Hall, Liz
had the grace to blush when the great tenor dropped to his knees in the
middle of our parlor carpet and crossed himself while humbly thanking
God for giving him a voice.”8 No sister named Elizabeth ever existed,
of course. She was born only in the pages of Walsh’s autobiography—no
family member ever recalled her.
As Walsh grew older, the parties and the guests arrived more often—
at least in Walsh’s mind. “‘Diamond Jim’ Brady brought Lillian Russell
and I fell madly in love.” The list of guests grew to embrace Frederic
Remington, Theodore Roosevelt, and President McKinley. Walsh fanta-
sized that Roosevelt talked politics with Thomas Walsh and felt much
better about the world when he left their house. As Walsh also says, no
doubt unaware of the irony, memory, like luck, can be a fickle jade.9
Walsh spent his days wandering around New York City with bound-
less energy, visiting his favorite haunt, Peck Slip, where he would watch
steam tugs berth the clippers and square-riggers. He dreamed that he
was in the China Sea repelling pirates. There were many other expe-
riences that stayed with him. Wandering around the Bowery provided
Becoming Raoul Walsh 13
him with memories that would influence his expression of the area’s
atmosphere and flavor when he later directed, for one, The Bowery for
Twentieth Century Pictures in 1933.
Walsh and his younger brother were handsome young men, Walsh
the more slender of the two, just under six feet, with wavy, almost curly
brown hair, and George, more solidly built, just slightly taller, with a
heavier face and dark brown hair that looked almost black. Both were
athletic and more than willing to take advantage of any sporting activ-
ity their father taught them. Thomas Walsh had a great love of horses
and often raced Thoroughbreds, and he took Walsh to the tracks and
to horse auctions. He told his son that there was only one good horse
in every three hundred. The equestrian life was easily had, given the
family’s wealth and upper-middle-class lifestyle in New York City. Both
boys were born riders.
Walsh obviously listened to his father about horses—and looked for
that one good horse, triggering a family story passed down for decades.
By the time he was ten years old, so the story goes, Walsh had saved
enough money to buy an old horse along with a Mexican saddle and
bridle. His parents thought he was crazy. One morning he saddled up,
took the ferry across the Hudson, and took off. But he got only as far as
Virginia when the horse went lame. Walsh sold the animal and returned
home. This adventure was never substantiated but, nonetheless, still
lives in the imagination of Walsh’s family.10
But all Raoul Walsh’s childhood fantasies, real or imagined, came crash-
ing to a halt in 1902, when he was fi fteen years old, and his mother,
Elizabeth, only forty-two years old, died of cancer. “Life up to now
had been reckless and exciting. . . . So I was quite unprepared for the
sudden blow that left me motherless at fifteen. . . . We were all stunned,
desolated by the slowly growing awareness of our loss.”11
Thomas Walsh’s reaction to his wife’s death was to appear as if his
life changed little for him. But he froze Elizabeth in time to keep her
with him permanently. He stayed in the family home for the rest of his
life and kept his wife’s room exactly as she left it the day she died. Her
silk dresses still hung in her closet, her shoes stayed on their racks, and
her cut-glass perfume bottles and silver toilet articles remained on her
14 Raoul Walsh
dresser until Thomas Walsh gave them to Miriam Cooper some years
later. The maid cleaned and aired the room every week, but the rest of
the time Thomas allowed no one to enter it but himself.
Elizabeth’s death left the young Raoul devastated. Years later he
wrote, “The terrible thing was she had gone and I was only half a
person.”12 It would make sense, then, that Walsh would create a sister
named Elizabeth as a replacement for his mother. This is something a
child would do as a way to hold on to a lost parent. He could have left
home after his mother’s death, although this cannot be substantiated.
But Elizabeth Walsh unwittingly left her son a legacy that would mold
his personality and urge him toward becoming a storyteller in the centu-
ry’s grandest public arena—the movies. The way to survive his loss, and
the way to hold on to the mother he loved, the only way he knew how,
was to replicate her being by becoming a storyteller himself. He would
occupy the landscape of his mother’s soul by leaping into the greatest
escape he could mount: stories of adventure and romance designed to be
rendered as perfectly as she would have told them. He might then relive
the moments he had with her and the Americana she gave him. Where
Elizabeth ended, he began.
Walsh would look like a kid imagining and cooking up the grandest tale
he could possibly fi nd.
On the Road
In Walsh’s predominant narrative of his teenage years, he and his uncle
Matthew headed out on the Enniskillen and reached Havana in eight
days. Walsh’s joy in being at sea was profound, and he could hardly take
in enough of the sea air. But, while on a shipping lane between Havana
and the coast of Mexico, horrific weather damaged the schooner. The
ship’s repair took a long time, and, while on land waiting to sail, Walsh
began to grow despondent and wondered why he did not ask his uncle
to put him back on a ship bound for New York. But he remembered, “I
had no home now that Mother was dead. My family were [sic] little more
than grieving shadows among the memories she had left with us. No, I
would go on.”15 These stabs of grief grew smaller and less frequent as
Walsh grew into manhood, but they also took on a different guise, lodg-
ing themselves in the movies he would direct. Often, they took shape
as one of his characters’ poignantly sad moments, say, the moment Roy
Earle realizes he will never have Velma for his own or, just as poignant,
the moment in Silver River when Plato (Thomas Mitchell) realizes that
Mike McComb (Errol Flynn) set up Georgia’s (Ann Sheridan) husband
and caused his death at the hands of the Indians. At this young age,
however, those expressions lay far off in the future.
Walsh found great excitement in the days following the grand ship-
wreck. The Enniskillen was towed into San Juan de Ulua “hard up the
Vera Cruz harbor.”16 It would be five months before the ship could be
repaired. Walsh wrote in his autobiography that he had just turned sev-
enteen when they pulled into Vera Cruz. Somehow he lost two years in
his narrative. But, whatever his age at the time, he recalled that he could
not fathom staying in one place that long a time. Luckily, he met a horse
trader named Ramirez who changed the course of his life when he taught
Walsh the art of rope twirling and horsemanship. Walsh practiced both
nonstop and believed he had hit on his fi rst passion.
An attentive student at last, Walsh quickly learned to jump inside his
own loop of the rope and catch a running steer by either its front or its
18 Raoul Walsh
back legs, this despite getting one good throw from a steer that left him
dazed but resolved to continue. When Uncle Matthew decided to sail on
to Galveston, Texas, once the Enniskillen was repaired, Walsh declined
to accompany him and jumped at the chance to join a cattle drive to the
Rio Grande. Though the experience was a good one and, if it truly did
happen, gave him the psychological muscle to direct westerns later on,
the drive also taught him the difference between the romantic notions
of the West he had learned from reading westerns and the harshness of
the drive itself: “I also found that, although I could fork a horse, throw
a rope, roll a cigarette with one hand, and cuss with the best [these ac-
tions could easily describe Walsh on the set of all his movies; it is hard to
know which came fi rst, the actual experience or its recall after a lifetime
behind the camera], I knew nothing about trail-driving. Knowledge
came the hard way. . . . In addition to keeping the herd moving, there
was scouting ahead to fi nd water and graze, side trips into towns along
the way to haggle over supplies. . . . Looking back on that drive, I still
wonder why more cowmen did not lose their reason.” But, by the time
he saw the Rio Grande, Walsh considered himself a seasoned cowhand
who could hold his own with the best riders. He could “ride anything
with hair on it.”17
Walsh stayed on for a while in South Texas, among other adventures
getting mixed up with a Mexican woman who betrayed him early on
in their romance; he found himself in this episode hightailing it out of
town after being accused of cattle rustling. The year, said Walsh, was
1904, and South Texas was a tough place that had not moved out of the
rough-and-tumble years of the Old West. He saw a man killed for the
fi rst time just before he joined up with another man named Hans Cotton
(a liar, Walsh said, which bothered him very little) to help ship a couple
of carloads of horses to Butte, Montana. Walsh found himself one of
three men who had to handle, water, and feed sixty head of half-broken
horses overland by train. Horse wrangling was not for him.
Though Walsh planned on heading back to South Texas after the
gig, his fortunes changed once again when he hired on to break horses
for a six-foot-five Kerry man named “Colonel” Sarsfield Scanlon who
ran a livery stable and owned an undertaking parlor. Scanlon was an
even bigger liar than his last boss, but Walsh did not realize it right away.
Scanlon put him to work breaking horses and also put him in charge of
Becoming Raoul Walsh 19
two Cree Indians and appointed him head gravedigger for his business.
Money was scarce, and Scanlon “often cut the overhead still further
by dressing the deceased in shirt and coat but no pants. The mourners,
when there were any, never knew the difference.”18
After working for Scanlon for a while, Walsh shifted gears and be-
came a driver and then the anesthetist—no training necessary—for the
area’s new doctor, a Frenchman named René Echinelle (Walsh switches
the story, sometimes saying the doctor had the same fi rst name as he—
Raoul—an interesting fact of storytelling that could suggest how close
Walsh’s characters are to himself). He noted how interesting it was that,
while the good doctor was performing surgery on his patients, ashes
from his cigar often fell into the body on the table. Walsh seemed to
have great affection for the doctor and felt sad when he died of lung
disease not long after his tenure with him. Walsh then decided he had
had enough of Butte and pulled out, heading back to San Antonio.
Once there, he found a notice at the local post office issued by the U.S.
Cavalry Remount Service that the federal government was looking for
“thoroughly broken four- to six-year-old brown or bay geldings.” The
government also needed “toppers,” experienced riders “to gentle any
fractious ones.” Walsh found the U.S. government to be a generous em-
ployer and was satisfied with the job, until a mishap occurred one day
in an area called Kerrville. Walsh got on top of a “bad buckskin” at one
of the ranches, the horse reared backward, and Walsh fell off before
he could get out of the saddle.19 By that time, the horse had rolled over
him and broken his right leg. Walsh landed in a San Antonio hospital to
mend. He found a room at a cheap motel for a few days, once again not
knowing the turn his life was about to take.
Showbiz
It was 1907, and Walsh was about to turn twenty. Sitting on the porch of
the Lone Star Hotel in San Antonio, his good leg displayed, his injured
one hidden for no good reason except that it was the most comfortable
way to sit, serendipity visited Walsh and changed the course of his life.
A stranger happened to walk by and see the good-looking Walsh sitting,
sporting a cowboy hat. “Do you want a job, cowboy?” the man yelled
up to him, telling him to show up at the town’s theater that evening if he
20 Raoul Walsh
was interested. He was, and later on he limped over to the theater. But
he was using a cane and caught the man by surprise, who asked Walsh
how in the world he was going to ride a horse with that bad leg. Walsh
just asked where he could find the horse. When he found it, he climbed
on a chair, then climbed on the horse. After that, he was asked to ride a
treadmill. He did, and from here on out we see the true events in Raoul
Walsh’s life unfolding, no matter how much he tried to embellish them.
Walsh got the job, which turned out to be for a traveling show of
The Clansman, a popular play just adapted for the stage by Thomas
Dixon from his novel that was published that same year. The book, The
Clansman: A Historical Romance of the Ku Klux Klan, was the second
volume in Dixon’s Reconstruction trilogy, a piece of out-and-out racism
that called for the maintenance of white supremacy in America. While
this view of racial inequality was prevalent in America in the first decade
of the twentieth century, it still managed to cause controversy, but not
enough to dampen the popularity of the play, which toured the country
in 1905.
The play’s racism and inherent message to northerners was plain
and clear: racial segregation should be maintained because blacks turned
savage when freed from slavery. The message seemed to have escaped
Walsh during the time he performed in The Clansman (and, later, dur-
ing his involvement with D. W. Griffith’s adaptation of part of Dixon’s
original novel for The Birth of a Nation). It never occurred to him to
question any of Dixon’s belief system; at the time, that system was firmly
entrenched in the nation’s popular consciousness.
Walsh learned that he had been hired because, ironically, the cow-
boy originally scheduled to perform busted a leg (or broke his neck) and
could not go on. Walsh was handed a Ku Klux Klan outfit and, after get-
ting on his horse, was also handed a cross on fi re. Stagehands pulled him
and the horse across the stage while the audience whistled and cheered.
That was when he got the stage bug, he said years later. He stayed with
the show until it reached St. Louis.
The play’s leading man, Franklin Ritchie, tried to fi nd more for
Walsh to do in the play and told him to study everyone’s part so that he
could go on at a moment’s notice should anything happen to one of the
actors. No one became ill, however, and Walsh never got his chance. But
a fellow character actor took notice of him: Walsh sincerely enjoyed act-
Becoming Raoul Walsh 21
ing. The friend was about to head off to New York to try to fi nd an agent
and asked Walsh to join him. The two men went back East, and Walsh
made the rounds, signing with at least five agencies. He considered him-
self an actor now and managed to get one job in a show with the director
Al Parker. He went off to Chicago with the show, even though it lasted
only a brief time, and then he was back in New York looking for work.
The young Walsh was especially happy to see his family again as
he took up residence in the big house on Riverside Drive. “I proudly
told [Father] that I was an actor and played the part of the leader of
the Ku Klux Klan, and that I rode a horse across the stage, carrying a
fiery cross,” Walsh wrote later in his autobiography. “My father said,
‘You should not feel proud of portraying the part of an infamous bigot,
whose organization is anti-Catholic, anti-Jew, and anti-Negro. But as
sure as there is a God above us, these hatemongers will one day fade
away like leaves falling from trees in autumn.’”20 The statement serves
Walsh the writer in multiple ways in the autobiography—as a comment
made to heroicize his father in his nostalgic look back at him; possibly
a statement to let himself off the hook for what in old age he may have
perceived as a slip in conscience. It could also have been a nod to his
readers to acknowledge a sensitive subject at the time his autobiography
was published, 1974. He could fi rm up a fact that he believed of himself:
he had been a lifelong defender of Native Americans in this country.
Whatever meaning it has, the memory (created in the moment of writing
or not) carried great import for Walsh.
Now calling himself Raoul, Walsh slept in his childhood bed and
came to terms with more memories of his mother. He sought solace in
the world and got on with the business of fi nding acting work. He truly
believed at this juncture in his life that being on stage was his destiny,
and he put all his energies into pushing the dream forward. In his view,
fate intervened at this very moment. One day, he entered the office of the
agent Bill Gregory. Though Gregory was out at the time, his secretary
took notice of Walsh and asked whether he would mind acting in the
movies—something most actors she encountered refused to do, consid-
ering it more demeaning work. But Walsh said no he wouldn’t, and she
sent him across the river on the ferry to Union City, New Jersey, to meet
two brothers by the name of Pathé. They could speak only bad English
but through an interpreter embarked on the rocky road of communicat-
22 Raoul Walsh
ing with Walsh. They asked him whether he could ride a horse, he said
yes, and just like that he was a movie actor—at least in his eyes.
The Pathé Frères (Bros.) company was founded in France in 1896 by
the four Pathé brothers—Charles, Emile, Theophile, and Jacques—as
an adjunct to Charles’s Paris gramophone shop and factory. They fi rst
began to make fi lm equipment and then branched out into making fi lms,
exporting them to New York, where they were shown in the Vitascope
Theater. By 1904, when the Pathé Company opened in New York, it
owned a catalog of twelve thousand titles, and between 1905 and 1908
it accounted for about one-third of the films distributed in the United
States.
Walsh said he began working for Charles and Emile Pathé late in
1909 and stayed with them until early 1910. But, in the narrative of his
days with Pathé, he may have mixed them up with the Melies brothers,
both of whom were in America, while only one of the Pathé brothers,
Charles, was actually in the United States during the time of Walsh’s
account. As Kevin Brownlow has reported, James Young Deer, a Native
American, was the person in charge of Pathé’s West Coast studio and
directed many of the company’s fi lms.21 The beginning was inauspicious,
as the brothers were interested in Walsh mainly because he could ride
a horse. When he showed up for work the fi rst day, he was taken to the
livery stable up the street from the “studio” where he saw ten horses or
so that he immediately termed “jugheads” because of their heavy heads.
Not thrilled—but determined to be an actor—Walsh picked one of the
jugheads, climbed aboard, and galloped down the street, did a stop, got
off, and did a flying mount back onto the horse again. The next thing
he knew he had signed a six-month contract for three pictures with the
brothers playing heavies and romantic leads with a few historical figures
such as Paul Revere thrown into the pot.
Walsh always said that his fi rst picture for Pathé was called The
Banker’s Daughter, a film in which he was featured with the ex-
burlesque queen Dolly Larkin and whose plot involved bank robbery
and mistaken identity. He actually played in that fi lm after he left Pathé
for Reliance and briefly became an actor under Griffith’s Biograph ban-
ner. Still, he could tell a good yarn about his months working for the
Frenchmen. “‘You kees the girl—kees the girl, grab, kees, kees, kees,’
Becoming Raoul Walsh 23
they would yell. They’d be yelling at you all the time. ‘Give another kees.’
I’m running out of kisses, you bastard.” The Frenchmen would talk over
the director. “One time a girl was in love with me and I was dying and
the camera was in close—she was kneeling down and this roughneck
bastard director was yelling: ‘Cry, cry, cry, you son of a bitch, cry, will
ya?’ And I was lying on the ground dying. It was a helluva place.”22
Walsh said his second fi lm for Pathé was a sentimental story called
A Mother’s Love, even though a record of the film does not exist. Paul
Revere’s Ride, which Walsh said was his third and last fi lm for Pathé,
put him on a horse again. But the French director, Emile Couteau, who
had directed a couple of his Pathé pictures, called for trolley tracks to
be included in the Paul Revere story, at which point Walsh reminded
him that there were no such things in 1775. When Couteau confronted
him, reminding him who the director was on the movie, Walsh thought
seriously that maybe it was time he became a director himself. 23
Walsh still lived at the big family home on Ninety-fifth Street and
Riverside Drive, only now the household was shy one more female when
Walsh’s nineteen-year-old sister, Alice, secretly wed the billiard champ
Willie Hoppe, who was two years her senior, on December 15, 1910.
The couple had met three years earlier when Alice went for a swim in
the beach at Atlantic City and nearly drowned. Hoppe was swimming
nearby and fished her out of the water, saving her life. He courted Alice
for three years, most of the time behind Thomas Walsh’s back. When
he could no longer wait to get married, he phoned her from Scranton,
Pennsylvania, and told her to meet him at the corner of Forty-second
Street and Broadway in Manhattan. Alice, whom the newspapers called
one of the wealthiest and most beautiful girls in New York City, did
what Hoppe asked, and the two were married at a nearby church that
day. On learning of his daughter’s elopement, Thomas admitted that he
was dumbfounded and furious, but he put on a good show for reporters
(starting a Walsh family tradition). He told them that he was certain
the family could work things out, and he welcomed the couple into his
home. Too busy working, Walsh never attended the ceremony.
Most of the fi lms Walsh made for the Pathé brothers were westerns.
“But there were others.” Walsh played bank robbers, prizefighters, and
ne’er-do-wells. But Walsh became disenchanted with this form of opera-
24 Raoul Walsh
tion. It seemed unrealistic and redundant in the worst way. There was
hardly an adventure here. Frustrated with Pathé and its operation, he
knew there was a better way to meet the dream he had set out for him-
self. Little did he know that he was about to take a giant step toward it.
2
25
26 Raoul Walsh
with the other actors waiting for a new assignment or just killing time
until the weather cooperated on a current one. Oliver’s Restaurant in
Fort Lee, New Jersey, was a popular hangout for movie folk trying to
make time stretch on a shoot. It had good food, good service, and cheap
prices. Good thing, too, since movie folk, called movies because they
moved around a lot, also spent a lot of time there waiting for a sunny
day. Sunlight was the only illumination possible for a shoot—and nature
was in charge of that. If there was no sun, there was no picture.
On one particular day, Walsh happened to be sitting atop a horse
“working a rope,” as he liked to say, showing off his array of rope tricks
after an overcast sky had interrupted a shoot. A few people stood around
watching, and one in particular began talking to him. Christy Cabanne
was a former actor turned director who was making a name for him-
self with D. W. Griffith at Biograph (though Cabanne’s directing career
was undistinguished, it was one of the longest running in Hollywood).
Cabanne yelled up to Walsh that his tricks were some of the best rope
handling he had seen. He also complimented Walsh on how he handled
a horse. Then came the clincher: he mentioned that Walsh looked pretty
good sitting on one. Walsh later said that he knew he was good with a
rope, and that he looked good on a horse, but that there was something
in the way Cabanne said so that really pleased him. Cabanne said that he
could use a man like Walsh and advised him not to sign a new contract
with Pathé. He wanted him to come act for D. W. Griffith’s company and
to consider himself hired.
Walsh did just that. He considered the few Biograph pictures he had
seen “not as God-awful as the stuff Pathé was making.”2 His instincts
were good. In the past several years, between 1911 and 1913 especially,
Griffith had been experimenting with new techniques for narrative sto-
rytelling in the movies that would push the art form forward in unex-
pected ways. Walsh would be right there beside him.
So, when Cabanne walked away, Walsh later recalled, “I took stock
of myself, feeling a bit chesty and pleased with the way things were shap-
ing up. Not many weeks earlier, I had been riding that treadmill and
feeling more foolish each night. Now I was a full-fledged actor and had
played the lead in three motion pictures, terrible as they were. When I
got home that evening and Father asked me what I had done with my
day, I mumbled something inane because my head was full of dreams.”3
Griffith and Beyond 27
Now, at the end of 1913, only twenty-six years old, Walsh found
himself on Griffith’s short list and then on the train that took him to
California, a land he’d never heard of, to say the least. Standing on the
cusp of his new life, he was leaning forward. He didn’t venture to the
new land alone, however. Also on that train was a handful of Griffith
players, including Mary Pickford and her younger brother, Jack, Donald
Crisp, Henry B. Walthall, and Cabanne—along with Griffith himself
and Griffith’s chief cameraman, Billy Bitzer. Had it not been for Walsh’s
great self-confidence, he could not have fathomed why Griffith picked
him to join the troupe. But Griffith took special notice of the young actor
and promised him, “Someday, I’ll make you a director.” “I don’t know
why he said that,” Walsh later quipped. “Maybe because he thought I
was a lousy actor.”7
A Fatherless Girl
The train heading for Los Angeles carried another Biograph feature
player, an attractive actress named Miriam Cooper—and, before Walsh
truly had time to settle into what eventually became his luxurious Los
Angeles lifestyle, Cooper would change her name to Mrs. Raoul Walsh.
Miriam Cooper considered herself a true Biograph ingénue, and cer-
tainly she found good-enough roles in Griffith’s pictures to warrant her
self-confidence. With her dark hair and large, luminous dark eyes, she
made quite a contrast, along with Blanche Sweet, to some of Griffith’s
other working girls, such as the more fair-skinned Mary Pickford and
the Gish sisters. This left a corner of the market open to Miriam, and
Griffith eventually gave her history-making parts: she earned the part
of “The friendless one” in Intolerance and, better still, a leading part as
Margaret Cameron in The Birth of a Nation. While she garnered two
history-making roles in Griffith fi lms, the mark she left on Walsh’s life
was just as history making—and far more dramatic, leaving a greater
emotional impact on him than any fiction could have managed.
Miriam grew up mostly poor in Baltimore. Her mother received fi-
nancial assistance from her mother-in-law, but, after the mother-in-law
died, the fatherless family lived in poverty, with Miriam’s mother scrap-
ing by as best she could. This included a move from Washington Heights
to Little Italy, and, even though Miriam was put in an orphanage for a
30 Raoul Walsh
short time, later her mother managed to educate her at St. Walburga’s
Academy, a convent school, and then at Cooper Union High School in
New York City. During the time Miriam set out on an unplanned career
in pictures, she also modeled for Charles Dana Gibson.
Miriam and a girlfriend named Rita set out looking for the Biograph
studios, which at the time occupied a large brownstone at 11 East Four-
teenth Street. The building itself had once been a mansion owned by a
millionaire on a street where other such mansions were now turned into
rooming houses, restaurants, shops—and one movie studio. The rooms
were huge with high ceilings. Once inside, the two women noticed a man
Miriam soon learned was D. W. Griffith; he was shooting a ballroom
scene for one of his pictures. Griffith needed extras for a scene he was
shooting, and, before she knew it, Miriam was in pictures and being
paid for it. The five dollars she earned turned her head, and she wanted
more.
Before landing a full-time job at Biograph, where she was cast in
ingénue parts, Miriam worked for Kalem Features in various pictures in
New York and on the road. But she ended up back at Biograph, working
for Griffith and making numerous pictures with Walsh. When Griffith
fi rst met his new actress and took a personal interest in her, he took
special care to learn about her background. She told him that she was
from Baltimore and now lived with her mother, brothers, and sister. She
also told him that her father was long gone. “Most of the girls in the
Griffith Company had the same kind of background. None of us had
fathers; they all had disappeared before we ever saw Mr. Griffith,” she
later wrote. “I learned later that this was the kind of girl Mr. Griffith
liked—young, beautiful and supporting her mother. He didn’t care par-
ticularly about talent since he felt he could mold anyone into the type of
performer he wanted.”8
It would be a while before Walsh and Miriam became an item since
Walsh also had his sights set most on becoming an integral part of
Griffith’s new setup in California. But, on the train out west that Octo-
ber, Miriam spent her time with Walsh, Christy Cabanne (who brought
along his wife, child, and mother-in-law), and a Native American actor
called Eagle Eye, this despite a warning from Cabanne’s mother-in-law
that the three were not exactly good influences on Miriam. “She was
right, but she was only half right,” Miriam wrote in her autobiography.
Griffith and Beyond 31
would later be named Fine Arts Studio. Griffith’s new production com-
pany became an autonomous partner in the Triangle Film Corporation,
along with Thomas Ince and Keystone Studios’ Mack Sennett. Griffith
would produce The Birth of a Nation through Majestic-Reliance a year
or so later.
For now, the Griffith players faced the challenge of adjusting to a new
locale and customs, or so it seemed. They were not exactly reenacting the
seventeenth-century myth of the City on the Hill facing the hostilities
of Native American tribes, but they faced the natives of southern Cali-
fornia nonetheless. It would have been difficult to believe then that the
motion-picture business would come to represent glamour to the rest of
the country. Glamour would have to be built from the ground up, just as
the studios themselves would have to take shape in this new landscape.
Christy Cabanne put the actors to work almost immediately so that
they could bring in some money—and keep busy. Griffith’s advance men
set up and built a studio and outdoor stage at the intersection of Sunset
and Hollywood Boulevards. That fi rst Fine Arts Studio was an open-air
structure that made use of movable props and backdrops. Before Griffith
and his company arrived there, it had been making color films, one of
them The Clansman, which was never fi nished.11 It mimicked a theater
stage but had difficulty getting light. Reflectors had to be used to catch
the natural light, even though they hurt the actors’ eyes. As Walsh wryly
noticed, the paraphernalia of early moviemaking must have looked out
of place situated among the surrounding citrus groves and cow pastures.
Griffith hired three or four directors who had been with other stock
companies, and, with his supervising hand, they turned out maybe ten
pictures a week. Electric lights being unreliable back then, the actors
and directors still relied on the sun. When it was cloudy outside, Griffith
would use that time to rehearse upcoming pictures; then they would all
go outside when the sun came out again.
Walsh found a small bungalow in Hollywood near the studio and
persuaded Mary Pickford’s mother (who was also on that train to
California) to let fifteen-year-old Jack Pickford room with him. Then he
began scouting extras for Griffith. One day while traipsing into the Los
Angeles stockyards he literally ran into a dime-store gospel show setting
up in the back stables of the studio. He noticed a man called Bear Val-
ley Charley sitting in a wheelchair “as drunk as the proverbial fiddler’s
Griffith and Beyond 33
bitch.”12 Charley’s job was to supply the makeshift preachers with cus-
tomers, but he was too drunk at that moment to do any good. Although
Charley was three years Walsh’s junior, his habit of taking “fi rewater”
had already put years on his face. The mangy-looking character was a
former cowboy; Walsh liked his spark and hired him on the spot as an
extra. Their friendship lasted many years. This is what Walsh liked to
do and would continue doing: surround himself with coworkers who
became good friends. In this atmosphere, he now familiarized himself
with cameras, lights, and action. For Walsh, the gold rush was on.
In Walsh’s eyes, Griffith was a genius and the man who influenced
him more than any other. He made it a point to stand behind Griffith
whenever he could. He learned the importance of movement and par-
ticularly the dramatic crescendo that became Griffith’s “race to the
rescue” at a story’s end. He learned the importance of the shots Griffith
used: the high-angle shots; the close-up shots—in one actor’s eye the
spectator could fi nd the movie’s emotional core—so newly interspersed
with long-range shots. He learned to limit the use of titles just as Griffith
did, especially in action scenes that carried a lexicon all their own.
Griffith told him always to shoot the most difficult scenes fi rst, advice
he followed religiously. He also followed from his fi rst days as a director
Griffith’s habit of memorizing the script and doing away with it on the
set whenever possible. Walsh could never really recall the older man
looking at a script during shooting. For the rest of his career, Walsh sur-
prised both cast and crew by referring to the picture’s script infrequently
and sometimes not at all. Like his mentor, once Walsh read the script,
he had memorized it visually. There it stayed—no need to look further
at the written word.
Walsh may have learned about the camera from Griffith, but he also
learned how to conduct himself on and off the set. Griffith came onto
the set but did very little to interfere with a setup. He might make a
comment about regulating the tempo; he might tell his men and women,
“Well done,” if a shot pleased him. But Walsh noticed that he was all
about business—silent and quick paced. Walsh picked up the habit; for
years to come as a director he left cast and crew trying to puzzle out his
frequent habit of looking or walking away when a scene was being shot.
Like Griffith, he knew the scene in his head; he listened after that. If it
sounded good, he knew it looked good. Walsh learned two great lessons
34 Raoul Walsh
from Griffith: get your picture finished on time, and take a businesslike,
no-nonsense approach to work on the set. Both would serve him well in
years to come.
Walsh appeared in the cast of a number of Reliance and Majestic/
Mutual productions during 1914. Christy Cabanne directed Miriam and
him in two-reelers such as For His Master and The Dishonored Medal—
so Walsh said. He stood out as the smarmy villain-fop—the real Walsh
not so hidden—who twirls his handlebar mustache with finesse before
and after he attempts to swindle an innocent Blanche Sweet out of her
honor in The Little Country Mouse. But he disappears into the scenery
when he stars with Lillian Gish in two-reelers such as The Rebellion of
Kitty Belle. At this early time, westerns were cheaper to produce, and
Walsh often found himself as Griffith’s right-hand man in scouting loca-
tions and rounding up local residents (whether they were old cowhands
or just men and women he saw on the street). It did not take long for him
to move up to being assistant director—until the day Griffith made good
on his promise that one day he would let him direct.
Although Walsh considered the 1915 one-reeler Home from the
Sea a picture with a humdrum plot, there he stood, nevertheless, on the
threshold of his own career as a director when Griffith gave him the reins
to Fine Arts’ fi rst sea picture. He did double duty in the picture, playing
an errant son who fi nally repents, along with Francelia Billington, and
getting only occasional supervision from the boss. Walsh chose to shoot
in San Pedro, at the time a fishing village just south of Los Angeles with
a large Portuguese population. The locale was ideal, and Walsh took
control of the job as if he were standing at heaven’s gate itself. There was
no going back now; he knew it, and Griffith knew it. Walsh standing at
the helm—leaning forward, of course—was so natural an event it could
have made one of the greatest entries in the autobiography he would
write at the end of his life. But, when he wrote that book, he shied away
from blowing that horn. Still, he took to the job so easily that it was no
surprise that Griffith gave him more films to direct, including The Mys-
tery of the Hindu Image, The Double Knot, and The Gunman (codirect-
ing with Christy Cabanne). There was nothing like the fi rst morning
Walsh took the reins. He choreographed the action as if it were second
nature to him. Soon enough, he felt as though he was in his second skin.
Griffith and Beyond 35
On it went like this, with Walsh doing either single or double duty, in
front of the camera or standing in back of it as well—until the day he
met the big bandit.
Then, Walsh said, the general got up and shook hands with him. They
had a deal.
Mutual paid Villa $500 in gold a month to photograph him, his
battles, and his executions. Villa liked movies, and he liked gold—what
could go wrong? “I had a terrible time,” Walsh later said. “Day after
day, I would try to take shots of him coming toward the camera. We’d set
up at the head of the street, and he’d hit that horse with a whip and his
spurs and go by at ninety miles an hour. I don’t know how many times
we said, ‘Despacio, despacio—slow—Señor, please!’” He continued:
I used to get him to put off his executions. He used to have them
at four or five in the morning, when there was no light. I got
him to put them off until seven or eight. I’d line the cameramen
up, and they’d put these fellows against the wall and then they’d
shoot them. Fellows on this side with rocks in their hands would
run in, open the guys’ mouths, and knock the gold teeth out.
The fellows on the other side would run in and take the shoes
and boots off them. Later on, they made the picture, but D. W.
Griffith didn’t direct it—he was busy on something else. Christy
Cabanne directed it, and I played Villa as a young man.
Of all the people I’ve seen executed—not one of them ever
wanted to be blindfolded, not one of them gave a damn. Some of
them stood up there and cursed, you know, but no cowards—no
falling down or anything like that.14
London, came by the lot to congratulate Walsh on riding with the man
who thumbed his nose at President Wilson.
stunts. He broke both his arms at least once and his nose three times and
counting. He had to write the scripts as well, a skill that served him well
later on. Walsh was ready to tackle any role, any job that needed doing,
any call from Griffith when he needed assistance.
All the time Walsh was in Mexico handling Villa, Griffith stayed
in Los Angeles already shooting scenes for the fi lm that truly drove him
westward from New York and away from Biograph: his epic adaptation
of The Clansman. It may have been Walsh’s familiarity with Dixon’s
play that moved Griffith to ask Walsh to be one of his assistants and to
help direct the battle scenes that eventually became The Birth of a Na-
tion; more likely, Walsh impressed Griffith with directing Home from
the Sea, also demonstrating fi nesse in handling the often unpredictable
Pancho Villa. Griffith had numerous assistants on the picture, but Walsh
took on much of the tough-going action involving Indians, cowboys,
soldiers, and horses when the company shot in Newhall, California. By
now, Walsh was at Griffith’s side. He told Kevin Brownlow in 1967,
“That was a real tough job. . . . I would have to stay up half the night,
you know, one, two, three, four o’clock in the morning [because] these
cowboys lived in wagons down at a place called Edendale [the east side
of Los Angeles] with no phones or anything. I used to have to go and
roust them out of bars and stuff and get them on horses two or three
o’clock in the morning and send them off on location . . . and of course
when they got up there in the morning, half of them were drunk . . . [a]
couple of them would be in jail.”17
Walsh helped direct the military charges, a task that quickly changed
from being a great challenge to an enormous headache. The extras hired
to play Confederate and Union soldiers had to be truck loaded to loca-
tion. Walsh liked to embellish the story. Not only did they have no idea
what end of a rifle the bullet came from, he said—they didn’t even have a
conception of how to behave in front of a camera (much less know what
a camera was). He had to think and act quickly. He had the Confederate
soldiers move from left to right and the Yankees move from right to left
so that the audience would know the difference. When he asked the men
to change sides, many revolted (he also liked saying that they had been
soldiers in the Civil War) and left the scene. He then had to give each
man a number; that man would have to fall into battle when Walsh called
his number. The plan was such a success that, when Walsh fi nished the
Griffith and Beyond 41
sequence, Griffith was known to have told him that, had he had been a
Confederate general, the South would never have lost the war.
Griffith cast Miriam Cooper in the pivotal role of Margaret Cam-
eron, who represented the symbol of southern womanhood. Griffith
rehearsed his actors for hours before he shot important scenes—some-
times getting lines from them in his office or in a bare room with kitchen
chairs for furniture. When Walsh later directed Cooper at Fox, she re-
called that he would shoot and reshoot a scene endlessly—not at all the
way Griffith worked: with endless rehearsals but with hardly a reshoot
once the camera rolled. Little wonder that each could walk away in con-
fidence when a scene was actually being shot.
Griffith was looking around for an actor to play the pivotal role of
Abraham Lincoln’s assassin, John Wilkes Booth, and coming up empty.
One day he looked over at Walsh entertaining a group of starlets, no-
ticed his handsome face and easy charm, and thought that he might be
just the actor to play a character who aspired to be a matinee idol. He
told Walsh to make up for John Wilkes Booth; Walsh was given dark
curly hair and lots of dark eye makeup for dramatic effect. He would
play Booth. When it came time to reenact the assassination itself, Walsh
not only looked the part but also simulated the act in an uncanny way.
Just as Booth did when he jumped onto the stage after fi ring the fatal
bullet to Lincoln’s head, Walsh jumped over the chairs to get to the stage
and make his getaway and, just as Booth himself had done, injured his
leg. Now he had more fodder for a story.
Walsh liked the drama—and the attention. He continued acting and
made other daring leaps—some that won him the free publicity he began
to enjoy. A May 22, 1915, issue of the popular movie magazine Reel Life
caught him at a good moment and made the most of it in its pages:
Walsh liked being in the spotlight from the start; it appealed to his
sense of himself as a daredevil and adventurer. He craved publicity be-
cause the Griffith company kept him more or less in the background as
an actor, and he had not yet taken off as a director. The flavor of this
early piece of publicity forecast Walsh’s future; he would come to be seen
as a young filmmaker whose offscreen and onscreen escapades collapsed
into each other and spelled out brashness and candor. A big picture
emerged that forever wed Walsh to his publicly constructed persona:
a young man living on the edge, looking for excitement, and willing to
take chances to get it. The edge was a comforting place.
to New York from a trip to Chicago to promote Birth, Walsh wired her
on April 24, 1915: “Glad you arrived safely. Acquaint me with your
actions in Chicago. The Lasky Co. has made me another offer. Did you
receive my letters? Wire me all the news as soon as possible. Miss you.
Very much love. R.” But Walsh never mentioned his negotiations with
Winifred Sheehan. Miriam took offense at his questioning how she spent
her time in Chicago. After she told him so in a wire, Walsh rebutted with
an April 27 cable: “I trust you explicitly. My inference was why no wire
from Chicago? Mr. G. complimented me on my pictures and started me
on a four-reel feature with Walthall [i.e., The Pillars of Society]. Every-
thing going fi ne. The auto is like new. Wire when you intend returning.
Love, R.”19
The Griffith player Mary Alden wired Miriam on May 2, 1915, tell-
ing her that Walsh, whom she called “the old fisherman,” was doing fine:
“The old fisherman is well and very good wearing hair on his upper lip. I
am working for him. The French Lady is vamping again so do come back
soon. I miss you. The Chief is going to remain here for a month. Wire
me when you arrive.”20 Then Mary sent another cable saying Walsh was
miserable without Miriam and suggesting that she return to California
as soon as possible. Miriam was panicked enough as it was, having not
heard from Walsh for at least three days at one stretch. She cabled him
and received word back right after that. He wrote, “To forget you al-
ready is so absurd. I miss you more and more every day. I have worked
day and night all week with about four hours sleep. Have not been away
from the studio. I have the opportunity of my life on this picture and am
going to fight all the way as much as I want you here. Do not leave until
all is settled for when you return we never part again.”21 Clearly, Walsh
was still thrilled to be directing for Griffith, but Fox awaited.
Miriam returned to California as soon as she could but arrived in
Los Angeles on an ill-timed wind. Just as she reached Walsh, he was
about to leave for New York to work at Fox. They declared their undy-
ing commitment to each other; still, he had little choice but to leave her
behind in California, where she was about to start work on Griffith’s
next picture, Intolerance. For the time being at least, they would have to
carry on their love affair long-distance.
In his later years, Walsh chose not to mention Miriam Cooper’s
name in his autobiography; he found another woman to replace her on
Griffith and Beyond 45
the pages describing his departure for New York—a Russian beauty
whom he said he was seeing at the time. “Olga 22 came to the train to see
me off,” he wrote. “She started talking softly to me in Russian, while
I had my arm around her. When I asked her what she was saying, she
told me, ‘I have a feeling in my heart that one day we will meet again.
And wherever you are, you will never be far away from me.’ I kissed her
pretty mouth and walked sadly to the train.”23 Both Miriam Cooper
and, later, Walsh’s second wife, Lorraine Walker, were ousted from his
autobiography. The narrative of the Russian beauty Olga Grey serves
him better in those pages, good for a romantic escapade. But, in reality,
in the moment of spring and summer 1915, Walsh and Miriam Cooper
were very much in love. Their love had grown, and they could hardly
bear to be apart.
3
46
Leaning Forward at Fox 47
more than willing, at least at this early stage of the game, to pay big
salaries to get prestigious movies made.
Walsh moved back into the large family home on Riverside Drive
and lived there with his father, his sister, Alice, and her husband, Wil-
lie Hoppe. Alice and Hoppe had been married for five years now, with
Hoppe still making occasional money as a championship billiard player.
His marriage to Alice would be short-lived, and eventually Alice would
remarry, take the last name Berghoff, and, tragically, lose herself to
alcohol as she grew older. Always close to his father, whose figure was
a little pudgier than the last time he saw him, Walsh found him no less
handsome in his eyes. He was happy to be with him again. If he noticed
that his late mother’s room had not changed one bit since her death, he
made no mention of it to Thomas.
Ensconced in the environment that shaped him—the great city with
its infi nite variety of neighborhoods and characters—Walsh would come
to know all of it in a new way as he began casting and directing his
pictures for Fox. He would soon be back, figuratively, at least, at New
York’s Bowery and Lower East Side, picking up where he left off. While
he would have enjoyed the company of his brother in all this, George
was in California working for Griffith now, and it pleased Walsh that
he’d had a hand in that.
Walsh could not have found better material for his fi rst solo outing
as a director than what he had in Regeneration: a story about rough-
and-tumble lives in the Bowery that mirrored almost uncannily the ad-
ventures he and George dreamed up about it when they were kids. Being
privileged as they were, they could not have really understood a life lived
there, but now Walsh had the opportunity to flesh out the imagined
narratives he had cooked up long ago. As a director, as a human being,
he needed to demonstrate the extent of his sympathies for strangers so as
to tell a compelling story about a world he only half knew.
Regeneration is based on Owen Kildare’s popular and very touching
book My Mamie Rose, which recounts the author’s harrowed life in the
Bowery, beginning with the death of his mother and father in his infancy
(something Walsh could partially understand), and tracing his subse-
quent years as an orphan living in a virtual hell on earth. As he grows
to manhood, the protagonist becomes “a beer slinger and a pugilist in
a tough Bowery dive,” by necessity a man “whose fighting capacity and
48 Raoul Walsh
ing couple that turns out to be abusive adopts the boy, Owen learns to
live on his own and soon runs his own gang in the neighborhood.
Walsh found a leading man, Rockliffe Fellowes, who had great cha-
risma, taking audiences on a roller-coaster ride of emotions—menacing
one minute, heartbreaking the next. Fellowes’s boyish good looks pro-
vide Walsh’s camera with a love object that could carry a feature-length
picture. No less affecting is Anna Q. Nilsson, a popular actress of the
day, who plays Marie, the woman who abandons her upper-class roots
to work in a settlement house and reach out to the needy. Nilsson has the
earthiness and the gentleness to appear at once enticing and maternal, a
woman Walsh and his camera blatantly adore. Her death is a shocking
moment in the fi lm, leaving audiences, and no doubt the director—who
understood such a loss—feeling as if the world has suddenly darkened.
Regeneration was an auspicious moment in Walsh’s early career.
The fi lm is more artful than Walsh would ever admit, especially with its
harrowing close-ups, its painterly mise-en-scènes, and its concise, fast-
moving storytelling. The threat of anyone noticing this kind of aesthet-
ics taking hold in his work—or calling it such, as the critics did—was
disturbing enough to him that, in response, he adopted an attitude of
nonchalance about it. This kind of posturing continued throughout his
fi lmmaking career—and here was the fi rst example of it. If nothing else,
the picture displays a great range of technical know-how and storytelling
conceits, showing that Walsh had been paying close attention to Griffith.
Yet much more than technical brilliance is on display in Regeneration,
more than simply the display of a young filmmaker’s innate awareness
of the camera. The fi lm shows Walsh getting inside his material, fi nding
the interior terror in his characters’ lives; his actors, especially Fellowes,
have a look of desperation and yearning on their faces, rendering them
three-dimensional souls who chip away at the spectator’s complacency.
Yet, at such an early time in Walsh’s career, this film initiates a con-
scious decision to invent the persona of an artist claiming he is not an
artist at all. While movies were not yet viewed as an art form, as they
would be later in the twentieth century—Walsh and many of his fellow
directors often ignored gathering theoretical and aesthetic discussions
of their work—Walsh no doubt had a self-consciousness about what he
was doing, an awareness that there was an artfulness on some level to
50 Raoul Walsh
When the actors began jumping into the river, three New York City
fi reboats and a police launch showed up to put out the “fi re” and calm
the “crowds.” Walsh was hauled off to the local station house, but he
was more amused than miffed, and the studio relished all the free public-
ity the incident garnered. Word of mouth about Walsh and his picture
was building. It was no surprise that the press made note of what was
considered to be the fi lm’s unusual emotional complexion. “There is a
grim sort of humor in many of the scenes,” wrote Lynde Denig in Mo-
tion Picture Weekly. “There is an abundance of excitement in others,
and through the picture carries a genuine heart interest.”3
Regeneration was the fi rst collaboration between Walsh and the
brilliant French cinematographer Georges Benoît, newly arrived from
Paris and also making his fi rst Fox picture. The two men worked to-
gether over the next few years and between them produced stark yet
lyrical images in such pictures as Carmen, Blue Blood and Red, and The
Honor System. William Fox was so taken with the box-office success of
Regeneration that he bought Walsh a Simplex automobile and raised his
salary to $800 per week. Walsh now entered a period of his career where
he produced a virtual feast of riches at Fox, but he was still hard-pressed
to concede that he had the artist in him. He was making a noise at the
studio. By August 1915, Fox put into effect a plan to produce at least
one picture a week to be based on the work of a famous author and
to feature one of his famous stars. The directors on the short list for
this plan included Walsh, Herbert Brenon, Edgar Lewis, Oscar C. Apfel,
Frank Powell, Frederick Thompson, Will S. Davis, Marshall Farnum,
and J. Gordon Edwards.
Hot Property
One of those famous stars and Fox’s hottest property at the moment,
the Vamp, Theda Bara, took up some of Walsh’s time—off and on the
set. Now he was slated to direct her in several vehicles that showed off
her already well-appreciated sex appeal as a screen siren who lured men
to their end—pleasurably or not. Secretly, Walsh thought Bara had very
little to offer as an actress, although he would never let the thought
escape his lips until many years later. Ability or no, he certainly didn’t
mind the notoriety she brought to a picture since he was always looking
52 Raoul Walsh
for a little of that himself. The studio touted Bara as being descended
from gypsies, but, in fact, she was Theodosia Burr Goodman, a Jew-
ish girl from Cincinnati who took her career very seriously. She wanted
meatier, more dramatic material than Fox had so far given her; now
about to work with Walsh on Carmen and The Serpent, she continued
to make headlines and to see box-office success, even if the fi lms were
not especially serious material.
Walsh always took credit for the idea to make Carmen. He claimed
that he was reading Variety one day and noticed that Cecil B. DeMille
was about to direct a movie adaptation of Bizet’s opera Carmen with
the opera sensation Geraldine Farrar playing the lead. He told William
Fox that he wanted to beat DeMille to the punch and put his version into
production fi rst, with Bara playing the lead. Fox was so pleased that he
told Walsh to go ahead with the production almost immediately. Even
if Bara had larger goals in mind for her career, Fox still saw her as the
woman who vamped American men and brought them to the box office
in droves.
Walsh’s Carmen would be an adaptation of Prosper Mérimée’s
popular novel of the same name, and it would be a six-reeler, one of the
fi rst pre-Hollywood epics. The Spanish city of Cordoba was erected on
the Fox back lot in Fort Lee, and five thousand extras were brought in
for the shoot. But Walsh needed a bull too. Sheehan had the executive
Sol Wurtzel send to Tijuana for the animal, which also arrived with a
matador in tow. Walsh was thrilled. To get the matador’s cooperation,
Walsh promised him that he would be a big movie star one day—just
as he had promised Villa. Attempting to get a frontal shot of the bull’s
horns as he charged the bullfighter, Walsh used a French camera, the
Debrie, which he strapped onto the bull’s back. But the bull ran amuck
when one of the “toreadors” yelled “Toro” one too many times; it chased
the matador out of the arena and ran off the set and into the street, caus-
ing Walsh to yell out, “Que chingaos pasa?” A day later one of the grips
found the bull grazing in a meadow near the studio; Walsh never got his
frontal shot. Ultimately, the negative cost the company $200,000.
At the start of their relationship, Bara was less fond of her new di-
rector than he was of her. According to her biographer, Eve Golden,
even before Bara began working with Walsh, she heard that the twenty-
Leaning Forward at Fox 53
or ‘extras’ or tears his hair after the fashion of some directors. After the
biggest scene he generally confi nes his comments to two words—‘pretty
feeble’ or ‘very good.’”9 Likely both descriptions of Walsh were publicity
pieces released by Fox to promote the reputation of its young superstar;
it hardly mattered which direction that reputation took.
The name Raoul Walsh became more familiar to the general movie-
going public thanks to Fox’s fast-turning publicity wheels. But, despite
the notoriety he received, Walsh felt less than satisfied about his career—
good material was not coming in fast enough—and even less satisfied
about his personal life. He and Miriam frequently corresponded. His
letters to her were far less desperate cries of loneliness than hers to him
were. Still, he missed her. As would be the case throughout their court-
ship and marriage, whatever Walsh felt, Miriam felt a much more dra-
matic version of it. By that same October, having been separated from
Walsh for almost six months, she planned a brief escape from California
by lying to Griffith and telling him that she had to visit her sick mother
in New York. She was on the next train east and arrived just as Walsh
was fi nishing production on Carmen.
Miriam had counted on Walsh being on the set, but she hadn’t
counted on Theda Bara. The two women disliked each other almost
immediately. Miriam thought Bara a “horrible” person who seemed to
have only one expression, to “duck her head and stare at the leading man
or the camera with what appeared to be a searching look. . . . [She was]
overweight, coarse and unattractive, entirely different from the slender
young Griffith girls [meaning Miriam herself]).”10 Bara thought just as
little of Miriam, which Miriam interpreted to mean that, since Walsh
had a girlfriend, that was one more man off Theda’s market.
Miriam’s two-week visit to New York only fanned the fi res of loneli-
ness. She and Walsh would have to do something about it. Walsh didn’t
express the same emotional turmoil, no matter what he really felt. He
was about to direct his next picture with Bara, and Miriam would just
have to wait. Production on Fox’s The Siren of Seville began that win-
ter with the studio building new sets on its back lot. After the Spanish
city was complete, Walsh was still looking for his male lead when it
began to snow heavily in New Jersey. Instead of sunny Spain, he later
remembered, they had Lapland. The picture was already sold (as was the
56 Raoul Walsh
practice then of booking a film into theaters even before it was fi nished),
and there was no choice but to come up with a different kind of picture
and use the sets and the weather they already had.
Walsh suggested they make a Russian picture instead. The idea
took, Bara was notified of the change (she took it quite well), and Walsh
got together with a few other Fox writers and rushed out a story about
Czar Nicholas, his daughter Anastasia, and the underhanded Rasputin’s
shady dealings with the family business. Walsh wired George to come to
New Jersey to play the part of Anastasia’s beautiful boyar. Not only did
George star in the picture; he and Walsh concocted the script for what
was to become The Serpent, based on Philip Bartholomae’s “The Wolf’s
Claw.” The story has Bara playing a Russian peasant girl who is seduced
by a grand duke (Charles Craig) only to seek revenge on his entire fam-
ily. The municipal censorship boards were in place, and to get by them
Walsh and George decided to encapsulate the entire scenario into a bad
dream, as if to suggest that what happens in the picture never really
happens. Instead of luring her betrayer into a horrid death, Bara ends the
picture seeming only to wish for his death and instead goes off with her
good-mannered fiancé. The studio released the picture on January 23,
1916, to decent notices and a respectable box office. Just then, the snow
in Fort Lee melted, and the studio no longer had the streets of Moscow
and St. Petersburg on its hands but once again the Grand Plaza and the
avenues of Seville.
Miriam’s time in New York only made her feel worse. She missed Walsh
and he her. They began corresponding in earnest, declaring their un-
bridled passion for each other in letters and cables that flew back and
forth for several months, sometimes at the rate of two or three a day.
Traveling with George on the way back to New York from Chicago after
the release of The Serpent, Walsh wrote to Miriam on January 25, 1916:
My Darling Sweetheart,
We are somewhere in Missouri and it is snowing. The time
is about seven o’clock. I have been awake for an hour and you
my darling have been my only thought. . . . Even a single day
[without you] is like a year. When we arrived in Chicago the
Fox Company’s manager met us and took us for an auto ride
Leaning Forward at Fox 57
Throughout Walsh and Miriam’s courtship, and during the fi rst years of
their marriage, they used pet names in their correspondence. Walsh was
“Boo Boo” or “Daddy,” and Miriam was “Mommy.”
Miriam wrote Walsh a letter the very same day, saying, “Oh, Boo
Boo . . . I miss you so much that I hardly know what to do. The awful
feeling of knowing you are going farther away from me every minute
and that I cannot even talk to you over the phone. Oh, Boo Boo, I am so
lonely and I love you so much that everything loses interest for me when
you have gone and I count on the days when I leave to go with you.”12
Miriam was more adamant about getting married than was Walsh.
But there was no doubt that he loved her. They decided to marry, and
Miriam was the one who made the arrangements—he more or less fol-
lowed her lead. Since she knew that Griffith would disapprove and that
she might jeopardize her career at Fine Arts if she married Walsh, the
couple married secretly. Georges Benoît got the idea that they should
say their vows on the Hopi Indian reservation near Albuquerque. Walsh
traveled to Albuquerque from New York and Miriam from Los Angeles.
They said their vows the second week of February 1916.
But the marriage ceremony didn’t solve the problem of their con-
tinued separation, so Miriam took it on herself to fix that. On the train
back to California she realized that, with Walsh on the East Coast and
58 Raoul Walsh
would forecast Walsh’s western spoof to come over forty years later, The
Sheriff of Fractured Jaw. Similarly, this picture is a semicomic western
tale centering on a blue-blooded college dropout (George Walsh) whose
angry father sends him out West to see whether he can ever amount to
anything. He arrives a fish out of water, replete with a white racing car
and a butler in tow. But, when he falls in love with a red-blooded minx
(Doris Pawn, who soon wed the director Rex Ingram), he finds a way to
tough it out, get comfortable in his western environs, and even win the
girl.
The picture turned George into a full-fledged star and soon a mati-
nee idol—even if his status as a heartthrob was short-lived, halted when
MGM promised to cast him as the hero in its 1925 Ben Hur and then
reneged. But now, and for the next decade, after Fox signed him to a
contract, he enjoyed first-billing status.
Publicity was heavy for the April 2, 1916, release of Blue Blood and
Red. Walsh became a news celebrity as stories turned out nationwide
detailing every angle of the picture’s production, especially his travels
to New Mexico to obtain what critics later called “some of the most
remarkable photographs ever taken of a cattle round-up.” Newspapers
were smitten with his bravura, particularly when he learned that cow-
boys were bringing in five thousand head of cattle from some ranges in
Albuquerque and coordinated his large cattle scenes with the event so
that he could “use” the roundup in the picture. Critics called the fi lm the
fi rst great outdoor western photoplay.15
Walsh took as naturally to the press as he did to the western ter-
rain, both becoming landscapes in which he maneuvered with ease and
felt completely at home. He liked being the center of attention—when
he held the reins—and peppered his interviews with as much color and
animation as he could. If he had to stretch the truth a little so that the
drama suited him, it was easily done with no second thoughts. Enthusi-
asm for the fi lm was so strong that papers could not get enough gossip
about it. One paper even printed an anecdote about a behind-the-scenes
moment that occurred on location. Even though the crew was “far from
civilization, director Walsh insisted that two or three scenes just taken be
developed.” In lieu of having a darkroom, Walsh’s cameraman, Georges
Benoît, “crawled beneath the covers of his camp bed, sealing all possible
holes where light might enter and went to work.”16
Leaning Forward at Fox 61
Walsh had seen Griffith stage huge outdoor scenes; he also found
Pancho Villa to be the kind of ornery bandit he liked. Villa churned out
one tall tale after another, and Walsh took a liking to that immediately.
The West that Walsh either dreamed up or lived in before making his
way to the movies just fed his imagination for the huge outdoor spaces he
came on when he met Griffith and Villa. No matter what other terrain
he scouted, he would return to the West, his truest homeland.
Walsh was gaining a reputation at a fortuitous time: since the early
months of 1916, motion picture revenue soared in the United States. As
early as January of that year, newspapers across the country announced
that the movie industry was now the fi fth largest business in the country,
with only agriculture, transportation, oil, and steel, largest to smallest
respectively, ranking above it. A “conservative” estimate of $5 million
had by now been invested in the industry, and the amount of money
spent annually in making movies far exceeded that figure. At least ten
million people went to the movies annually, and there was scarcely a
community in the country with a population of more than one thousand
that did not have a movie house. To get to this happy state of affairs,
articles touted, the bulldog had to yap at both ends of the elephant (the
conglomerate), and the exhibitor bulldogs had to sign an agreement that
they would buy only from the big conglomerate. The little bulldog that
could was William Fox. “One day, William Fox, president of the Greater
New York Rental Company, went to Washington and laid a few facts
before George W. Wickersham, then Attorney General. Shortly thereaf-
ter, the Sherman anti-trust law was taken from its shelf, dusted off and
applied to the elephant. Oct. 1, 1915.”17
Also, since the appearance of the nickelodeon just after the turn
of the century, it was only a matter of time until the debate took shape
comparing the stage actor to the newer breed, the movie actor and, in
that vein, the stage director to the new kind of artist now appearing on
the American scene—the fi lm director. “A new type of actor has been
developed by the movies,” the Dallas Morning News reported. “The
motion-picture industry has also developed a new type of artist, separate
and distinct from the movie stars. This artist is the director. Five years
ago the motion-picture director who received a salary of $50 weekly
considered himself fortunate. Today there are directors whose annual
income is equal to that of the President of the United States.” It was
62 Raoul Walsh
Walsh fi nally showed he cared. When the new cook brought to the din-
ner table two overcooked lamb chops, Walsh roared that they looked
more like “dog turds.” “Don’t you know what I like?” he asked. “You
ought to—you sat across the table from me for a whole year.”20 He fi red
the cook and found another, named Theresa, who stayed with them for
years, to the end of her life.
Walsh had his career to attend to. Two visions loomed before him:
he saw that his output as a director could be voluminous if he handled
it right. He also realized that the medium itself embodied huge pos-
sibilities. He still loomed forward, looking for unusual material to put
on the big screen. He stayed friends with the Griffith cameraman Billy
Bitzer, amazed at Bitzer’s childlike curiosity about the camera and what
he might capture with it. He would be out and about in Los Angeles,
catching big tufts of fogs rising over the hills along with frequents shots
of the sun setting over the beach at Santa Monica. Walsh was out there
with him, learning technique, and also staying close to someone he con-
sidered a master. If Walsh could be somewhere other than in the house
with Miriam, he would be there. Seeing other women under innocent
social circumstances meant hardly a disruption to his life.
As early as the fi rst year of the Walshes’ marriage, there were signs
of trouble to come. For one thing, Walsh developed a penchant for bet-
ting on the horses, a habit that unnerved Miriam, especially the day he
won $90,000, a good deal more than their combined salary, which often
totaled $300 a week. More disruptive, Walsh’s love of being around
women other than his wife wore away at Miriam from the start. Before
their fi rst anniversary, believing her husband to have been with another
woman (and, just as were Walsh’s wives to come, Miriam was uncertain
who), she claimed having tried to kill herself by swallowing a bottle of
carbolic acid that Theresa had left on the sink. Walsh was very tender
with her after the episode, but she never trusted him again. Miriam was
histrionic at times, it was true; but she would always be left wondering
about Walsh’s whereabouts during his evenings out without her.
With Honor
There are confl icting stories about just how Walsh came to direct what
would be his great film of this period, The Honor System. One story has
64 Raoul Walsh
it that the Los Angeles Times writer and drama critic Henry Christeen
Warnack approached Walsh to help him develop a script from his book
on prisons that he called The Honor System. Another version has Fox
giving Walsh a fi nished script that Walsh rewrote. In his autobiogra-
phy, however, Walsh says that he and the studio were about to cast the
picture (he doesn’t mention who scripted it) when he received a phone
call from the Los Angeles Times sports editor Paul Lowry asking Walsh
to talk to his friend, John Twist, the Chicago Tribune editor, who had
just published a story in Collier’s magazine about Arizona governor
George Hunt and the new program—an honor system—he initiated
for the state’s penal system, letting prisoners take short, unsupervised
leaves. Walsh says that it was Twist’s idea to “have a prisoner, your star,
released on his honor to testify in some case and see what happens.”21
Since the story had no central character at that stage, Walsh was only
too happy to listen to Twist. The two worked on the picture together
(eight years later, Twist returned to Los Angeles, where he and Walsh
worked on scripts for the rest of their careers and remained the closest
of friends).
Just as Walsh had written the scenarios for most of the one- and
two-reelers he appeared in and directed for Fine Arts (or that he carried
around in his head rather than on paper), he was doing the same with his
early Fox projects. He was also completely responsible for casting them,
fi nding locations, and overseeing production. He was, that is, produc-
ing before he ever officially called himself a producer or ran his own
small production company. So it would not be unusual for a man such as
Warnack to approach Walsh with a story idea.
Walsh wanted to research the program himself and traveled to Flor-
ence, Arizona, to see about Hunt’s new program. Prisoners were let out
of the facility on their honor, with a promise that they would return
in an allotted amount of time. Walsh lived in the prison for three days
while he studied the prisoners and then returned to Los Angeles to work
on the script. He managed to get an actor he liked very much, Milton
Sills, to play the lead. He convinced Miriam to play the daughter of
the prison warden. Although she considered her career over since her
marriage, she agreed to be in the picture—not so much to restart her
career after leaving Griffith’s company but because she feared a separa-
tion from her husband when he went on location to Arizona. To her
Leaning Forward at Fox 65
chagrin, she stayed, not with Walsh, but with the warden’s family during
the shoot. But at least she felt more comfortable being in the same city
as her husband.
Using the name Raoul A. Walsh, which he did frequently during his
early acting and directing career, Walsh now set out to direct a ten-reel
picture that thematically and technically far outdistanced its similarly
titled predecessor released by Kalem Productions four years earlier and
featuring Carlyle Blackwell in the lead. Unfortunately, both the Kalem
film and Walsh’s more sophisticated version were lost early on—Walsh’s
version considered by most historians to be an especially tragic loss—
leaving only stills, newspaper stories, and Fox’s original program to rely
on in order to understand the enormous impact Walsh’s picture had on
the fi lmgoing public at the time.
Walsh took his crew and cast members to Yuma, Arizona, to shoot
inside the Arizona State Prison. He and Miriam always worked well
together on the set; he was gentle with her, and she, in turn, had no
problem seeing him as a mentor. No matter the turn their marriage took,
Miriam always believed Walsh to be one of the best directors working.
The production then returned to Los Angeles and fi nished up in Ingle-
wood, a suburb just a few miles south of Hollywood.
The story begins with a scenario Hitchcock would use repeatedly
some thirty years later: the fabulous journey of a man accused of a crime
he did not commit. Joseph Stanton (Sills) is a New England inventor
who ventures west to get money for a new project. When he arrives
in Howling Dog, Mexicans raid the border town, and, unintentionally
getting involved in the action, Stanton is attacked and, fighting back,
accidentally kills his attacker. An unscrupulous attorney swears that the
man Stanton killed was unarmed. Stanton gets a life prison sentence
and endures all kinds of physical atrocities, including being flogged and
having to live in severely unsanitary conditions in the prison. During a
staged prison break, Stanton and others escape, but Stanton pleads to
the governor that he should see for himself the horrors of the prison.
The governor does just that and subsequently allows the now blind and
emaciated Stanton, who has just endured another flogging, to participate
in the newly installed honor system. The governor also decides to sup-
port Stanton’s new invention and allows him to leave prison to test out
his idea—with the promise that he will return. Stanton intends to do just
66 Raoul Walsh
a view that greatly pleased Walsh. “The Honor System,” he wrote, “is
undoubtedly the most powerful philippic against the prison system un-
der which prisoners are held as wild beasts, rather than humans, that
has ever been produced. If reform propaganda has a place on the screen,
then assuredly this picture deserved fi rst rank.”25 But Walsh was equally
impressed by a mishap that followed the fi lm’s New York premiere.
Governor Hunt asked William Fox if he could send a “life prisoner” to
the premiere. Thinking it a good idea, Fox heartily agreed—not failing
to consider the publicity such a stunt could garner for the picture. But
the prisoner outsmarted everyone, escaping the night after the event.
After he was on the train traveling from the New York premiere back
to Arizona, he escaped, most believed in Chicago, and was never heard
from again.
Fox decided that he wanted Walsh back at the Fort Lee studio, so
Walsh and Miriam returned to New York and took up residence in a new
apartment in the east seventies that Miriam enjoyed decorating. But,
before leaving California, Walsh directed Tom Mix in a two-reeler called
The Lone Cowboy, shooting it on Mix’s own ranch just outside Los An-
geles (credited with a 1915 release, the picture was probably released late
in 1917 or early 1918). Back on the East Coast, Walsh continued to work
on a string of what he considered entertaining and serviceable pictures
that used up little film (Fox’s and other studio heads’ wish at the time)
and that he edited the way he liked. (Walsh never made it clear over the
years how much or how little he edited his fi lms. Clearly, his involvement
varied with each fi lm—for one thing, Warners, where he would go later,
had its own editors, but he said he outsmarted them and the censors by
shooting enough scenes his way to override any cutting.) To Walsh, his
pictures remained his pictures.
One fi lm he enjoyed making was This Is the Life, featuring his
brother, George. On its release, an advertisement in local newspapers
across the country read, “Here is a typical George Walsh vehicle, a
play that gives him ample opportunity for his smile and his acrobatics.
He climbs up the side of houses, fights a whole army of revolutionists,
carries people around at will, and gets the girl he wants.” Walsh and
George were still extremely close, especially since George had married
the starlet Seena Owen and the two had a young daughter. George’s
career stayed on a steady track still, and he and Raoul continued to write
Leaning Forward at Fox 69
With World War I now raging in Europe, and with the United States
soon entering the hostilities, Walsh was a good candidate to go off to
Europe. He was now just past thirty years old and had had three hernia
operations, yet he received a classification of 1A. He claimed later that
he wanted to go overseas, but Miriam told a different story, that he had
no intention of giving up his career. William Fox thought the same way,
along with Miriam, who did not want to be separated from her husband.
Walsh was drafted in May 1917 but ended up staying in New York. On
the East Coast, he was a member of the Signal Corps and assembled
footage for the War Department until the war ended. But he also di-
rected what could be called a serious war film of the period, The Pride of
New York, a story of men in battle that featured a Walsh favorite, Anna
Q. Nilsson—earlier featured in Regeneration—and George Walsh. He
also directed a fi lm expressly made for the war effort, titled 18 to 45,
a short subject aimed at convincing young men about to register for
the draft that the system was completely impartial. On another note,
another picture he directed during this time, The Woman and the Law,
gave Miriam a substantial role as a woman who murders the husband
she fi nds has been faithless to her. Miriam could not have missed the
irony of Walsh putting her in a fi lm based on a real murder trial of the
time since she herself was becoming increasingly agitated by what she
believed to be her husband’s growing attraction to other women.
At the end of November 1917, believing that his contract with Fox was
about to expire, Walsh signed on with the Samuel Goldwyn Company,
also set up at Fort Lee, New Jersey. Goldwyn had just formed the Gold-
wyn Pictures Corporation with the Broadway producers Edgar and Ar-
chibald Selwyn, who were leaving Famous Players Lasky (the company
with the ever-changing name); he had made overtures to Walsh before
70 Raoul Walsh
this. Walsh now felt more confident of his position in the industry and
billowed a few of his feathers as he gave an interview to Motion Picture
Weekly on a matter he thought close to his heart, the exhibitor’s role in
a motion picture’s success or failure: “Frankly, I have been very much
disturbed over the way I have seen many of my own pictures run. The
Twentieth Century Express is a horse car [sic] beside some of the speed
I have seen careless operators or short-sighted house managers put into
their fi lms.” On one side is the director, Walsh said, who has “timed his
action as closely as possible to the right tempo.” Then an exhibitor might
speed up that tempo in order to get in an extra showing that day and
make a few more dollars. “I take the bulk of my straight scenes at 13
or 14 exposures a second. When it is swift comedy or big melodramatic
action—a chase or a fight or a raid, for instance—my cameraman slows
it to 11 or 12.” When the complete fi lm is run through the projector “at
a normal, constant speed of 14, all the tempo runs true.” This should be
the director’s business, not the operator’s. Unfortunately, he concluded,
the director is at the “absolute mercy” of the “man who shows it.”26
Walsh liked to think that he had significant control of his pictures, and
sometimes that was true.27
But he would have to continue making those pictures at Fox for a
while. Walsh was unaware of the clause Fox had written into his con-
tract stating that Fox had the option of retaining his services for another
year—or at least he had failed to remember it or pay attention at the time
he initially signed with the studio. Fox refused to release Walsh—he was
too valuable at the moment—and Walsh had no choice but to stay.
His next picture for the studio, The Prussian Cur, released in 1918,
drew impressive reviews, inspiring critics to suggest that he may have
even stolen some of his mentor’s thunder when it came to huge mob
scenes. He surely had been looking and listening as he stood behind
Griffith in the early years, one reviewer suggested. The picture’s huge
mob scenes were impressive enough to inspire another critic to say, “One
should remember that Raoul Walsh was a Griffith assistant on The Birth
of a Nation.” Walsh did not agree with this kind of praise. “It was the
worst picture I ever made,” he said at the time. 28
While Walsh focused on his career, sometimes with Miriam on
his set—and sometimes not—Miriam herself grew more despondent at
Leaning Forward at Fox 71
not being able to conceive a child with her husband, the one thing she
believed might make them closer. She would have been just as happy
playing wife and mother as leading lady in Walsh’s pictures. Never one
to give up on her plans, Miriam convinced Walsh that they should adopt
a child. As always, he gave in without giving it much thought. Before he
fi nished editing The Prussian Cur, Miriam found a child she loved im-
mediately. She found him at the New York Foundling Hospital. He was a
five-year-old named Jackie whose parents, Miriam and Walsh were told,
were killed in the Halifax disaster of 1917. The Walshes adopted him
in July 1919. But Walsh was not prepared for fatherhood, nor was he
willing to invest too much time in this kind of responsibility. As he usu-
ally did in response to Miriam’s plans, he went along but wasn’t entirely
emotionally present in the matter.
Walsh joined a growing list of sterling Fox directors, including
Frank Borzage, John Ford, and Allan Dwan, each putting out pictures
popular with audiences. In 1918, however, William Fox had to be as
frugal as other studio heads since the United States had just entered the
war in Europe. Many studios on the East Coast were only too cognizant
of hard choices that had to be made. Some even closed down, even if
temporarily, while others cut back on costs as much as they could. Wil-
liam Fox was one of the lucky ones since his pictures continued to bring
in audiences and make money. Despite this, Fox warned his people not
to get “too complacent.” But Walsh grew increasingly restless with Fox’s
belt tightening, which amounted to smaller budgets and little publicity
to speak of to exploit a picture on its release. All this led him to think
seriously—and not for the fi rst time—of going independent. But, before
actually making that move, he took a smaller step in that direction. He
wanted to write a script that was very different from the kind of stories
he had been directing; he was feeling rebellious. His thoughts turned
more and more to classic literature, to something with substance. He
and Miriam had long discussions about this as they pored over volumes
of fiction, poetry, and drama looking for a great work. One night, they
talked about Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s poem Evangeline, and
Walsh became more interested in the romantic story of love and loss.
The poem told the story of a young French Canadian woman who fol-
lows her lover, now fighting in the army. But she is unable to fi nd him
72 Raoul Walsh
for a long time. Every place she travels to, to locate him, she fi nds he has
just left. At last she is reunited with him. But, as she holds him in her
arms, he expires from the plague. This was a classic star-crossed-lovers
scenario the likes of which might excite D. W. Griffith himself and most
likely had in one form or another over the years. Walsh could not see the
heavy sentiment as being problematic in any way.
He produced the film for Fox and had a personal stake in its success.
He wrote a script and began casting the picture. But he had trouble
fi nding his female lead and after much imploring convinced Miriam to
star in the fi lm. Never a fan of the Longfellow poem, she tried to fi nd
a way to keep feeling sad (and, therefore, in character) throughout the
production; she had an organ brought onto the set everyday and hired
an organist to play mournful music, angering many in the cast and crew.
One day on the set, when Walsh directed her to hold a bouquet of flow-
ers and look sad and angelic, he managed to make her angrier than
anything else. Not thinking she could hear him, he said in a low voice
to the cinematographer, “You’d never know she’s such a devil, would
you?”29 Miriam threw the flowers at Walsh and walked off the set.
The Walshes had moved back to California for the fi lm’s production.
Among his cast members, Walsh hired a young William Wellman, the
future director, to play a British officer. Walsh later remembered fi ring
Wellman because he was “a great bottle man” in those days and got
drunk more often than not. Walsh recalled that Wellman was having
marital troubles at the time and started drinking and “fooling around.”
He added, “It was much easier to throw an actor off a picture in those
days.” Wellman didn’t mind leaving the production. The way he was
costumed (“with a powdered wig”), he said, he “looked like a fairy.”30
Perhaps influenced by Griffith’s Broken Blossoms, released the same
year, and even The Bluebird, Walsh was clearly enamored of his subject
matter. He wanted something that was, as he later told Peter Bogdanov-
ich, “a little more poetic,” and he worked diligently on what he consid-
ered a work of art. A little over three weeks into production the picture
became a labor of love. The critics indeed called it a beautiful work of
art when it was released. Walsh said, “I like the flow of it, the poetry in
it, and the softness and the sweetness. It took me away from violence.”31
Or so he thought. When Evangeline failed to make money at the box
Leaning Forward at Fox 73
The mishap with the Samuel Goldwyn contract, coupled with the failure
of Evangeline, only helped feed a deepening sense of disillusionment
with Fox. Walsh began to think seriously about going independent and
forming his own production company. After writing and directing three
more pictures for Fox—The Strongest, Should a Husband Forgive? and
From Now On, none of them very distinguished in his eyes—he moved
away from the studio for a short time and formed Walsh Productions,
signing a three-year contract with the Mayflower Corporation (and, by
extension, the Realart Company) on October 24, 1919, to distribute his
films.
Miriam recorded this time in her autobiography, logging in on the
chaos that ensued. “Raoul and I, and our entourage, always seemed to
be in the wrong place,” she wrote. “We’d be working in New York, then
Fox sent us back to California, and now when Raoul decided to become
an independent we had to go back to New York to see the big money
men.” Walsh and Miriam left Jackie with Theresa and the dogs in the big
house in California and headed off to New York with their chauffeur,
Pat, in tow (“in order to drive us around—as though you couldn’t get
a cab in New York”).1 They were an assorted group, large enough to
fill more than one house. Even Miriam saw the humor in their lifestyle,
although not enough to alter how they lived and behaved.
On the day they were to leave Los Angeles, while they were packing
their bags, Miriam looked out the window to see a little fat man running
up their front lawn. Louis B. Mayer knocked at the front door; he came
to make another overture to Walsh to come work for him. Walsh turned
him down on the spot, but all Miriam could remember about the visit
was the way Mayer smelled. She kept backing away from him. “He was
74
The Dagger, the Sword, and the Gun 75
short and fat, with squinty eyes and a big nose and the worst case of
halitosis I’d ever been this close to. There was green stuff on his teeth,
like moss. The more I retreated, the more he came on. He backed me all
the way from the front door to the backyard.”2 Her repulsion at the sight
of Mayer would one day come back to haunt her.
As an independent, Walsh drew a salary of $2,500 a week. Back
in New York now, he surrounded himself with a group who could be
considered his regulars—a few of them family members. He gave them
jobs at every chance, and, no matter who happened to be his family
over the years, he continued the tradition—even in the 1960s. Miriam
would star in the pictures, George would return soon from California
to play male lead, and Miriam’s brother, Gordon, along with another
friend, Jim Marcus, were Walsh’s assistants; Marcus would also serve as
assistant director. Before he began as an independent, Walsh brought in
a little extra money acting as production supervisor on a picture called
Headin’ Home, a biography of Babe Ruth featuring Ruth himself. Law-
rence C. Windom directed the picture for a company named Kessel and
Baumann, and the Yankee Photo Corporation produced. The picture’s
major investor was Abe Attell, known to have helped Arnold Rothstein
fi x the 1919 World Series. Walsh now had some connection to the mob
world he’d concoct so well when he directed Cagney and Bogie later on
at Warner Bros. But, for now, this was no fiction.
Walsh and Miriam moved to an apartment on West Sixty-fourth
Street and sent for Jackie and Theresa. Then Walsh settled in to cast his
fi rst movie as an independent—an adaptation of a successful play, The
Deep Purple, written by two close friends of his, Paul Armstrong and
Wilson Mizner. Not deterred by the play’s two previous film adaptations,
in 1912 and again in 1916, he hired Earle Browne to write the script,
even though he put his two cents in every chance he had. The story
hinged on the travails of a beautiful young country girl (Cooper) who
is lured to New York by a group of crooks, then miraculously rescued
just in time by the story’s hero, played by Vincent Serrano. The picture
brought in fairly good box-office receipts, and Walsh went on to produce
several more films with Miriam in the lead. Walsh loved directing her,
no matter how chaotic their personal life off the set. Miriam’s beauti-
ful white skin and dark flowing hair gave her an especially expressive
demeanor; at times, she could look harrowing if the character called for
76 Raoul Walsh
Since owning a dog was a status symbol, Miriam and Walsh owned five.
Their Airedales came fully loaded “with more papers than we had,”
Miriam noted. 3 While Miriam took lessons in golf, bridge, ballet, and
water skiing, Walsh bought an $8,000 Locomobile for himself and a
Packard for his wife. He also insisted that she have a chauffeur. Walsh’s
car remained in California when the family made the trek across the
country to New York in Miriam’s Packard. In California, where they
settled more than New York, they made another move and rented a house
in the fashionable West Adams district, just south of Hollywood. Their
landlord was the actor Fatty Arbuckle, who had rented the house to
various film people over the years—including Norma Talmadge. Walsh
also began buying racehorses, boarding them at nearby racetracks.
The Walshes spent money almost recklessly, with Miriam dictating
where they would spend and Walsh going along with her—an early sign
of his lifelong inability to handle money with any frugality. As a family
member later said of him, he simply wasn’t good with money. During
their marriage, Miriam paid the bills and kept (or did not keep) track
of their expenditures. She was more concerned about money—more
obsessed with it—than Walsh. For his end, he would often wire her
from California asking her to deposit money in their account because he
needed to pay a bill or, later, to buy a horse.
A fashionable address seemed a natural idea to a couple who, while
they worked hard for their money, still thought it important to spend
as much as they could to keep up appearances. Walsh’s days with his
father served him well. Thomas’s career as a haberdasher left a lifelong
impression on Walsh; nice clothes were always part of his expenditures,
and he simply loved fashion. Photographs taken of him at every stage of
his career show him wearing expensive suits, some bought in England
(with boots to complete the outfit), others purchased in the finest New
York men’s shops. Pictures of Walsh throughout his life show him to
be sporting a mustache and most often a curly, or at least wavy, head
of hair. The fi rst time Miriam walked into their bathroom to find her
husband curling his hair with her curling iron she showed surprise. After
that it became routine.
Walsh’s dream of being independent seemed to vanish before him
during a time when the Hollywood moguls began to take hold of the in-
dustry; he would be working for others most of his life. Leaving Miriam
The Dagger, the Sword, and the Gun 79
and Jackie in New York, he went back to Los Angeles, where work was
more plentiful. When Samuel Goldwyn again approached him (after
seeing Kindred of the Dust), Walsh signed with him, giving up on his
own production company. He thought Goldwyn would mean a long-
term contract, but their association produced only one picture, Lost and
Found on a South Sea Island.
Goldwyn already had a script for the picture but thought it lacked
panache; he asked Walsh to work on a new script for this South Seas
adventure. Walsh and Miriam thought it a lucky break since they
continued to spend money at a rate that outdistanced their combined
salaries. Walsh tightened the script, adding more dramatic points than
the original writer, Paul Bern, had included. Then he scouted locations,
not going on salary at Goldwyn until he actually began shooting the
picture. Since Miriam and Walsh agreed they needed even more money
than this picture would bring in, Miriam sent Jackie and Theresa to live
with Walsh in Los Angeles and went off to Detroit to shoot Is Money
Everything? for the D.M. Film Corporation.
Fixated on the idea that Walsh no longer loved her (and with good
reason), Miriam wrote him in early June 1922 from Detroit, “I am so
tired. We have been on location thirty miles away every day since we
started the picture. . . . Not even one letter have I received. I am quite
sure you do not expect me to believe you care for me and I am fully
convinced you have ceased to love me. I do not blame you. These are
things which are not controlled by us.” But Walsh convinced his wife
(and may have believed) that he still loved her: “My heart is breaking for
you. If you tell me you are not coming back I will not live without you.
Let me but have you in my arms and one day of love shall widen into
eternity. Who knows the earth may crack tonight—or the Sun go down
forever in his grave—Who knows tomorrow god will begin to fi nish the
judgement of the world—and when it is all over find you sleeping in my
arms.”4 Sounding as romantic and melodramatic as the movie Evange-
line, Walsh made an impassioned plea for their love to continue. Miriam
would never know whether he truly felt the passion he claimed or simply
got carried away with the romance of his words, even the romance of
what he needed at the time. He was, after all, in the midst of writing a
South Seas adventure.
Walsh was about to live his adventure when he convinced Goldwyn
80 Raoul Walsh
that he could save money by actually filming Lost and Found in the
South Seas. Walsh asked Miriam to accompany him to Tahiti and sug-
gested they bring Jack along. On June 17, 1922, he wired her at the
Statler Hotel in Detroit and signed their son’s name to it: “Dear Mother.
Hurry and come to Los Angeles. We are going to the South Seas. Daddy
mad because you say he don’t love you. Patsy, Theresa and all send love.
Wire me at once. Jack.” Ignoring the “Daddy mad” jab, Miriam wired
back that she still had three weeks of filming left but would try to follow
afterward. On June 25, she wired that she would take a boat in early
August and meet Walsh in Tahiti. He wrote back, again as Jackie, “Dear
Mother. Are you coming back to your Jackie, Patsy, Daddy and Rexie?
We all miss you very much and want you here on the seventh. I am a big
boy now and want to see my mother before I forget what she looks like.5
All my love. Jackie.”6
Miriam worried about becoming sick in Tahiti as she had heard
all nonnatives did. Put out by her concern, Walsh wired back, “The
information you have received about Tahiti is absurd. July and August
are the choice months. It is winter there now. Fever is unknown and it is
declared by all who have been there to be a veritable paradise, a bower
of flowers and enchantment. If you come on the August boat you will
be able to spend ten days with me. If you think that worthwhile, come.
Love, Raoul.”7 Walsh tried in earnest to convince Miriam he wanted her
with him, but his defenses were up all the same.
Without yet hearing back from Miriam, in early July 1923, Walsh
left Jackie and Theresa home and boarded a ship for San Francisco, then
changed over to a ship for the two-week voyage to Tahiti. His coterie
went along, including his associate Jim Marcus and Gordon Cooper,
Miriam’s brother, who went as Walsh’s assistant. Also on board was
Jim O’Donohue, who would work with Walsh to fi nish the script. The
Walshes’ chauffeur, Pat, went along as an all-around handyman, as
did Walsh’s lifelong friend Carl Harbaugh, who would act as a feature
player, writer, even crew member—whatever Walsh needed.
Walsh told Peter Bogdanovich in a 1971 interview that he took “a
lot of money” to Tahiti (Goldwyn paid a good salary, at least $20,000—
one reason Walsh took the assignment). “I had just got rid of the squaw
and I took along eighteen thousand dollars (that I had here) before she
could lay her hands on it.”8 Although Walsh took a stab at Miriam with
The Dagger, the Sword, and the Gun 81
that comment (“before she could lay her hands on it” was a jab at the
coming years when she would be hauling him into court for alimony),
in fact, Miriam did follow Walsh to Tahiti as soon as she finished her
picture and picked up Jackie in Los Angeles. She later said that another
Los Angeles resident, the evangelist Aimee Semple McPherson, and
her young son were on board the same ship bound for Tahiti but that
McPherson would not allow her son to play with Jackie because his
mother was an actress.
Tahiti loomed as the most exotic locale Walsh had seen so far—a
romantic landscape that he used as fodder for stories for years to come,
for example, that the French government gave him trouble and arrested
him for bringing guns and blank cartridges with him. This may or may
not have been true, but Walsh was gaining on reality with the stories
he garnished time and again—all told in the name of adventure and
romance. The Tahiti production actually lasted well over a month, and
at its conclusion Walsh organized a feast for the natives who had been
so hospitable to him. With that came another story never substantiated:
after drinking too much liquor at that dinner, Walsh later said, he al-
lowed himself to get a nose piercing: he also claimed he carried around
the disfigurement, slight as it was, for the rest of his life.
The film had two original titles, Captain Blackbird and Under the
Skin, both of which were written on the script Walsh received. Eventually,
the picture was called, simply enough, Lost and Found, a somewhat ser-
viceable title for what turned out to be a serviceable tale (it even included
the obligatory chase scene) and little more. The story (of which one reel
survives) centers on a seventeen-year-old Tahitian girl named Lorna and
her boyfriend, Lloyd, who are terrorized by an evil white trader. Lorna
is “a moral derelict on the shore of life as well as an actual derelict on
the beach of Tutuila, an elfin, wistful, love-starved little waif”; Lloyd
is a young man with too much kindness, sympathy, and idealism. He’s
devoted himself to “books, study and the ethical things of life.” Together,
they are no match for the “smiling devil of a modern pirate,” Captain
Blackbird, described in the initial script as “Wallace Beery at his worst.”9
The picture performed poorly at the box office after its release in Febru-
ary 1923 yet remained for Walsh a grand memory because he could make
so much fiction out of the time he spent in Tahiti and the South Seas. He
collected such fodder with great seriousness.
82 Raoul Walsh
sometimes with Walsh, now thirty-seven, and their mutual friend Char-
lie Chaplin joining him. Fairbanks not only looks lean and muscular in
the part of Ahmed; he exudes a sexuality, almost a pure eroticism, that
made him irresistible to the female moviegoers who watched The Thief
of Bagdad. He also surrounded himself with beautiful female leads,
casting Anna May Wong as an unsavory female slave and the newcomer
Julanne Johnston (who bore an uncanny resemblance to Miriam Coo-
per) as the princess. Both women are beautiful creatures, but neither,
Fairbanks made certain, looks quite as appealing as he does.
Filming began on “The Lot,” at 1041 North Formosa Avenue, in
West Hollywood, soon after Walsh entered the picture, although Fair-
banks had been in preproduction for at least a year. Critics and histori-
ans have since debated the extent and influence of Walsh’s contribution
as director on a film that from the start was so personal to Fairbanks.
Some have argued that Walsh simply played yes-man to Fairbanks, who
directed most of the picture himself. Some have also said that not enough
credit was given to the fi lm’s art director, William Cameron Menzies,
and that, if Fairbanks collaborated with anyone, it was with him. The
argument has been, in part, that the fi lm’s style was set long before any
cameras rolled and that, once they did, Fairbanks’s choreography and
narrative control hardly waned. Even by then, Walsh was seen as an
action director with a no-nonsense approach. The question has always
remained: How much influence could he have had on such a fairy-tale
fantasy whose centerpiece is a magic carpet ride?
But Walsh brought a straightforward, problem-solving sensibility to
the picture, something Fairbanks intuitively knew he would. Fairbanks’s
sense of myth and fantasy were so all-consuming, visually and themati-
cally, that he needed the exact kind of no-nonsense movement, measured
action, and pace that Walsh provided. Walsh’s knack for economy and
realism kept Fairbanks’s extravagance in check. Walsh later said, “I
purposefully heightened the action so that the build-up to the fantastic
fi nale would not drag and become tedious. The rival princes got more
than the script called for. Toward the end, I had them running his head
on a platter. The idea of making The Thief invisible was my own. I trust
my blatant ad-libbing did not cause the clever Scheherazade to turn over
in her grave.”12
The Dagger, the Sword, and the Gun 85
After leaving Fairbanks’s lot, Walsh’s contract with Fox was about to
end; Harry Wurtzel convinced his brother, Sol, to let Walsh out of it.
Walsh waited awhile before making another picture and then signed
with Jesse Lasky in July 1925 in conjunction with Famous Players and
Paramount Studios. He directed five pictures with Lasky, three in 1925
and two the following year, none of them especially memorable, with the
exception, in Walsh’s view, of the memorable event of getting the chance
to work with the Polish actress Pola Negri, whom he thought had great
talent. Miriam also appreciated Negri—the actress didn’t go after Walsh,
even though she did come to the Walshes’ home several times a week, her
purpose being to confide in Miriam about her latest romantic trauma.
Or at least Miriam chose to believe that Negri and Walsh were
never intimate. Walsh, however, implies otherwise in his autobiography,
recounting the period when he worked with Negri—of course omitting
The Dagger, the Sword, and the Gun 87
Miriam and the two boys from the narrative—and, as a “single” man,
had a great flirtation with her. His narrative is curious, not only for
its deliberate inaccuracy about his marital status, but also for the way
it reveals his attitude toward Negri and other women he “knew.” He
devises a complete fantasy:
The troubles he and Miriam had at the time, coupled with the sub-
sequent years she spent trying to get alimony from him, understandably
prompted Walsh to eliminate her from his life as he recorded it in the
autobiography. The fiction is far better to remember than the reality
during that time. Miriam permeates the autobiography nevertheless. In
it Walsh displays a jaded view of women and portrays himself as the
88 Raoul Walsh
lover of many and tired of the current “scene.” He certainly became that
man, even if this fantasy, written late in his life, reads more like a movie
script than anything else.
Walsh’s 1925 outing with Negri, East of Suez, was based on the 1922
play of the same name by W. Somerset Maugham and centers on a torrid
love affair between an educated Chinese half caste—Negri’s eyes were
taped back to make her look Asian—and the young Englishman she
loves. Negri plays Daisy Forbes, educated in England and now returning
to China, where she suddenly fi nds herself a social outcast after word
gets out that the Chinese nurse who raised her was really her mother.
The Englishman is talked into renouncing her, and, in turn, she marries
another man out of desperation. But eventually she and her English-
man reunite and travel back to England. Walsh had fond feelings for the
picture and was incensed to fi nd out later that the entire reel where she
marries the Englishman was cut. He must not have known that the Hays
Office had installed a do-and-don’t code at that point; he always blamed
Paramount for not knowing and letting the censors butcher his picture.
The film featured a young actor named Edmund Lowe whom the
camera adored without hesitation. He could be serious, humorous, even
flippant when necessary. Walsh admired his ease on film and would use
him again a year later in What Price Glory? and its two sequels. He
would return to Maugham also. In 1928, Walsh would adapt another
Maugham play, Rain (Sadie Thompson). East of Suez was released on
January 12, 1925; afterward Walsh went on to direct four other Lasky-
Paramount productions released in 1925 and 1926, The Spaniard, The
Wanderer, The Lucky Lady, and The Lady of the Harem; the latter two
pictures Walsh considered a means to an end.
The Wanderer, an adaptation of the parable of the Prodigal Son
(originally only a five-hundred-word passage in Luke 15), blew up into
an all-out Hollywood biblical spectacle, complete with an all-star cast
that included the Swedish actress Greta Nissen (who also appeared in
The Lucky Lady and The Lady of the Harem), Wallace Beery, William
Collier Jr., and Tyrone Power Sr. Somewhat shocking was a scene in
which Nissen dances and appears to be wearing little other than a rose
on her person. The picture also marked Myrna Loy’s fi rst appearance in
a film; she plays a reveler in an orgy scene. At the time of its release, much
The Dagger, the Sword, and the Gun 89
sential boys who never grew up. They had immediate appeal for Walsh.
Here was great aplomb and tenacity.
Stallings initially was signed by MGM to write a screen adaptation
of his and Anderson’s play. But Fox bought it soon after, “when it be-
came obvious, from the acclaim given The Big Parade,” that war fi lms
would be commercial again as they had been right around the time of
the fi rst World War.19 Walsh then came on board and cast Edmund Lowe
as First Sergeant Quirt. Lowe was the affable actor who could ham it
up onscreen at a moment’s notice. Lowe played the character as a cocky,
almost slithery ladies’ man, as shallow as he sometimes appears, and
his natural charm rendered Quirt more a sympathetic character than a
louse. Lowe would also come on board for Walsh’s 1929 project In Old
Arizona.
Casting Captain Flagg proved thornier. The British-born actor Vic-
tor McLaglen was determined to have the part. Born in Tunbridge Wells,
near London, McLaglen had the background and the right kind of swag-
ger and size for the part. Half-Irish, half-Scots, he was a huge man who
had run away from home at age fourteen to join the army, eventually
becoming a boxer, and later taking part in the gold rush at Kalgoorlie,
Australia. After getting into the movie business, he’d landed the lead in
the British color production of The Glorious Adventure. After that, he
arrived in the United States to star in J. Stuart Blackton’s The Beloved
Brute.
At fi rst Walsh was dead set against McLaglen having the part of
Flagg: he thought it would be impossible for him to understand the
American marine mind-set. McLaglen worked diligently to wear Walsh
down and change his mind. “I had seen the play on the stage and had
realized immediately that if I was born for nothing else I was at least
born to play Captain Flagg in that full-throated yarn of the American
Marines,” he later wrote in his autobiography. He was determined “to
get the lead in this super-picture.” After making inquiries, McLaglen
discovered that his name was “already on the list of potential candidates
for the coveted part” and “immediately went to see Raoul Walsh who
was to seal his reputation with the direction of the picture.” “You’re
English,” Walsh told him, “as though that fi nished it,” McLaglen said.
The actor argued that his nationality did not matter. But Walsh would
not agree. “He said,” McLaglen remembered, “that I could not possibly
The Dagger, the Sword, and the Gun 91
The fi rst I came to was a Spanish city and it was hard to believe
that I was not actually in Spain, although it was devoid of people
because nothing was being fi lmed there just then. The next place
was a complete French village with hundreds of dwellings, ho-
92 Raoul Walsh
Walsh told numerous stories over the years about his battles with
neighborhood residents who lived near the studio. He shot the fi lm’s
battle scenes at night. The explosions broke nearby windows and
caused damage to bungalows in the area. Walsh loved to talk about
the way he chose a different assistant each evening just so that, when
the sheriff arrived and asked who was in charge, all fi ngers, including
Walsh’s, pointed to the lucky “assistant,” who was then hauled off the
premises—after which Walsh would simply pick up and resume fi lming.
Walsh liked to add some salt and pepper to the tale, describing how one
time a neighbor in the area ran onto the set yelling that his roof had
caved in just in the middle of his taking a bath. Walsh quieted the man
down by taking down his name and address and promising to send him
a check to reimburse him for damages.
During production of the fi lm, one of the actors died of injuries he
sustained in one of the battle scenes (a tragedy that would repeat itself
in They Died with Their Boots On in 1941). But Walsh had a tendency
to recall the lighter moments front and center. He told Charles Higham
The Dagger, the Sword, and the Gun 93
In the fi rst section, we meet the rivals Flagg and Quirt, marine offi-
cers during World War I who fight over everything, but especially wom-
en. When they travel to France to face combat, they meet the woman
they both come to love, Charmaine (Dolores del Rio). Neither man sees
her as a human being; rather, she is a conquest.
In the second section, the war comes into play, and the two men
actually go into battle. The lead image in this section is a stunning
full-body shot of a soldier (the symbolic soldier of all wars), a body
dressed in black outlined by the flames of hell that take up the entire
frame. While at war, Flagg and Quirt learn very little about friendship,
but they do learn about death—especially in a touching scene when a
dying soldier enters the underground shelter to fi nd Flagg and, leaning
against the wall, says, “Capt . . . Captain Flagg. Stop the blood,” then
dies in Flagg’s arms. These words are the fi lm’s fi rst suggestion of its
antiwar position.
In the third section, the two men return to Charmaine in her village
but still fight over her. Their rivalry is actually their own love story—the
undying ties that they have to each other but that they do not recognize
until the fi lm’s last scenes, when they are called off to battle again. In a
close-up, Charmaine sees them off; the audience sees that they are beau-
tiful and too young to die. The last shot has Flagg and Quirt walking
with their arms around each other, committing at last—in romanticized
close-up—to their love for each other. With this kind of sentiment, it
is understandable that John Ford remade the fi lm in 1952 with James
Cagney, although it was not nearly as successful as Walsh’s fi lm: the
male bonds of attachment, the two friends’ transformation from callous-
ness (they never see Charmaine as a human being until the last scenes) to
humanity are themes Ford saw as clearly as did Walsh.
The fi lm’s greatest antiwar statement is a profoundly touching scene
in which Charmaine visits the killing fields–now–become–graveyard
(called the “Field of Glory”). “What price, glory?” another captain asks
Flagg. Walsh would have to confront his own words with this film—he
might have gone for the sword, the dagger, and the gun, but his art-
fulness led the way. The picture anticipates, sometimes even scene for
scene, Stanley Kubrick’s Paths of Glory thirty years later: the same an-
tiwar theme, similar tracking shots moving down the trenches catching
soldiers as they fall dead into this early grave, even similar battle scenes,
The Dagger, the Sword, and the Gun 95
with the men looking like ants scowling across the deadly landscape as
enemy bullets fall on them.
What Price Glory? was both a critical and a box-office success
when Fox released it at the end of November 1926. It was for Walsh
his strongest foray to date into the masculine experience of adventure
and romance that he would embrace more and more. His career loomed
large again. He became active in the newly formed Academy of Motion
Picture Arts and Sciences, formed in mid-May 1927. Walsh was in good
company; attending the fi rst honorary dinner were its thirty-six founding
members, including the actors Richard Barthelmess, Jack Holt, Conrad
Nagel, Milton Sills, Douglas Fairbanks, and Harold Lloyd, the directors
Cecil B. DeMille and Henry King, and the producers Sid Grauman, Jesse
L. Lasky, Louis B. Mayer, Joseph M. Schenck, Irving Thalberg, Mary
Pickford, and the Warner brothers.
What Price Glory? is a watershed moment in Walsh’s evolving career
and development as a storyteller. In it, we see the moment that his male
characters become archetypal in his body of work. Quirt and Flagg, for
all their bragging and rivalry, in the end come to rely on a more deeply
rooted bond, a male camaraderie based on an acknowledgment of their
need for each other. This is an innocence that Walsh could imbue in his
male characters but that he could not allow anyone to see in him—that
pervasive vulnerability that he throws into his stories as a child would.
His heroes have been called childlike more than once, and for that very
quality they’ve been seen as consistently appealing. Like Quirt and Flagg
at the story’s beginning, smaller obstacles (such as their everyday rivalry)
are overcome easily. Yet, eventually, the obstacles become larger, as the
two comrades discover, and require a vision of themselves in the world
that is much larger than a child’s. This is not always possible for Walsh’s
men, not at least until much later on, in the older male characters of
the 1950s fi lms. For now, and for the most part through Walsh’s War-
ner Bros. years, no matter how far his characters see, these men always
remain, at some level, childlike, often alienated from the adult world
around them. They welcome the world and travel out into it, but they do
so as romantic rather than realistic human beings.
This quality follows the fi lms Walsh made with Errol Flynn, as
Flynn’s characters consistently embody chivalrous, heroic qualities at
the expense of mature relations to the world—and to women. Walsh’s
96 Raoul Walsh
The Rupture
Also important, Walsh now stood at a brink in his personal life, where
the feminine constituted its own war zone. Miriam became even more
convinced as time went on that her husband regularly cheated on her—
and she was usually not far off. The older Ethel Barrymore and Beatrice
Lillie were two of Walsh’s dalliances that she knew of and whom she
confronted. But, in 1926, she herself brought home the woman who
helped end her marriage once and for all. Miriam met Lorraine Helen
Walker, who was married, and her sister, Ruth, who was single (but who
would soon marry Walter Pidgeon, a marriage that lasted until his death
decades later), in the summer months of 1926 and often played bridge
with them. On returning from one of her frequent visits to New York, to
keep up with and purchase the latest fashions, she was told by her young
son Jackie that “Aunt” Lorraine had been “sleeping over” in her absence
and that “Daddy would not let me into the bedroom” as he usually did.
Miriam discovered that Lorraine and Walsh had, indeed, been sleeping
together. She immediately left for New York, fi ling for divorce at the end
of May 1927. William Fox advised her that, if she chose to end Walsh’s
career with gossip and an accusation that he and Lorraine had been hav-
ing relations, she would suffer as much as Walsh. Without a career, he
could never give her the alimony and child support she needed. Rather
than drag Walsh down with accusations of adultery, Miriam took the
high (or smarter) road. She agreed with Fox and told the Los Angeles
The Dagger, the Sword, and the Gun 97
Pre-Code Walsh
The Big Camera
98
Pre-Code Walsh 99
aim directly at “Main Street,” the term he still used for pictures he sent
out to the masses strictly for entertainment’s sake, not for the sake of
“art,” as he put it: he still hadn’t recovered from the box-office failure
of Evangeline in 1919. Despite the haunting, even poetic imagery he’d
found in himself for What Price Glory?—a soldier caught in the midst of
flames of war surrounding the edges of the frame, another dying soldier
pleading for the blood to stop—Walsh committed to directing for the
adventure of it, the challenge of building a story, but not for art, and not
ever for personal expression. This attitude strengthened over the years.
The Monkey Talks, released February 20, 1927—one of those pic-
tures headed straight for Main Street—is an absurd tale about a physically
undersized man in a circus who after impersonating a monkey is literally
taken for one—with tragic results. The critics didn’t buy it but warmed
a little more to Walsh’s next picture, The Loves of Carmen, released in
September of that year. Walsh had liked working with Dolores del Rio in
What Price Glory? so much that he cast her in this Carmen. A humorous
remake of Walsh’s 1915 Theda Bara vehicle, Carmen borders on making
fun of its title character, a feature that earned it good box-office figures
even if the critics were not so enthusiastic. Herbert Cruikshank later said
of Walsh in Motion Picture Classic, “We’ll forgive him his Carmen, if
for no other reason than in translating the ancient story into cinematic
terms, he disclosed an independence of spirit, a willingness to blaze new
trails, a disregard for precedent, which are much needed and seldom
found in the celluloid industry.”3 What Cruikshank might have meant
in calling Walsh an independent spirit “willing to blaze new trails” was
Walsh’s fearlessness in flying in the face of censorship. As Kevin Brown-
low has said of The Loves of Carmen: “The degree of sexual innuendo
was surprising for a fi lm of its time. Walsh established a reputation [in
What Price Glory?] of being able to smuggle more exposure of a female
thigh than any other director. He pulls this off (literally) once again in
The Loves of Carmen.”4
Walsh had invested so much physical and emotional energy in di-
recting What Price Glory? that, not surprisingly, he felt depleted, liter-
ally depressed, and for a long time after could not shake it. Miriam was
gone, and so were the two boys; he had begun seeing Lorraine Walker on
a regular basis. Lorraine was in the process of getting a divorce, and she
and Walsh would marry the next year. Still, he felt out of sorts even if he
100 Raoul Walsh
couldn’t put his fi nger on it. If the separation from Miriam had anything
to do with it, he would be the last to admit it. If he missed his two
sons, he would never say so. He had been an ambivalent husband and an
absent father. He made no request to see the boys after the separation.
Walsh’s entrance into her house the morning of their fi rst story meeting,
“He was tall and robustly good-looking, with a huge boyish grin and a
shock of curly fair hair, and so shy that he blushed when Henri and I
started to praise What Price Glory?”6
Walsh was the one to bring up the play Rain, a recent Broadway
sensation based on W. Somerset Maugham’s short story “Miss Thomp-
son.” Walsh was feeling sexual and mischievous sitting at that table
with Swanson. Her husband’s presence didn’t make any difference. He
probably suggested “Miss Thompson” as a way to be playful because he
knew its controversial story line—the confl ict between a prostitute and
a clergyman—but Swanson secretly hoped that he might bring it up; she
had read the short story in Maugham’s collection The Trembling of a
Leaf and loved it. (The story had fi rst run in the magazine Smart Set in
April 1921.) She was equally impressed with Broadway’s Rain, starring
Jeanne Eagels in what she considered a riveting performance in the title
role. She wanted the part badly and only hoped she could do as well as
Eagels had. Walsh’s mood suited her own, and getting hold of Sadie also
meant getting hold of Walsh.
The fi lm that became Sadie Thompson is the deceptively simple story
of a prostitute who arrives in Pago-Pago (in American Samoa) by ship
along with a group of passengers, including the “moralists” Mr. David-
son (Lionel Barrymore) and his wife (Blanche Friderici), who have come
to Pago-Pago to Christianize the natives and rid them of their sinful
(natural) ways. The passengers all stay at the same hotel (naturalistically
designed for the film by William Cameron Menzies). When Davidson
sees Sadie, a “sinful” woman who drinks beer and fl irts with the sol-
diers around her, he becomes obsessed with her and makes it his goal to
change her and make her repent her loose lifestyle. But Davidson really
lusts after Sadie and hides his desire behind a facade of moral reform.
Also on the island is a group of marines whom Sadie likes to pal
around with in the evenings. She falls in love with one in particular, Ser-
geant Timothy “Handsome” O’Hara (played by Walsh), and the feeling
is mutual. O’Hara tells Sadie that he doesn’t care about her past life. He
wants her to go to his home in Australia and to wait for him there. The
two make their plans, but soon Davidson gets to Sadie and threatens her.
He will report her to the governor of the island and have her sent back
to San Francisco. Before she can defend herself, Davidson has her believ-
102 Raoul Walsh
ing that she really is sinful and must repent. After three days of heavy
praying and nearly reaching insanity, Sadie tells Handsome that it’s too
late for them—they can’t be together. She thinks she should return to
prison in San Francisco and repent for her sinful life just as Davidson
has instructed her to do.
But, before Sadie and Handsome separate, Davidson’s lust for Sadie
overtakes him; he goes to her bedroom at night and rapes her. Then he
commits suicide; the next morning the natives find his body floating in
the river. In a tagged-on happy ending, Sadie and Handsome make plans
for their future together.
Walsh and Swanson chose Maugham’s story as their picture together,
both of them knowing full well that they would have to fight the censors
over it. It would be a challenge to get the play, even the story, produced
at a time when the Hays Office bore down hard and held a fi rm grip on
Hollywood and the studio heads who complied with its dictum—the
formula, as it was called. Walsh was no stranger to the censors, and the
fight against the Hays Office’s monitoring of the fi lm industry would
become the defi ning one of his career. Even near the end of his life, he
considered censorship the greatest problem he faced over the years. He
told James Child in 1973, “My greatest disappointment was censorship,
which until recently was very strict. I could remake some of the pictures
I made way back; it would be great. All the stuff that was cut out.”7 No
matter how much Walsh shot around the censors, his battle with them
waged on relentlessly.
Walsh had just won a battle of sorts with the Hays Office—from
there on out claiming amazement that What Price Glory? had skinnied
past them as much as it did, especially given the prostitutes, blatant
sexual innuendo, and the female form and male bravado on display.
He loved to talk about the way Victor McLaglen mouthed “Son of a
bitch” during the fi lm. The censors didn’t catch it, but Swanson, among
others, did: Walsh’s bravado intrigued her. It didn’t hurt either that, in
October 1927, a list of “Do’s and Don’ts and Be Carefuls” appeared on
the industry horizon, written by a committee chaired by MGM’s Irving
Thalberg. One of the “don’ts” pointed to What Price Glory? The indus-
try was asked to be mindful of limited “pointed profanity—by either
title or lip.” Also on the forbidden list were scenes involving illegal drug
traffic, sexual perversion, white slavery, miscegenation, VD, childbirth,
Pre-Code Walsh 103
children’s sex organs, ridicule of the clergy, and willful offense to any
nation, race, or creed. The “be carefuls” included everything from the
use of the flag to attempted rape.8 Swanson and Walsh would have to be
mindful of sexual perversion, attempted rape—and lip readers.
Both director and star knew they faced an uphill battle. Swanson’s
fi rst smart move was to ask Will Hays to breakfast with the idea of sell-
ing him the Maugham idea as a literary work—more kosher than a stage
play about a prostitute. He went along with her, and she paid Maugham
for the rights to “Miss Thompson.” Eventually, Hays insisted that the
character of Reverend Davidson, a man of God who lusts after Sadie, be
altered—the character became a self-appointed missionary and social re-
former. But Swanson did not anticipate the Hollywood backlash: studio
after studio, including Walsh’s home studio, Fox, attacked her as being
a traitor to the enforcement of a code they all “knew” was in everyone’s
best interest. As she and Walsh well knew, their actions amounted to a
move to save their own skins in the face of any future trouble from the
Hays Office. In essence, they won the battle they looked forward to and
enjoyed.
Moving away from Fox briefly, Walsh wrote a script (portions of a
written script actually do survive on paper) and urged Swanson to write
to Maugham asking for another original story about Sadie Thompson.
Swanson wrote Maugham: “Could you not write an original story for me,
the life of sadie thompson, tracing the woman from the moment she
leaves Pago-Pago and goes on with whatever life your imagination has
created.” Swanson and Walsh hit on a good idea that, unfortunately for
both of them, never materialized—this despite the fact that Maugham
agreed to write a new story, for $100,000.9 Walsh knew Sadie was going
to be a hit; they should have a sequel ready to go. The way Walsh remem-
bered it, two sequels to What Price Glory? were already in the can, The
Cock-Eyed World (begun while The Loves of Carmen was still being
cut) and Women of All Nations (in his estimation a turkey—and a good
observation on his part since asking audiences to follow Quirt and Flagg
a third time was asking too much). The Cock-Eyed World was released
on October 20, 1929, in both a silent and a sound version, and Women
of All Nations would not be released until May 31, 1931, as a talkie.
What Swanson did produce was that backlash among others in the
community that could make it difficult for her to get a top-notch cast
104 Raoul Walsh
and crew. This picture was Swanson’s project. She especially wanted
to hire George Barnes, Goldwyn’s cameraman, to photograph Sadie
Thompson. Goldwyn agreed to the loan-out but stalled as long as he
could. In the end, Barnes came on board and was credited along with
two other cinematographers, Robert Kurrle and Oliver Marsh. Walsh
still hired family when he could. He cast his father, Thomas, as the
governor in Pago-Pago. Then he wired George in New York on June
22, “Sorry you are not here. Opportunity in this picture but cannot
wait. When you come home bring Leo Burns with you. Can give him
small part with me.”10 Lionel Barrymore was hired immediately to play
Davidson. Swanson had no one in mind but Walsh to play Handsome,
although she feigned looking at other actors. Handsome O’Hara did
not exist in the Maugham short story but was written for the American
stage version and kept for the two film remakes to come. Swanson told
Walsh he should play Handsome. At fi rst, Walsh blushed, but then he
agreed, although he had not been in front of the camera since Birth of
a Nation.
Cast and crew were on their way to Samoa to fi lm, but the expense
turned out to be too great, so Swanson and Walsh settled for shooting on
Catalina Island, twenty-six miles out in the Pacific off the coast of Long
Beach, just south of Los Angeles. The company departed for Catalina
in the early summer of 1927. One end of the island was turned into
a South Sea paradise, while the interiors were shot on United Artists’
studio stages. After shooting began, Barnes was called back to Samuel
Goldwyn Studios, and Walsh had to find a new cinematographer. Even-
tually, Robert Kurrle, who had worked with Walsh on Regeneration
and who could match what Barnes had done, was a good fit to do the
exterior shots and came on board. Swanson also turned to her friend
Marcus Loew, who sent over Oliver Marsh to fi nish the interior shots.
Swanson then told her husband that he would have to take full charge
of their two children; she would be much too busy with the production.
Walsh looks uncomfortable in front of his own camera in many of
the scenes, especially in long shots, where the most striking thing about
him is his relentless habit of hitching up his trousers. But the chemistry
between Walsh and Swanson is unmistakable, certainly strong enough
to veil his discomfort in being fully exposed in those long and medium
shots he hoists on himself. The sexual sparks between star and director-
Pre-Code Walsh 105
star onscreen are strong enough to suggest that they were intimate off-
screen. Their working relationship was sometimes stormy—he walked
off the set more than once because she refused to relinquish control of
scenes she wanted directed a certain way. As the shoot continued, the
two remained suspended somewhere between sex and agitation.
At least one critic was equally agitated about the fi lm as production
neared a close. Welford Beaton’s Film Spectator piece must have had
Swanson and Walsh either laughing or biting their nails:
From the accusation Beaton throws out, readers would hardly have
recognized the same Walsh who, Miriam Cooper once said, refused to
let her enter the home that William Randolph Hearst built for Marion
Davies because Davies was a kept woman.
Walsh’s female characters could be tough—especially the women
he put on the screen in the 1940s and 1950s, from Ida Lupino to Jane
Russell—but he saw them through an affectionate lens, as if standing
on the sidelines rooting for them. He had created bad girls before Sadie
(Carmen, for one), but Maugham has the corner on feminine evil—such
as the vindictive Leslie Crosbie in the story “The Letter,” all the more
evil because she covers up what Maugham sees as degenerate in her with
106 Raoul Walsh
My Dear Gloria,
My trip for the festival was worth while, just to see you again.
My quip I made at the luncheon about you fi nding the foun-
tain of youth is all too true.
Your lips, your eyes, your hair have been with me for these
many years. To me, I can see my lovely Gloria. I will always
remember her as a new phenomenon like some April evening,
the downy breast of spring. She was like a rippling brook, sing-
ing among willows where kingfishers skim.
But now the sun is going to rest. I can hear the wild ducks
flying over head, and the mountains were drawing themselves
off to sleep, and at night fall would be the singing of the crickets.
Somewhere a Mexican is playing guitar, and somewhere else
a dog barked into the stillness of the night. A queer eerie sound
...
Good night my dear one13
Pre-Code Walsh 107
Back at the Fox lot, Walsh directed The Red Dance, another picture
featuring Dolores del Rio, and one in which Fox used all synchronized
music, save for the picture’s theme song. This time del Rio is a fiery
Russian peasant girl at the time of the Russian Revolution whose talents
as a dancer (the picture was also titled The Red Dancer of Moscow
at one point) bring her much attention. Her true love, the grand duke
(played by a rather laconic Charles Farrell), has married a princess, a
woman he doesn’t love, and del Rio later gets involved in a complicated
assassination plot—all this before the two lovers fi nd each other again.
In this fast-moving yet melodramatic fi lm, Walsh’s camera (at one point
mounted on a monorail during a scene involving the murder of the no-
torious Rasputin) creates a chaotic tempo when necessary, along with
long takes that let the action build. The film’s art director, Ben Carré,
later said that the scene involving Rasputin’s murder had been cut after
the picture’s release. Despite his well-staged action scenes, Walsh was
never particularly proud of the picture, although it is an enjoyable mess
of potboiler action and over-the-top histrionics. Filmed in Truckee, Cali-
fornia, near Reno, Nevada, the picture saw its own drama when one of
the actors was killed during the fi lming of a battle scene. The Red Dance
suffers the same fate as many of Walsh’s later pictures when he began
freelancing in the early 1950s: his camerawork was far superior to the
mostly mediocre story material he fi lmed.
Released eleven months after Sadie Thompson, at the end of 1928,
The Red Dance didn’t garner Walsh much favor at the box office or
with the critics. But it does survive to this day—as does a publicity shot
depicting Walsh holding del Rio tightly in his arms as he demonstrates
a scene to Charles Farrell. As Walsh told Alma Whitaker, a reporter for
the Los Angeles Times, he would be “directorially content” if he could
alternate between Dolores del Rio and Gloria Swanson for the rest of his
career. Then “he mused discontentedly,” saying: “But directors are the
doormats of the industry. Outside of Cecil B. DeMille, they never get
proper recognition for the work. . . . You will find everyone [on a picture]
given credit but the poor doormat of a director. We do all the work, suf-
fer all the anguish, but all the rest get all the glory.” But Whitaker found
a flaw in his thinking. “I don’t know,” she wrote. “Directors don’t seem
to suffer from suppressed personalities as a rule. Even Raoul looked very
108 Raoul Walsh
In 1928, Walsh’s friend Wilson Mizner added to the publicity pot and
published a story in the New York Times describing the way Swanson
and other colleagues most likely experienced Walsh on a set. He walked
around without a script in his hand (it was in his head by now), and
the only sheets of paper anyone saw him read were pages of the New
York Racing Form. According to Mizner, on the set of Walsh’s 1928
Me, Gangster (which strikingly included red-tinted sequences and sound
effects, just as the earlier The Red Dance, a.k.a. The Red Dancer of
Moscow, had), Walsh asked one of the stars, June Collyer, to hold on
to something for him, a crumpled-up piece of paper with smudges all
over it. When Collyer asked what the paper was, Walsh whispered in her
ear that it was the script for the picture. Not only did he skip looking at
the script; he skipped viewing the dailies as well.16 Walsh was already a
subject the press liked to follow. The reporter Herbert Cruikshank noted
that one scene for Me, Gangster required that an African American
Pre-Code Walsh 109
butler steal and eat a banana. Walsh shot the scene no fewer than eight
times, and, when asked why, he told Cruikshank he knew that the actor
was down on his luck and not eating regularly. “This way he could get
the man a square meal without hurting his pride.”17
The divorce from Miriam became fi nal in 1927. Ever since Miriam
left the house in Los Angeles and moved back to New York with the
boys, Walsh had been seeing quite a lot of the would-be actress Lorraine
Walker. A woman almost twenty years his junior, Lorraine was born in
Missouri in September 1906. At the time she met Walsh, she was still
married and had a two-year-old daughter, Marilynn. Now separated
from her husband, who lived in northern California, Lorraine put plenty
of effort into becoming the second Mrs. Raoul Walsh. Her sister, Ruth,
nine years her senior, also made a stab at acting but became secretary to
the actor Walter Pidgeon and married him in 1931. At the time, Pidgeon
was a widower with a ten-year-old daughter; he and Ruth stayed mar-
ried until his death in 1984.
On August 2, 1928, Walsh and Lorraine Walker drove down to a
little town called Agua Caliente, Mexico, just outside Tijuana, and were
married. The director Allan Dwan and his wife, Marie Shelton, were
on hand as witnesses. (In his autobiography, wiping out any mention of
Lorraine and Marilynn, whom he later adopted, Walsh writes instead
that he went down to Agua Caliente for the derby and a tan.) It was a
fact that, just to make certain he was able to do a little betting while he
was in Caliente, Walsh left the ceremony quickly. Life magazine reported
on August 20, “After the ceremony, Mr. Walsh played roulette, won
$18,000.” Walsh kept his intentions about the marriage secret. Only
his very close friends the Dwans, Carl Harbaugh, and his immediate
family knew. California newspapers later reported that Judge Francis
Miranda read the ceremony in Spanish in the Governor’s Suite at the
Agua Caliente Hotel.
For over a year now, Fox had been experimenting with Movietone, its
sound-on-fi lm process, but Warner Bros., ironically on the verge of
bankruptcy, released The Jazz Singer in 1927 and at least publicly made
sound pictures its second name. These were exciting times, and no one
felt more enthusiastic and inspired about sound pictures than Walsh.
When he returned to Los Angeles from Caliente, Winfield Sheehan told
110 Raoul Walsh
him to go see the latest picture playing at the Beverly Theatre on Beverly
Drive. He went to a matinee and could hardly believe the hackneyed
picture he saw up on the screen—still, more important than anything, it
had sound. “Here was revolution,” he later wrote:
The triteness of the sets and the obvious nervousness of the fe-
male lead made me want to jump up and start shouting. Then
a thought struck me. If the tedious dialogue could be supple-
mented and broken up by more action, the result might be thrill-
ing instead of soporific. . . . I got up to leave, but turned back
at the top of the aisle, when a burst of sound from the newsreel
caught my attention. There before my eyes, a Fox Movietone
News truck was fi lming a dock strike. The shouting came from
a man who was evidently a union leader. His exhortation did
not interest me but the open-air news shot did. I broke the speed
limit all the way back to the studio.18
Walsh liked the idea of taking a gamble and wanted to get moving at
exaggerated speed on this. He told Sheehan he was going to be the very
fi rst to make an outdoor sound feature and asked for a good newsreel
truck and a western script. He would make a picture that boasted sound
and action, nothing like the stilted scenario he had just seen at the Bev-
erly Theatre. In October, Sheehan announced to the press that, over the
course of the next four months, Fox Pictures would produce eight new
features with dialogue and seven all-talking two-reel comedies. Five of
the full-length productions would be entirely in dialogue. Walsh would
direct one of them, an adaptation of O. Henry’s story “The Caballero’s
Way,” a western about the Cisco Kid that Fox called In Old Arizona.
Walsh rode the crest of the coming of sound pictures with great
enthusiasm—more than some others who believed that sound was go-
ing to be the industry’s demise. But Sheehan was with Walsh, and he
gave Walsh the go-ahead. Fox had Tom Barry write a script from the O.
Henry story, and Barry turned in a fairly bare-bones screenplay that still
had rough edges. But that was not the fi rst thing on Walsh’s mind now;
he could easily improve the story. He was about to take a production
crew into Bryce Canyon National Park and Zion National Park in Utah
Pre-Code Walsh 111
to see locations. He had just what he wanted; he would direct history it-
self: the fi rst outdoor talkie, the first western to use the new technology.
At Sheehan’s urging, Walsh kept the production a secret at fi rst.
After the two men decided on the O. Henry story, Walsh put together
his cast and production crew. He added chase scenes to the script and
looked at one actor after another to play the Cisco Kid. Unsatisfied
with them all, he decided to play the part himself. “The Cisco Kid
was a Mexican,” he wrote years later, “and I was tanned sufficiently
after Caliente to look the part.” Fox casting had plenty of cowboys on
call, and the story moved well. He and his assistant, Archie Buchanan,
headed fi rst for Bryce Canyon. He took only his star, Dorothy Burgess,
three cowboys, including his pal Bear Valley Charley, two vehicles, the
property van, and the Movietone truck. Production on In Old Arizona
started on September 9, 1929. “The cowboys were gaunt enough to pass
for Indians,” Walsh wrote in his autobiography. He was certain that the
audiences would never suspect that their long black hair “was chopped
from horsetails and glued inside their headbands.” He added, propheti-
cally and, of course, unknowingly, “What the eye does not see, the mind
does not worry about.”19
But Walsh would have to take the golden ride into sound pictures
armed with even more stamina than he ever could have anticipated or
imagined. Sheehan was so happy with the rushes Walsh sent back to
him that he told him to make the picture a feature-length film and to
write the script as he went along. He didn’t care how long they stayed
out there. Walsh asked for a stagecoach, which was sent on a flatbed,
and six horses. The chase scenes turned out fi ne; so did the shots of the
stagecoach coming at the camera. The next plan was to move out of the
flat desert and into the hills so that Walsh could get some good holdup
scenes with the Cisco Kid. Then the truck broke down, and Walsh de-
cided to leave Utah and fi nish the picture on Fox’s back lot. Lorraine was
with him on location, so they headed back to Los Angeles.
“I think it was about then that the gods started laughing at me,”
Walsh wrote in his autobiography. On the night of October 4, he was
driving back from Zion National Park on his way to Cedar City, Utah,
with Lorraine sitting in the passenger seat. All of a sudden, the head-
lights stunned a rabbit, which the Jeep then hit, hurling it up through
112 Raoul Walsh
the windshield. The rabbit hit Walsh’s head, along with a gale of glass
splinters, before landing in the back seat. Glass flew everywhere on
Walsh’s side of the Jeep, piercing his right eye. Blood flew everywhere as
well, Walsh recalled afterward. He knew he was in trouble. Lorraine im-
mediately had him taken by train to a hospital in Salt Lake City, where
Dr. E. M. Neher began working to save his eye. “I caught a glimpse of
the rising moon with my left eye, but when I shut it I was blind,” he later
wrote. 20 The damage was extensive, and Walsh was then transferred to a
hospital in New York for further evaluation. Doctors realized that there
was no hope of saving the eye.
Sheehan told Walsh not to give a thought to the picture; he would
handle everything. Irving Cummings took over as director; all Walsh’s
long shots, where his face was not too distinguishable, were retained,
along with chase scenes he directed in Bryce Canyon. The actor Buddy
Roosevelt was cast as the Cisco Kid after Walsh was forced to drop out.
But Roosevelt soon broke his leg and was replaced by Warner Baxter,
who had recently played the title role in a film adaptation of F. Scott
Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. Ironically, the studio continued to ex-
pand the picture’s length from two reels to seven, and it turned into an
almost $2.5 million project. The movie performed well at the box office,
and Baxter won an Academy Award for his lively performance. But In
Old Arizona is Walsh’s fi lm no less; he is credited for being the fi rst
director to use sound recording equipment on location—even though
Lewis Milestone shot large portions of All Quiet on the Western Front,
released in April 1930, as a silent and then postsynchronized the battle
sequence sounds in the studio.
Three of Walsh’s recent productions saw release at the close of 1928.
Me, Gangster was released on October 20, The Red Dance on December
2, and In Old Arizona premiered in Los Angeles on December 25 but
was not released to other venues until late in January 1929. For many Fox
releases, sound still meant the virtual orchestra. Walsh’s The Red Dance
(1928) contained mostly synchronized music, save for its theme song,
“Angela Mia,” sung by Andre de Segurola. The release of Red Dance at
this time—along with these other fi lms—certainly gave the impression
that Walsh had been working steadily at Fox. Red Dance played at the
Globe in July, billed with The Family Tree, the fi rst two-reel Movietone
Pre-Code Walsh 113
Walsh was not on board for much of the ride, but the picture would
still be called his. Maybe not at the moment, but soon enough, he felt
inspired enough to think of an even bigger outdoor western.
A few weeks after doctors removed Walsh’s eye, he and Lorraine boarded
the Twentieth Century Limited out of New York and headed back to
the West Coast. Transferring to the Santa Fe Chief in Chicago, which
would take them to Los Angeles, Walsh had plenty of time to think. He
experimented with new ways of seeing himself, trying on different emo-
tional and psychological hats. How would he view himself as a man with
one eye? “Comparing myself to Floyd Gibbons and Wylie Post smacked
of reaching for a crutch,” he said years later. “One-eyed Connelly,
Manhattan’s champion moocher, seemed a more apt comparison. If he
could crash the Dempsey-Carpentier fight, I could still crash any studio
I wanted. And I would not be lugging around an empty box either. It
114 Raoul Walsh
Walsh, famous Fox director puts it, ‘Smooth, beautiful skin is the most
potent charm a girl can have . . . and an absolute essential for stardom on
the screen.’” Alongside the copy, the advertisement ran the photographs
of the most popular actresses of the day: Clara Bow, Evelyn Brent, Ja-
net Gaynor, Anita Page, Mary Brian, Esther Ralston, Olga Baclanova,
May McAvoy, Bessie Love, and Fay Wray.25 This free publicity touting
“Raoul Walsh, famous Fox director” also appealed to Walsh’s flair for
the humorous, part of the public persona he was perfecting, even if it
was a defense against anyone knowing the man—the deep feelings of
sadness—behind the persona. He nurtured this public face even more so
since he lost his eye. An eye patch was only one cover.
Walsh liked being in the papers, but not as bad news. As if his recent
troubles were not enough, three months after In Old Arizona premiered
in Los Angeles, Walsh found himself in hot water with the IRS, although
perhaps indirectly. A federal grand jury had been inquiring into the in-
come tax returns of various “high salaried stars of the Hollywood fi lm
colony,” as it was reported in the New York Times. On March 15, 1929,
the grand jury indicted Edward H. Hayden, an income tax counselor,
for various violations of the Revenue Act. Hayden was charged with
eighteen counts of feloniously aiding the preparation and submission of
“false income tax returns,” said the Times. “The indictment names spe-
cific instances of alleged fraud in preparing the returns of Fred Niblo and
Raoul Walsh, directors, and George O’Brien and Ramon Navarro, ac-
tors.” Hayden was indicted along with another “tax counselor” named
Marjorie Berger. The two, along with what the paper called “other
counselors,” were alleged “to have made out the returns for their clients
on the understanding that they would receive as their ‘fee’ one-half of
the amount ‘saved’ in taxes.” Walsh was thought to be among a group of
“victims” who believed the returns made “were actually legal.”26
This involvement in the Hayden fiasco was an uncanny predictor
of things to come. Walsh would fi nd himself involved in some sort of
litigation from now on and to the end of his life. The frequency with
which he sued another party or was himself sued (the suits having to do
mostly with business dealings, although divorces from Miriam and Lor-
raine fell into the pot as well) added up to a strange kind of excitement
for him. These episodes, unconsciously or not, became a way of stirring
116 Raoul Walsh
As a result of losing his right eye, Walsh was left suddenly with monocu-
lar vision and some loss of depth perception in his total field of vision.
He had always been successful (and would continue to be) seeing the
world through the myopic scope he created, paying less attention to the
real social world around him (including landmark social and political
events) and more to the fictional one he lived by (and in). But now he
literally did see the world in a different way. Even so, the time was still
right for him to get creative with sound equipment—something he had
wanted to do since In Old Arizona. In June 1929, Paramount, Fox, and
MGM announced that at least 169 full-length features were scheduled
to be produced over the next year, almost all of them talkies. He needed
as much ego boosting as he could get and received a good dose of it
when his name showed up on Film Daily’s list of the ten best directors of
1928–29. Others included were Ernst Lubitsch, Frank Borzage, Clarence
Brown, Cecil B. DeMille, F. W. Murnau, and William Wellman.
Walsh began to feel more secure on the set since the accident. Even
so, he could not have missed the irony of the title of his next picture. He
shot both a silent and a sound version of The Cock-Eyed World, a sequel
to What Price Glory? that he altered slightly by changing the story’s
location to Central America and adding a number of musical numbers.
The picture was certainly good practice for the upcoming epic journey
The Big Trail, which Walsh would shoot in thirty-five millimeter as well
as in Fox’s new Grandeur process, or seventy millimeter. He would also
reshoot The Big Trail to accommodate different language versions. He
worked again with Victor McLaglen and Edmund Lowe, who reprised
their roles as Flagg and Quirt, and added the voluptuous Lili Damita
(who replaced Dolores del Rio as the love interest), who had been a star
in French silents and would soon marry Walsh’s close friend Errol Flynn.
Walsh added the comic touches to Stallings and Anderson’s play
himself. Flagg and Quirt are the same raucous duo beating their chests
in Damita’s presence and scowling over who is going to get the girl.
Americans ate it up; The Cock-Eyed World proved to be the third big-
gest grossing picture of 1929 and the biggest grosser Fox had had up to
Pre-Code Walsh 117
that time. The picture used a two-director system, which had worked
well with In Old Arizona, though under some different circumstances.
For Cock-Eyed World, Walsh directed the action sequences, and Wil-
liam K. Wells wrote and directed the dialogue. Given the stir caused by
the words Victor McLaglen uttered in What Price Glory? the censors
were more astute than ever about this one, and the rough language of
the barracks had to be toned down. Still, Walsh managed to get one by
them—when “Yump Olson” (El Brendel), walking with a prostitute,
shouts out to Flagg (McLaglen), “Captain, I’m bringing you the lay of the
land,” and at the same time reaches into his pocket and produces a map,
saying, “Here’s a map that will tell you where the enemy is sleeping.”
Also, hardly a viewer or reviewer failed to notice the sergeants’ argument
over which one had fathered a mutual girlfriend’s child. According to one
reviewer, the language was vulgar, salacious, and more ribald than rol-
licking.27 An ongoing stream of corny songs, such as “You’re the Cream
in My Coffee,” helped temper the raucousness, but the picture is little
other than high-powered burlesque as the two rivals chase skirts and
show each other their muscles and masculine prowess. More than one
reviewer found it entertaining but at the same time vulgar and smutty.
Walsh kept working at a brisk pace; as always, going to the set was the
surest way to ward off the unwanted feelings that threatened to invade.
Depression over the loss of his eye now hovered over him. Completing a
picture swiftly became a habit, defining his method from here on out: think
about getting the job done quickly and savor the time spent on honing a
technical prowess. Monocular vision or no, original story ideas invaded
his imagination just as frequently. By June 1929, he had an original story
in hand called “The Duke of Kakiak,” which, after three revisions and
counting, became the popular picture Hot for Paris. In its earliest phases,
it was known at Fox simply as “The New Raoul Walsh Picture.” A month
later, Dudley Nichols wrote up a story outline, then ten days later wrote
dialogue for the story. Then Walsh wrote an eight-page tentative outline,
calling the story “Well Dressed Man,” and noting on the cover, “There is
no connected story here, only a number of gags”—a clear indication of the
film’s perpetual disconnectedness to come.28
Hot for Paris benefits greatly from the giggly personality of its star,
the French-Canadian singer and dancer Fifi D’Orsay, whom Fox had just
taken off the vaudeville circuit to star opposite its popular moneymak-
118 Raoul Walsh
ing star Will Rogers in They Had to See Paris. Walsh saw her on the
set with Rogers and liked her enough that she became a staple—albeit
briefly—in Walsh pictures. She played opposite Victor McLaglen and
El Brendel in Hot for Paris and appeared in Cock-Eyed World. Brendel
would work with Walsh on The Big Trail. Hot for Paris tells the story of
the fi rst mate (McLaglen) of a sailing vessel who wins the grand prize in
a sweepstakes and, in a funny turn of events, goes on the run trying to
ditch people who attempt to give him his prize money. McLaglen meets
D’Orsay, a singer-dancer in a café he frequents, and the two hit it off,
leading the way to a series of episodic gags and song-and-dance routines
that include a perky little number from D’Orsay called “Sweet Nothings
of Love” and a grand effort at singing from McLaglen called “I’m the
Duke of Kakiyak.”
The picture opened in theaters five months after production began,
several days before Christmas, crediting two other men, Charles J. Mc-
Guirk and William K. Wells, as screenwriters. Audiences loved it, even
if the critics were sometimes hard-pressed to understand why. The critic
for the New York Daily Mirror called it “a rowdy, raw affair,” expand-
ing to say, “The comedy is very frank. The dialogue is very staged. . . .
But it’s still an hilarious comedy, particularly for men.”29 Walsh looked
more than ever a man’s director.
Walsh was not in Los Angeles when Hot for Paris opened. In early
November, he, Lorraine, and four-year-old Marilynn flew to New York
and then to Europe. In New York, he gave an interview to the New York
Times telling a reporter that he thought up the story for Hot for Paris
while flying on an airplane from Malibu to Los Angeles (they believed
him) and then just created dialogue as they shot the picture (probably
true). “You can’t very well give a written script to Victor McLaglen or El
Brendel . . . and expect them to do it any justice,” Walsh said. “McLag-
len is liable to get tripped up on a single word, and the whole sequence
goes wrong. So we mostly improvise.”30 On November 4, the Walshes
left for Southampton, England on the SS Bremer. Arriving on November
20, they stayed at the Grosvenor Hotel in London; then they traveled to
Cherbourg, France, and then Vienna, where Walsh met with Sheehan to
look over material for future Fox productions. They had a chance to see
some of Europe before they returned to New York on December 24 and
then headed home to Los Angeles.
Pre-Code Walsh 119
Walsh keep his ties in Caliente, the city where he and Lorraine
married. In fact, he enjoyed the town more and more as the years went
by, and he especially liked playing the horses there. In the last week of
December, he was proud to be named to the board of governors of the
Agua Caliente Jockey Club, an organization set up to regulate horse
racing. Having been a horseman since his childhood days riding around
New York State, Walsh harbored a passion for buying and selling horses
and entering them in competitions. Stories of his presence on movie sets
over the years are littered with tales describing his habit of reading rac-
ing forms before reading a fi lm script. Just before the new year, Walsh
went to Caliente to attend the fi rst meeting of the new club’s board of
governors. He was in good company; also on the board was fi lmdom’s
Joseph Schenck and the sugar tycoon Howard Spreckels.
Grandeur
The beginning months of 1930 were both opportune and perilous times
for the motion-picture industry. Over time, the stock market crash of
1929 sent audiences to the movies in increasing numbers as a way to
escape the stifling reality of economic depression, but it also caused
the studios to tighten their belts on production costs. This would seem
an odd moment for Fox Studios to begin production on a picture that
would cost upwards of $2 million (this would translate to $100 million
today) and was to be a western with sound, still a relatively unknown
commodity. The studios were skeptical about using sound in westerns,
especially since the genre still embraced simple storytelling that often
translated to very little dialogue—the exact opposite of what using
sound implied. Equally problematic were the large, clumsy cameras
that had to be enclosed in boxes to keep their whirring sounds away
from the likewise clumsy microphones. The heavy cameras could not be
moved around easily on soundstages, let alone be maneuvered outside.
The notion of going outdoors with sound equipment was still a stretch,
but Walsh loved the idea that audiences might now be able to hear the
authentic sounds of the West: horses hooves thundering, horses neigh-
ing, and especially gunfi re. This would be The Big Trail.
Fox got busy putting The Big Trail into production. The story
of those months of its production—from the beginning to the end of
120 Raoul Walsh
cal, to see it through to its completion, and there is little doubt that the
massiveness of the production was directly related to Walsh’s need to
compensate for what he had lost out on, not only In Old Arizona, for
which history would have recorded him as being the fi rst to direct an
outdoor western, but also his eye itself. The idea of having vision—more
urgently, of having a vision—became huge for Walsh. It also threatened
to require of him a personal, artistic vision, the notion he swore to shy
away from but could no longer avoid with this picture.
The Big Trail is, at heart, a simple story of adventure and romance
that grows into a large historical cinematic document. The story offers
little complexity of plot and character as it tells the tale of a huge wagon
train that departs the banks of the Mississippi River and travels to the
northwest corner of America. In his fi rst starring role, John Wayne plays
the simple, honest, almost Cooperesque trail scout Breck Coleman—a
man who embodies the innate goodness of American manhood, a type
Wayne would go on to etch in stone in his long fi lm career. As Coleman
tries to keep the wagon train on track during the sometimes horren-
dous trek, he also fights a personal battle. He has taken the job of trail
scout in part to seek revenge on the wagon master Red Flack (Tyrone
Power Sr.), an evil sort whom Coleman knows killed Ben Grizzel, the
father figure in Coleman’s life. Coleman is out for revenge, along with
the simple pleasure of getting a good job completed. Along the way he
falls in love with a young single mother named Ruth Cameron (played
by Marguerite Churchill), who is making her way west and often needs
Coleman’s protection. The wagon train encounters all kinds of setbacks
and tragedies, including attacks from hostile Native Americans, not to
mention threats from Mother Nature herself. The fearless pioneers do all
they can to survive the elements in order to fi nd the new life they seek.
From the time filming actually began, on April 20, 1930, through
the next four months, and until fi lming fi nished, on August 20, 1930,
Walsh found himself in the midst of a shoot complex enough in its tech-
nical requirements that it threatened to topple one of the best movie
minds in the business—his. The picture required shooting at upwards of
fifteen separate locations, including Buttercup Dunes, Imperial County,
California; the Grand Canyon National Park in Arizona; Grand Teton
Pass, Wyoming; Hurricane Bluffs, Zion National Park, Utah; Imperial
County, California; Jackson Hole, Wyoming; Moise-National Buffalo
122 Raoul Walsh
since Ford had already used Wayne as an extra in several Fox features.)
Walsh told Morrison to let his hair grow, which he did, and, when the
young man showed up in Walsh’s office about two weeks later, Walsh
“got him into a good buckskin suit and took a good test of him—a silent
test—and the company ran it. Winnie Sheehan [said,] ‘That’s a hell of a
good-looking boy. Can he speak? And I said, ‘Sure he can speak. He’s a
college boy.’ 34 So he said, ‘All right. We’ll sign him up if you want to take
a chance with him, a newcomer.’ I said, ‘All right, I will.’”35 Wayne asked
Walsh whether he could also fi nd a small part in the film for a friend of
his—named Ward Bond. A small repertory of two was born that later
moved to John Ford.
But Wayne didn’t please everyone. “They [the studio executives]
didn’t like his name—Morrison—and got changing it around,” Walsh
remembered, “and called him Joe Doakes and Sidney Carton and all
those sort of names—and I remembered I had read a book that I liked
one time about Mad Anthony Wayne. I thought this Wayne was a great
character. So I said, ‘Let’s call him Anthony Wayne or Mad Wayne or
whatever the hell you want to call him—call him Wayne.’ Well, they
called him John Wayne. That’s how he got his name.” (Wayne initially
fought the change, along with the green shirt and yellow boots that
Fox insisted he wear to promote the fi lm. “Don’t make me do this,” he
said. “You don’t put a red dress on an elephant.”)36 As the story was
told numerous times, Sheehan and Wurtzel thought Wayne needed help
emoting for the camera and brought out five character actors from New
York City who were considered the best in the business. But Walsh took
one look at them and considered them nothing if not green themselves.
He thought he’d have “a hell of a time with them on location.”37 Later,
he embellished his story about them to include their fondness for “fi re-
water,” one of his favorite quips.
Many found it astounding that, as Film Daily reported, “Fox had
chosen for a principal role in Raoul Walsh’s The Oregon Trail an actor
whose only experience had been in bits, extra work, and assisting in the
Fox prop shop.” A writer for the Hollywood Filmograph noted: “Just
how he [Walsh] can expect a youth to carry such a picture is beyond my
conception. If he brings in a winner with Mr. Wayne he will be entitled
to a Carnegie medal.”38 Still, Film Daily noted later, “Winfred Sheehan
was enthusiastic about the neophyte actor with the honey voice and was
124 Raoul Walsh
‘laying out big plans for a smashing meller [i.e., melodrama] with all
the trimmings called No Favors Asked.’” Wayne signed a long-term
contract with the studio that August. But the press also noted numerous
goings-on in the film. It was also reported,
Occasionally, it sounded as if some of the voices did not come from the
mouths of the actors—which some thought to be caused by the image of
the wide-screen Grandeur process.
Not surprisingly, the shoot itself was grueling, for many reasons. The
number of actors used was staggering, not to mention the extras, even
animals needed for the shoot: 20,000 extras, 1,800 head of cattle, 1,400
horses, and 500 head of buffalo traveled with the production. Walsh
used 725 Indian extras from five separate tribes and almost enough
props to warrant the movie documentary status, including 185 wagons.
The production crew was equally impressive: a staff of 293 principal
actors and 22 cameramen. Then there were the 12 Indian guides and
the 123 baggage trains that trekked over 4,300 miles in the seven states
used for locations. Also brought along were the picture’s 700 barnyard
animals, including dogs, pigs, and chickens.40
Location shooting became monotonous when not broken up by
small disasters such as a piece of equipment going haywire or a problem
with a local extra. More difficult, and less welcome, were the events
that played out when Walsh bought a horse named Grayola, the fi rst
mare to win the Caliente Derby in fi fteen years. He paid $12,000 for
her, and the next day she won the $30,000 purse—the same day that he
Pre-Code Walsh 125
At least a dozen cables were extended from the sound trucks to the cam-
era sled to mikes in the wagons. In order to make them move along with
the cavalcade, fi fty or more men walked along, invisible to the camera,
carrying the cables with them.
Walsh needed a six-year-old girl to play Marguerite Churchill’s
sister, Honey Girl, and gave the part to his stepdaughter Marilynn (Lor-
raine also had a small part in the picture). Walsh was skeptical that
Marilynn would be able to carry it off and so hired another young girl
(the sister of the future director Robert Parrish, who happened to be
on the set working alongside his mother as an extra). Marilynn quickly
bowed out and was replaced by Helen, Parrish’s sister.43
Walsh and company covered seven states during production, trav-
126 Raoul Walsh
eling from blistering heat to severe cold. There was a problem with
massive drunkenness off and on the set. Sometimes the cast members
downed so much liquor that Walsh (who didn’t drink much) began to
call the fi lm The Big Drunk. There were also instances of actors and
extras getting seriously hurt. Parrish went along when the cast headed
for Jackson Hole, Wyoming, and spent three months there. “A luxurious
tent city was constructed on the shores of Jackson Lake in the Grand
Teton Mountains,” he remembered. “The wagons, cameras, lights, and
wind machines were brought from Hollywood by train. Most of the
actors and livestock were also brought from Hollywood, but in such
a big western there was work for a number of local cowboys, Indians,
and extra horses and mules.”44 There was plenty to do for Walsh’s head
wrangler on the fi lm, Jack Padjan, an ex-cowboy who had played Wild
Bill Hickock in The Iron Horse (1924) and now supplied livestock and
wagons to the studios from his San Fernando Valley ranch.
Parrish recalled numerous dramatic moments that occurred during
the shoot. Cheyenne Flynn, one of the film’s cowboys, got drunk one
night and began accusing an actor named Charlie Stevens, who played a
half-breed in the fi lm, of cheating at cards (Stevens was among Douglas
Fairbanks’s closest friends and the alleged grandson of Geronimo). The
end result of the fight was that Cheyenne bit off a mouthful of Charlie’s
ear, which Parrish discovered the next morning outside his own cabin.
He put a piece of rawhide through the lobe and hung it on his family’s
cabin door until his mother made him remove it. Walsh’s reaction to
being “faced with a one-eared half breed” was to write a scene in which
a squaw bit Charlie’s ear off in an Indian-raid sequence.45
As a follow-up to the ear-biting episode, Walsh rode by Parrish on
a horse and noticed that the boy had put the piece of ear (still hanging
on a piece of rawhide) around the neck of a horse named Annabelle, one
of Parrish’s favorites. “He stopped his horse, rolled a cigarette with one
hand, lit it, and watched me for quite a long time,” Parrish recalled. “Fi-
nally he said, ‘What’s that hanging around Annabelle’s neck?’” When
Parrish told Walsh it was Charlie Stevens’s ear, Walsh quipped that it
looked “a hell of a lot” better on Annabelle than it did on Stevens.46
It was hardly a secret to anyone on the set that Lorraine Walsh—
described as a gorgeous redhead who had nothing to do all day while
Walsh was miles off on location—was having a bit of an affair with Ian
Pre-Code Walsh 127
Keith, who played the heavy in the picture. When Keith was not on call,
he might take Lorraine riding or fishing. One time, during an all-night
shoot, she was seen stepping out into the darkness from Keith’s cabin.
Walsh seemed the only one unaware of this—or at least he was saying
nothing.
When a good portion of the shoot was completed, Walsh sent most
of the company home and kept a skeleton crew to accompany Keith,
Wayne, and himself from one location in Utah to another so as to stage
the fi nal fight scene between Keith and Wayne. Walsh kept Parrish with
him, telling him he was the best muleskinner around. And on the last
day of shooting Walsh staged the fight scene and decided to show Wayne
how to throw the punch at Keith. Walsh called for the cameras to roll as
Keith braced himself. This is probably just what Walsh had been wait-
ing for. He “feinted with his right, then threw his left.”47 Keith could
not keep up with him, and Walsh’s left hook crashed into Keith’s jaw,
fracturing it in three places.
Fox had big plans for The Big Trail. On July 15, 1930, Winfield
Sheehan told a government official that the production cost to that date
hovered around $2.5 million and that the studio expected to spend con-
siderably more before its completion. He was, therefore, eager to regain
some of that cost. A big blowout campaign might be one way. He stopped
at nothing short of inviting the president of the United States, along with
his cabinet, to see the picture before its official release. For the world
premiere at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre in Hollywood on Thursday, Oc-
tober 2, the theater program notes, written by George Brown, described
the fi lm as an epic the world waited to see: “Visualiz[e] a mighty surging
wave of humanity coming from the East into the West, land hungry, lib-
erty hungry, home hungry, turning their faces toward the wilderness and
pushing into the setting sun.” Brown found “candor” and “honesty” in
Walsh’s reenactment of the pioneering spirit and heroism.48
Walsh needed to cut loose and get rid of his bottled-up energy. When
he put his signature in cement at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre (one of only
two theaters in the country equipped to show the Grandeur version), he
punched his fist into the cement, signed his name, and wrote in the date:
November 14, 1930. Above the imprint of his fist he wrote “His Mark.”
Unfortunately, the box-office and critical reception of the fi lm was
far from grand, some of its failure owing to American theaters not being
128 Raoul Walsh
Walsh’s film titles, whether consciously or not, are humorous and ironic
comments on his life. His next fi lm, aptly called The Man Who Came
Back, again carried an odd meaning for a director who needed to fi nd a
way back to box-office grace after the fi nancial failure of The Big Trail.
Walsh was the fi rst one to want to forget about this new picture. In his
autobiography, much like the two wives he ousts from his life, he omits
any mention of The Man Who Came Back; and, with the exception of
Women of All Nations, the second and woefully mishatched sequel to
What Price Glory? he also glosses over his other pictures of this period:
The Yellow Ticket, Wild Girl, Me and My Gal, and Sailor’s Luck. With
the exception of the brash and exuberant Me and My Gal, which sur-
vives along with Wild Girl and Sailor’s Luck, these titles carried much
potential but deflated at the box office. Yet each shows Walsh’s buoyancy
behind the camera—his exuberant characters moving at top speed and
edging ever closer throughout the decade to the renewed wit and the
sophisticated pace he would infuse into the Warner Bros. pictures to
come in the 1940s.
Now in his early forties, Walsh had been directing for two decades;
he knew that a box-office failure was no reason to derail. If the story
was entertaining, whether it be dark or light, it was worth pursuing. The
Man Who Came Back, a remake of the 1924 film directed by Emmett
Flynn and released January 11, 1931, shows Walsh in an uncharacter-
istically grim mood. He takes Frank Borzage’s favorite cinema couple,
the popular Fox contract players Janet Gaynor and Charles Farrell,
and darkens their souls. Gaynor plays a drug-addicted cabaret singer
who meets up with Farrell, an aristocratic fellow with a heavy drinking
problem. Although easily forgettable today, this proved one of 1931’s
highest-grossing pictures. It marked one of the young William Holden’s
131
132 Raoul Walsh
of Walsh as a fi lmmaker. As the years went by, and certainly just before
and after his great success at Warners, he very often seemed hardly to
care about the stories and writers he directed, focusing instead on being
out on location getting the job done. The thrill was personal, it seemed,
only in the getting and doing—not in the quality of the story. This lack
of personal connection to story lines did not hurt Walsh later in a fi lm
with as splendid material as the 1951 Captain Horatio Hornblower, but
he seemed uncaring that the writing became watered down as the ad-
venture sequences took up almost all his enthusiasm. He seemed almost
uncaring of the weak scripts he directed in the 1930s—although there
were a few exceptions—and in the last years of his career seemed almost
unconscious of them. What he needed in the last years was to be on the
set—any set.
As for Women of All Nations, where Walsh displays a full-blown
case of poor story choice (and Fox was not pulling all the strings at the
time), McLaglen and Lowe already look to be in dire straits for a good
line by the time the two sparring buddies pull out of Brooklyn after
the Great War and travel to Sweden, where, of course, they fall for a
girl named Elsa (Greta Nissen) and duke it out to see who wins her.
Audiences were numbed enough to the duo at this point that even the
appearance of popular faces such as El Brendel and Fifi D’Orsay failed to
help the picture with either critical esteem or box-office success.
But Walsh found a little excitement anyway off the set about this
time when he became a witness to a catfight that secretly delighted him.
An actress named Alona Marlowe accused Edmund Lowe’s wife, the
actress Lilyan Tashman, a favorite of Walsh’s, of kicking her and at-
tempting to beat her up in front of Lowe’s dressing room on the Fox lot
on the afternoon of May 9. Marlowe named Walsh and several other
Fox players as witnesses to the beating. Although police were called to
the scene, local newspapers never reported Walsh’s statements or the
outcome of the case. But the brief episode held more dramatic punch
than Walsh had seen in any recent script.
Walsh fared no better with his next Fox picture, The Yellow Ticket,
released on October 30. Despite a distinguished cast that includes Lionel
Barrymore and Laurence Olivier, this previously filmed melodrama,
originating from a stage play written by Michael Morton, concerns a
young Jewish girl (Elissa Landi) in czarist Russia who manages to get
134 Raoul Walsh
But now William Fox was in fi nancial boiling water. After the MGM
head Marcus Loew died in 1927, Fox conspired to buy out the fam-
ily’s holdings and, in 1929, finally did so. But it took little time for the
MGM studio bosses Louis B. Mayer and Irving Thalberg to retaliate by
persuading the Justice Department to sue Fox for violation of the federal
antitrust law. In the same year, Fox was seriously hurt in an automobile
accident, and, just as he recovered, the stock market crashed. All these
forces worked to pull him down until his financial holdings were virtu-
ally wiped out. The Loews-Fox merger never came to pass, and Fox lost
control of Fox Film Corporation in 1930 during a hostile takeover. From
then on, the time Walsh spent at Fox saw William Fox fighting to stave
off bankruptcy. Money belts were tightened, although no less than in
other studios, given the economic crisis at hand since the crash.
At this auspicious moment, Walsh would sign, in 1933, with Dar-
ryl F. Zanuck, who had just come over from Warner Bros. to head up
Twentieth Century Pictures, which absorbed Fox’s company. Their fi rst
film would be 1933’s The Bowery. Twentieth Century Pictures would
partner with Fox Film Corporation in 1935 to form Twentieth Century–
Fox Film Corporation. Walsh saw a new reshaping of the studio.
Salt of the Earth 135
But, for now, Walsh worked again with Charles Farrell in 1932’s
Wild Girl, with a cast that also included Ralph Bellamy, Hollywood’s
perpetual second romantic lead, and Joan Bennett, whom Walsh would
direct a few more times in the coming decade. The source material, Bret
Harte’s short story “Salomy Jane’s Kiss,” seemed just up Walsh’s alley,
telling the story of three fearless pioneers in a period setting. For this
fi lm Walsh worked with the cameraman Norbert Brodine; the picture is
a charming western that has a boundless spirit (owing much to Bennett’s
bouncy performance). Given the times, however, the story is laced with
strongly stereotyped images of African Americans, including the actress
Louise Beavers as Bennett’s metaphoric girl-in-waiting bowing to Ben-
nett one too many times. Bellamy later said, “[Walsh] was an interesting
one to work with. He knew what he wanted and he knew when he got
it, as opposed to some people in those days who took many, many takes
of a scene and sometimes you didn’t know why you were doing it over
again.” At this early time, Walsh began to perfect a habit that eventually
became legendary among the actors and crews he worked with: after he
put in place a particular setup, he walked away instead of looking in the
camera. In essence, he left his people floating. But he had good reason:
he preferred to hear how a scene sounded; he already knew it by heart,
and that was good enough for him. With this behavior, Walsh never
wandered far from Griffith, who did the very same thing. Asked if he
ever saw Walsh walk away from a scene after the setup, Bellamy said he
never saw it personally but had already heard about it. 2
If this fi rst foray with Bennett was only a mediocre success, the next
with the actress was golden. Walsh directed Bennett and Spencer Tracy
in a robust romantic comedy that made the most of its story and cast and
hit big commercially and critically. Me and My Gal was his only time
working with the new Fox contract player Spencer Tracy—although,
eighteen years later, Tracy and Bennett would team again in MGM’s
Father of the Bride. In Me and My Gal, Tracy plays a city beat cop who
falls for a local waitress (Bennett). They’re in love head over heels when
the story is complicated by Bennett’s sister’s (Marion Burns) relationship
with a bank robber (a wonderfully wise-cracking George Walsh) who
holes up in her attic and threatens her along with her boarder (Henry B.
Walthall) if she tells the cops. But, in the end, Tracy and Bennet figure it
out and save the day, and Tracy gets a shot at being a hero. Predictably,
136 Raoul Walsh
the two lovebirds end up getting married. Arthur Kober received screen-
play credit for adapting Philip Klein and Barry Conners’s story “Pier
13.” But Walsh’s fi ngerprints stray all over the story, most noticeably in
the spirited pace and catchy verbal bantering, reminiscent of the Flagg-
Quirt jabbering in What Price Glory? and their subsequent outings.
Walsh also infuses some autobiographical humor in the picture. In
one scene where Tracy and Bennett share a kiss over a lunch counter,
Walsh’s camera jumps to a close-up of Bennett’s leg stretching up in
the air and then Tracy’s legs doing some fast shakes, both mimicking
Walsh’s energy level. When the couple tries to get information from
Burns’s boarder, Sarge (Walthall), who can’t speak since being wounded
in World War I, he uses his eyes to talk to them. He keeps moving his
eyes upward and sideways, as if pointing to the attic, prompting Tracy to
ask, “He was in the war, wasn’t he?” “He was in the Signal Corps,” Ben-
nett says, referencing Walsh, and Tracy quips, “He’s trying to telegraph
it in. Maybe he’s giving us the winner at tomorrow’s handicap.” Tracy
is an early formation of Walsh’s more sophisticated men to come: Cary
Grant in 1936’s Big Brown Eyes and especially the wisecracking Jimmy
Cagney in Walsh’s Warner Bros. gangster tales. But the robust romantic
high jinks between Tracy and Bennett, which anchor the fi lm, are pure
Walsh, his energy dashing at top speed, his humor at its wisecracking
best. The close-ups of Tracy’s and Bennett’s bodies, the mannerisms
as these two fall in love with each other, seem to come directly from
Walsh’s unconscious. This man, who at this point in his life keeps his
romantic yearnings at a distance (he hardly felt for Lorraine what he felt
for Gloria Swanson), falls in love with Tracy and Bennett’s falling for
each other. He cannot have enough of it, and his love of the romantic
ignites this film’s high energy level.
Walsh’s favor to his brother, George, was to cast him as Duke, the
thug who gets mixed up with Burns. George’s performance adds siz-
ably to the picture. With his husky voice and sure demeanor, he easily
made the transition from silents to talkies in an unfortunately truncated
career. He had appeared only intermittently on the screen since losing
Ben Hur in 1925. He would have been a natural presence in the fi lms
Walsh later directed at Warner Bros. beginning in 1939, but he retired
to his ranch in California to manage his brother’s growing interests in
horse breeding and racing.
Salt of the Earth 137
During the decade Walsh looked for ways to stay afloat financially and
not jeopardize his growing passion for the horses or Lorraine’s growing
passion for society life and the money it took to stay there. He found very
few good stories, even though he invested his energy in all the scripts
he directed and usually altered them to his liking. The story didn’t nec-
essarily have to be of particularly good quality, but it did have to be
entertaining and have Main Street appeal. In March 1933, Fox released
Sailor’s Luck, a small, very spirited romance starring Sally Eilers and a
very entertaining James Dunn. The picture garnered scant critical praise,
one reviewer saying, “Any motion picture bearing the directorial stamp
of Raoul Walsh may be expected to contain the very limit in ribald and
racy humor and no little amount of good stiff drama. ‘Sailor’s Luck’ is no
exception to the Walsh rule. It follows the rowdy brand of screen comedy
which the director fashioned in the first two of the Flagg-Quirt opuses,
‘What Price Glory’ and ‘The Cock-Eyed World,’ only this time we have
a sailor, played humanly by James Dunn, and a helpless girl, acted with
charm by Sally Eilers, in place of the two hardboiled marines.”3 Sailor’s
Luck, though not well received, contains many Walshian signal moments,
especially the story’s theme, contained in a musical number, that “love
makes the world go ’round,” the adage Walsh later confi rmed to be the
axis around which most of his movies turned. If a man loved a woman,
there was a movie in it. There was no movie, no story to be told, if a man
could not love a woman. Another signal moment is the way (or the mere
fact) that the picture danced around the censors, especially since Sally
Eilers and James Dunn rent a hotel room together, lie in bed together
138 Raoul Walsh
(the camera never reveals whether their feet are on the floor), and kiss in
bed, and Eilers runs around the room in an extended sequence wrapped
in nothing other than a bedspread.
needed the kind of rush that only a new producer could give him. Walsh
signed with Zanuck on June 12, 1933, to direct The Bowery, in what
was the very fi rst contract for Twentieth Century Pictures. Walsh had
little to complain of in the deal: he would receive a salary of $25,000 to
be paid in eight weekly installments.
The Bowery was partly based on a story about Brodie, a Brook-
lynite who skyrocketed to fame for five minutes after he took a dare
and jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge. But it was much more: a rollick-
ing tale of the rough-and-tumble times of New York’s Bowery district
in the early years of the century. The story is shot through with racial
epithets. No one escapes unharmed—not the Chinese, not the Jews, not
the women. All Walsh saw was the exuberance, the male bonding, and
the thrill of good drinking and rivalry among men.
George Raft, whom Walsh had never met, was set to play Brodie.
Zanuck wanted Wallace Beery for a supporting role, but Beery was un-
der contract to MGM. So Zanuck called in his studio vice president,
William Goetz, who arranged a meeting between Zanuck, Walsh, and
Beery, after which, Walsh said, they all went into a huddle. Beery was
“thorny” and had lots of objections.4 Walsh said he bellowed when he
was told the picture had a twenty-five-day schedule, complaining that
at MGM no production ever ran under sixty days. He also told Zanuck
and Walsh that under no circumstances would he work past five in the
afternoon. Zanuck gave him what he wanted and hoped his promises
would coincide with the picture’s shooting schedule. The writer Howard
Estabrook and the actor-writer James Gleason turned in a fi nal script
based on a novel by Michael L. Simmons and Bessie Roth Soloman along
with a story, “When the Bowery Was in Bloom,” by Roy L. McCardell,
published in the December 19, 1925, issue of the Saturday Evening Post.
Three days later, after MGM loaned out Beery, Walsh started shooting.
A lament that appeared in the story also landed in the fi lm’s closing
credits. It’s a “sad little sad tune” about “the Broadway and Tenderloin
of New York” where “saloons peppered the city” that was not only
“rowdy, impudent and ribald” but “young, crude and virile.”5
George Raft would not be a favorite of Walsh’s, a fact that Walsh
grew into during his five fi lms with the actor—beginning with The Bow-
ery and extending through the 1940s at Warner Bros. It was not Raft’s
mob connections (he was known to be friends with Bugsy Siegel) that
140 Raoul Walsh
that almost had him cornered: the unending parade of male characters
who fight it out to see who is the strongest, the most attractive to women,
the smartest, and, of course, the most adept at telling a tall tale. The film
delivers the same turn-of-the-century sense of nostalgia Walsh later de-
livered in The Strawberry Blonde, even though the latter fi lm has a more
settled feeling to it, a kind of acceptance and maturity that replaces the
pure exuberance and optimism here. Despite the numerous times Brodie
and Connors get knocked down, either by the other or by Lady Luck
herself, they get right back on their feet again to plot their next move.
Fay Wray later talked about working with Walsh. “He wore an eye
patch for one thing,” she said, “and that made him seem almost mysteri-
ous. He was a big, physically strong looking person. With women he
didn’t do much directing. It was kind of a feeling you got from him
without too many words.”6 Walsh was not a tall man—under six feet
with a medium frame, although he was in excellent physical shape. To
the tiny Wray, he seemed almost larger than he actually was.
The studio planted a good piece of newspaper publicity for the
picture. “George Raft Does a Brodie” appeared in syndicated columns
and had potential moviegoers wondering about the real-life Steve Brodie
and whether he actually made his historic leap off the Brooklyn Bridge.
The story noted that, among the fi lm’s two hundred players and extras,
there were also scores of old-timers who, as children, lived in the Bowery
when Brodie’s jump was a cause célèbre for many fistfights. Most of the
Boweryites believed Brodie made the jump, it was said. But George Raft
raised a skeptical eyebrow. Young Jackie Cooper wagered twenty-five
cents of his allowance that the entire episode was a myth. There was
never defi nite proof of the jump, although Brodie’s claim to have made
the leap rendered him the idol of the metropolis and brought many of
New York’s big shots to drink and spend at his saloon. The story wasn’t
bad for Fox publicity either.
In the early 1930s, Walsh needed the kind of optimism the picture’s
success brought with it. He especially needed fi rm ground, having
shifted from high-powered stories to low-key set pieces and back again.
His career was unsettled now, and Lorraine offered him little stability at
home. But he found his outlet. Legalized pari-mutuel wagering had not
yet returned to California, but Walsh moved ahead and decided to breed
142 Raoul Walsh
Davies, along with Bing Crosby, in what would turn out to be a spirited
yet ultimately light musical called Going Hollywood. Hearst was look-
ing for a way to pump energy into Davies’s then sagging career and low
box-office numbers—this despite her long-held popularity with Ameri-
can moviegoers. He believed a picture called Going Hollywood was a
good shot.
From all angles, the movie looked promising—a frothy romantic
musical focusing on a pretty teacher (Davies) who is just too bouncy and
spirited for the staid atmosphere of the school that employs her. She meets
a crooner and falls head over heels for him, then heads off to Hollywood
to follow him, becoming a star herself. The scenarist Francis Marion,
who had directed Davies several times, wrote a treatment called Paid
to Laugh, and Hearst’s production company, Cosmopolitan, created by
Hearst especially for Davies, had turned the treatment into a screenplay
by the up-and-coming playwright Donald Ogden Stewart, who would go
on to pen scripts for Holiday, The Philadelphia Story, and Leo McCa-
rey’s Irene Dunne–Charles Boyer weepie Love Story. Although Crosby
was set to star opposite Davies, Hearst was none too happy about it (al-
though Walsh was a big fan of the singer). Word had it that the newspaper
magnate was no fan of Crosby’s singing style. Probably closer to the truth
is that Hearst was jealous of Crosby and considered him a “womanizing
hellraiser.”8 The MGM lyricist Arthur Freed had to convince Hearst
to give Crosby the part, mostly because Freed, along with Nacio Herb
Brown, had written six songs for the picture, including “Temptation,”
which he believed only Crosby could put over.
Walsh was one of the last on board, happy to work for MGM for the
one picture (although he would not feel that way for too long). He ar-
rived in time, as he often did these days, to have some say about casting.
He was having a fling with Fifi D’Orsay, who by now had appeared in
several of his movies, but he was typically quiet about that. But he hired
D’Orsay to play Davies’s naughty girlfriend who competes with Davies
for Crosby’s affections. Davies backed Walsh on the decision, but only
after she and Hearst sparred over the choice. Although Hearst really
wanted Lily Damita for the role, in the end Davies got her way, and
Fifi was in. To fill in the rest of the company, Walsh cast some familiar
faces: Stu Erwin would play a bumbling producer, and the ever-reliable
“girlfriend” Patsy Kelly would play Davies’s best pal.
144 Raoul Walsh
Walsh got the idea to use his own backyard on Petit Drive for the
picture’s exterior shots. At the same time, he had the opportunity to
spend time with Hearst, who was considered to be American royalty.
Walsh and Lorraine were both enthusiastic about the friendship with
Hearst. Davies liked to throw parties, and the Walshes were frequent
guests: they especially enjoyed Davies’s costume parties, where Walsh
particularly got the opportunity to sport fake mustaches, hairpieces, and
outlandish (if stylish) costumes. At one such soiree for hundreds, held
at the Malibu beach house (with “110 bedrooms”), Walsh engaged in
some high jinks and claimed that a fake Romanian prince was work-
ing the party, bothering every woman he could find, married or not.
When the prince approached Davies, Walsh had had enough. “In any
other ambience than the morally relaxed atmosphere of Tinsel Town, he
would assuredly have had a bullet in him,” he said. “I belted him on his
Romanian nose and floored him with a right on the jaw. At which point
Buster Keaton in a gorilla suit came over and counted the prince out.”9
Walsh said that he was just trying to save Marion Davies’s honor. But it
was more enjoyable than that.
Even after shooting on this picture ended, Walsh and Hearst re-
mained friends and often saw each other socially. It seemed that Walsh
was no longer as offended by the idea of his wife entering the home of a
kept woman as he had been when he was married to Miriam. Lorraine
and Walsh were in Marion’s house often. Lorraine Walsh must have
enjoyed being part of the social set Hearst and Davies offered.
In his autobiography, Walsh recalled his fi rst response when asked
to direct the picture. He had to learn about his producer. Hearst’s rep-
resentative fi rst told Walsh “the Chief” wanted to see him; Walsh, being
Walsh, with his love of Native American life, thought to himself, “The
chief of what?”10 Walsh soon found out, as Hearst took some of the
cast and crew—Walsh, Crosby, and the songwriters—and flew them to
his San Simeon castle, that 350,000-acre estate that commanded thirty
miles of California shoreline. Hearst had the fi lm’s crew and cast up to
the castle often, and it was not unusual for them to fi nd other guests
on their arrival—even Winston Churchill, who, it was said, would puff
vigorously on a cigar and just as vigorously ignore them (although Walsh
always claimed that he and Churchill called each other “Walshie” and
“Winnie”). Rehearsing and socializing blended together day and night.
Salt of the Earth 145
personal), following the words Davies had used to describe her director.
Crosby sang it for the others and later recorded it just for Walsh:
When the front-office men at MGM heard the last line, they con-
curred that Walsh and company had been fooling around too much. Al-
though Hearst was picking up the tab for the picture, Louis B. Mayer still
became incensed. Walsh later claimed that neither he nor Crosby were
ever again invited back to make a picture there—which is not the case.
Salt of the Earth 147
Walsh, for example, returned to direct several times in the next few years
and again in the 1950s. When Going Hollywood opened just in time for
Christmas 1933, the critics loved it. One said, “Mr. Walsh has evolved a
joyful, tuneful, often satirical essay on the types he cleverly directed.”15
Walsh was not especially fond of directing musicals, but he would helm a
few more before the decade was out. They helped pay the bills and made
him all the more grateful to land at Warner Bros. by decade’s end.
After Going Hollywood, Walsh’s career stumbled again, then hit one
more high note, then faltered afterward until the decade closed. In
early 1934, Hearst fi red both Walsh and Walter Wanger off a picture
that was to be called Operation 13. He could no longer tolerate their
gingerly approach to picturemaking demonstrated on the set of Going
Hollywood. Walsh found it difficult to regain a sure footing throughout
the rest of the decade. In the next three years, he directed five pictures
that he considered just programmers; their real function was to fill “the
demand for double features.”16 He directed the undistinguished Under
Pressure for Fox, a story based on Borden Chase and Edward Doherty’s
novel Sand Hog, the title of which offers some idea of the picture’s story
line: another tale of two workers and rivals (Victor McLaglen and Ed-
mund Lowe once again) who work in an underground tunnel and vie
not only to win the same woman (Florence Rice) but also to see who will
complete his half of the tunnel fi rst. The most remarkable thing about
the picture, initially called Sand Hog, was its screenwriting team, which
included, along with Chase and Noel Pierce, Lester Cole (who would
later collaborate with Walsh on 1945’s Objective, Burma!), and a young
writer from Vienna, Billy Wilder, whose contributions unfortunately are
meshed in with those of the team enough so as not to distinguish them-
selves at this early point. Unfortunately, more than one reviewer noted
the obvious formula that viewers had come to expect from a McLaglen-
Lowe vehicle. Although some saw intermittent flashes of excitement,
the episodes now just seemed to repeat the antics of the wisecracking
“bellicose” team.
Walsh then returned to MGM, despite vowing after Going Holly-
wood never to do so again, to direct a mediocre picture called Baby Face
Harrington that follows the misadventures of a meek small-town book-
keeper (Charles Butterworth) who inadvertently gets involved with the
148 Raoul Walsh
town’s most notorious gangsters and can barely get himself unhooked
from their claws even as his wife (Una Merkel) threatens to divorce him.
The picture came and went as quickly as Every Night at Eight, another
in a series of collaborations with Walter Wanger that Walsh directed for
Paramount after a long absence from the studio. George Raft starred
along with Alice Faye, Patsy Kelly, and Frances Langford as three young
working women who try to get a singing act going in the midst of a hub-
bub of romantic complications. When Paramount released the musical
in August 1935, the film’s poster promised, “It’s the Busiest, the Snap-
piest Musical Picture of the Year,” although box-office receipts proved
otherwise. But the picture received more fame in the 1960s when the
American critic Andrew Sarris, fronting for French New Wave critics
of the late 1950s and early 1960s, called Every Night at Eight almost
“maddeningly routine” but nevertheless argued that a dream sequence
in the film anticipates a dream Bogart’s character, Mad Dog Earle, has
in High Sierra almost six years later.
In January 1935, MGM announced plans to make Public Enemy 2
with Walsh directing, but nothing came of the project. Walsh was becom-
ing disillusioned with the business. In the spring of that year, he ventured
further into his love of horse racing, joining a group of local citizens to
help organize what would become the Hollywood Park Jockey Club,
which opened three years later with the help of Hollywood’s elite. Santa
Anita Racetrack, also in the city, would not allow Jews into its arms. So
the studio head Jack Warner and other Jewish industry notables in the
Los Angeles area decided to open their own park, one far more tolerant
of racial difference and religion. Walsh applied for a race permit from
the California Horse Racing Board in March 1935. He would be presi-
dent and general manager. William Randolph Hearst wielded so much
power in the state, however, that, when he opposed a second racetrack
in the Los Angeles area, the idea looked doomed. But Walsh went to his
friend and convinced him to step aside and look the other way. When
Hollywood Park fi nally opened, Walsh actually became president and
general manager of the club behind it. Also on the board were some
Warner Bros. heavyweights, the singer-actor Al Jolson and Jack Warner.
The board planned eventually to open four sites between Beverly Hills
and the Pacific Ocean, but only one ever developed. The formation of
Hollywood Park, nonetheless, not only strengthened Walsh’s friendship
Salt of the Earth 149
with Hearst but also forged a new one with Warner that would flourish
to an even greater extent in the 1940s.
In the beginning of that decade, Walsh would buy and sell horses in
quick succession. He bought Grand Manitou in Ireland and Sunset Trail
II in France, and he had them both imported to the United States, where
they ran successfully—Sunset Trail II won the three-year-old champi-
onship at Tanforan, and Grand Manitou once defeated the great mare
Marica in a handicap in Chicago—even giving Seabiscuit a run for the
money at one point. When George Walsh left the movie business to raise
and train his brothers’ horses, their luck even improved. The two broth-
ers had a winner called Lady Peenzie brought over from England, and
two others, Frexo and Mount Vernon, were also high-caliber runners.
Later on, another horse Walsh bought, Bounty Bay, was a stakes winner,
fi rst in California, then in the Midwest.
Walsh and Hearst remained on good terms, and the two couples
continued seeing each other socially. When Hearst and Davies were not
entertaining, they traveled with the Walshes intermittently and even
more often sent wires to each other for birthdays, anniversaries, or just
to keep in touch. “We are mad at you, Pintsy [Marion’s nickname for
Lorraine],” Hearst and Marion wired when Lorraine failed to remind
them of the Walshes’ anniversary in the mid-1930s. “Hail to the chief
on his brand new birthday and best wishes for health, appetite, peace
and pleasure in the years ahead,” Walsh wired Hearst around the same
time.17 Hearst even went through the trouble of trying to find Pancho
Villa’s original saddle for his friend—a reminder of things past. The
magnate combed the terrains of Mexico in order to fi nd it and thought he
had managed to do that. When he presented it to his friend, Walsh knew
that the saddle was too expensive looking to be Villa’s. He knew that the
Mexican bandit would never have ridden something that nice—but he
never let on and accepted the gift with much to-do and a great show of
appreciation. When legalized racing came back to California in 1934,
Walsh made sure that he and Hearst were in on racing deals together.
Walsh and Hearst shared increasingly close political views of the
world situation as World War II approached. Walsh may have been
liberal in his view of the way minorities were treated in the movie busi-
ness—and he tried to hire as many as he could, especially during his ten-
ure at Warner Bros.—but his political views remained for the most part
150 Raoul Walsh
Sadie Thompson, Mae West’s tsuris with the censors was an ongoing
life adventure.
Just as Gloria Swanson had earlier, Mae West liked Walsh’s chutz-
pah and insisted that he be her director on Klondike Annie. When Walsh
arrived to work with her for what would be the fi rst of four consecu-
tive pictures he would make at Paramount, she presented him with a
fi nished script, a compilation of a play she had written, Frisco Kate,
itself a reworked version of another of her writings—this was pure West.
Although the story really belonged to her, when it came to screen credit,
she insisted that the writers who worked with her also put their names
on it as well: she added Frank Dazey’s name alongside hers for the actual
script and gave story credit to Marion Morgan and George B. Dowell.
The story line follows the adventures of a woman called Frisco Doll
who lives in 1890s San Francisco Chinatown at a gambling club called
the House of Chan Lo. In truth, she is Rose Carlton, a woman “kept” by
the house’s proprietor (and her assumed master-lover), Chan Lo himself.
Rose is miserable since Chan Lo has imprisoned her to the point that she
is not allowed to see anyone of her own race. Soon she makes plans to
escape Chan Lo and heads off on a frigate bound for Nome, Alaska. It
is suggested, although never seen onscreen, that Rose murders Chan Lo
in order to make her escape.
Rose boards a tramp steamer manned by the gruff Bull Brackett,
played by Victor McLaglen, who still doesn’t seem to have much to do
other than walk in and out of rooms following Rose. Brackett of course
falls madly in love with the very sexual Rose, and, when he learns that
she’s wanted for murder, vows to protect her. When a kind mission-
ary woman boards the steamer at Vancouver, she and Rose attempt to
understand each other. After the missionary, named Annie, tells Rose
that she must repent for her wanton ways, she falls ill and dies. Rose
assumes her identity and escapes the law after she arrives in Alaska.
Rose then fl irts with the idea of actually doing Annie’s missionary work,
but, by picture’s end, she is back in the arms of McLaglen dousing him
with her sexual charms, and all is well in the land of Mae and the rest
of the world.
Although eight minutes were cut by the censors, the picture still
invited all kinds of wrath, and not just for its aspect of miscegenation,
the sexual relations between a Caucasian woman and an Asian man.
152 Raoul Walsh
Also troubling to many critics was the strong suggestion that a loose
character like Rose could ever be redeemed by donning the clothes and
the demeanor, not to mention the good works, of a missionary woman.
But West was fi ne-tuned in her dealings with censorship. Not only her
swagger and sexual innuendo stayed intact. So did the story she initially
wanted. Walsh was only too happy to put one over on the censors, es-
pecially in using enough setups so blatantly sexual that, no matter how
many had to be cut, there were still plenty left to go around. He never
had to expose her thigh; her swing let each spectator know it lay inside
her tight skirt.
Walsh and West also fought battles of wits with each other—for
one, her slow working style angered him to no end as it collided with
his penchant for speed, or at least moving through the job at a good
clip. Eventually, however, they worked out their differences. The picture
turned into a great success for both star and director. Walsh serves West
well in Klondike Annie, giving her long takes to highlight the facial
expressions that so epitomize her style. If there was any compromise
for Walsh, it was the picture’s pace, almost so slow going at times that
it takes its toll on McLaglen’s character even as Walsh gives West’s lot
of kick. Too often he appears to stand around looking for a physical
footing, seeming as if he is ready to be off and running while Mae is still
slowly approaching his side of the room to share the frame. But Walsh
does West a great service; setups for the musical numbers give her ample
space, and he never lets her often halfhearted delivery bog down the
story. The censors may have irked West, but she hardly shows it.
The hatchet that threatened to come down on West also included a
bout with William Randolph Hearst, formerly a friend of hers (and still
one to Walsh), who, on viewing the picture, issued a statement that ran
throughout his newspaper empire (but evidently did not threaten Walsh’s
relationship with Hearst): “The Mae West picture, Klondike Annie, is a
filthy picture. I think we should have editorials roasting the picture and
Mae West, and the Paramount Company for producing such a picture—
the producer—the director and everyone concerned. We should say it is
an affront to the decency of the public and to the interests of the motion
picture profession. Will Hays must be asleep to allow such a thing to
come out but it is to be hoped that the churches of the community are
awake to the necessity of boycotting such a picture and demanding its
Salt of the Earth 153
that fact. Fonda later claimed to have forgotten ever making Spendthrift.
Then Walsh left for England to make two pictures.
Walsh took Lorraine and Marilynn to England. He also took ad-
vantage of being in Britain for a period, walking around Saville Row
in London, and frequenting men’s clothing stores in other parts of the
British Isles. Gieves and Hawkes was a favorite men’s clothier. The silk
ties and formal shirts were one thing, but Walsh’s passion was hounds-
tooth jackets along with riding pants and riding boots. Even though
he never used one, a whip was a good accessory to complete the outfit.
He thought about purchases he might make and traveled throughout
England, Ireland, and Scotland in search of racehorses he might bring
back to America (this became a lifelong passion). He was not fond of the
weather in Britain, but the traditional and often staid British lifestyle in
no way conflicted with his increasingly playful sense of humor. He could
call on both simultaneously.
The writer-director Bryan Forbes, who became a close friend of
Walsh’s in the 1950s, later said, “Raoul was a passionate Anglophile
(bought his shoes at Lobbs and his shirts in Jermyn Street). I remember
I once went with him shopping there and he bought a dozen Eton ties.
The shop owner asked him why, and he replied, ‘My boy here (meaning
me) went to Eton.’ [Then] I asked him what on earth they were for and
he told me, ‘When I make a Western upon the Reservation the Indians
will do anything for an Eton tie. There’s a whole tribe that wear nothing
else.’”22
Walsh’s two British pictures were spirited romps. Released by
United Artists, Jump for Glory/When Thief Meets Thief began shooting
in November 1936, immediately after Walsh directed the Gaumont-
British (Fox’s British subsidiary) production O.H.M.S./You’re in the
Army Now. When Thief Meets Thief is a sophisticated romantic thriller
featuring Douglas Fairbanks Jr. (who also produced the picture). Walsh
displays an urbane wit, with Fairbanks giving a bouncy, tongue-in-cheek
performance in a light comedy that, despite its lack of depth, has great
charm and infectiously endearing characterizations. Fairbanks is a slith-
ery burglar whose plans go delightfully awry after he meets his female
match (Valerie Hobson) and the two fall in love and join forces. About
the same time, Walsh was to direct a third film in Britain, an adaptation
156 Raoul Walsh
I said, ‘let ’em do what they want. I don’t know what’s going on.’”24
That statement may well have summed up those several years Walsh
floated around the musicals he never truly liked (although he never let it
look that way). It also sums up his sense of the absurd, the dissonance
he could be so comfortable with when events called for it. He felt that
same way when he returned to Paramount to direct another group of
pleasant but mostly forgettable musicals such as College Swing in 1938
and St. Louis Blues in 1939. They were all-star affairs that afforded
him the opportunity to work with actors such as Bob Hope, Dorothy
Lamour, Martha Raye, George Burns, and Gracie Allen, but they were
choreography driven, grinding work and hardly stimulating. Walsh was
certainly not challenged when he directed St. Louis Blues (released in
1939), a mildly entertaining picture with Dorothy Lamour playing a
New York actress who tires (ironically) of having to wear her sarong and
South Seas getup onstage and heads out for a more serious career, ending
up on a showboat run by Lloyd Nolan (who is serviceable but hardly
charismatic in the picture). The fi lm is perky and, if nothing else, benefits
from Walsh’s energetic pace. Walsh moved around quickly himself. Just
before this, in late 1937, he helped out Samuel Goldwyn and took over
director duties for John Blystone on the picture Woman Chases Man,
which introduced Broderick Crawford and featured Miriam Hopkins
and Joel McCrea, whom Walsh would direct over ten years later in the
western Colorado Territory.25
Walsh kept up friendships, many for a lifetime; they were that im-
portant to him. Cast members and crew he had known in the 1920s and
1930s he still knew at the end of his life. He especially wanted to keep
William Randolph Hearst’s friendship during this time—the magnate
could always be a friend worth knowing. In the fall of 1938, Walsh
showed his allegiance to Hearst’s political conservatism in an incident
involving Hearst’s reaction to Britain’s stand over Hitler’s takeover of
parts of Europe. Hearst vehemently opposed any American involvement
or intervention. On October 16, 1938, Winston Churchill “replied” to
Hitler’s expansion and broadcast a speech that went out over the NBC
airwaves across the United States. He made an impassioned appeal to the
American government, calling for its involvement in Europe’s growing
struggle against Hitler. “We must arm,” he said. “Britain must arm. . . .
America must arm. . . . But arms . . . are not sufficient by themselves. We
158 Raoul Walsh
must add to them the power of ideas. People say we ought not to allow
ourselves to be drawn into a theoretical antagonism between Nazidom
and democracy; but the antagonism is here now. It is the very confl ict of
spiritual and moral ideas which gives the free countries a great part of
their strength.”26
The fact of both Churchill and Hitler writing for Hearst newspapers
in the 1920s and 1930s aside, Hearst responded to Churchill’s broadcast
with a lecture of sorts on the front pages of his newspapers after Hit-
ler’s troops marched into Austria and annexed it to the Third Reich. He
demanded a “right of reply” and went on the airwaves on October 23
condemning what he called this British propaganda. He believed that,
no matter the threatening events unfolding in Europe, there could still
be peace. Most importantly, Hearst believed, England had no right or
reason to ask Americans to support what he believed to be British pro-
paganda in a scheme to dominate Europe, absorb Africa, and control the
Orient. Despite his characteristic lack of political involvement, although
he could be thought to swing to the right on occasion, Walsh defended
Hearst’s stance and sent him a telegram on October 24 from Van Nuys,
stating:
Despite this bidding for Hearst’s continued friendship, the only political
divisiveness or combat Walsh would know would be the cinema’s fic-
tive soldiers trampling through brush and sidestepping ground bombs
Salt of the Earth 159
as they made their way to enemy lines. They would be heroic and as far
removed from the real world as Walsh was from political convictions.
Those fictions of combat, enemy lines, westerns, and gangster wars
awaited him now at Warner Bros. At Jack Warner’s bidding, Walsh made
the move to the studio’s Burbank lot, about to enter his golden period.
But, whether he liked it or not, when the now forty-two-year-old Walsh
departed Paramount for Warner Bros. in the fall of 1939, he stepped
into the role of artist, and, for the better part of two decades, he would
create a world of soldiers, cowboys, gangsters, and gun molls that saved
his career no less than his soul. He never anticipated that the world he
made for himself and for his audiences might be considered artful. But
his best years were about to begin, even though, during his tenure at
Warner Bros., he would vehemently shrug off any notion of the artist in
himself—as much as the public, and fi lm history, vehemently disagreed.
7
Beshert
The Early Warner Bros. Years
160
Beshert 161
made his actors miserable in person in Burbank. Jack Warner was smart
enough to put Hal Wallis, with his brilliant story sense, in place as ex-
ecutive producer in charge of production after Darryl Zanuck vacated
the spot in 1933 to form Twentieth Century Pictures with Joe Schenck.
Wallis ran the day-to-day business of overseeing most of the studio’s
films in production, and his rein was tight enough that it often looked as
if he were directing and writing the pictures himself. If he was unsatis-
fied with the dailies he ran after a day’s shooting, he would fi re off a
memo instructing changes in every aspect of the work, from camera
angles to dialogue to the actors’ costumes. Walter MacEwen was Wallis’s
executive assistant, and between him, Wallis, and the studio’s general
counsel, Steve Obringer, a myriad of memos flew daily. Most of these
memos have survived since Warner Bros. had a strict rule to commit
everything to paper instead of communicating verbally: at the bottom
of the interoffice memo letterhead was written, “Verbal messages cause
misunderstanding and delays (please put them in writing).”
Walsh thought that he had found studio nirvana, especially after
his freelance days following his parting from William Fox nine years
earlier. To him, Warner Bros. was “a plum for any director.”8 Not only
did Warner’s no-nonsense style in turning out pictures suit him, but
the studio’s essentially somber, naturalistic view of the world—which
produced stories about men and women trying to change their often
unalterable fate or rallying against it—also suited Walsh’s own world-
view. His heroes, usually fleeing from one world to fi nd a better one and
not usually succeeding, made him a good choice for the top material
Warner Bros. contract writers produced. Walsh was not out to make
personal statements in his pictures at Warners; again, he simply wanted
to entertain, and, if good material came his way, especially a script with
action and sweep, with a feisty character on the emotional run, he was
happy. In truth, he would most likely retool the script his way in the
end, just as he had always done. He told Hedda Hopper in 1965, “They
used to have ten or twelve pictures going all the time. You’d fi nish one
on schedule and they’d deliver another script. When you’d ask who was
to be in it, they’d say, ‘We haven’t decided yet—you’ll know when you
start working tomorrow.’”9 Walsh said that he never bought any Warner
Bros. stock because he used to hear them fighting among themselves and
got worried.
Beshert 165
“We are engaging Raoul Walsh to direct a picture,” Hal Wallis informed
Warner’s general counsel, Steve Obringer, in a May 13, 1939, memo,
“his starting to be June 5. He will work ten weeks at $2,000 [per week].
Thirty days after the preview of the picture we are to have the following
yearly options 40 out of 52 weeks: 1st year at 1,750 [per week]; 2nd year
2,000 [per week].” There was also to be an increase of $250 per week
every year after the second for the next five years. “We now have him
assigned to the picture 20,000 Years in Sing-Sing, but should there be
any change in plans and should we wish to put him on another picture
in place of this, we are to have that right.”10
Warners exercised that right, and the first contract Walsh signed
with the studio gave him a one-picture deal (not the initial seven-year
contract he recalled years later in his autobiography). He never saw the
set of 20,000 Years in Sing-Sing; instead, the studio assigned him The
World Moves On, whose title later became The Roaring Twenties.
The World Moves On, penned a year earlier by the newspaper
columnist Mark Hellinger, was an epic production looking to happen.
Unfortunately, it began life looking like the little engine of a picture that
could—and almost didn’t. Hellinger, who would later be associate pro-
ducer on Walsh’s third film at Warner Bros., High Sierra, and after that
pen The Naked City with Malvin Wald, the brother of Jerry Wald, was a
character so colorful he could have jumped out of one of his own stories.
In New York City during the 1920s, he had been a crime beat reporter
who also liked hobnobbing with Broadway royalty and celebrities. The
idea for The World Moves On grew from his own experiences as a na-
tionally known syndicated columnist; he wanted to take a nostalgic look
back at the 1920s. Dapper and well connected to Hollywood insiders
(and claiming to have connections to the mob), Hellinger was hired as
an associate producer—although, in truth, no one was sure what he
actually did at the studio. The World Moves On also happened to be the
name of a Broadway play running at the time, and the studio had to take
care of any potential copyright problems by buying up the rights to the
play. Later on, some also thought that the name was changed to avoid
any confusion between the picture and a 1934 picture John Ford had
directed at Fox that had the same title.
166 Raoul Walsh
and until Walsh directed him ten years later in White Heat. The two
men formed an immediate and lifelong bond.
In fact, much bonding in general went on between Walsh and the
actors during the shoot. When Walsh fi rst saw the script, he went to
William Cagney, James Cagney’s brother, and pleaded with him to talk
Jimmy out of doing the picture. The script was that bad, Walsh told
him—a real potboiler. But William Cagney assured him that he would
get Jimmy to rewrite it as much as possible. Both Walsh and Cagney
found a kinship in doing that, and working on this script brought them
closer together. Others also gave the script some help: studio fi les reveal
that Bogart, Cagney, and Frank McHugh, Cagney’s great offscreen
buddy, who plays Danny, Eddie’s close pal in the picture, also worked
after hours on revisions. Cagney later said, “Raoul Walsh asked me how
I liked the opening scene as written, and I said I thought it was pretty
bad, as indeed it was. ‘I think so, too,’ Raoul said. ‘I’ve got a new one.
Want to hear it?’ I told him to fi re away, and after he fi nished telling it,
I told him the one I had in mind. Then Frank McHugh said he had one,
so Raoul and I listened to Frank’s, and by the end of his description,
Raoul and I said, ‘There it is!’ So we shot Frank’s, and one hell of a good
opening it was.”13 Walsh and Cagney developed a style of working: no
matter what the script said, they thought to go one better and set about
revising and molding Cagney’s characters as they saw fit. They scored
few points with Hal Wallis on this. Cagney told interviewers more than
once that he especially liked working with Walsh because, if Cagney was
unsure about “what the hell to do,” Walsh would just get up and show
him how to do it.
As soon as shooting began on The Roaring Twenties on July 10,
1939, Walsh and Cagney of course got to work softening Eddie Bartlett’s
character, which angered Wallis to no end since he saw it as a trans-
gression; memos began to fly when, while watching the dailies, he also
noticed new dialogue. He ordered the associate producer Sam Bischoff
to “check on this immediately and if the script is being rewritten on
the set I want it stopped.” Finding that Walsh was the culprit (Cagney
escaped notice), Wallis implored Bischoff,
Have a talk with [him] about this immediately and tell him that
170 Raoul Walsh
Wallis was just beginning his campaign to have Walsh shoot fewer close-
ups and far more expansive shots. He wanted those sets the studio spent
so much money to build to be caught onscreen as well. The campaign
raged on for several years.
Wallis wrote Walsh even on July 26,
I notice that you are still changing lines occasionally, and par-
ticularly when Cagney is involved in a scene. For example, the
other night in the scene in the garage where he hires the three
mugs out of jail, you cut out the speech at the end of the scene
where Cagney told the three men never to try to pull anything
on him or he’d take care of them—or something to that effect.
I assume it was cut because Cagney didn’t want to be the tough
guy again, but you must insist on keeping these things in be-
cause they are necessary for his characterization. He is a very
nice guy all through the story and if he occasionally has a scene
where he has to be tough, you must insist on having it done that
way in order to keep the characterization correct. After all, he
is a tough guy and in a tough racket, hijacking liquor, raiding
warehouses and all of that, so that occasionally if he does have
lines of this kind he must deliver them. I can see no reason for
cutting them.15
Wallis lost little love for Walsh, even if he had to admit that this director
cost him little money by almost always coming in on budget and on
schedule. Walsh’s early responses to Wallis have been lost.
Beshert 171
I ran The Roaring Twenties dailies last night, and unless Walsh
has more stuff of Cagney dying on the church steps, we will
have to take all the long shots over. . . . In the fi rst place, you do
not know it is a church. Secondly, he has four drunks come by
and somehow or other unless he uses at least 20 people with a
little more excitement than the one cut of the policeman taking
it, one shot of him running, a real long shot of the small figure
and Gladys George on the bottom of the church steps, so that
the audience has the feeling it is in front of a church, it doesn’t
mean a thing. . . . The way it is now, outside of the close-ups it is
almost worthless and will have to be carefully cut because you
will notice in all the takes where Gladys George is bending over
talking to Cagney, and light coming on his gray shirt, shows his
breathing and that he is very much alive.
In addition to instructing verbatim the dialogue that has the cop asking,
“Who is this fellow?” and George answering, “He used to be a big shot,”
Wallis wanted the last scene shot a certain way: “At the end of the scene
from her close-up, after she reads the line . . . pull back and up into a
long shot, so that we leave the three small figures on the church steps,
the girl holding Cagney in her lap, the cop standing alongside, and we
can use that for our fadeout shot.”17 The fi nal shot of the released ver-
172 Raoul Walsh
sion includes no people in the background. Later, Walsh took credit for
devising the last shot as audiences fi nally saw it.
The Roaring Twenties encapsulated and commented on a stellar
decade of Warner Bros. gangster fi lms, but Walsh kept in character and
never took credit for his overall achievement. When students or inter-
viewers asked him why it took Cagney so long to die in that scene, he
threw out a joke instead: “Well, it’s damn hard to kill an actor.”
Cagney’s Eddie Bartlett is a character true to Walsh’s screen lineage
of the confl icted man with a soft core wrapped in a harder-than-nails
demeanor. Walsh had been honing this character since his silent-movie
days and came up with Eddie’s truest prototype when he created the
character of the hoodlum in Regeneration in 1915. He knows good-
ness in himself even though he is attracted to the evil in all men’s souls.
When he embarks on an adventure, the huge social forces that work
against him outmatch him. Warner Bros. was adept at fi ne-tuning pic-
tures where these social forces are darker and more powerful than the
individual men and women swept up in them. With his fi rst Warner
Bros. feature, then, Walsh was at home. He never compromises Eddie’s
integrity as a man who does the wrong thing but remains aware of what
the right thing is and what he has given up. Walsh transforms his seem-
ingly small, intimate conflict into a grand, representative conflict of a
generation and a nation. His camera foregrounds the intimate drama,
setting it up against sweeping crowds and huge social forces.
When Warners released The Roaring Twenties on October 23, 1939,
Walsh found himself on the inside track at the studio; he had a critical
and fi nancial hit on his hands. Boxoffice magazine wrote, “It will roar
its way across the showmen’s ledger leaving a trail of black figures and
satisfied customers, this lightning-paced action melodrama of the prohi-
bition era, its evils and its laughs.”18 The Variety critic wrote, “Warner
Brothers comes through with a semi-historical fi lm about the hysterical
prohibition era that should exact a nice toll at the box office.”19 The
Roaring Twenties took its place among a crowd of pictures in 1939
that made that year into one of the most talked-about years in Hol-
lywood production. The picture was popular enough at the time of its
release that Warner Bros. planned a sequel, taken from a Milton Krims
scenario, that Walsh would direct: The Fabulous Thirties, also set to
Beshert 173
feature Cagney and Bogart. Nothing came of it, but Walsh had already
met with the kind of good script he had needed for years.
Quantrell’s Raiders, the hero’s love for the girl and fi nally the death of
the bad guy. Truly a classic story! But because many of the scenes were
cut, the fi lm seems a bit odd; probably due to the fact that the action
doesn’t run on, the whole thing seems confused and badly directed.”21
Walsh had no fi nal cut on this picture.
Walsh’s producer was Sol C. Siegel, and their working relationship
was brief enough that no conflicts arose. In 1987, Claire Trevor said,
“Raoul Walsh was very impersonal. Very often he’d say, ‘Now we’re
going to do this scene,’ very cold. He’d sit down, ‘You know what to
do,’ and sometimes when the camera was rolling, he’d turn his back
and walk away. But that was his style, and he cared, I know, but he
looked like he didn’t care. I don’t know why he did that.”22 Walsh had
a habit of leaving his actors and crew confused about his motives. He
seemed nonchalant about his job, but especially at this early point in his
Warner Bros. career, even if out on loan to Republic, he felt anything
but nonchalant. He had eased up from his noted manic behavior in the
1910s, but he still meant business when it came to getting the picture
completed on time.
Now, in 1940, though Wayne and his career hardly needed boost-
ing, Dark Command garnered large critical and box-office approval and
became the only Republic Picture to be nominated for two Academy
Awards: for John Victor Mackay’s art direction and Victor Young’s
original musical score. The word around Hollywood was that, since
John Ford had come to Wayne’s rescue in 1939 by casting him as Ringo
in Stagecoach, he should have been the one keeping Wayne at the top of
the list for good roles. Instead, Walsh hoisted Wayne up there again by
giving him star billing in Dark Command.
Although it had always seemed a good-natured competition between
the two directors as to who really discovered Wayne, Ford apparently
resented Walsh in no small measure—or at least more than Walsh or
Wayne realized. Henry Fonda once told the Wayne biographer Michael
Munn, “Duke Wayne loved Ford, and I’m sure that from time to time,
Ford loved Duke. But Ford was just so jealous when Raoul Walsh beefed
up Duke’s career after Stagecoach [with Dark Command]. It was just
unforgivable, and I know that Ford made him pay for it by letting him
stew in films that really kept Duke out of the so-called A-list of stars
for a long time. Duke was still part of the Ford clan and we all went on
Beshert 175
A Woman Scorned
But, no matter how much success Walsh enjoyed in directing Cagney
and Bogie, his relationship with the front office was dictated by personal
fi nances. Miriam Cooper was the main reason Walsh borrowed money
from Warner and the studio throughout his years there—although the
debt he occasionally incurred from his betting on the horses ran a close
second. Although divorced since 1927 and married to Lorraine since
1928—even if Lorraine never figured as prominently in his psychology
as did making movies and playing the horses—Walsh could never be rid
of Miriam. By 1939, he and Lorraine were living in grand style, up above
the city at 624 North Doheny Road in Beverly Hills, in an estate just
across the road from the fabled Doheny mansion. Walsh had less than
half an hour’s drive to the studio in Burbank and, in general, thought
himself very lucky.
Back in 1939, Walsh had sold the Encino ranch to his friends Clark
Gable and Carole Lombard, just prior to their marriage. He had bought
the ranch on Petit Street in 1931, and he and Lorraine had been us-
ing it as a weekend getaway cottage. Gable and Lombard thought of
Petit as their dream house, with its creamy white wood interiors and,
of course, its stables at the back of the property. Walsh said that Gable
had been trying to buy the property from him for years (“I waited a few
more years after his last plea to me before I sold it to him”).29 Though
frequently savvy with real estate, Walsh was also frequently in fi nancial
trouble. “He was not a man who was taking care of his money—a fact
that many friends understood. Everyone said that of Walsh,” Pierre Ris-
sient later said. 30 Also, he was becoming fed up with his social life with
Lorraine, and that would finally take its toll and lead to their divorce in
1946. But, for now, he continued to face fi nancial problems, much of this
owing to the fact that he could never fully free himself from Miriam’s
fi nancial hold. She continued accusing him of reneging on alimony and
hounded him with a court battle every few years. She fi rst took him to
court in 1933 for unpaid alimony of $2,350, accrued because, accord-
ing to Miriam, he “refused” to pay most monies and what he did give
her amounted to a total of $650.31 Just as Walsh began warming up to
Warner Bros., in 1939, his financial battles with Miriam also began to
Beshert 179
heat up and often made headlines in the Los Angeles Times and the New
York Times. In one instance, Miriam tried to “recover” $46,000 from
Walsh and attempted to attach his Doheny Road home. 32
Miriam still lived in New York, and the boys were now grown. In
1940, wanting to get away from his mother, eighteen-year-old Robert
petitioned and won the right to live in California with Walsh, placing
himself under his guardianship. In March of the same year, during what
was otherwise a good fi nancial time for Walsh, now earning more recog-
nition and better projects at the studio, he was forced to open a new kind
of relationship with Warner and the higher-ups. Miriam still received
money from Walsh, whose reliability in prompt monthly payments to
her could often be wanting. In the time that he directed his fi rst five fi lms
at the studio, he began to use those pictures as collateral for monies he
had to pay to a woman who still drained him of his emotional energy. He
often depended on the studio to loan him money, make advances on his
salary—all in the name, so he said, of getting the very emotionally sticky
Miriam off his back. He was not able to do that for years.
8
Walsh now prepared to direct his next venture at Warner Bros., the Jerry
Wald–Richard Macauley scripted They Drive by Night, another hard-
knocks drama produced by Mark Hellinger and executive produced by
the ever-vigilant Hal Wallis. With its dark and gritty palate, its broken-
down characters who try to but cannot outdistance or overcome their
milieu of psychological and economic hard times, They Drive by Night
is quintessential Warner Bros. of the 1940s, a picture in the tradition of
what the critic Manny Farber later called the “broken field journey,” his
descriptive way of talking about films in which characters break down
emotionally on a road fraught with peril. Drawn partly from a novel by
A. I. Bezzerides, and partly recycled from an earlier Warner Bros. pic-
ture, Bordertown, starring Bette Davis, this picture, like Walsh’s Man-
power to come, offers moviegoers the cinematic equivalent of literary
naturalism—a story characterized by the inability of men and women
to control or to get out from under the unforgiving social forces that
loom large and significant around them. Walsh gave his hard-knocks
characters both a lyricism and a biting wit in this story of two brothers
who try to make a go of it as truckers in Los Angeles but find only
heartache and hard times for their efforts. Halfway through, the story
gets sideswiped by another completely different plotline when one of
the brothers becomes romantically involved with a woman who turns
psychotic, murders her husband, and implicates the brother in her crime.
More intimate than The Roaring Twenties, They Drive by Night offers
one of the best demonstrations in Walsh’s body of work of how effort-
lessly and naturally he segues between hope and hopelessness, humor
and pathos. It is ample proof of just how easily Walsh and Warner Bros.
entered into a marriage of shared artistic and storytelling sensibilities.
180
Out of the Night 181
dertown. She makes life miserable for the man she loves and for the
husband she eventually kills. She was just part of a pattern that Walsh’s
life fell into in these months during production. Days were spent watch-
ing Lana destroy her husband, destroy the brother, and subsequently fall
apart in a psychotic break in the courtroom where she stands trial for
her husband’s murder. Then evenings were spent walking in the front
door of his home only to fi nd a letter or receive a phone call from his or
Miriam’s attorney relaying the latest litigation and torture. Truth was
worse than fiction: just as Lana kills her husband, clearly Walsh thought
Miriam was killing him, or at the very least taking a good emotional
chunk out of him.
Warner Bros. bought the rights to A. I. Bezzerides’s novel Long
Haul in March 1940 for $2,000 with plans to turn it into a screenplay;
Hal Wallis changed its title to They Drive by Night a month later. Jack
Warner was so pleased with Walsh’s rendering of The Roaring Twenties
that he gave him fi rst crack at directing the project, another scripted by
the crackerjack writing team Jerry Wald and Richard Macauley. From
the beginning, Wallis saw the picture as a vehicle for George Raft, who
had inched his way up in the studio’s estimation and now had clout.
Raft plays Joe Fabrini, the story’s main character, and Humphrey Bog-
art—in his last time as second fiddle—plays Joe’s brother, Paul Fabrini.
Warners’ “Oomph Girl” Ann Sheridan was cast as Cassie Hartley, Joe’s
girlfriend, and Alan Hale plays Lana’s unfortunate husband, Ed Carl-
son. As the Fabrini brothers’ trucking chums, the zany character actor
Roscoe Karns and the ever-reliable funny man George Tobias add plenty
of flavor.
Wallis was excited early on about the story and in the middle of
March told Walsh in a memo, “I am glad that you are hopped up on
the trucking story. I too feel that it will work out as an excellent vehicle
for George Raft. I am entirely in accord with your idea to go out within
the next few weeks whenever we get good weather and clouds and make
some of the road shots. Will you please begin to line up a truck im-
mediately and after you have made a selection let me see it?”1 Actual
production on the picture had not yet begun, and Wallis still spoke in a
friendly tongue to Walsh.
Mark Hellinger again produced and brought Walsh in with him on
the process of fi ne-tuning Wald and Macauley’s script. He wrote Wallis
Out of the Night 183
a few days later, “Wald, Walsh and I never stopped talking about it all
evening—and when guys are that enthused, something good must come
of it.” Hellinger wanted the young British actress Ida Lupino for the
part of Lana, but Walsh had several other actresses in mind, including
Frances Farmer and another, as yet untested, starlet, Catherine Emery.
He wrote Wallis, “I saw the test of Catherine Emery and she is a splendid
actress and I am sure she could give a fi ne and intelligent performance
of the part of Lana. I think she can be photographed a little more at-
tractively. She has a refi ned quality, that if she plays the part, I would like
to modify.” “I would prefer to withhold my decision,” he added, “until
I make a test of Frances Farmer.”2 But Hellinger moved faster than or
played harder than Walsh, and Lupino was signed soon after Walsh’s
memo to Wallis.
Warners lathered up short biographies for each of the principal
characters. Joe Fabrini, the protagonist, is “a quiet, forceful man in his
thirties, stubbornly convinced through all adversity that his destiny lies
with the trucking business.” His brother, Paul, dreamed of a better life
than that; he saw nothing but grief in spending his life in a truck cab.
Cassie, Joe’s girlfriend, is a product of the urban soil that produced her,
“a good-looking girl who would do better in better times. She has no
particular breeding or background but she is a pretty solid person, who
knows her own limitation, and doesn’t try to exceed it.” In essence,
Cassie is a generic Warner Bros. girl of the 1940s. Ed Carlsen, the man
who hires Fabrini, is a hearty, beefy lug who rose to wealth through “the
happy accident of a shrewdly invested and managed inheritance.” Ed’s
wife, Lana, fi nds him loud and vulgar. She is a complete Warner Bros.
fabrication—a psychotic about to blow. 3
Production began on April 22, 1940, and fi nished five weeks later.
Walsh shot the film in sequence, using studio soundstages for interiors
and the highways on the outskirts of Los Angeles for exterior scenes.
Lupino considered this her fi rst important picture and later said, “When
I was on the [witness] stand . . . I wasn’t maniacal. I was quiet. I was
simple. I was a child who was not a child. That’s madness.”4 Walsh got
on well with Lupino; they would work together again soon. Bogart was
easy to be around—when he was in a good mood, which, of course,
depended on the kind of night he’d had with his then wife, Mayo Meth-
ot. He would complain more than the others, maybe about the food,
184 Raoul Walsh
maybe about the hotels they stayed in on location. Walsh learned quickly
enough that Bogart enjoyed complaining.
But Walsh had not forgotten working with the irritable, argumenta-
tive Raft and didn’t look forward to what could be another bout with
the actor. Typical behavior for Walsh, he kept his concerns to himself
and never complained to Wallis. Instead, he showed only enthusiasm
for the picture. As it turned out, production on They Drive by Night
remained uneventful. (It was not until Walsh’s next time directing Raft,
one year later on Manpower, that Raft became troublesome and directed
his wrath at Edward G. Robinson, not at Walsh.) For right now, Walsh
remembered, “Raft was speaking to me again. . . . He seemed to have
forgotten The Bowery. His acting had improved since the day I told him
to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge. He was better at memorizing dialogue
and he was careful about the way he dressed. He was also a star in his
own right.”5
But the conflicts between Wallis and Walsh began again. As was
becoming habitual, Wallis accused Walsh of closing in on the actors’
faces too often. He wrote him on May 6:
other aspects of the film. The lightning pace belongs to Walsh, as it did
throughout his years at Warners. They Drive by Night moves forward
with a relentless, driving, masculine energy, making it a rhythmic pre-
cursor to Walsh’s highly energized White Heat, which would come al-
most a decade later. The view of the world in They Drive by Night—that
the downtrodden have to tough it out, even though that does not ensure
success or happiness—is a theme that Walsh and the studio crafted well.
Walsh moved the camera back, but just enough to give the characters
some leg room. Raft and the not-yet-above-the-title Bogart play two
brothers who try to start a trucking business in California just before
World War II. But they are held back repeatedly from getting things off
the ground. It is almost impossible for the small guy to get successful
when the bigger guys, the corporations, the tough and the mean, stand
in the way.
Trying to get ahead in a universe that dares them not to, Bogart’s
and Raft’s characters go from hard knocks to tragedy. Transporting fruit
from grower to seller, they are able to make a few dollars and buy their
own truck. But, one night, Bogart falls asleep at the wheel, the truck
turns over, and Bogie loses an arm in an accident that demolishes the
truck. Raft, always the steadier and more ambitious of the two, is forced
to work for a friend, Ed Carlsen (Alan Hale), who owns a larger, more
successful trucking company. Although Raft has already met Sheridan
and plans to marry the street-smart waitress with a heart of gold, Ed’s
flirtatious and up-to-no-good wife, Lana, falls hard for him and makes
countless plays for his affections. So unstable is she that she eventually
murders Ed to clear the path to having Raft for herself. But Raft still
will have nothing to do with her. When he learns that she murdered
Hale, he turns her in. But she convinces the DA that Raft forced her to
murder her husband, and Raft finds himself on trial. While on the wit-
ness stand, however, Lana suffers a breakdown (driven mad by her guilt
over killing Hale), spilling the truth, and Joe is cleared of any charges.
This is storytelling so dark that Walsh’s dark humor seeps through every
scene—also driving the story on.
The picture cost almost $500,000 to make; the studio paid Walsh
$17,500. After he finished shooting, however, the studio called in the
director Vincent Sherman to shoot another scene. Sherman was asked to
keep the shoot under his hat and to complete it “as soon as possible.” It
186 Raoul Walsh
concerned a group of newsmen at the trial just as they learn that Lana
has broken down and confessed the murder: “City desk! . . . [Each man
reaches for a phone.] The doctors say she’s daffy. Yeah, she’s gone nuts.
. . . They had to take her away in a straightjacket. The case has been
thrown out. Fabrini goes free.” Ironically, however, the scene blended
in seamlessly.
Warner Bros. released They Drive by Night on August 3, 1940, pre-
miering it at the Stanley Warner Theatre in Beverly Hills—this despite a
legal threat by the American Trucking Association that had both Harry
and Jack Warner worried. The ATA claimed that depicting Bogie’s char-
acter as asleep at the wheel was “detrimental to the trucking industry”
and “a direct slap at the effective safety regulations of the Interstate
Commerce Commission (a driver can’t go more than ten hours and must
rest every eight hours before returning to work).”7 However, the studio
headed off any legal action, and the film’s story stayed intact.
The studio tapped its brilliant publicist Martin Weiser to invent a
creative exploitation tactic to promote the picture. He made plans for a
fifteen-ton big rig to motor across the country collecting a host of “good
wishes” from the 500,000 members of the International Brotherhood
of Teamsters that, on reaching its West Coast destination, would be de-
livered to Ann Sheridan. Making numerous stops between Chicago and
Los Angeles, the truck accumulated the painted autographs of truckers,
mayors, and members of fan clubs. The big rig became big news and was
called “‘the Sheridan truck.’”8 Sheridan was not actually present.
The grittiness of They Drive by Night negotiates the world on uneasy
terms, a sense of loneliness and doom that never seems to lift. Sadness
and gloom exude from the characters’ faces, from their bodies, in fact.
Walsh managed characters such as these with great ease even though
he would never want to be praised for creating complex characters. He
would be far more interested in talking about the mechanics of a setup,
the aesthetic of creating a bit of action (curious for a director who Wallis
believed closed in on characters’ faces far too much). He also preferred
to talk about this fi lm’s production itself—about its unevenness and its
sudden change of focus about two-thirds of the way through, moving it
from Raft and Bogart to Lupino’s increasing nuttiness. “I guess they ran
out of the trucking idea and tacked on that ending with Lupino going
Out of the Night 187
Chase scenes are very easy to shoot. Just keep going, keep
going, keep going. Get on top of the mountain, turn around,
bring them down again, and just hope there’s nobody on the
road.
—Raoul Walsh
At the time Walsh was shooting They Drive by Night, Warner Bros.
was negotiating a deal to buy the writer W. R. Burnett’s latest novel,
High Sierra, which had been a Redbook Magazine Book of the Month
in March 1940, before Doubleday published it a short time later. From
the start, Jack Warner knew exactly what he had with High Sierra: a
fi rst-rate gangster yarn from one of Hollywood’s most prolific novel-
ists and screenwriters. Burnett had already penned Scarface and Little
Caesar for Warner Bros.; both pictures made the studio a good amount
of money. In a few years he would go on to write the screenplay for
This Gun for Hire (1943) and would pen the novel, The Asphalt Jungle
(1950). Burnett also wrote Walsh’s recent picture for Republic, Dark
Command. Walsh never had better material.
Loosely based on the life of John Dillinger, High Sierra follows the
story of a hard-edged gangster named Mad Dog Earle who, now just
released from prison in a deal fi nagled by his cronies outside, reboots
his life of crime by setting out with a group of thugs to rob a casino in a
California mountain resort. When the job is botched, Earle goes on the
lam with a woman he meets in the group, a dance hall girl named Marie.
Although he really loves a young girl named Velma who rejects him, the
desperate Earle begins to soften and falls for Marie. But, with the police
hunting him down, he attempts to escape by climbing atop a mountain
in the California Sierras, where eventually he is shot and killed.
Warner Bros. paid Burnett $12,500 for High Sierra and had a lucra-
tive property on its hands. It changed the story’s name several times—
from Back Canyon, to Gunman, to A Handful of Clouds, to I Died
a Thousand Times, to The Jagged Edge—before mercifully reinstating
Burnett’s original title.
The studio fi rst offered the part of Mad Dog Earle to Warner top
dog Paul Muni, who reluctantly agreed to take the role if the studio
Out of the Night 189
would also agree to back a favorite idea of his for a picture, a biog-
raphy of Beethoven. At fi rst Warners agreed to the deal then reneged,
angering Muni, who decided to get out of the High Sierra project—not
directly, but by rejecting each draft of the screenplay brought to him.
Essentially on his way out of the studio anyway, Muni got out of the
role of Mad Dog Earle in the end. Now all front office eyes fell on
George Raft, not the most well-liked actor at the studio, but one who
brought in decent enough box-offi ce returns. He was raking in a good
salary, and Jack Warner wanted to take advantage of it and make him
work harder for it.
Two other men in particular had their eye on Burnett’s Mad Dog
Earle. One was the up-and-coming writer-director John Huston; the
other was Bogart. The two would go on to collaborate on some of the
biggest box-office and critical successes Warners would see, including
The Maltese Falcon, The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, To Have and
Have Not, The Big Sleep, and Key Largo. When Bogart got wind of the
negotiations with Burnett and then heard that Paul Muni might not do
the picture (although the word around town already had him signed for
the part), he wired Hal Wallis but received no response. He wired him
again in a few weeks: “Dear Hal . . . You told me once to let you know
when I found a part I wanted. A few weeks ago I left a note for you
concerning High Sierra. I never received an answer so I’m bringing it up
again as I understand there is some doubt about Muni doing it.”9 Wallis
let it go for the moment.
A big fan of Burnett, the Warner writer John Huston became very
interested in High Sierra. Huston was up and coming on the Warner lot
after penning scripts with Lillian Hellman for Samuel Goldwyn Studios
and working on the screenplay for Goldwyn’s William Wyler–Bette
Davis project Jezebel in 1938. But, before Huston got a word in to Jack
Warner and Hal Wallis about High Sierra, the project fell into the hands
of the screenwriter Warren Duff, who informed Wallis that he thought
the story was “somewhat preposterous.” “The best part of the book,”
Duff said, “is the chase which covers the last third. Here again, the rela-
tionship between the man and the girl, the dodges he uses to escape the
law, etc., would all give Mr. Breen [the top-dog censor] a severe case of
hiccoughs.” “The book would,” Duff thought, “film as it is and come
out as a hard-boiled, sexy gangster-ennobling picture. But that, I under-
190 Raoul Walsh
Huston’s good story sense was helping ensure his rise at the studio.
He was no fan of George Raft and was less crazy about the idea of Raft
playing Mad Dog Earle. “Everything was intended for George Raft at
that time, and I was not among George Raft’s greatest admirers,” Hus-
ton said later. “I thought he was a clown, walking around in his white
suit with the padded shoulders and form-fitting hips, and bodyguards.
He was very much a Mafia type and liked to display it. And it turned
out, poor devil, he came to nothing. He refused everything that was
thrown at him. And he refused High Sierra. You know, he was really an
ignorant man. Poor devil. And I was delighted he didn’t do it because
Bogie would then play it. And I knew Bogie was a fi ne actor.”13 Huston
could analyze Raft in a way that Walsh would not attempt.
At this juncture, the studio still saw Raft in the role of Earle. By
now, They Drive by Night was a box-office and critical success, and
Jack Warner wanted to repeat that success and keep the winning team
of Walsh, Lupino, and Raft for High Sierra. He assigned Walsh to direct
and signed Lupino to play the part of Marie, Earle’s girlfriend. Since she
Out of the Night 191
choose an ascot tied around his neck whether or not it clashed with the
plaid jackets he liked to wear.15 Walsh insisted a deal be struck on the
set. No one was allowed to swear when the “young lady” was anywhere
in sight. She was still a teenager, after all. Walsh seemed serious about
his plan, even though he may have smiled when he turned around and
walked off the set. He had a teenage daughter at home also; Marilynn
was only a year or two older than Leslie.
Before shooting started, the Production Code boys jumped all over
Huston and Burnett’s fi nal script. On May 29, 1940, Joseph L. Breen,
who ran the office and dictated to the studios, told Jack Warner to elimi-
nate any suggestion of an “illicit sex relationship between Marie and
Roy.” “Also,” he continued, “the words ‘sub-machine gun’ were not to
be uttered by any criminal. There could be no unnecessary display of
fi rearms in the hands of the criminals.” Neither could the film reveal
“defi nite details of crime, as suggested by the dramatization of the hold-
up in the hotel and later in the drug store.” All swear words were to be
eliminated, and no mention of “God words” or “swear words” could be
heard. Also eliminated were lines from the script, such as Roy’s speech:
“We’re getting ready to knock over a bank . . . a bunch of coppers are
laying for us down at the bank . . . the fi nk fell out of his chair dead.”16
With a shooting script now in place, filming began just outside Lone
Pine, California, on August 5, 1940, even though numerous other loca-
tions in the area were also used. Walsh shot the climactic chase scene fi f-
teen miles west of Lone Pine on a slope at the side of Mt. Whitney, about
eighty miles from the “sink” of Death Valley. A group of twenty men
from the studio worked for four days to clear a path so that mountain-
trained mules, packing cameras and other equipment, could get up to
the shooting area. But the event most everyone remembered was Walsh’s
colorful wardrobe. Since the cast and crew did a good amount of hunt-
ing and fishing, Walsh wore a seven-colored jacket at Arrowhead and
Palm Spring locations—to make certain that hunters there would not
mistake him for a deer.
Bogart had to run three miles up a mountainside for two days for
the ending sequence, and everyone was surprised that the only injury he
received was a skinned knee. Walsh ordered all the big boulders removed
from the path of his fi nal fall, but the little ones remained, and Bogart
complained about that plenty. As a matter of fact, Walsh found him
Out of the Night 193
to a slow burning close.20 Like Walsh, Earle idealizes the past. In both
Burnett’s novel and Huston’s screenplay, he walks out of prison and into
a park where children play, almost as if he has walked back into his own
childhood. Walsh knew people like Earle, people who are hard on the
outside but soft and hurting on the inside. Marie is very much the same
the way Ida Lupino plays her. She loves Earle and clings to him because
she has nothing else, no one else, in her life. She shares her loneliness
with him, and, in the end, this sends her to her emotional doom. These
are characters lost at sea. It is the kind of loss that is not temporary but
defi ning of a character’s entire movement and view of the world. The
child in these characters prevails.
The last scenes in the fi lm sew up Roy and Marie’s fate: the long car
chase, the couple’s separation, after which police continue to chase him
until he abandons his car and runs up the mountain that he mistakenly,
or desperately, hopes will be his escape to freedom. He does manage to
get to the highest point on the mountain, but that turns out, ironically,
to be where the police shoot and kill him. The exciting chase is laced
with poignancy and action simultaneously.
Walsh paints Earle and Marie as lost and confused, even desperate—
enough to stay alive, but even more so to be able to belong to another
human being. He moves them slowly, and they are often tentative in
their actions and words. He closes in on their vulnerable faces and their
almost innocent plans (plans that are fruitless) to escape the world that
victimizes them. Responding to Pard, their dog, does Earle in. Another
Warner Bros. writer, John Wexley, looking at Burnett’s story early on,
prophetically saw the characters that Walsh ultimately gave the audi-
ence. Wexley wondered how Earle could ever be presented accurately,
yet Walsh delivered Earle on target:
What lends the story any real value is its pervading mood, its
primitive, simple, earthy quality—attained chiefly in the inti-
mate relations between Roy and Marie, and secondarily in the
uninhibited dialogue.
There is a vital question. . . . The author’s penetrating study
analyzes our gunman hero as a maladjusted farmboy who never
really escaped adolescence. It is this factor which continually
motivates every major act he undertakes. And how to success-
196 Raoul Walsh
A Revised Childhood
I’ll give you The Letter for One Sunday Afternoon and ten
points and a new bicycle.
—Hal Wallis to the producer Bob Lord
In one interview after another, Walsh said that The Strawberry Blonde—
based on the 1933 Broadway play One Sunday Afternoon—was his
favorite of all the movies he directed during the sound era. He liked the
time travel, as it were: what he considered the old-fashioned music, the
simpler characters, and the period dress. In other words, it brought him
back to his childhood, as he often said, probably unaware of that loaded
confession. After all, he also said, he grew up in that era. He deliberately
tried to sweeten the memory of his past, not so much because it was that
sweet when he was a youth as because that was the way he wanted to
remember that time in his life. He would sweeten his youth and extract
the bitterness from it for himself.
Walsh began working on The Strawberry Blonde almost immediate-
ly after High Sierra. Working consistently, even with time off for travel
to purchase quarter horses, was the best defense against watching his
fi nancial fortunes fall, rise, and fall again as quickly and as frequently
as Miriam Cooper could get him back in court. Segueing from the tragic
High Sierra to the light and sentimental Strawberry Blonde proved no
problem. He continued to practice what he preached—if it had good
dramatic potential, take hold of it. He was open to any genre because
he always felt confident that he could supply the emotional and physical
action to keep the story moving and make it entertaining. Little had
changed since his early years, and less would change in the future. At
this particular time, Walsh was as fi red up as Jack Warner was about
keeping the ball rolling on projects in development and production. Dur-
Out of the Night 199
ing the fi rst half of the decade at Warner Bros., he was less in charge of
his material than he recalled in hindsight. Nevertheless, he was stuck
with the best.
Now, with The Strawberry Blonde, Walsh could reimagine the past.
The Strawberry Blonde centers on two pals at the turn of the twentieth
century, Biff Grimes (Cagney) and Hugo Barnstead (Jack Carson), both
of whom fall in love with the same girl, the strawberry blonde Virginia
Brush (Rita Hayworth). Biff is crestfallen when Virginia runs off and
marries Hugo. On the rebound, he marries another girl who is part of
their circle, a nurse named Amy (Olivia de Havilland). Later, when Hugo
lets Biff take the fall for some of his shady business dealings, Biff ends
up spending a few years in prison. On his release, he realizes that Hugo
and Virginia are miserable and that he married the right girl, Amy, the
one he truly loves.
Based on a Broadway play of the same name, One Sunday After-
noon had been adapted in 1933 by Paramount as a vehicle for Gary
Cooper. But Stephen Roberts’s picture turned out to be the only real flop
of Cooper’s stellar and very carefully orchestrated career. Jack Warner
knew that the script needed a complete retooling, but he believed in
it—one reason being that it was a Cagney production from the start,
beginning as a pet project of James Cagney’s brother William, mostly in
service to the production company the Cagney brothers had set up so as
to get good parts for Jimmy. This nostalgic look back to the turn of the
century was their gift to their mother, Carrie Cagney, who would live
only a few more years.
Problems with scripting The Strawberry Blonde started almost im-
mediately after Warner saw the previous Paramount picture and sent a
memo to Hal Wallis: “Dear Hal . . . I ran One Sunday Afternoon last
night at my house. Of course the picture is very bad, but anyone who has
seen the show or read the script claims there is a great picture in it. It will
be hard to stay through the entire running of the picture, but do this so
you will know what not to do.”27
One of Wallis’s fi rst moves was get the brothers Julius and Philip
Epstein on the job transforming a bad script into a good one (they later
penned several classic Warner hits, including Casablanca). The trick
was to transform James Hagan’s play into a vehicle for Cagney, who
had yet to commit to William and to the project—even as Hal Wal-
200 Raoul Walsh
lis also considered giving the part to a young John Garfield. William
Cagney was brought in fi rst to confer with Wallis before approaching
Jimmy Cagney, who wanted a nostalgic part—any part—to take him
away from the gangsters he was loathe to play now. Wallis told Walter
MacEwen on April 20, 1940, “The Epsteins have gone into One Sunday
Afternoon very carefully, and conferred with [Bill] Cagney on it, and it
is their opinion that it requires a very complete new job. They feel that
to get a good picture out of it today would call for as much work as was
represented in getting Daughter’s Courageous out of Fly Way Home.”28
One thing was certain—Bill Cagney and the Epsteins wanted the story’s
midwestern locale changed to New York City because they all knew it so
much better. They were taking no chances.
Harry Warner wrote Jack from New York on July 26, 1940, “The
other day I discussed with Bill Cagney the subject of him discussing
with Jimmie Cagney the idea of him making an extra picture a year
for us without pay to help us along while the war is on. He advised me
he would take it up with Jimmie.” He was even prepared, he admitted,
to “give [Cagney] 10% of the gross.”29 But, by August, Jimmy Cagney
still had not signed on. Before he would, he needed some changes made.
He wasn’t crazy about the idea of a “remake,” but he knew he wanted
Walsh to direct. More importantly, he didn’t like the idea of playing
scenes with the very tall Jack Carson. Cagney objected—in his polite
way. He preferred Brian Donleavy instead; better still, he suggested the
even shorter Lloyd Nolan. But Nolan would cost the studio $2,000 per
week, and Carson could be had for $750. Despite Cagney’s misgivings,
Carson was cast in the part.
Though the part of Virginia Brush, the strawberry blonde, had ini-
tially been intended for Warners’ Oomph Girl, Ann Sheridan, she was
deep in another of her contract disputes with the studio and refused to
work in the film. Jack Warner asked Walsh to go talk Sheridan into doing
it. When she refused, the actress Brenda Marshall was tested. But Walsh
also recalled a girl named Rita Hayworth whom he had seen in a few
Columbia Pictures productions. He thought she was perfect for the part
and, after she was cast, without a hitch, from then on always referred to
Hayworth as his “find” (despite 1939’s Only Angels Have Wings).
Rita Hayworth received $450 per week to play Virginia Brush and
began work immediately with the makeup man Perc Westmore to fi nd
Out of the Night 201
the right look for the main character in what would shortly be retitled
The Strawberry Blonde. Hayworth required certain considerations.
“When you are making your decision of hair coloring for Rita Hay-
worth,” Westmore told Wallis on Oct 21, “will you please keep the
thought in mind that her head is so large and she has so much hair that
it will practically be impossible to put a wig on her. Whatever color you
decide on, she will be happy to have it made that color. Then, at the end
of the picture, we will dye it back to its natural color.”30 The picture
marked the fi rst time Hayworth was seen as a redhead and the fi rst and
only time in her career that audiences heard her real singing voice.
Always pleased to get free publicity, especially when it allowed him
to display his sense of whimsy, Walsh did a brief stint as a judge in a
local competition called “Baby Stars of 1940,” where new female tal-
ent was on tap. Thirteen young women were chosen and considered to
be the best bets for future stardom. “I am very interested to hear that
Raoul Walsh is back of a plan to revive the old Hollywood tradition of
selecting the 13 baby stars who have the most promise of succeeding,”
Louella Parsons wrote in her column. “A director from each major lot
will act as judge. Each studio will be privileged to submit two or three
girls under 21 years of age who have played not more than two speaking
parts.”31 Former winners of the contest included Janet Gaynor, Clara
Bow, Joan Blondell, Fay Wray, and Lupe Valez. The starlets chosen for
1940’s contest included the teenager Joan Leslie.
Shooting got under way on The Strawberry Blonde on October 21,
1940, with Wallis again complaining that Walsh shot too close to the
actors’ faces. In turn, Walsh kept his vow of silence whenever he could.
“I have spoken to you so many times about establishing shots and not
choking up on the people and I just don’t understand why you keep
doing it,” Wallis wrote to Walsh on October 29. “You have so much op-
portunity in this picture for atmosphere and composition that will bring
a nostalgia to the audience and I hate like hell to see one set after another
go by without full advantage being taken of what we have.”32 There was
Walsh, moving in closely on the characters’ faces again and changing
dialogue on the set. Wallis seemed to be the only one disgruntled by the
close-ups.
Wallis’s troubles and frustration varied according to which direc-
tor he supervised. With Michael Curtiz, on the set of Yankee Doodle
202 Raoul Walsh
Dandy, for example, he would send memos saying, “Mike, can you just
get the story on film, get it from the actors’ faces, instead of going all
over the place?” With Walsh it was, “Can’t you just use more of the sur-
rounding set, even getting an over-the-shoulder shot, instead of focusing
so intensely on the actors’ faces?”33
Walsh was not answering Wallis—nor was he always taking his
suggestions, causing an angry Wallis to fi re off another memo: “I don’t
understand how you miss these things. Put the camera on a dolly and
move it a little bit—move up on people instead of those short cuts from
one to another all of the time. . . . I wish you would think out ahead of
time every sequence you go into from now on, and figure the best way
in which to shoot it to get the most out of it in the way of business, cam-
era angles, and everything else. Let’s try to get some composition, and
some moving shots, and some interesting stuff in the picture.”34 Wallis
wrote to Walsh unaware that Walsh had already not only absorbed and
memorized the script but also created in his head a visual map of how he
would shoot. If anyone understood “the way of business,” and “camera
angles,” and especially moving shots, it was Walsh. If any director’s sen-
sibilities merged with Warners’ sense of realism, Walsh’s did. Eventually,
the memos stopped—and the fi nished fi lm has barely a frame in it that
doesn’t hug the actors. Wallis’s insistence that Walsh open the frame to
include the sets also faded into the background.
Olivia de Havilland had no recollection of Wallis’s frustration with
Walsh, nor did she have problems with Walsh’s decision to move in
closely on the actors. In the tender reunion scene between her character,
Amy, and her husband, Cagney’s Biff, near the close of the film, she had
a good opportunity to debunk Walsh’s tough-guy reputation. “I loved
working with Raoul,” she said. “He seemed to understand perfectly the
characters we were playing and to understand, too, the ‘actor’ approach
to them. It was a happy, harmonious set, a happy picture to make. I felt
Raoul was absolutely real with me. He inspired trust. He understood
humor and humorous situations.”35 Julius Epstein, in an interview late
in his life, said that Walsh “was great,” that he was “very businesslike,”
and that he “never changed a word” in the script (a point Epstein got
wrong as Walsh changed lines religiously). “Some writers complained
about Walsh,” he also said. “My experience with him was very good.”
Although Michael Curtiz “was a good director with the camera,” Ep-
Out of the Night 203
From a man who read the front page of the race track forms as much
as anything else and whose pictures for the most part lived separately
from the political and social world around them—rather, in the realm of
fantasy and adventure—this piece is predictable, a ploy to sell a movie
to the public during the holiday season. Walsh was not the type to rally
support for the man in the street trying to puzzle out Washington, and
he would be hard pressed to direct a movie with a personal or political
agenda.
asked Raft to work nights to make up the time. But, when Walsh asked
Raft to “cooperate” and work two nights on the time they lost, Raft
refused. Walsh then threatened him, saying they might cut out the tag
if he did not stay and do the work. But Raft just said “that was ok with
him” and walked off the set without completing one more shot needed.
Warner Bros. suspended him, and Walsh sent a memo to Wallis, “This
is one picture I will long remember.”40 Shooting ended on May 20, 1941,
but not before Raft and Dietrich had time to engage in a secret affair. At
least someone got on with Raft, if only temporarily.
Manpower earned critical praise when the studio released it in Au-
gust 1941. Walsh’s frame is charged with energy, beefi ng up the rivalry
between the two protagonists and infusing the visual storytelling with
high-voltage effects: storms rage, power lines are downed, and lives are
constantly threatened. His camera is energetic and continually moving.
But, however great the rivalry between the two men in the script, they
fail to ignite onscreen to the degree they did offscreen. Dietrich, who
was fulfilling a fi nal picture obligation with Warners, seems a fish out of
water in Walsh’s (and Warner Bros.’) gritty black-and-white landscape.
Her cavorting with Raft and Robinson seems forced, as if she would
rather jump out of the picture and into a lighter Paramount espionage
tale. Life magazine didn’t see a problem, however, and wrote, “As the
clip-joint babe, Marlene Dietrich sings a husky song, crosses a pair of
nifty legs, bakes a batch of biscuits and, as has become customary in
recent successes, gets slapped around.”41 Dietrich did look out of place
in the kitchen, as if her persona was too overbearing for the character, a
housewife married to Robinson, even if she did project the right kind of
world-weariness for a Warner Bros. picture.
rids herself of him, this was the kind of “parlor” picture Walsh knew to
avoid. But, when Huston, who was having great trouble keeping Davis
in line, suddenly became unavailable for a while, Jack Warner called
Walsh in to fi nish it, something Walsh was used to doing. Walsh was not
the fi rst man to fight with Bette Davis on this fi lm, but he was the last.
Olivia de Havilland later said that she was unaware that Walsh shot
fi nal scenes with Davis.42 Walsh, of course, had his own tall-tale version
of the episode, positioning himself as Davy Crockett taming the wild
bear of Warner Bros.:
John Huston was directing her in a picture, and they had a fight
about how the picture was going to end just before the end of
the shoot. She wanted it to end one way and he wanted it to end
another way, so he took a walk. Warner called me up and said,
“Raoul, this is one tough dame and I think you can handle her.”
That was the way he approached it. He said, “Will you go over
to Pasadena and make this ending so we can get this thing done
and get this dame out of the studio.” Nice girl, but really tough.
She’d demand this, that and the other thing. So I got into a car
with Bette. On the way to Pasadena we stopped for dinner [to
discuss the script with a new ending]. I said, “Bette, this will
probably interest you,” and passed it over. She read it and you
never heard such a volley of oaths in your life. The ceiling went
off from her screaming and yelling. People started to get up,
but I fi nally talked her into it after a couple of shots of laughing
water.43
tried to the best of his ability to get Miss Davis to do these shots but
she absolutely refused to play it that way, to be tied up with the cops,
and I had a tough time talking her into doing it any way. It took me
about twenty minutes to talk her into staying there on the location and
doing the scenes that we did get.” As Wallis became more frustrated,
Lou Baum, also on the set with Walsh, said, “Please be advised that
Walsh most conscientiously tried to cover this sequence in the manner
and in accordance with the instruction given him by Mr. Wallis in my
presence. Inasmuch as Bette Davis was adamant about not doing them
in accordance with these instructions, he defi nitely went into great detail
. . . to make sure that the sequence was covered as best as he could under
the circumstances.”44
Walsh threatened to walk off the picture just when Davis fi nally
submitted to a compromise—playing the scene a little Walsh’s way, a
little her own. Soon after that, word went out that there was to be a
change in the script: Davis was to be slapped around and thrown on
the sofa by her screen husband, Dennis Morgan. With this bold fantasy,
Walsh found a way to get his revenge on Davis and that Huston found a
Walsh-altered script when he returned. Walsh always did like his version
of any story best, and he did enjoy tinkering with a script. After all, with
its rocky start, 1941 had not been one of his most successful years as far
as the women in his life were concerned. And the road would be rocky
for some years to come, including a divorce from Lorraine and Miriam
Cooper’s continued attempts to take him to court, which mirrored this
battle of wits with Davis. Yet one light would beam down soon. The
next year, still married to Lorraine, Walsh would meet his third wife,
Mary Simpson, the love of his life.
9
210
One Thousand and One Nights with Errol Flynn 211
and his fellow contract writer Wally Kline to do just that. They came
up with a fictional biography (emphasis on fictional) of General George
Armstrong Custer. Hardin got lost in the shuffle to fi nd a larger-than-life
American icon. By December 1940, Hal Wallis okayed their treatment
and told them to develop an actual script. The two writers fi nished their
fi rst draft in early May 1941.
Warner Bros. was not alone in thinking that Custer had box-office
potential. Sam Goldwyn was also developing a fi lm about him—and this
may have been why Jack wanted a story so quickly, to beat Goldwyn to
the box office. Goldwyn got wind of Warners’ Custer story and fi red off
a letter indicating his dismay. In response, Warner fi red back his own
missive a few days later, on February 3, 1941, saying, “All the producing
companies in the industry cannot sit back and be stopped from making a
picture about the Royal Air Force just because one studio proposes to do
so.”5 Both Warner and Goldwyn had gone through this before. Although
speaking metaphorically, Warner let Goldwyn know in no uncertain
terms that he wasn’t running the show in this town.
By now, James Cagney was out of the picture, and after a brief flirta-
tion with Fred McMurray to play Custer (McMurray was ultimately not
available), the bad boy Errol Flynn was in—with Flynn’s most frequent
director, Michael Curtiz, set to direct. Flynn was finishing Dive Bomber
and would soon be available—and, to Jack Warner’s way of thinking,
he was taking home such a large paycheck he should be at the studio’s
beck and call.
After the actress Joan Fontaine turned down the role of Custer’s
wife, Elizabeth (Libby), the part went to her sister, Olivia de Havilland,
who had already made seven pictures with Flynn. This would be their
eighth and fi nal film together. Even years later, de Havilland looked back
fondly on this picture—the two actors were barely secreting a mutual
passion that now spilled over into what they knew would be their last
picture together. For Flynn, the prospect of working with de Havilland
again was enticing, but, when he failed to show up on time (as was his
habit) to begin work on They Died with Their Boots On, he found him-
self facing the fi ring squad in the person of his nemesis, Curtiz, who
had just directed him in Dive Bomber, where they continued their rocky
relationship. Now, as was his habit with Flynn, Curtiz began flinging a
barrage of criticisms at the actor. Flynn, as well as many others, saw it as
One Thousand and One Nights with Errol Flynn 213
Walsh was not doing so badly because his next option term, which starts
February 23, calls for $2,000 per week, and also that Walsh should not
forget the fact that he was given the chance of a comeback here when we
put him under contract with Howard Hawks’ deal, because Hawks had
a free-lance, one-picture deal only. I also reminded Jaffe that you had
been very nice to Walsh in advancing him funds in his fi nancial difficul-
ties during the past year, etc.”6
Jaffe told Obringer that Walsh was perpetually on his neck, saying
that MGM, Paramount, and RKO “are after him for a picture and he
could get $60,000 or better on the outside.” “I told Jaffe,” said Obringer,
“that the same was true with Bette Davis and any other artist—they
could get more on a one-proposition than under a term contract, and
that Walsh should not forget that he has the security here of forty weeks
guaranteed pay.”7
On February 8, 1941, Obringer again told Warner, “Raoul Walsh is
badly in need [of] five thousand cash . . . [but] Walsh still owes sixty five
hundred on ten thousand recently given him.” “Walsh wants additional
money,” he said, “and we get back at two fifty a week. As you know, all
his funds [are] tied up in account litigation. Please advise.” By March,
Warner agreed to give Walsh another $5,000, agreeing to postpone the
deductions on that amount until after Walsh finished repayment of the
$6,500 “heretofore” advanced him. Walsh was hurting badly, and look-
ing for ways to get funds was not an unusual situation for him during
these years. Warner refused to discuss this directly, even after Walsh
went to see him. Instead, he offered to loan Walsh more money, which
only frustrated Walsh, who responded: “Jack, as I told you, I have a
very grave problem and it cannot be solved with the bonus of $9,000,
although I greatly appreciate the gesture. Nevertheless my predicament
involves a great deal more money and the only way I can work myself
out of what has been a harassing and depressing condition is for me to
do an outside picture. This will give me enough money to pay off all my
creditors and enable me to have peace of mind once and for all.” Still,
Warner refused to let Walsh do an outside picture. By May, he decided
to loan Walsh $20,000 instead, and Walsh accepted. “It was indeed a
nice gesture,” Walsh wrote him, “and I will never forget you for it. If at
any time I can do anything for you, please feel free to call on me.”8 The
One Thousand and One Nights with Errol Flynn 215
fallout from betting on the horses had reached a crisis at this juncture
and would wax and wane for the rest of his career.
Walsh could rest a little easier now. He had what he wanted and
a promising picture to direct to boot. All bargaining aside, he was his
usual congenial Warner self throughout the production of They Died
with Their Boots On—business-like and even-tempered. He seemed
untouched by money problems and especially got on well with the fi lm’s
cinematographer, Bert Glennon, a veteran who had worked with Cecil
B. DeMille on The Ten Commandments and was a favorite of John
Ford’s, having just been nominated for an Academy Award for shooting
that director’s Stagecoach. Walsh would take Glennon out and ask how
it would be if they shot a particular scene here or there, this way or that.
If Glennon wanted Walsh to move a certain number of feet from where
he already was, and if it didn’t affect the background, Walsh would do
it. Walsh might ask for a change in lens, say, from a two inch to a thirty-
five millimeter. Also, Glennon was very cognizant of Walsh’s penchant
for using low-angle shots—Walsh called them side angles and extremely
low angles. The two worked easily together; their sensibilities simply
blended. Walsh was enormously pleased.
Walsh scouted locations and turned up a variety of areas to the east
and west of the studio. He spent a good part of July shooting scenes set
in West Point, Washington, DC, and Monroe, Michigan. The main gate
of West Point was really the Busch Gardens in Pasadena, California,
with the Warners back lot or its huge Calabasas ranch providing the
film’s other important sets. He was gathering Sioux Indians if he could
fi nd them; if not, he hired members of the local Filipino community to
be background extras. Anna Q. Nilsson, a young Gig Young, and the
athlete Jim Thorpe also joined the cast uncredited.
The script that came to Walsh for They Died with Their Boots
On is less historical documentation than escape into romance and
hagiography—a romantic rendering of Custer that heroicizes his life.
Walsh’s setups only heroicize Custer more, framing him in the center of
the action, catching him as robust yet quixotic. Olivia de Havilland re-
called that she was happy when the ace screenwriter Lenore Coffee was
called in to write additional dialogue.9 She would add a sense of realism,
especially to the last scene between Flynn and de Havilland depicting
216 Raoul Walsh
the Custers’ fi nal parting. Coffee received no screen credit for her work
(a condition to which she had agreed beforehand). She had been in the
business for years, adapting popular women’s fiction for the screen. She
wrote Bette Davis’s tearjerker that year, The Great Lie, and would soon
pen the Bette Davis–Miriam Hopkins melodrama Old Acquaintance.
Coffee was also the writing equivalent of Walsh, a “fi xer” who could
come in and tighten up a baggy script. The emotional tenor of the love
scenes between Custer and Elizabeth mirrored the real-life love affair
and the warmth they felt for each other during their happy married life.
A copy of Elizabeth Custer’s autobiography, Boots and Saddles, was
on the set during the production, but Coffee was probably the one to
take it most to heart, especially in writing the Custers’ last moments to-
gether. As husband and wife, de Havilland and Flynn play it as if know-
ing they’ll never see each other again. The dread Elizabeth/de Havilland
suppresses in those moments comes directly from Boots and Saddles.
Saying good-bye to her husband as he leaves for the Battle of the Little
Big Horn, Elizabeth Custer actually writes, “In the morning the farewell
was said, and the paymaster took sister and me back to the post. . . .
With my husband’s departure my last happy days in garrison were ended
as a premonition of disaster that I had never known before weighted me
down. I could not shake off the baleful influence of depressing thoughts.
This presentment and suspense, such as I had never known, made me
selfish, and I shut into my heart the most uncontrollable anxiety, and
could lighten no one else’s burden.”10 Elizabeth Custer’s words inform
the dread in this parting scene. Each knows it is their last moment
together. Walsh pulls back, allowing a subtle tenderness to hover over
them.
At the end of July, Walsh began shooting the Civil War sequences
to simulate Bull Run and Hanover. Always shooting the more difficult
scenes fi rst, he’d already fi lmed the spectacular sequence of Custer’s Last
Stand, in which the stuntman Yakima Canutt doubled for Flynn and
helped supervise the battle scenes. Walsh used approximately one hun-
dred mounted extras, many of whom he considered too inexperienced
for the work. Neither did this escape Wallis, who sent a memo to Walsh
on September 8, 1941, saying, “Please watch your choice of bit men
carefully . . . make sure that [each] is a capable actor, so that the scenes
do not let down.” This was not the fi rst time Walsh had problems with
One Thousand and One Nights with Errol Flynn 217
extras, but now they would worsen before production fi nished, during
which time three men were tragically killed. One man, George Murphy,
was drunk during shooting and ignored instructions to get off his horse,
then fell off the animal and broke his neck. A second man had a heart
attack while on top of his mount, and a third, an extra named Jack
Budlong (also known as William Meade), was actually impaled on his
own sword after his horse threw him. Worried, the studio wrote up a
full report, saying,
The scene was rehearsed twice after full instructions had been
given by loud speaker to the troop. In the scene which then fol-
lowed and which was shot by four cameras, the deceased ap-
peared to get as far as the division in the road, at which time
he appeared to swing a little to the left toward the bridge, his
horse balked in some way, and then reared. The deceased was
thrown or fell from the horse to his own left and apparently was
impaled on his saber when he landed on his back. . . . Mr. Bud-
long, after his fall, apparently arose and walked toward the side
of the road to a fence or barricade of some kind. There he was
given help by the men who fi rst arrived, and almost immediately
Mr. Roy Baker, the fi rst aid man in attendance arrived . . . the
entire episode not taking more than three or four minutes from
the time of the fall until he was taken away.11
Budlong died three or four days later in the hospital from apparent
peritonitis.
Later, Walsh said that he was the one who put Budlong into the lim-
ousine that arrived. Although he took the incident seriously and wrote
a moving letter to Budlong’s family about it, as the years passed the
episode and the entire production became filtered through his love of a
good, colorful story. In 1972 he remembered:
said, “No, I’m going to use this one.” The property boy argued
with him a while and couldn’t get anywhere, so he let him keep
the real sword. So we shot the scene and there were a couple of
explosions on either side, and he was thrown off the horse. The
sword was thrown up into the air, came down like that into
the ground, and him on top of it. I saw the whole thing and
ran down and pulled the sword out of him, called a limousine
and sent him to a hospital. Unfortunately, his mother wouldn’t
sign to let them operate and in three days the boy died. Another
cowboy who was pretty drunk fell off a horse and broke his
neck. Another fellow was watching the scene and evidently it
didn’t look too good because he had a heart attack and died.12
In with Flynn
Boots lives in the “reality” of romance, what Nathaniel Hawthorne
called the landscape way above our heads rather than the real ground we
tread. By living in the imaginary, the film forfeits much historical fact.
Walsh’s interest lies with heroes waging battles, men larger than life, the
province of imagination—the embellishment of true events. Nowhere is
this more evident than at the conclusion, when George Custer delivers
a touching and heroic speech to his regiment just before they ride off to
their fatal encounter at the Little Big Horn. Not only does he recall the
birth of the Seventh U.S. Cavalry; he does so in a way that encapsulates
the romance at the heart of the fi lm: “Men die, but a regiment lives on
because a regiment has an immortal soul of its own. Well, the way to
begin is to fi nd it, to fi nd something that belongs to us alone, something
to give us that pride in ourselves that will make men endure, and, if
necessary, die—with their boots on. As for the rest, it’s easy, since it’s no
more than hard work, hard riding and hard fighting.” Beyond the script’s
romanticism, this speech identifies Walsh’s romantic view of Custer just
as it binds director and actor. Walsh and Flynn found a common thread
in creating characters seeking to look heroic, men who above all else
One Thousand and One Nights with Errol Flynn 219
inspires Thursday to go against the social grain and act defiantly. Much
like Walsh and Ford, the two films seem friendly rivals in their views of
history and romance.
As successful as Boots turned out to be at its release in December
1941 and January 1942, the true success for Walsh was, as always,
played out off camera—the close personal relationship he developed
with Errol Flynn. It could be said, in fact, that Walsh’s relationship—
both personal and professional—with the swashbuckling Flynn was one
of the most satisfying of his life. Without question, Flynn became several
people symbolically collapsed into one in Walsh’s life: the son who could
substitute for the two real ones, Robert and Jack, Walsh neglected and
then lost, as well as a drinking buddy who was more of a brother than
a mere colleague.
Flynn was the “Baron,” and Walsh was “Uncle,” an affectionate
name Flynn used especially when he needed something from Walsh.
And, more often than not, what he needed was help getting out of a jam
with a woman or with Jack Warner. During the time they made seven
pictures together, Walsh often held Flynn together. At one point, at Jack
Warner’s request, Walsh literally had to get Flynn up every morning,
drive to get him, and deliver him at the studio on time. Had Walsh not
promised Warner that service, Flynn could easily have been ousted from
the picture. Also, as Flynn began one of his many episodes of fl irting
with a young starlet and promising her a part in a picture, Walsh was
in on it too. They had the scenario down pat. Flynn would see a girl he
liked. He’d call out to Walsh, “Uncle, Uncle, quick! . . . You see what
I see?” Walsh would snap his fi ngers and say, “Of course, you’re dead
right. You mean for the part of the sister?” There was no part, of course,
but they could whip one up if necessary. And, if Walsh saw a girl fi rst,
he’d say, “Hey, Baron, quick! What do you think?” And Flynn would
answer, “‘But of course—the part of the sister. What else?’” Flynn called
it “great teamwork; it worked like a charm.”13
The teamwork worked in life and on film. On the screen, Flynn
embodied Walsh’s dreams—walked around in them, made them move.
Together, they were a tough-guy version of Fred and Ginger—two artists
in synch. Walsh supplied the fantasy; Flynn supplied the charm. When
Warners released They Died with Their Boots On, the reviewer for the
New York Times saw the fi nished product and put it generally, calling
One Thousand and One Nights with Errol Flynn 221
Walsh and Flynn’s pairing “an adventure tale of frontier days which in
sheer scope, if not dramatic impact, it would be hard to equal.”14
By December 1941, the studio had in the works what would become its
fi rst wartime drama to show in theaters. Hal Wallis asked both Walsh
and Michael Curtiz to read the treatment of a story called Forced Land-
ing that the studio had just purchased for $1,000 from the writer Arthur
Horman. A month later, he asked Walsh to screen Carol Reed’s fi lm
Night Train to Munich, with Rex Harrison and Paul Henried—a war
melodrama about a couple who work to fight Nazis. Forced Landing
became Desperate Journey, and Walsh was paid $41,000 and change to
direct. He was soon out scouting locations.
Warner’s fi rst choice for the lead, Errol Flynn, received $80,000 to
star, and the entire production, with a shooting schedule of forty-eight
days, cost the studio $1 million. Wallis wanted Flynn to look as appeal-
ing as possible and told Horman, who adapted the script from his book,
“Please bear in mind that Flynn is the star of our picture, and that we
must give him plenty of situations and business. He must also have some
of the comedy routines as we cannot have him playing straight for all
the other characters at all times.”15 Horman didn’t disappoint; neither
did Walsh. The picture turned out to be a drama with a comedic edge.
The story of Desperate Journey follows the adventures of the Brit-
ish flight lieutenant Terrence “Terry” Forbes and his crew (which also
includes Ronald Reagan and Arthur Kennedy), who are forced to land
their aircraft in Silesia after hitting their bomb target against the Ger-
mans. Once on the ground, they are captured by the enemy and must es-
cape disguised as Germans. As they make their way across enemy lines,
they discover the location of a Messerschmitt factory, steal a German
bomber, and scramble back to England to report their fi ndings to the Air
Ministry. Despite some implausible moments—British antiaircraft estab-
222 Raoul Walsh
lishments never try to shoot down their bomber, for one—Walsh loads
up on some breathless action in this fast-paced drama, one of the more
thrilling in the Walsh-Flynn cycle. Ronald Reagan, Raymond Massey,
and especially the Warner regulars Alan Hale and Arthur Kennedy
(Wallis’s personal choice for the part) give good support in a picture that
delivers the prototype for Walsh’s tough-guy action with “guys” who are
vulnerable but courageous in the face of the enemy, supportive of one
another because it’s really the masculine way to behave.
Before Horman fi nished the fi rst-draft script, Universal Studios in-
formed Jack Warner that Walter Wanger was producing a film similar to
Desperate Journey called Eagle Squadron that, similar to Walsh’s fi lm,
included a scene where a British or Allied bombing crew, shot down or
otherwise grounded in Germany, attempts to make its escape back to
England by mosquito boat. Warners altered its story and used an escape
device of capturing a German airplane for the American soldiers’ return.
The device allowed the surviving principals, Flynn, Reagan, and Ken-
nedy, to bomb German targets on their way back to England, thereby
amping up the heroics. After Horman fi nished, at the beginning of Feb-
ruary 1942, Robert Rossen was hired to oversee his work. No stranger
to tough actioners, Rossen had cowritten The Roaring Twenties and
would go on to script All the King’s Men in 1949 and write and direct
The Hustler in 1961. More titles were considered, including Stars on
Their Wings and Objective Berlin, before the studio went back to calling
the picture Desperate Journey.
Shooting got under way on February 2, 1942, and lasted through
the middle of April. Walsh was on the set from 7:30 a.m. until 5:30 p.m.,
hardly altering his schedule once he began. Again, he had to keep Flynn
in line. Flynn began acting up right away, refusing to start work the day
the studio fi rst needed him (he told them he might be in New York or
he might be on the set), causing Wallis to worry throughout production
that, without Walsh on hand, Flynn would never make his 10 a.m. call
in the morning to brush up on his German with Walsh and to get his
wardrobe fitted.
Warners rented a European street set from Universal Studios and a
plane from the British air ministry—a Lockheed-Hudson—and used it
on location at Sherwood Forest above Los Angeles. This is the bomber
One Thousand and One Nights with Errol Flynn 223
that Flynn, Reagan, and Kennedy use to escape the Germans at the fi lm’s
conclusion; they tag it the Lockheed-Hudson GK. Walsh also shot chase
scenes at Point Magu, a spot of beach north of Malibu. Then Warners
went all out and got hold of some MGM newsreel footage of the bomb-
ing of Singapore. Walsh wanted as much realism as he could get in this
yarn. Wallis was just as much a stickler for it and sent Walsh a memo
telling him he wanted the cars used to be “of foreign type,” not “the
usual Buicks being used by the Gestapo, German Captains, etc.”16
Even on the first day of shooting, Walsh knew that he was unhappy
with the script. It was not realistic enough, therefore not good storytell-
ing. “I have just been reading the new pages of DJ [Desperate Journey],”
he wrote to Wallis, “and I may be entirely wrong but to me the story lacks
suspense. Each time a dramatic situation is created, it is spoiled by a lot
of gab that takes away from the urgency of the chase. We have reached
page 81 and have only just arrived at the fi rst big climax of the chase.”17
He told Wallis,
I have always felt that the story should be told in briefer, more
varied scenes. For instance, [a] shot of the boys drifting down
stream, carrying bush over their heads so that the guards would
not see them, would be most effective. They need to have
trouble and hardship. So far they are having a pleasant journey
rather than a desperate one. Following the present construction,
I would like to suggest that, after the “Peat Bog” scene, instead
of cutting to the men by the brook, we should have a short scene
with Baumeister. He could be ordering soldiers to cover all
bridges, roads, etc., since he knows that these men will try to
work their way toward the coast. This will give us some menace.
Walsh was full of ideas for change, all this to head off what he believed
was looking like a programmer. His approach to talking to Wallis was
level-headed and calm, the best weapon he could find. “Another thing
that occurs to me,” he said, “instead of picking up Lloyd on the empty
bridge we might have the men from a distance see the bridge crowded
with soldiers, as an officer dispatches them to search in many directions;
then let our fl iers catch up with Lloyd as he is almost discovered. Finally,
224 Raoul Walsh
though the train scene begins with great suspense, it becomes much too
talky. And to me, having the men kicked off the train has always seemed
an easy way of getting them out of their predicament.”18 Although the
scene on the train remained somewhat talky and glib, at least the men
were put in more jeopardy than before.
The script changes displeased Walsh, even after he sent that exten-
sive memo. He told Wallis a week later the story was still “very fl at and
dull.” “I don’t believe anybody is going to take it seriously that one plane
is going to do any damage to England or the water-works that can’t be
repaired over night,” he said. “The scene with the police is ridiculous.
Blood hounds are the only dogs that can run down a scent. The only
suggestion that I can make is to hold Baumeister off until they are just
about ready to take off; as though he picked up their trail further back.
It is probably unjust of me to criticize this ending for at the moment I
can’t suggest anything other than this; [the] plane might be on its way to
intercept Churchill on his way back from America.” He ended with, “I
wish I could feel your enthusiasm about this whole script, Hal.”19
Wallis disagreed, as usual, and sent Walsh a memo to that effect.
Then he mounted an attack on Walsh, the same day he complained to
T. C. Wright that Walsh was not using his extras as best he could:
Wallis never thought that Walsh rehearsed his actors enough, even
though Walsh was well known around Warners to rehearse at great
length before setups. Wallis also resented Russ Saunders on some level.
One Thousand and One Nights with Errol Flynn 225
Saunders, much like Carl Harbaugh and the writer John Twist, were
bosom pals of Walsh’s; where Walsh worked, they found jobs. Saunders
was Walsh’s perennial assistant director throughout both their lives.
Still not entirely happy with the fi lm’s script, Walsh wanted addi-
tional dialogue written. The studio hired Julius and Philip Epstein, who
were also working on the script for Casablanca, to add some dialogue.
Walsh sent a memo to Wallis on February 13 telling him, “The Epstein
boys have added a little zip to the script, why not let them continue
with it, and keep a little ahead of me. In going over the script last night,
I think for the story and laughs, we should try to carry Hale a little
longer in the script, where he uses his brute strength, chokes a guard
or something, or holds a closed door, and lets the others escape, and he
could be shot through the door.”22 Walsh thought he was almost there.
Hale was gone early enough to miss out on the Three Musketeers antics
during the picture’s ending heroics. He voiced this to Wallis.
“As there is quite a lot of joking in the script now,” Walsh said a
little later on, “I like it. I think it might be a good twist to have a sort of
a ‘Musketeers’ feeling of great comradeship between our men, frankly
they don’t think they have a chinaman’s chance of ever escaping, so they
are going to have a ‘Roman’ holiday, and do all the damage they can,
blow up all the military equipment they can lay their hands on.”23
But, throughout the fi lm’s entire production, Wallis was still never
happy with Walsh—or with Flynn. Soon after, he thought Walsh was
fooling around on the set when he should have been more serious. War-
ner himself got into the picture after Wallis complained to him. He sent
Wallis a memo, “I had a talk with RW last night and told him emphati-
cally that he must concentrate on his work and just not shoot and talk
while the scene is on, the usual routine we have both been talking about.
I also told him about adding some importance to the papers that Flynn
will pull, not just depend on the Messer-Schmitt victories. I told him
the next time he talked to you he should get your idea as from what I
gathered he did not know much about it. He answered with words to the
affect that Flynn’s mind seems to be somewhere else, etc.”24 This was not
an unusual turn of events.
Walsh and Wallis still sparred. Wallis wrote to Walsh a week later,
on February 19,
226 Raoul Walsh
Dear Raoul.
In your scenes today, please try to get a little more bite and
little more forcefulness into the performances. The last stuff of
Reagan in the bomb bay was so casual that he appeared to be
sitting there playing a piano—and I would like to get something
into the scene so that we get a tenseness and an excitement into
the scene—particularly where he is releasing the bombs. Don’t
just have him sitting there pressing buttons. When you get on
stage 16, please spend a half hour or an hour rehearsing your ac-
tion before you make a take, so that when your cameras fi nally
do start grinding, everyone will know exactly what they are to
do, and the performances will look finished instead of ad lib. 25
verify the report from our research department.”27 (A long memo fol-
lowed on the differences between the two types of dogs.) The confl ict
was never resolved, and Doberman pinschers were used instead. Walsh
decided, however, and Wallis agreed, that he would use a good number
of miniature machines—and, when he had to leave the set for two days,
during which time Eric Stacey and William Keighly filled in for him, the
miniatures stayed.
On March 23, Walsh told Wallis that he wanted to shoot the rest
of the daytime shots immediately and leave all the night work until the
end of the picture: “I am afraid that Flynn or somebody else might get
sick, and then if anybody catches a cold . . . we would at least have most
of the work done.” Walsh thought constantly about staying on schedule,
unaware that Warner was having his own difficulty with Flynn’s unpre-
dictability. Three days later, Warner told Wallis:
At lunch today I want to have a long talk with you about Errol
Flynn as this has become a very serious matter which I will tell
you about in person. You, Walsh and the others should run the
picture and see what we can cut Flynn out of in order to fi nish it.
If there are any retakes Flynn is in, maybe we can use a double,
and if they can dig up enough work along these lines, by all
means it should be done. Also you could give the script a fast
once over and cut it down to a minimum, for I am sure Flynn
is going to delay this picture as long as he humanly can and we
are going to be tied up with a cast and a tremendous expense.
However, I have another plan after this picture for Flynn and he
will probably wake up when it is too late. 28
One more glitch arose before the end of March, when Wallis noti-
fied Don Siegel (then directing footage at Warners, as he had done for
The Roaring Twenties), who was doing montage scenes on the picture,
“Ronald Reagan has been ordered to report to the army next week and
it is impossible to get any postponement of time on him. It is essen-
tial, therefore, that you have all your shots for montages which involve
Reagan laid out for shooting at such odd moments when you can use
Reagan—or in any event to start on the day following the completion
of his work in the picture.” This hurried production along even faster.
228 Raoul Walsh
Walsh took the poor notices for Desperate Journey in stride as he had
family matters to contend with for the moment. Miriam was on hiatus
from pulling him back into court, but, on March 27, 1942, to his and
Lorraine’s embarrassment, Walsh’s adopted seventeen-year-old daughter
Marilynn secretly wed her beau, Don Phillips, a struggling actor who
had been put briefly under contract to Warner Bros. Walsh had given
him a small part in Desperate Journey. But the studio canceled Phillips’s
contract when it became clear that he was about to be drafted into the
army air corps. The marriage was later announced in the Los Angeles
Herald Examiner. To save face, Walsh and Lorraine told the press they
were pleased about the union and said that Marilynn and Don had met
a year earlier at the home of Walsh’s brother-in-law, Walter Pidgeon.
The couple then publicly wed at Santa Barbara Mission, with Walsh
and Lorraine in attendance. Although the marriage lasted only a few
years—Marilynn later married the pilot Jean Charlebois and moved to
England—she named her first child with Phillips after Walsh. Her son,
born in 1944, was named Raoul Donald Phillips. A second child, Me-
linda, followed two years later, before the couple divorced. As for Walsh,
at this point in his now fourteen-year marriage to Lorraine, the two lived
at the same address but essentially led separate lives—other than the few
occasions their name as a couple emerged in the social section of the
Los Angeles papers. Walsh managed to stay at the studio for most of the
day, until he could break away for the racetrack. He would imply that,
while movies were his livelihood, horses were his passion. Before long,
his emotional distance would drive Lorraine to divorce court.
Just to add some chaos to his schedule, ten days after he fi nished
shooting Desperate Journey Walsh was slapped with a slander suit in
the amount of $100,000. A man named Summers Stickney claimed that
Walsh had called him a convict during a court appearance with Miriam
a year earlier. At that time, Walsh apparently backed up his statement
about Stickney with the comment, “Here is his criminal number from
San Quentin Penitentiary.” The case was thrown out, but Walsh failed
to learn the lesson that some of his quips could come back to bite him.
230 Raoul Walsh
Walsh was not behaving badly; he was behaving recklessly. After four
successful years, he was feeling his oats at Warner Bros.; he was more
comfortable letting loose. His friendship with Flynn didn’t hurt. Walsh
still had that wild side to him; as the years progressed, he let the tiger
out of the cage. The fact that he had owned a pet lion when he and
Lorraine lived on Petit in the San Fernando Valley—and kept it on the
property—might have meant something.
Adventure yarns were the easiest kind of escapism for Walsh, and he
directed them adeptly, coming away with the moniker action director.
But with his next outing, Gentleman Jim, he had the chance again to live
out a fantasy of childhood, just as he had when he directed The Straw-
berry Blonde. These escapes into the past, where one easily reimagines
a lost childhood, brought as much pleasure as the actioners did. This
new picture, a biography of sorts of the boxer Gentleman Jim Corbett,
centers on family ties and close-knit friendships. The look back at the
past brought with it for Walsh more possibility of seeing what his own
life was when he was young. Much like The Strawberry Blonde, Gentle-
man Jim is a conscious (perhaps even unconscious) yearning for a more
perfect world, certainly a simpler one. In this kind of film, Walsh creates
a stream of consciousness between genres: drama, comedy, romance,
and nostalgia, all fluidly changing from one into the other. One scene,
one form, flows easily into another and back out again, inspiring the
French producer Pierre Rissient, Walsh’s close friend, to say later that,
with Gentleman Jim, Walsh showed that he could have directed any
Shakespearean play with ease, moving swiftly and naturally between
tragedy and comedy with hardly a disruption. 29
Jim Corbett fi rst published his memoirs, The Roar of the Crowd,
in the Saturday Evening Post in five weekly installments beginning on
October 11, 1924. The Curtis Publishing Company later published the
memoirs as a book in April 1925, then sold the rights to Putnam that
same year. Warner Bros. bought the rights to Corbett’s story from his
widow, Vera Corbett, in August 1941. She also furnished the studio with
Corbett’s personal letters, photographs, and various other papers. The
story department later sent a report on The Roar of the Crowd, noting
that it contained “excellent possibilities, but not as a Cagney vehicle,
since he is scarcely the Gentleman Jim type of fighter.”30 With Cagney
One Thousand and One Nights with Errol Flynn 231
always fi rst in mind but now out of consideration, the studio went down
the list to look for the next possible candidate—and for a director.
In March 1943, the studio assigned Lewis Milestone to direct the
Corbett biography in what would have been his fi rst assignment at War-
ner Bros. had he not so vehemently disliked the script shown him. On
April 3, 1942, he told the picture’s producer, Robert Buckner, “Gentle-
man Jim is dull, slow, and in my opinion, without any entertainment
value whatsoever, both as a character and as a story.” He then added,
“The script so lacks all elements that go to make up any kind of picture
that this script comes off as a dull documentary on the prize ring.”31
Warners had the wrong director, even though he seemed right at fi rst.
Warners also showed the script to the director Vincent Sherman,
who actually liked it, before handing it over to its rightful owner, Walsh,
who told Jack Warner right away that it looked like “a swell set up.” “I
think,” he said, “I will be able to get a picture that will top ‘Strawberry
Blonde’ and that I will have no trouble in selling it to Errol Flynn as this
is the best part he has ever had.” Walsh then wanted to use Barry Fitzger-
ald and Sarah Algood as Corbett’s parents. “You probably remember
them from the picture, ‘How Green Was My Valley,’” he told Jack. He
saw Ann Sheridan for the romantic lead. “I believe the combination of
Flynn and Sheridan on the marquee would make a great box office at-
traction. If Sheridan is not available I would settle for Rita Hayworth.”
Just for good measure, Walsh reminded Warner, “My old man used to
tell me I was an Irishman with a yiddisher kopf. What do you think?”32
Actually, William Fox said that to Walsh years earlier—but why not
make his father look good?
Warner wrote to Walsh on May 19th, “Dear Raoul: I want to wish
you every success on the starting of Gentleman Jim. As I told you before,
I am sure it is going to one of the biggest productions you have ever been
in charge of.”33 Walsh appreciated Warner’s enthusiasm but was hardly
ruffled by the picture’s size. He was comfortable in having gotten Flynn
to play Jim Corbett, and he now thought Alexis Smith was just the right
match as Corbett’s romantic interest, Victoria Ware. Walsh surrounded
himself with the usual suspects in his extended Warner Bros. family. The
studio cast Ward Bond, often part of the Jack Ford stock company, to
play John L. Sullivan; also on board were Jack Carson, Alan Hale, Wil-
liam Frawley, and Carl Harbaugh. Even if he didn’t know it consciously,
232 Raoul Walsh
Walsh was thinking family when he planned this picture. He also cast
his seventeen-year-old stepdaughter Marilynn (although uncredited) to
play Corbett’s sister, Mary. Marilynn had just gotten married, and she
and her husband, Donald Phillips, still lived with Walsh and Lorraine in
the house on Doheny Drive.
Walsh began shooting Gentleman Jim on May 21, 1942, and fin-
ished two months later on July 23, even though the studio held its release
to November 25 of that year, just in time to exploit the picture’s nostal-
gic hue and, no doubt, collect some Thanksgiving turkey. The shoot was
unremarkable despite Warner’s words to Walsh about the film’s huge
parameters. The sportswriter Ed Cochrane and Mushy Callahan, the
onetime junior welterweight champ, coached Flynn until he got the box-
ing moves down to a fi ne art. Flynn’s schedule was simple and kept him
showing up on a regular basis: he would work out for two hours every
morning and be on the set by 10:00 a.m. It was not until the third week
in July, when the production was coming to a close, that he became ill
and had to be hospitalized, which put the schedule three days behind.
But Walsh caught up quickly; he refused to turn the picture in late—he
cut out three pages of the script just to save time.
Errol Flynn always considered Gentleman Jim to be his favorite
film of his career—and, whether or not he was aware of it, this thought
was a reflection of his feelings for Walsh. Of all the fi lms the two made
together, in no other did Errol Flynn better inhabit Raoul Walsh’s
persona—the brash sentimentalist, the reckless bad boy, the charmer
of women, the man who never stops longing for a chivalric world in
which to be a knight. From his fi rst frame to his last, as he walks out
of the picture sparring with Virginia Ware, Flynn is playing Raoul
Walsh. When the fi lm opens and the camera almost haphazardly fi nds
Flynn as Jim Corbett strutting up to a boxing ring with his pal Walter
(Jack Carson), he struts as Walsh would want to: leaning forward, he
almost dances as he moves. The fi rst opportunity he gets, he shows his
all-American ingenuity: he takes an opportunity when he fi nds it, and
he does it with aplomb, almost bombastically. Flynn is always playing
Walsh—the Walsh of Walsh’s dreams—brash, forward looking, light on
his feet, smile flashing, opportunistic, and, handsomely, ready to win the
jackpot, even to go look for it if there is a chance it is anywhere nearby.
One Thousand and One Nights with Errol Flynn 233
slows down, and then picks up again, before the cycle repeats itself. But
there is never a break in any of the action, any of the character’s growth.
Warners released the picture to equally robust box-office returns
and critical praise. Flynn’s genial performance, supported by Walsh’s
exuberant yet graceful depiction of his main character and the times in
which he lived, generated an infectious enthusiasm for the picture that
has grown by the decade. The New York Times said that the picture had
a “warm, earthy spirit” and enough good qualities “to make it a satisfy-
ing show for anybody’s money.”34 Walsh could take pleasure in the work
he accomplished with Gentleman Jim, and it was a personal triumph to
boot—one that consisted of drifting back into his own past and finding
the best parts of what made him him. He liked himself best in moments
such as these, and he would almost have to concede that filmmaking
could be personal.
Gentleman Jim was a good defense against the financial and emo-
tional chaos Miriam threw into his life. Lorraine was not much of a
buffer in their marriage, but at this time Walsh met someone who could
be: Mary Edna Simpson, a nineteen-year-old beauty whom Walsh fell
madly in love with the moment he met her and who became his third and
fi nal wife. In his autobiography, Walsh writes about the time he fi rst met
this striking blue-eyed blond, thirty-six years his junior. He had gone to
look for horses in Lexington, Kentucky, and when he went to a breeder’s
home, Mary opened the front door. For a man uncomfortable with love
scenes, Walsh found himself smack in the middle of one. The story of
how the two met may be truth, and it may be fiction, but nevertheless,
by the early 1940s Walsh was in love again.
Mary Edna Simpson, born in Lexington in 1923, had had a child-
hood not unlike that of Miriam Cooper. When she was a young child,
her mother, Inez, died, leaving Mary, two sisters, and one brother to be
cared for by their father. Unable to meet that responsibility, the father
put his children in an orphanage. Six years later, their paternal grandfa-
ther took them out and raised them himself.
After meeting Mary, Walsh stayed away from the Doheny house
more often, telling Lorraine he was going out with friends—or even go-
ing away fishing for a few days. It didn’t take Lorraine too long to figure
out what was going on. By the mid-1940s, Walsh and Mary moved into a
One Thousand and One Nights with Errol Flynn 235
house together in the San Fernando Valley and lived there, “illegally,” as
Lorraine later claimed, until they married in Mexico in 1948, two years
after Walsh and Lorraine would divorce. Walsh loved Mary deeply, but
whether he could be faithful was another matter entirely. For now, at
least, he saw no farther than the beautiful Mary.
10
By now Walsh was living fully the scenario he’d concocted long ago:
he’d hardly fi nish one picture, and the next morning the studio would
throw a new script on his front lawn. He used to say this about working
for Griffith, but now he could just as easily say it about Warner Bros.,
where the fictions he’d already directed came barreling out of the pen at
a quick pace. It seemed as though there was no space of time between
them. And, when he wasn’t on the set, he was at the races, not much
with Lorraine, but instead with Mary, the new love in his life. Mary was
born and raised in Kentucky, where he often went to buy horses. If he
imagined that he had met Mary there, so be it.
In early September 1942, just before the studio released Desperate
Journey, and before Walsh began work on Background to Danger, Jack
Warner and the producer Jerry Wald asked him to help get them out of a
jam. Wald was producing Action in the North Atlantic with Humphrey
Bogart, who had just come off the set of Casablanca. But, in the middle
of the production, the director Lloyd Bacon’s contract with the studio
ran out. Refusing to fi nish the picture without talk of a new one, Bacon
walked off the set, and Warner fi red him. Warner and Wald asked Walsh
to step in and direct some of the action sequences until the new director,
Byron Haskins, took over. Those sequences are the only mark Walsh left
on the picture, even though its second unit director, Ridgeway (Reggie)
Callow (who would also work with Walsh on the upcoming The Man
I Love and Cheyenne), learned a thing or two from them: “Walsh . . .
taught me more about action set-ups than anyone in the business. . . . For
instance, if you’re shooting a sequence of horses riding down a moun-
tain, and they couldn’t come down very fast, he had a way, an absolute
knack of placing his camera in the right position to get the greatest effect
236
In Love and War 237
out of the stunt. In other words, many directors would do the same
stunt as Raoul Walsh would do, but they’d have the camera in the wrong
position. It was a question of enhancing the stunt.”1 Walsh would quip
that it was just part of the job, tossing it off nonchalantly the way Flynn
would toss off the danger involved in saving the life of one of his men in
his last espionage picture. He kept silent about the great pleasure he took
in manipulating a complicated shot.
But Flynn was nowhere around when Walsh shot the first of what
he called the “three quickies” he “knocked off” the next year—Back-
ground to Danger, Northern Pursuit, and Uncertain Glory.2 He went
into production on Background to Danger almost immediately after
his work on Action in the North Atlantic. He knew that it would be a
business-as-usual adventure yarn. Still, he probably wasn’t smiling when
he learned it meant working with George Raft again. Like him or not,
Walsh produced a more than credible adventure film with this project.
Initially intended for Flynn, the part went to Raft instead. In this
entertaining thriller, Raft plays a very crafty American in neutral Turkey
during World War II who gets mixed up with some smarmy characters:
Peter Lorre as a Russian agent and Sydney Greenstreet as a Nazi. But
Walsh’s nonchalant attitude toward the material did not get in the way
of his capable direction and hardly lessens the story’s excitement, which
is characteristically nonstop in this picture as well as Northern Pursuit
and Uncertain Glory.
Not surprisingly, Walsh playfully subscribed to the script’s view that
good old American ingenuity and know-how can seize the day in any
situation, especially during wartime. The scenario is simple: Americans
are smart; Europeans (especially Nazi-affi liated ones) are not. One of
the earliest scenes in the fi lm has Raft outsmarting one of the locals
when his character, Joe Barton, skinnies out of paying for a pack of gum,
pulling one over on the local merchant who sold it to him and who is
dumbfounded by Raft’s quick getaway. Sly fox that he is, Raft leaves the
man looking beguiled.
This sets the playful tenor—until the game playing becomes more
dangerous. Barton unwittingly gets involved in a series of dangerous
plots. He is asked to protect some photographs that prove Turkey is
about to invade Russia and then is even asked to become a Nazi agent.
238 Raoul Walsh
But no one can outwit Raft in this movie and get away with it. In the
end, he helps get the evildoers put away and lights out for his next Eu-
ropean assignment.
Despite all the action, Raft was no Flynn, and although Background
to Danger traipses across dangerous European terrain with the rhythm
of a high-speed train, as a story it lacks a certain charm and depth with
Raft doing the running. Warner Bros. took the novelist Eric Ambler’s
fairly complex hero and the wartime spy situation and essentially made
milquetoast of them. Raft insisted that the screenwriters give his char-
acter a great deal of swagger, insisting also that they change him from
the ordinary guy, Joe, Ambler wrote to a supersmart secret agent. Joe
Barton’s depth of soul became lost in the doing.
The story was in trouble long before its production start date,
September 1942. The producer Robert Lord told Wallis that the script
looked as if “it might have been written at Monogram or one of the
small, independent studios”: “It is quick, slovenly, cheap and sloppy.
The characters are conventional types, mechanically forced into prepos-
terous situations.”3 The melodrama looked to be on a level with Flash
Gordon and similar comic strips. Wallis wanted the picture taken off
the schedule—that is, before the studio did a turnabout and put not only
W. R. Burnett on it but also an uncredited William Faulkner, this just
before Faulkner asked to be released from his contract with the studio
because he disliked screenwriting so much. John Huston briefly showed
an interest in working on the script but at the time was distracted by
attempts to film an adaptation of Herman Melville’s Moby Dick with
his father, Walter Huston, playing Ahab. After sitting in on story meet-
ings for a brief time, Huston walked away from Background to Danger.
Eventually, Warners had Burnett write the script, one of the few he pro-
duced at the studio that barely rises above the superficial.
Jo Graham, a Warners dialogue director, had just been promoted
to feature director and was scheduled to direct this picture before the
studio decided to go with Walsh instead. Once Walsh got working, the
picture started moving—this despite the behind-the-scenes scuffle be-
tween Raft and Peter Lorre in what seemed to Walsh a repeat of the
Raft-Robinson fight on the set of Manpower. Walsh liked a good boxing
match as much as the next man but not if it interfered with him getting
a picture finished. Raft’s personal assistant, Mack Grey, recalled that,
In Love and War 239
in one particular scene, Walsh had Raft sitting tied up in a chair when
Lorre walked around him blowing smoke in his face. Raft asked Lorre
to “knock it off,” which only encouraged Lorre to blow more smoke
and laugh at Raft. Later on, Raft retaliated by clobbering Lorre over the
head while he sat in his dressing room. A different version, offered by
Lorre’s stuntman, Harvey Parry, had Lorre doing his own stunt work
with a cigarette in a scene that also included Raft and the actress Brenda
Marshall. When asked by Raft what he was doing, Lorre replied, “I’m
stealing the scene.” Raft asked him whom he was stealing it from, and
Lorre replied, “From you and Brenda.” Raft asked how, and Lorre said,
“They’re like you, they all watch me.” This remark irritated Raft, who
then called Lorre “a son of a bitch”—and after the scene fi nished, he
asked Lorre not to do it again. Lorre responded with, “Georgie, I do
what I want, you do what you want. I wish you good luck.” So Raft later
went to Lorre’s dressing room and belted him, knocking him from the
sofa where he sat. Walsh then grabbed Raft and told him, “Now come
on, George. He’s just a little guy.” Walsh tried to make peace between
the two but no doubt had to turn his face the other way to hide a smile.4
The otherwise uneventful shoot, which lasted from September 28,
1942, to the middle of November 1942, was shorter than the shelf time
the picture put in. Warners didn’t release Background to Danger until
July 3, 1943. Word was not great. The ever-astute film critic James Agee
wrote:
Eric Ambler’s stories are not yet getting very good breaks on
the screen. Orson Welles’s Journey into Fear had sophistication
without much journeying, in the kinesthetic sense of the word,
still less fear. Background to Danger has plenty of danger,
in lively motion at that, without a background keenly drawn
enough to make it really dangerous. Short of the really “cre-
ative” men, Raoul Walsh is one of my favorite directors; but—
besides thoroughly enjoying it—you could use this fi lm for one
kind of measurement of the unconquerable difference between
a good job by Hitchcock and a good job of the Hitchcock type. 5
Walsh directed his wife, Miriam, along with Ralph Graves, in the 1922
drama Kindred of the Dust. The more melodramatic the part, the more
Miriam liked it; there were plenty such parts to go around as Walsh and
Miriam worked together frequently during their marriage. He remained
her favorite director. Courtesy the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and
Sciences.
Walsh thoroughly enjoyed mingling with the natives in Tahiti when he shot
Lost and Found on a South Sea Island (later shortened to Lost and Found)
in 1923 for the Samuel Goldwyn Co. Miriam and their son Jackie accompa-
nied Walsh on the trip, but Walsh deleted their presence on the island when
he published his autobiography in 1974. Courtesy Kevin Brownlow.
Walsh among the Fox elite during a company luncheon in the mid-1920s. Courtesy
the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences.
Captain Flagg (Victor McLaglen) holds a dying young soldier (Barry Norton)
and learns the humility he sorely needs in Walsh’s eloquent and haunting
antiwar fi lm What Price Glory? Courtesy the Academy of Motion Picture Arts
and Sciences.
The Walshes (on the right) joining in for a weekend with William Randolph Hearst
(center), this time without Hearst’s mistress, Marion Davies. Courtesy Eddie
Brandt’s Saturday Matinee.
Walsh and his wife, Lorraine, in the mid-1930s, visiting his horses
at a California stable. Courtesy the Academy of Motion Picture Arts
and Sciences.
Walsh, Lorraine, and Lorraine’s daughter, Marilynn, returning to Los
Angeles from a European trip in the mid-1930s. Walsh adopted Mari-
lynn when she was very young, and the two stayed connected even after
Marilynn’s marriage in the mid-1940s. She named her fi rst child Raoul
Donald Phillips, partly after Walsh, and partly after her husband, Don
Phillips. Courtesy the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences.
Bogart, Ann Sheridan, and George Raft steer the hard-knocks drama They Drive by
Night, Walsh’s blend of darkness, gloom, and poetic lyricism. Photograph in author’s
collection.
Walsh and his adopted son,
Robert, stand outside a Los
Angeles County courthouse
on April 3, 1940. Although
eighteen years of age, Robert
sought to have Walsh named
his legal guardian, stating in his
petition that the alcohol abuse
of his adoptive mother, Miriam
Cooper, made his home life in
New York intolerable. Robert
won his bid and lived intermit-
tently with Walsh. Later on,
the two became estranged.
Courtesy Photofest.
Walsh and Bogie enjoy a good laugh on the set of High Sierra.
Everything turned out right on the picture: Bogie got his fi rst shot at
being a leading man, and Walsh solidified his standing as a Warner’s
gem. Courtesy Photofest.
(Above) Errol Flynn, Walsh, and
Olivia de Havilland share a light
moment on the set of They Died
with Their Boots On, a serendipi-
tous fi lm for all three: Walsh and
Flynn began their close working
relationship, while de Havilland
and Flynn saw the end of their
eight-picture run together—and
the romantic fi re between them.
Photograph in author’s collection.
Ida Lupino and Walsh at the Macambo nightclub in Hollywood, 1945. The two
made four pictures together: Lupino had the right combination of toughness and
vulnerability that made her the perfect Walshian dame. Courtesy Photofest.
Walsh and Errol Flynn on the set of Objective, Burma! the classic
war picture that gave Flynn one of his most successful roles. Courtesy
Photofest.
Walsh and Mary with Dennis Morgan on the set of Cheyenne in 1945.
Walsh sometimes removed his signature eye patch and sported only a
bandage over his missing right eye. Courtesy Eddie Brandt’s Saturday
Matinee.
Teresa Wright, Walsh, and Judith Anderson on the set of the psychological western
Pursued. This fi lm and the upcoming White Heat and Along the Great Divide
mark Walsh hitting his stride with a spate of Oedipal-driven stories of male anxiety.
Courtesy Mary Walsh Collection.
Trouble ahead: the psychotic icon Cody Jarrett holes up in the car with the two
reasons he goes up in a great ball of fi re in White Heat, Ma Jarrett (Margaret
Wycherly) and the always unfaithful Verna (Virginia Mayo). Photograph in
author’s collection.
Mary and Raoul Walsh greeting the 1950s on a European vacation.
Courtesy Mary Walsh Collection.
Gregory Peck, Virginia Mayo, and Walsh go over the script on the set of 1951’s
Captain Horatio Hornblower at Denham Studios in England. Walsh considered this
sea adventure the most difficult fi lm of his career. Courtesy Sir Ken Adam.
Rock Hudson dries off after dipping in the water during production on 1953’s slip-
pery tale Sea Devils. The picture also took a dip with audiences and critics. Walsh
personally groomed Hudson when he had the actor under personal contract before
placing him at Universal Studios in 1949. Courtesy Peter Newbrook.
Walsh and his “bad boy” friend, the writer John Twist, in the early
1950s. Twist and Walsh were close for years, although some at-
tributed Walsh’s box-office fall in the 1950s to the screenplays Twist
wrote for him. Courtesy Mary Walsh Collection.
Walsh was back in legal hot water again, settling out of court charges
of misrepresenting a horse he sold for $700. The Berman Stock Farm
accused Walsh of representing that thirteen of fifteen mares he sold were
in foal and that three colts, also included in the sale, were registered
Thoroughbreds. Berman contended that only one colt was born, that
four of the mares were blind, and that one horse was so starved that
it could not be moved. Additionally, he charged that Walsh provided
no registration papers to the stock company. The story made the local
papers even though Walsh was able to settle without too much more
notoriety. His fi nancial worries never truly abated, and if he saw a way
to fi nd extra funds, he might take advantage of it.10 Bad behavior some-
times lurked in the background.
Colleagues who worked on pictures with Walsh would never think
of him as a dishonest man; instead, they might assume he made a mis-
take or overlooked the small print on a legal document. Most of his
colleagues viewed him with an affectionate eye. He could be impishly
irreverent on the set, and, certainly, he brought a bundle of idiosyn-
crasies to the plate. For one, he dressed impeccably, whether he wore
a sports coat or a western jacket. He might have a scarf or an ascot
tucked into his shirt, and he was sure to fi nish off the ensemble with
a pair of English riding pants. All this presentation offset—or seemed
oxymoronic to—the loose tobacco he continually spilled on his pants, a
hazard that came with his incessant habit of rolling his own cigarettes
and creating a circle of tobacco all around the chair he sat in or the area
in front of the camera should he happen to be looking through it. If he
ventured away from the camera, as he did more often than not, his crew
and actors could easily trace his whereabouts by following the tobacco
trail he left in his wake.
By the mid-1940s, Walsh had established his reputation at Warners
as a tough action director who occasionally dipped into nostalgic set
pieces or light comedy. But, when he now stepped onto the set of the
implausible comedy The Horn Blows at Midnight, he took what many
considered a wrong turn. The lightweight plot had the comedian Jack
Benny playing a trumpeter in a radio orchestra who falls asleep during
commercial readings and dreams he is an angel in heaven commissioned
to destroy the earth by blowing his trumpet at midnight. The character
244 Raoul Walsh
pulling the strings is the Big Chief (the character actor extraordinaire
Guy Kibbee), who is disgusted with the way people treat each other on
our planet. Benny does his bidding for him.
Mark Hellinger seemed an odd choice to produce this out-of-sorts
comedy, adapted by Sam Hellman and James V. Kern from a story writ-
ten by Aubrey Wisberg. Even a lilting score by Franz Waxman could
not alter the awkwardness of the action; in fact, it seems to enhance its
dissonance. The actor Richard Erdman, who would appear in Walsh’s
Objective, Burma! recalled years later that The Horn Blows at Midnight
was the talk of the Warner Bros. lot when the shoot began but that it
was considered ruined because Walsh was the wrong director for the
light-footed comedy.11
Initially called Come Blow Your Horn, the picture had a golden cast
that included Benny, Alexis Smith, Dolores Moran, Reginald Gardiner,
Guy Kibbee, and Margaret Dumont. The picture was actually a reunion
for Walsh, Alexis Smith, and the cinematographer Sid Hickox, who had
all worked on Gentleman Jim, although Walsh and Hickox would pair
fairly often at the studio. The script was still unfi nished when Walsh
began shooting on November 27, 1943, but that never bothered him; he
was just as happy to write it himself as he went along. Walsh shot the pic-
ture on the Warner Bros. lot and, for the exteriors, took his actors down
the road to Griffith Park, just southwest of the studio. When shooting
concluded on February 3, 1944—although Warners did not release the
picture until a year later, on April 28, 1945—Walsh had mixed feel-
ings about what he had in the can. Those feelings were matched by the
Variety critic, who called the picture “a lightweight comedy that never
seems able to make up its mind whether to be fantasy or broad slapstick.
There are some good laughs, but generally The Horn Blows at Midnight
is not solid. . . . Generally the chuckles are dragged in and overworked.
Heaven as depicted, is certainly not a very soul-satisfying spot.”12 Benny
quipped for years afterward that blowing this horn spelled taps for his
movie career, albeit brief as it already was.
But Walsh never measured real success by a picture’s performance at
the box office—he saw it in the personal friendships he came away with
afterward. Good box office or not, this picture left him with a touch-
ing momento he kept for the rest of his life on his living-room table—a
silver cigarette case his good friend Jack Benny gave him. The top of the
In Love and War 245
case had “RW” engraved on it; inside, Benny had a personal message
engraved: “Dear Raoul, This case is for cigarettes so that you don’t have
to roll your own. Jack Benny.”13
charges. As part of the money she owed Walsh, the constable of Beverly
Hills was instructed to seize her 1941 Cadillac Sedan from her address
on South Reeves Drive. Apparently, working for Walsh was profitable
on many accounts.
This case marked another episode in the ongoing fi nancial insta-
bilities of Raoul Walsh—and his constant concern over having enough
money. He was up one day, down the next—and, despite the good
money the studio paid (and loaned) him, it was never quite enough. Nor
was he ever really on top of his financial affairs. His money often just
slipped through his fi ngers—or through someone else’s. It seemed that
Morehead had gotten away with more than Walsh had bargained for,
although she received her comeuppance in the end. The episode had
the making of a good thriller if someone had just added a good clip to
the events.14 It might have been no coincidence that Walsh’s litigation
episodes throughout the years bore more than a passing dramatic resem-
blance to the adventure stories he directed.
Dueling Memoirs
Dear Jack: The trailer I saw yesterday on “Objective, Burma!”
had a good sock wallop to it. Why not put my name on it and
make it a knockout?
—Raoul Walsh to Jack Warner
By the middle of April 1944 Walsh was out of the courtroom and back at
the studio immersed in directing what would be a full-fledged critical and
fi nancial knockout for both Flynn and him—the producer Jerry Wald’s
pet project Objective, Burma! Alvah Bessie wrote the original story,
although, after that, many hands dipped into the till. Finally, Walsh also
put in hours on the ever-evolving script, collaborated with Wald and the
screenwriters Ranald MacDougall and Lester Cole, and carved out a
taut, hair-raising story. Final screenplay credit went to MacDougall and
Cole. This was MacDougall’s fi rst big project for the studio.
That month Walsh began scouting locations that would simulate
the heat-drenched terrain of Burma and decided to shoot the film on
the outskirts of Los Angeles: in Whittier, at the Providencia Ranch in
Glendale (later the site of Forest Lawn), at Busch Gardens in Los An-
In Love and War 247
track could be removed in those particular spots. Walsh, who never liked
calling for numerous takes, wanted the story as lean as possible—a fact
that again got him into some hot water with the studio. Warner execs
thought he wasn’t getting enough backdrop into his shots, a complaint
that he fought off yet again so that he took the shots he wanted of the
actors. There were scenes in the picture where two, maybe three cameras
were used—not necessarily the six flaunted by the publicity department
when it came time to write up production notes for exploitation.
Mattison also reported, on May 11, that Flynn was being Flynn. He
had tried to get Flynn on the phone twice in the afternoon the day before
and four times that night but couldn’t reach him. A woman answered
the phone, promising that Flynn would be back after dinner. But another
call found the phone to be off the hook. Then Mattison reported on May
22 that he talked to Walsh about the problem and was told that they had
better prepare and have a couple of days ready for work without Mr.
Flynn. Walsh knew Flynn well by this point, and he knew exactly when
to anticipate an episode of “Flynn missing-in-action.” He also knew
how to work around him. Said Mattison, “You know that Mr. Flynn
has worked for five days straight and about one day in nine he usually
stays home. However, we are protected and can work at least three days
without Flynn if we have to.”18
Jerry Wald was writing scenes as the shooting progressed, and Flynn
was unhappy with what he was getting. Mattison reported on June 19,
“As you know, Mr. Errol Flynn has refused to come out to work today.
I had Mr. Jerry Wald on the phone last night and again this morning
and it is up to him to straighten it out.” Flynn was waiting for some
promised script changes, but what he received looked unchanged. He felt
that he was walking through the picture and that “not a damn thing has
happened since the picture started where anything other than routine
dialogue and walking has been photographed.” The fact was that the
picture’s story line called for Flynn and his men to be walking endlessly
through the terrain. If Flynn had complaints, he never made them well
known to Walsh. “This is in Jerry Wald’s lap and I just hung up the
phone, telling him that we could take about nine setups without Mr.
Errol Flynn,” Mattison said. Flynn returned the next day and accom-
plished a great deal of work.19
But Flynn was perturbed by the studio’s treatment of him, meaning
250 Raoul Walsh
the insistence that he fly right. He was also upset by what he considered
the substandard living conditions he had to endure during the production.
He never told Walsh a thing. He took his flair for words and later com-
piled a clever but biting letter to the production manager, T. C. Wright:
Flynn had copies of this letter made and sent to Warner and Trilling.
If Walsh knew of the letter, he no doubt found it amusing despite
his own occasional irritation with Flynn. But he was most perturbed
about the weather, which was too hot and steamy more times than not
and put a huge dent in his schedule. To make matters worse, for the fi rst
time in their association, he and James Wong Howe sharply disagreed
about some of the shots and almost came to blows. On June 16, Mat-
tison reported, “The difficulty between our cameraman and the director
252 Raoul Walsh
Alvah Bessie found few heroics in one particular portion of the Objec-
tive, Burma! script. He had misgivings about some of the fi lm’s dialogue.
Concerned about the picture’s inherent racism, he sent Jerry Wald a let-
ter voicing his objection to a scene in the fi lm in which the newspaper
correspondent says, “The Japanese should be wiped off the face of the
earth.” He thought, as, he noted, did Lester Cole, that the statement was
dangerous and should be taken out of a picture that “so sedulously avoids
political statement of any kind.” While he thought Japanese “atrocities
should be dramatized,” it should be made clear that “such atrocities
are not the private property of one nation or one race or people.” If the
studio left the line in, it would be “falling into the enemy’s trap.” Bessie
reminded Wald that the studio had deftly handled the same problem
in Destination Tokyo when Cary Grant “made it plain that people can
be trained from childhood to be brutes—or they can be trained to be
decent human beings.” He suggested that, if it were technically possible,
the correspondent who makes the statement should be rebutted by one
of the soldiers; otherwise, the speech should be cut.23 But the statement
(uttered by the Walsh regular Henry Hull) was left untouched and re-
mained in the picture. Walsh liked to think of himself as the epitome of
racial tolerance, but he often failed to see a racial slur even when it was
under his own nose.
Warner Bros. gave Objective Burma! a big promotional blitz, begin-
ning with a press screening in New York. Against his better judgment,
Jack Warner wanted Flynn to be there. So he made certain his star had
an escort who could get him to the theater on time and keep him out
of girl trouble to the best of his ability. Who better than Walsh, who
could coax a screen performance out of Flynn even when Flynn didn’t
have it in him and could make sure that he showed up on the set in the
mornings? Jack Warner refused to speak directly to Flynn anymore—es-
pecially since Flynn had marched into his office and offered him a bucket
254 Raoul Walsh
with the word tears printed on it, to be used, said Flynn, the next time
the studio screamed poverty—so he called Walsh into his office to ask
for his help.
Objective, Burma! received sterling reviews, and Warner Bros.
decided to make the most of any publicity it could get. Walsh talked
for years about the time Warner sent him to accompany Flynn in New
York in conjunction with publicizing Objective, Burma! He had to keep
Flynn from drinking too much whiskey (the studio would have to foot
the bill)—and from buying too many dozens of roses for all the women
Flynn met and fell in love with during their brief stay. But even Walsh
could not keep Flynn from falling in love while in the throes of a roman-
tic and whiskey stupor. When Flynn threatened to jump out the window
of their room at the Waldorf-Astoria, Walsh looked on with affectionate
chagrin. He even managed to get some photographers into the room to
talk about the picture they were there to promote.
Objective Burma! didn’t cause the racial stir Bessie feared it might;
instead, it caused a different kind of stir in Great Britain, fi rst among
veterans groups, then among the military, and later among the press
itself. Since the Burma campaign was primarily a British and Austra-
lian one, the picture seemed an insult to these men in the way that it
Americanized the Burma campaign, just one more example of the way
Americans portrayed themselves as winning the war single-handedly.
Flynn’s heroics were so believable that the film was pulled from release
in Britain just one week after it opened. While it opened in New York
on February 17, 1945, the British held the film up one year. The lord
chancellor pulled the picture after the British press became enraged. But
that didn’t stop filmgoers in England from trying to get into a screening,
especially when one turned up at Leicester Square before the picture
went on hiatus.
When Warners reissued Objective, Burma! in Britain in 1952, the
film appeared with a statement claiming that it contained no anti-British
sentiment. Anti-British or not, Walsh was inspired enough to reuse the
story of Objective, Burma! when he directed Gary Cooper in Distant
Drums, his 1951 fi lm set in the Florida Everglades.
strokes. His plots heave rather than thrust. His dialogue is sparse, little
more than spoken subtitles for pictorial effects. He wins no Academy
prizes and makes no dull movies.”24 Other reviewers called it a picture
of bold deceptions, a story Damon Runyon might have penned about
the double-crossing that goes on in the backrooms near the tracks. The
picture opened without audiences understanding how much Walsh put
of himself in the setups—the mischief, the playfulness, and the fl irtation
with being a bad boy as much as a good one.
costs, sent out a memo dictating that scripts had to be shorter. Ever the
agreeable workhorse, Walsh wrote to Trilling on March 30, “I received
your good sound letter on over-length pictures and I for one will go on
record by stating that I will not start any picture with a script over 140
pages.”29 Walsh was well versed in bartering with studio boys.
Petey (Sheridan was often fi rst choice for many starring roles, even
though many of them ultimately went to other actresses), and he then
saw Lupino—or even Olivia de Havilland—playing Sally, Petey’s sister.
But continuing problems with fi nishing the script made it necessary for
Sheridan to move on to another picture. Warner also considered Bogart
or Gable to play Petey’s love interest, San, a piano player with a mel-
ancholy past, and John Garfield to play her troubled neighbor, Johnny.
None of these choices worked out any better than the Sheridan idea.
Tunes written by George Gershwin give The Man I Love a serious edge,
even though the mood often swings over to a kind of cynicism that
clashes with Gershwin’s more classic mood. Uncharacteristic of Walsh,
the story’s tone is moody and melodramatic, but he and Lupino’s cynical
view of the world tone it down just enough.
The story follows a very independent single woman and New York
nightclub singer, Petey Brown, who, when the story opens, we fi nd sing-
ing with a band after hours in a club, moving around the musicians,
a cigarette in her hand and the blues in her heart. Petey has a world-
weary heart when it comes to men and the resigned attitude to prove
it. After singing a soft, lulling little number with the guys, Petey tells
her girlfriend that she is leaving New York and moving to Long Beach,
California, to be near her brother and two sisters. She misses them, and,
anyway, there’s no man to keep her in New York. He got away long ago,
and, as Petey tells it, a good man is hard to fi nd. She doesn’t expect one
to be stopping by anytime soon.
Once in California, Petey snuggles into the family’s emotional dis-
cords, trying her best to take care of everyone while coping with a prey-
ing mantis of a new boss (Robert Alda) at the nightclub where she now
sings and a lover (Bruce Bennett)—that guy did show up, it seems—a
talented has-been of a piano player who cannot forget his fi rst wife and
sulks about the life he once had and cannot seem to reclaim. He takes
Petey’s ready heart with him wherever he goes. Petey goes on being the
solid base for her family and the understanding woman to her man, who
ultimately leaves, just as the audience thought he might stick around for
Petey.
Even though she plays the good girl here, Lupino does at least get a
chance to be Lupino and to throw some verbal zingers at the audience.
In one scene, walking up the stairs in the nightclub, she sees her trouble-
In Love and War 259
some next-door neighbor and says, “Well, well . . . the people you run
into when you’re not carrying a gun.” The line seems straight out of
a gangster yarn, which this fi lm is certainly not, and its tenor comes
straight from Walsh, who tinkered around with the script all through
production. Taut and tangy, Lupino still puts out those fi res and slaps
a louse good and hard in one of the fi lm’s better moments. Petey still
embraces a longing and long-suffering look in the picture’s last shot—as
her lover leaves town for a stint with the merchant marines (he wants to
straighten himself out). She turns from him at the dock and walks away
from the station and into a close-up that tells the audience that she sees
a future where happiness might fi nd her someday soon. As she tells her
sister in the previous scene, she is leaving Long Beach and heading out
for who knows where; she believes something she cannot exactly name.
But the audience knows that the something has a man’s name on it.
Irving Rapper (whom Bette Davis always claimed took direc-
tion from her exceedingly well on the set of Now, Voyager) was Jack
Warner’s fi rst choice to direct The Man I Love. But Rapper had other
commitments, and Warner then considered both Vincent Sherman and
Walsh and for a short time could not decide between them. The Warners
screenwriter Barney (Benjamin) Glazer sent Warner a memo suggesting
that Vincent Sherman would be better suited because “he knows these
young people better and is more sensitive to their language and their
problems.”31 Not easily swayed by this missive, Warner chose Walsh in
the end. He could depend on Walsh to take Petey and get her cynicism
on the screen quick and dirty.
The unit manager Frank Mattison called Walsh “very pliable” on
the set and hoped that this meant they would get through the picture on
time.32 Lupino didn’t have much of a singing voice, so Walsh had all her
numbers dubbed—as close to her speaking voice as possible. Also, Bruce
Bennett continually found it difficult to learn how to play piano—the
instrument his character, San, is an old hand at—so Walsh kept him
practicing throughout the shoot. Lupino, who was exhausted from the
“grind” of her oncoming divorce from Louis Hayward, was often late
to the set, claiming either that her alarm clock was not working or that
she didn’t have one. Mattison, who was usually pleased with the steady
pace that Walsh kept on a picture, complained to Trilling about him
almost daily. He was rewriting so much of the script that the produc-
260 Raoul Walsh
tion fell behind schedule and went over budget—very unusual for Walsh.
What was worse, Walsh was rewriting off the cuff and jotting none of
it down on script pages. Walsh kept saying to let it go and forget it; he
was satisfied with the progress the company was making, and he had
given the screenwriter Catherine Turney (and himself) a free hand to do
as he pleased. He was comfortable with this, but the script girl found
it impossible to keep track of what had and had not been shot. As late
as three weeks before production was to end, Walsh was still rewriting
material, even if he was being patient with all the chaos on the set these
changes caused.
Still, the assistant director on the picture, Ridgeway Callow, remem-
bered Walsh going at a “very fast” pace:
I don’t think Raoul was much help to the cast at any time, but
he was great as far as set-ups were concerned. I remember . . .
Ida Lupino . . . came up to Walsh and asked a routine question
about a scene, but her language was earthy, to say the least.
Raoul’s answer was equally rough in the language department.
And I was looking at them back and forth like a tennis match.
It was the same on any of Raoul’s fi lms. And you know, as far
as coming in the morning and knowing what he had to do for
the day—he used to say to me, “What the hell happens in this
sequence?” You’d have to go into detail and tell him. But by God
it didn’t take him any time at all to pick a set-up. I’ll say that.
Raoul probably picked set-ups faster than anybody I’ve ever
worked with. He’d say, “All right, put the camera there, boys.”33
could not shoot the angles he wanted. The shoot fi nished on September
22, nine days behind schedule—unusual for Walsh. Midway through
production, another event sent shivers and worry throughout cast and
crew: the United States dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima. In this
state of unrest, the production went on.
On fi rst reading the script, Breen’s office found it unacceptable be-
cause of its “low moral tone” as well as the “implications of adultery and
illicit sex on the part of the principals.”35 When Warner Bros. released
the picture two years later, critics were unkind, but moviegoers loved
it. Newspaper ads showed Lupino sitting on a piano with a cigarette in
her hand, wearing a tight, sexy gown. “There ought to be a law against
knowing the things I know about men.” Another ad had her saying,
“The more you know about love, the more you’ll love this picture.” Petey
was a woman who “had a song on her lips and a man on her mind.” The
picture left an impression on the director Martin Scorsese years later:
he claimed that it was the main inspiration for New York, New York
(1977). This was the woman’s melodrama rearing its head again; Walsh
had directed a woman’s film with a bite to it.
life and officially separated from her husband. She told Louella Parsons
in a phone call that she was “definitely through” with Walsh and that
he had not been home “for the past three weeks.” The only thing to do,
she thought, was to separate from him. The news appeared in Parsons’s
syndicated column the next day.36 (Walsh later said that he had gone
on a fishing trip without telling her.) When Lorraine eventually filed
for divorce, her chief complaint against her husband was that he would
never talk to her anymore.
11
Oedipus Wrecked
The Late 1940s at Warner Bros.
Walsh was in good spirits. In January 1946, three months after he and
Lorraine separated, she began divorce proceedings, seeking a property
settlement involving the house on North Doheny. Claiming mental cru-
elty, Lorraine said that she wanted to end her eighteen-year marriage to
Walsh because he no longer would talk to her. She knew who her rival
was, even if she never said so directly. Walsh was glad to give up the
Doheny house; he was already living with Mary in the Valley—for the
rest of his life he would remain on the outskirts of Los Angeles, where
he could have the horses close to him and not have to pay good money
to board them at a racetrack or purchase a separate piece of property in
order to house them.
While he was still shooting The Man I Love in the fall of 1945, Walsh
rekindled his interest in Cheyenne, a rather routine western adventure
yarn he had thought about, then dropped, in the beginning of the year.
The writer Alan Le May, whose novel The Searchers later became the
basis for John Ford’s classic 1956 film starring John Wayne, originally
brought the story to Warners’ attention. The author was Paul Wellman,
who would later pen two popular novels of the day, Apache and The
263
264 Raoul Walsh
Comancheros, both later fi lmed as vehicles for Burt Lancaster and John
Wayne, respectively. Both Le May and Wellman had occasional ties to
Warner Bros. and, more importantly for Walsh, also had deep interests
in action stories set on the western landscape. That wide-open space
with its huge mountain ranges in the backdrop would always be Walsh’s
favorite place to fi lm, and, from the late 1940s on, he’d be there more
than anywhere else, directing westerns.
Cheyenne tells the tale of a gambler named Jim Wylie, a good-look-
ing, velvety-voiced smooth talker who arrives in the city of Cheyenne
having escaped from a nearby town after killing a man in a gambling
dispute. The local sheriff in Cheyenne catches up with him, and in order
to save his skin and not get sent back to be hanged, Wylie makes a deal
to help track down a mysterious local bandit known as the Poet, who is
responsible for a series of Wells Fargo stagecoach robberies. Setting out
to catch his thief, Wylie also gets tangled up with two women—one,
Ann Kincaid, thought to be the Poet’s wife, and another, Emily Carson,
who may or may not be his girlfriend. One more notch in the script
has Wylie forced to do battle with another small-time outlaw named
Sundance who adds some color to the story but is killed off early in
the picture. Cheyenne was a run-of-the-mill western that nevertheless
grabbed Walsh’s attention: he wanted to get back to the West.
Walsh thought Humphrey Bogart would be perfect to play Wylie,
along with Ann Sheridan, of course, as Anne Kincaid and Errol Flynn
as the Poet. In August 1945, Walsh asked Steve Trilling for the script.
Worried that it wasn’t fi ne-tuned enough to show to Bogart, and with
Le May and another writer, Emmett Lavery, working on it, Trilling took
over three months to deliver it to Walsh. At this point, Robert Buckner
was on board as producer.
Walsh and Steve Trilling were unhappy with the script they saw. It
was full of plot holes and inconsistencies, and they said so in a memo
to Jack Warner while including their own idea for a new plot outline.
This so outraged Buckner, who wanted control, that he began sending
a barrage of long memos to Warner and Trilling stating his disapproval.
He thought that Walsh sabotaged him and demanded that, if Walsh was
to have that much control over the story line, then he, Buckner, should
be taken off the picture. “Walsh’s attitude toward the entire script has
been obstructive from the beginning,” Buckner said. “Last week when
Oedipus Wrecked 265
I gave him the last half of the script to read, he had no criticisms or
suggestions for changes. I asked him to come to my office before I sent
through the last half for mimeographing so that we could discuss any
point of objection, which he might have. He told me on the phone that
he had nothing in mind and that I should send it through as it was. . . .
Now he turns around and wants to tear the whole thing apart again.”
“I think in all fairness,” Buckner added, “it should be remembered that
I have done a great many more Westerns than Walsh and that I should
certainly be consulted before Walsh’s changes are forced into the script.”
He also said, “I never had a script on which there has been this much
friction with the director, and under the circumstances I do not look
forward to going into production on it with him. If he does not like the
script, you know as well as I do that he will not shoot it with conviction
or communicate any enthusiasm to the actors.”1 Walsh wasn’t intention-
ally playing with Buckner or trying to anger him; neither was he always
forthcoming with the producer about his reworking of the script. He was
sometimes less than communicative.
Eventually, Buckner cooled down, even though he obviously knew
Walsh better than some—he could easily lose his “conviction” and
“enthusiasm.” In all this, Walsh never blew up; he just kept quiet and
kept moving, never again mentioning his disapproval of the script. The
fi nished screenplay was credited to Le May and Thames Williamson,
but Jack Warner’s fi ngerprints were there also. “The Colonel feels very
defi nitely that the character of Ann Kincaid should not be a Goodes
saleslady,” Trilling told Buckner in January 1946. “If it is possible to
get the girl to sing a good hit song similar to some sunday morning
or along the santa fe trail, so much the better as this type of song
never misses. Although a dancehall girl is always used in every Western
picture, we will take the chance that it is a cliché setup—san antonio
is the answer to it and while we do not want to repeat everything we
have done before, we do want a good colorful success as a picture in
cheyenne.”2
Of course, the higher authority, Breen’s office, had approval rights
over the script and ordered some changes. There could be no use of the
word outhouse if it meant “outdoor toilet.” Nor could dialogue contain
the phrase she excites me or she contents me. Care had to be taken with
animals, the sheriff was not to die at the hands of bandits, and there was
266 Raoul Walsh
With Wyman’s hair bleached a lighter color, the cast began shooting
March 11, 1946.
Walsh’s behavior on the set was consistent with that of someone who
had lost his enthusiasm, except for those times when Mary came by to
visit. He was on the set by nine in the morning if need be, and he shot the
film without getting behind schedule—retaining his reputation as the ev-
er-reliable workhorse. Shooting concluded on May 27, 1946. But, when
Cheyenne opened in New York City on June 14, 1947 (some accounts say
June 6), audiences saw a story fueled by Walsh’s characteristic energetic
pacing but also seriously muddled scriptwise, a judgment that Buckner
would, no doubt, see as a reflection of the ambushes he thought Walsh
earlier carried out against him. Looking more than a little schizophrenic
around the edges, if not straight up the middle, the picture shows signs
of having had too many hands involved. If, as Buckner claimed, Walsh
tried to take over the script and make it clearer, or at least alter it to his
liking, the move did not altogether work. Mood swings characterize the
story’s quick transitions from comedy, to romance, to adventure story.
If Walsh tried to outmaneuver the Breen Office, as he often said he did,
the picture is good proof of that. The characters throw blatant sexual
verbiage at each other throughout. The sexual tension between Wylie
and his two female cohorts is the picture’s most consistent conceit. Wylie
and Ann enjoy sexually charged chitchat, and they pose as husband and
wife in the story, a masquerade the censors let go. Also, there are some
sexual moments involving Paige and Wyman and a bathtub, an unusual
circumstance for the time. Ultimately, and by no means consciously on
Walsh’s part, Cheyenne is far more interesting as a sexual farce than it is
as a western action story. Walsh’s way of handling Breen’s office was, as
often happened, to get around it.
Blonde (1941) and Objective, Burma! (1945) for Warners. (On The Spi-
der, Walsh worked uncredited—credit went to the set designer William
Cameron Menzies—and Howe was listed as James Howe, an effort to
offset the racism he encountered in Hollywood for a long period in his
early career.) Now, with Pursued, Howe and Walsh worked as they had
previously—integrating their like-minded love of a realistic frame, this
time so amplified that the shots take on almost a kind of surrealism,
extremely appropriate for the often-fractured psychology that drives the
film.
Many people who knew Walsh thought that Warner was crazy to
give him the picture with its incest-bound family, a group of serious neu-
rotics if ever there was one. Walsh, with his eye for natural landscapes
and his deep enjoyment of lusty male bravado, seemed “one of the least
neurotic men in Hollywood” and an odd choice to handle neurosis and
deeply hidden anxieties. It was reported later that “Walsh asked Busch
to stay nearby during shooting and be ready to tell him what the hell
was going on.”4
Walsh and Howe’s collaboration went even further. Not only did
they broaden the story and the characters by placing them in a huge and
shadowy black-and-white physical and psychological setting, but Walsh
also opened up Jeb’s character by getting Mitchum’s facial expressions to
mirror a perpetual, natural innocence—thereby making him vulnerable
to anything good or evil coming his way. Walsh’s connection with the
material, however, goes even deeper. The film’s overriding concern is
loss and grief, natural territory for Walsh, who in one way or another
was drawn to these subjects and found his way back to them time and
again. That Jeb loses his home is not lost on Walsh, who in the deepest
sense lost his home when he was young. The homeless soul, like Roy
Earle or Marie of High Sierra, fit Walsh naturally. As Jeb wanders about
seeking a home while at the same time losing that place, he embarks on
an unconscious, unplanned journey to recover a part of himself that he
has lost. This is the only fact he knows about himself until the story’s
end. He takes a detour, if a slight one, from many of Walsh’s heroes: like
many, he seeks to recover something lost. But he is more innocent than
the rest.
Walsh shot the picture from the fi rst week in August 1946 to Oc-
Oedipus Wrecked 271
tober 12 at Red Rock Mesa near Gallup, New Mexico, and Dark Lake
Canyon, north of Gallup. Cast and crew traveled to shooting locations
by means of a specially chartered train of fifteen cars that transported
one hundred players, cameramen, and technicians, along with tons of
equipment, props, and twenty-one trained saddle horses, from Holly-
wood to location spots.
Midway through shooting, Anderson spoke of her commitment to
the picture in a publicity piece aimed at the broadest readership possible:
Only a few weeks ago, Judith Anderson was in New York plan-
ning some plays, getting married and selling her home in Hol-
lywood. Now you fi nd her hard at work at Warners on what
should be her fi nest picture role to date, the head of a feuding
New Mexican family in 1890. The title remains unmentioned.
But “It is a good part,” she says. “The woman is chic and the
story is dramatic.” “You should have been on the ranch yester-
day,” she says. “We had a whole town built there. Certainly I
shot it up and drove home wild horses around the place. This is
quite a picture.”5
And this was quite a public relations maneuver, typical of the press at
the time—the oddest and the most ordinary scenarios roped together
and delivered to readers hungry to know the details of movie production
and actors’ lives.
When Walsh fi rst scouted the area of Gallup, there were no animals
to be seen. Neither were there any after shooting began. But, soon, loads
of sheep, cattle, and dogs showed up and had to be cleared away. Navajo
braves in the area volunteered for the job at the rate of ten cents a head.
A week after shooting began, Walsh took a morning off to venture
into a Los Angeles courtroom to defend his old friend “Bear Valley”
Charley Miller of drunk-driving charges. Not only had Walsh just cast
Charley in a small part in Cheyenne; the two friends went back to silent
days. Walsh described him as one of the great “bottle men,” his other
major talent being his ability to drive a stagecoach and four horses “with
terrifying skill.” Walsh used him in most of his pictures, whether he was
drunk or sober—“he drove better when he was drunk”—but, inevitably,
272 Raoul Walsh
the intake of what Walsh called “Napa juice” made Charley more a men-
ace than a friend—a fact that Walsh could never see in all the years they
remained close friends. Walsh kept his old friend on his personal payroll,
and Charley was usually to be found on a Raoul Walsh set, working—or
drinking—or not. The day Walsh went to court for Charley, October 23,
1946, a photograph showed the two men standing close together with
Charley lighting a cigarette. He offered an outrageous story to defend
himself but failed to get off without a fine.
Filming Pursued offered Walsh plenty of opportunity with this ter-
rain to capture what became his signature long shot—lone men riding
a horse and seen against the backdrop of huge mountains that dwarf
them. This shot could open a fi lm or show up in the midst of one, such
as in the upcoming Colorado Territory and, using two riders, later in
The Tall Men. Now Walsh again incurred Howe’s anger (as he had done
when they worked together on Objective, Burma!) over shooting these
long and longingly held shots. Walsh in turn became irritated with his
friend, who, to him, seemed more obsessed than usual with lighting set-
ups. He tried to make the best of it—even with Busch, who was around
for most of the shoot. He just referred to Busch as a man enamored of his
own scripts. But Walsh and Mitchum became instant friends and stayed
friendly for the duration of Walsh’s life. Years later, Mitchum famously
described Walsh’s style of working on Pursued:
“It’s just a day’s work,” Mitchum once told Richard Schickel later.
In that vein, he said:
But Walsh was the all-around nice guy, said Harry (Dobe) Carey
Jr., who played Wright’s doomed suitor in the picture. He found him
to be “a tremendously nice man—too nice . . . maybe I needed more
guidance. He left you pretty much alone.” He remembered: “After I did
a screen test for the part, Walsh said to me, ‘Let your hair grow,’ instead
of ‘You’ve got the part.’8 Walsh was easy to please. Judith Anderson had
attitude. And Teresa Wright, who was a total sweetheart, was terrified
of Mitchum, and was afraid he would deck her and wreck her. As a joke,
Walsh had Mitchum carry Teresa over the threshold and over to the
bed and drop her there, looking down at her as if we were going to rape
her.”9 Wright never trusted them after that. Walsh continued his habit
of setting up a scene, then turning his back and walking away when the
scene actually was being shot. It was the same. He knew exactly when to
turn around again and yell, “Cut!”
When the studio released Pursued in the fi rst week of March 1947,
the reviewer in Film Daily wrote, “Introducing the neurotic to the West-
ern scene, ‘Pursued’ . . . is a sound dramatic offering holding attention
from the outset and delivering a story that mounts to a fair peak of
suspense. Raoul Walsh handled the plot with skill and his chief play-
ers manage constant conviction. . . . This is an adult tale of twisted
personalities, ulterior motives and lurking threat of death arising from
dishonored families compounded of such basics as profound hatred,
murder, brawling and love that degenerates into homicidal intent.”10 It
may have been too early for viewers and critics to embrace this portrayal
274 Raoul Walsh
Steve Trilling saw a script for a picture called Silver River early in Febru-
ary 1947, just prior to the release of Pursued. Two weeks later, he sug-
gested to Walsh that he read it. Trilling had Flynn in mind for the lead
in this new western and sent him a copy also. Walsh was willing to do it.
But, after reading the script, Flynn wrote Trilling, “I have read most of
the script. As a Western, I think it’s damned good. I wish it would have
been given me for one of the five other Westerns they had me do. . . . I
have nothing against it. [But] I’m not going to be the Gene Autry of the
future. Yes, tell the front office. By all means, they might as well know
what the score is.”11 Flynn was not looking to be a cowboy again. He’d
had enough of sitting on a horse. But the forces were against him—and,
anyway, Walsh was directing. Flynn was in.
Silver River has hardly been viewed as one of Walsh’s or Flynn’s
greatest efforts—looking at times like a stock western that falls flat after
the early action sequences. But the picture contains some of Walsh’s and
Flynn’s most complexly drawn characters of the period. Walsh mustered
a fair amount of enthusiasm while directing it; after all, it was a western,
and Warners had roped Flynn into doing it. Silver River was based on a
story written by Stephen Longstreet, who also penned Stallion Road in
1945. Warners hired Longstreet to cowrite the script with Harriet Frank
Jr., a new writer at the studio who later went on to carve out a long and
sizable career, also writing the screenplays for adaptations of Faulkner’s
The Long, Hot Summer and The Sound and the Fury and, after that,
for fi lms such as Hud, The Reivers, and The Cowboys. Flynn plays a
Union officer, Mike McComb, who has been disgraced by his superiors
and now looks at the world through vengeful eyes. He wants to become
the wealthiest man in the territory and has no qualms about stepping on
anyone who gets in his way. He heads out for Nevada, becomes a mining
baron, and later butts up against a fellow officer, Stanley Moore (Bruce
Bennett), the husband of a woman Mike truly loves (Ann Sheridan).
To get rid of his rival, Mike sends him into a hostile Indian situation
that causes his death. Now free to marry Georgia, Mike does so and
gains even greater wealth. But, eventually, his sins turn people, and fate,
Oedipus Wrecked 275
are full of sound and fury, sweep and dash . . . but [Walsh] handicapped
himself unmercifully in filming ‘Silver River’ by cramming all the excite-
ment into the fi rst ten minutes or so. As a consequence . . . the picture
. . . runs downhill for most of its remaining length.”13 But Walsh now
stood inside the film, ruminating about his friendship with Flynn, who
caused so much trouble on his sets yet had his heart. Box-office receipts
ran only a distant second.
Walsh and Mary Simpson were fully committed to each other by this
time. Walsh later said that he secretly married Mary in Mexico in 1947
and then again officially in a July 1949 New Mexico ceremony. Married
or not, they now settled into a home on Kling Street in Toluca Lake,
northeast of Hollywood. Mary loved the house as much as Walsh did,
even though he had no room for his horses; he boarded them at Hol-
lywood Park and kept the ranch in Willets in northern California. The
Kling Street house was a short drive from Warner Bros. and gave Mary
easy access to the modest social life she had set up for herself—lunch-
ing with girlfriends, traveling now and then with her husband either on
vacation or on location, and keeping house for him. She was a stickler
for housework, preferring to go around their home barefoot and in pig-
tails (the way Walsh liked her hair) as she did her work. They made a
striking couple, Mary with her youthful beauty, and Walsh looking still
extremely virile while nearing sixty.
In the midst of settling into his home with Mary, Walsh went on to
direct his next few pictures for the studio, two of which were remakes
of earlier pictures. He learned, at least with one, that you can’t go home
again. His remake of The Strawberry Blonde, now called One Sunday
Afternoon, could never have repeated the good experience, and the good
box office, of the earlier picture. Although he had the producer Jerry
Wald on his back, instead of his older taskmaster, Hal Wallis, this shoot
had no Jimmy Cagney, no Olivia de Havilland, and no Rita Hayworth.
It was a perilous time to do remakes, especially with postwar audience
attendance dwindling and the potential embarrassment that they might
not ignite audiences at all. As early as 1943, Harry Warner in New York
sent a memo to Jack in Hollywood. “You can’t do this and succeed,” he
said, referring to Jack’s proposed remake of a 1936 Bette Davis picture,
The Petrifi ed Forest. “That is all right when you are making 50 or 60
278 Raoul Walsh
pictures and shooting them out like cheese, but when you have built up a
reputation such as you have, you cannot continue it if you keep on mak-
ing remakes.”14 But that didn’t stop the spate of remakes that emerged
from the studio at this juncture, some belonging to Walsh. The Petrifi ed
Forest was, in fact, the basis of a remake, Escape to the Desert (1945).
Also, the fi lm The Unfaithful (1947) was a partial remake of the Bette
Davis vehicle The Letter (1940).
Wald was the more forceful personality on this picture, and it could
very well have been his idea to remake The Strawberry Blonde. Walsh
was never one to turn down an assignment. It was as simple as that:
work equaled money; work also equaled being on the set all day; being
on the set meant getting a picture made and spending time with people
you usually liked. There was nothing in sight to lose, except maybe down
the road at the box office. Also working on him, although he may not
have been entirely cognizant of it, was the fact that Walsh had so enjoyed
the earlier picture he would not pass up the chance to go home again to
the time of his youth.
The picture still followed the James Hagan play, and now Robert
L. Richards was brought in to write the screenplay. Walsh knew the
material by heart and just followed his own instincts. Jack Warner was
unsupportive, thinking more about cutting budgets, convinced that
the picture would not recoup its cost—still, he didn’t stop the produc-
tion. But, even before the cameras rolled, Walsh had creative disagree-
ments with Jerry Wald, who was clearly in charge. Preproduction on
the fi lm had already seemed convoluted—requiring more energy than
Walsh thought necessary. His relationship with Wald never reached
out-and-out contentiousness, but it easily could have were Walsh not
so mild-mannered and easygoing with studio executives and producers.
Still, memos show his discontent. Before he left for a brief vacation on
November 11, 1947, he telephoned Steve Trilling and mentioned that he
was very concerned about One Sunday Afternoon because Wald seemed
so preoccupied with other matters that he was unable to give “proper
attention to this property.” Trilling sent a memo to Warner:
It took several story conferences for Walsh and Wald to work out their
differences and get a story they liked. Walsh had his remake.
Like its predecessor, the picture ended up on Warners’ New York
street, circa the turn of the twentieth century. Walsh cast the film quickly
but not necessarily happily. He’d had a good experience working with
Dennis Morgan on Cheyenne, and since Morgan was showing off his
singing talents at this time, Walsh thought he would be a natural to
play the Cagney character, Biff Grimes. Wald disagreed and saw the
young actor Dane Clark as Biff and Eleanor Parker as Virginia—and
without too many musical numbers at that. But Morgan eventually
was cast. Then Wald had the idea of casting Donna Reed in the part
of Amy. “This girl has the correct warmth and looks for the role,” he
wrote Warner, “and she will add a tremendous amount to the overall
picture. Don’t forget that Miss Reed played opposite Jimmy Stewart in
It’s a Wonderful Life . . . and I feel we can get a couple of extra pictures
with her.”16 Even though using Reed would have held up the picture’s
production (she and Alan Ladd were making Chicago Deadline), Walsh
agreed that she should be cast. But, after much shifting, and after Walsh
tested the newcomer Doris Day for the part, the role of Amy went to
someone else entirely—Dorothy Malone, who, among other roles, had
had a small part in the studio’s The Big Sleep. Janis Paige, who actually
was a singer and a dancer, won the part of Virginia Brush. This casting
move, made against his wishes (he had wanted Virginia Mayo cast as
Virginia), made Walsh angry enough to fi re off a letter indicating his
general dissatisfaction. “When I made The Strawberry Blonde,” he told
Warner on January 7, 1948, “it had a great cast, all ‘kosher.’ I think
you are making a mistake in not casting Virginia Mayo for the part of
280 Raoul Walsh
Virginia. I’m sure this girl has great possibilities. . . . The title One Sun-
day Afternoon is ‘traffe’ [he meant trafe, ‘not kosher’].” “The pictures
I direct have ‘gutsy’ titles,” he added. “Please fi nd one. . . . Remember,
‘men Ken nisht fen zaetz macken succar’ [his broken Yiddish for ‘Don’t
try to make salt into sugar’].”17
Walsh shot the picture from January 27 until April 5, 1948, without
any further turmoil on the set. When he was finished, five days behind
schedule, the studio had a picture that came and went without much
notice, remembered only as the remake of one of the studio’s most suc-
cessful and loved pictures of the last decade. The box-office take was
fair, and the critical response on the picture’s release was mediocre
but upbeat. Walsh, who was never an avid attendee at previews, again
missed the two for One Sunday Afternoon in May and June. He had al-
ready left Los Angeles for Oscoda, Michigan, to begin shooting his next
picture, Fighter Squadron. Again, he was eager to depart the studio’s
New York street for an outdoor location.
The actors Walsh knew best at Warner Bros.—Cagney, Bogie, and Raft—
were getting older, and Flynn was fast losing his stamina, not to mention
his looks, to alcohol and bad health. Walsh looked for new faces, as did
the studio; they were always to be found. For his next picture, Fighter
Squadron, Walsh found what he thought he was looking for, a fresh
face with the kind of masculinity he liked in his characters—virile and
camera friendly. Fighter Squadron is a solid air cadet action film not ter-
ribly well remembered but significant for its introduction of two young
actors, Jack Larsen, who later went on to play Jimmy Olsen in the 1950s
television series Superman, and another unknown, Roy Fitzgerald, who
soon changed his name to Rock Hudson and went on to make four fi lms
with Walsh. Hudson would not only have a bona fide love affair with
the camera; he was a bona fide Walsh discovery, something akin to the
young John Wayne he discovered almost twenty years earlier. At least he
seemed to be at the start.
There are confl icting versions of the way Walsh met Rock Hudson.
The casting agent Billy Grady claimed he was dining at Chasen’s Res-
taurant in Beverly Hills one evening in the late 1940s when Walsh, also
dining there with Mary and with the then Roy Fitzgerald, came over to
Oedipus Wrecked 281
Hudson was so green at the time that he even had trouble with the one
line Walsh gave him to say in Fighter Squadron: “You’ve got to buy
[get] a bigger blackboard.” Walsh in turn was not kind to Hudson. As
Hudson’s biographer noted, “Walsh was not too good at putting the
[actor] at ease [and] at one point, seeing Hudson standing in the scene
without anything to do, said to him, ‘Jesus Christ—you’re standing there
like a goddamned Christmas tree—get out of the middle of the shot, for
Chrissake, or stand sideways so you don’t block everybody!’”22 Others
on the set were taken aback.
The one defi ning word to describe Walsh’s feelings about Hud-
son was ambivalence. He both mentored him and scratched his head
about him, for years to come hardly ever moving past that splintered
attitude. Hudson was a disturbance to Walsh, something he himself
could probably not even articulate. Hudson represented some kind of
“lack,” physically and psychologically. Walsh wanted him to be tough
and masculine, something he just couldn’t be at that time. All he could
do was look handsome, with a body that the camera couldn’t help but
follow. Perhaps Hudson’s homosexuality was clear, although, if he truly
understood that, Walsh would never utter a word; he’d much rather talk
about “bottle men” than a too-pliable actor, which Hudson was to him.
But the two went on to make numerous pictures together. The friendship
was there, even if it later waned. For now, Walsh kept it quiet that he was
sponsoring Hudson, and his treatment of the young actor was nothing
out of the ordinary for the time, when studios nurtured young actors
with a combination of all-out support and a tough-love attitude.
Hudson worked uncredited on Fighter Squadron for two months at
$120 per week. Walsh signed him to a personal contract that guaranteed
him forty more weeks at the same pay whether or not he worked. To fi ll
the time that Hudson was not working, Walsh gave him little jobs to
do—even chauffeuring Walsh around the city. Despite his poor show-
ing in Fighter Squadron, Walsh told Hudson he had a good future, and
Hudson believed him. Walsh paid for acting lessons for Hudson and
kept bolstering his ego.
Oedipus Wrecked 283
Walsh also made sure that Hudson kept his hair long, instructing
him that he never could tell when a western part might come along.
Walsh and Willson had seven of Hudson’s teeth capped and continued
flaunting their fi nd in front of studio executives all over town. Universal
Studios eventually put him under contract for $9,700, a sum equal to
what Walsh and Willson had invested in him. Although Fighter Squad-
ron never helped Hudson’s career, Walsh continued his association with
the young actor through three more uneven and quirky collaborations
spanning the early years of the 1950s—The Lawless Breed, Sea Devils,
and Gun Fury. He never could get a good performance from him.
noon, after the rest of us had been working since 6 a.m., and
Raoul would say, “Rock, you have to get on the set and work
with the cowboys at dawn. You do not just decide to show up at
noon or one o’clock.” [Rock] would show up finally on the set,
and then just goof around. He liked to play! He was just a huge
kid. Raoul would scold him, but Rock would just pour on that
gigantic, charming grin outline and all would be forgiven—un-
til the next time. 24
1948, the day shooting began in Gallup, New Mexico, Jack Warner
(egged on by Steve Trilling) sent Mayo a bouquet of flowers, no doubt
tilting her mood in the right direction. For Mayo, the biggest payoff was
the chance to be directed by Walsh, and it would always be so. Years
later, she recalled how he inspired McCrea and her during a particularly
difficult scene, telling them to imagine some “reward” at the end of it.
He would “invent some idea for us to think about,” Mayo said. “For
example, if we were supposed to run away fast, he’d say, ‘You’re very,
very hot and thirsty, and you’ve just heard that free beer is being served
just around the corner.’”25 The cast and crew saw little other location
shooting. After spending time in New Mexico, Walsh shot the plaza,
church, and courthouse scenes at the Warner Bros. ranch. Filming ended
on November 2, 1948.
On its release in June 1949, the picture received a much better re-
sponse than Walsh’s previous remake, One Sunday Afternoon. Though
the fi lm was banned in West Germany for what that government consid-
ered its antisocial elements and the fact that it still looked like a gang-
ster film—attitudes Walsh enjoyed hearing about—postwar American
audiences found an easy empathy for Walsh’s characters McQueen and
Colorado. In a decade when fi lm noir bleakness crept onto American
movie screens, Walsh’s picture caught on (as it continues to do today)
with audiences who innately understood the psychological darkness of
these characters who are, by contrast, playing out their lives (and the
end of their lives) in the almost breathtaking beauty of their physical
surroundings. McQueen and Colorado are, in their ironic innocence,
almost more heart wrenching than Earle and Marie in High Sierra. They
have been called noir characters in a decidedly noir western.
About this time, Walsh began making inquiries about his ex-wife Lor-
raine’s alleged marriage to the tennis pro Frank Perry, even hiring inves-
tigators to fi nd out whether what he suspected was true (which it was).
With Lorraine again married, he no longer had to pay her alimony; he
could spend it on his horses instead. Two weeks after shooting began on
Colorado Territory, Lorraine wrote Walsh’s attorney, Julian Hazard,
from Stockholm, Sweden, crying foul about Walsh sticking his nose into
her business and her marriage to Perry. Walsh’s actions rekindled Lor-
raine’s not-so-deep-seated anger and frustration:
286 Raoul Walsh
When anyone asked James Cagney what he had thought of White Heat
before he started work on it, he said that it was just more of the same—a
predictable mobster yarn that he hoped audiences would enjoy. That
Oedipus Wrecked 287
failure of what he considered his true work of art, Evangeline, and even
now still would not admit that his pictures possessed any artfulness.
Instead, he remained committed to “playing to Main Street.” If this pic-
ture made money, well and good; if not, well, it was an adventure while
it lasted. Walsh, that is, would be the fi rst to say that he had no idea why
a picture worked. Still, he was in top form when he worked with the
fi recracker material that became White Heat.
With its dark and gritty take on the life of a small-time mobster,
White Heat sits on the edge of two genres, the gangster film and a fi lm
noir tale. Walsh gets the feel of the urban jungle down pat: the war going
on inside his protagonist’s head is but a metaphor for the ugliness of the
people and the landscape outside. Cody Jarrett (Cagney), the leader of a
gang of robbers, is tough and menacing on the outside but psychologi-
cally frail and ready to crumble on the inside. His one true love—and
one true downfall—is his mother, Ma Jarrett (Margaret Wycherly), more
ruthless than her son and the true leader of Cody’s gang. To say that he
is pathologically attached to her is to say a mouthful, especially after he
gets one of his debilitating headaches and gets nutty and Ma comforts
him back to reality. The other woman in his life, his wife, Verna (Vir-
gina Mayo), is a beautiful dame who is crazier about money than she is
about Cody and who is ready to betray him at the drop of a fur coat.
After pulling off a train robbery with his unlucky band of thugs,
Cody avoids a federal rap by pleading to a lesser state robbery and goes
to the pen, where he can run his gang with no trouble. But the Feds are
still on to him, and the undercover cop Hank Fallon (Edmond O’Brien)
poses as another prisoner to get close to him. Once Fallon gets Cody’s
confidence, he is in. The great prison scene occurs when Cody learns of
Ma’s death; he goes berserk and jumps all over the mess hall tables as
if he were an animal in the throes of death. But he survives, and when
he gets his release from prison, Fallon is right there beside him. The
two return to the gang as Cody makes plans to pull off his biggest heist
yet—he and his gang will stow away inside a gas truck to get inside a
chemical plant and rob it. Instead, Fallon turns on him, and Cody runs
amok in the plant trying to escape (or does he really intend to escape?).
He gets nuttier by the minute, puffed up by some fantasy that he will
get to the top of the world just as Ma promised he would. In the film’s
Oedipus Wrecked 289
Roberts fi rst crossed paths at Republic Studios in the late 1930s, just
a short time before Walsh went there on loan from Warner Bros. to di-
rect Dark Command. A little while later, during World War II, the two
worked together at what used to be the Astoria Studios on Long Island
producing military propaganda shorts for the U.S. Army. After the war,
they teamed up to write a play, Portrait in Black (one version of which
later became a 1960 Lana Turner vehicle). Soon after, they ventured out
to Hollywood and wrote a feature film that never saw the light of day,
The Shadow, adapted from a play by Ben Hecht. Warner Bros. asked
them to redo a troubled script called Backfire (released in 1950) and
subsequently put them under a five-year contract. Then, Steve Trilling
handed them Kellogg’s story and asked them to turn it into a screenplay.
As they remembered it:
The last thing Jack Warner wanted in mid-1949 was to see James
Cagney (“that little bastard,” as he referred to him) back on his studio
lot. For Cagney, the feeling was mutual—even with an Oscar coming for
1942’s Yankee Doodle Dandy. Not only did Cagney not want to return
to gangster parts; he never forgot the contract hell Warner had put him
through since the early 1930s. He could speak some Yiddish from his
childhood years, but it never sang in Jack Warner’s ears as Walsh’s did.
Yet Goff and Roberts were adamant about Cagney playing the part of
Cody Jarrett, and in the end, the prospect of big box-office returns, and
Oedipus Wrecked 291
Cagney’s return as the ultimate tough guy, was too much for everyone to
ignore. Fighting ceased, and Cagney returned to the lot.
No doubt the prospect of working again with Walsh was one reason.
The two had collaborated on The Roaring Twenties, together tweak-
ing Cagney’s character and Walsh framing his ever-changing emotional
map of a face. They were lightning quick and understood each other’s
pace. Walsh understood Cagney enough to draw out of him not only his
character’s depravity but also his humanity—his frailties. As Roberts
later said, it didn’t hurt that Walsh’s cinematographer on White Heat,
Sid Hickox, was one of the director’s favorites. He had given Gentleman
Jim a nostalgic sheen and would photograph this picture to look rough,
almost emotionally and visually grainy. Now Walsh’s story would look
even darker and more foreboding—as if the characters’ psychological
innards were not already dark enough.
Walsh began shooting on May 6, 1949, fi nishing six weeks later,
on June 20. He made use of various southern California locations, fi rst
going to the Santa Susana Mountains, near his home, for chase scenes,
then on to an old Southern Pacific railroad tunnel and train to stage the
opening robbery scenes. The hideaway lodge sequences were shot on
the Warner Bros. ranch, the interior scenes in the studio itself, and the
climax at a plant near Torrance, south of Los Angeles.
Cagney was not in as great a physical shape as he would ironically
be in a few years when Walsh directed him in A Lion Is in the Streets.
So, for now, to compensate for Cagney’s being away from the grind and
having put on some weight, Walsh decided to shoot him from the waist
up whenever possible, using close-up and medium shots as much as he
could. What might have been a hindrance turned into a benefit: with so
much emphasis on Cagney’s face, on Cody Jarrett’s physical twitches,
rapid eye movements, and a more than occasional cock of the head to
one side, his character embodies even more psychotic shadings than he
might otherwise have had.
There were some interruptions from Jack Warner during filming, one
of them relayed by Roberts. Warner was getting angrier by the minute
over the picture’s rising costs. He wanted to change the location of the
scene where Cody goes berserk hearing of his mother’s death—which, as
it now stood, was to be shot in a mess hall, requiring six hundred extras
292 Raoul Walsh
for one line of dialogue. He called Walsh, Roberts, and the producer
Louis Edelman into his office and asked if they could change the scene to
a chapel—which would require fewer extras. All three men said, “Cody
in a chapel?” Not likely, since the point of it all was Cody’s being in
a loud mess hall that suddenly goes silent when he begins to yelp at
learning Ma is dead. So Walsh fi nally said to Warner, “Give me three
hundred extras and the [Warner Bros. actual] machine shop, which we’ll
convert into a mess hall, and we’ll be out by noon so the men can go
back to work.” Warner said, “You’ve got it.” Walsh did the scene “in
three hours,” said Roberts, “and was out for lunch. One take.”31
wreak havoc because Cagney was the physical actor Walsh needed in
a story where popping bullets set the rhythm. Cagney’s face and body
move in perpetual motion. His angst can run amok in the midst of
Walsh’s fast-paced action—until Cody is so dangerous, so on the loose,
that he’s a force only psychoanalysis (or an explosion) knows how to fi x.
Like the A-bomb that might have made him, he’s a wrath of chemicals on
his way to destruction. The bullet rhythm emanates, not from the script,
but from Walsh’s pure enthusiasm for this story. It’s his last great action
story at Warners, and the fi lm’s car chases, crackling exchanges between
fast-talking characters, and sleek, economical setups that move quickly
are extensions of his almost organic responses to his fiery material.
After getting in that one good explosion in White Heat, Walsh tamed
himself and returned to the set, appearing in, of all things, a movie—
playing himself. On August 1, 1949, he made a cameo appearance in
It’s a Great Feeling (originally called Two Guys and a Gal); since he
was on the Warner Bros. lot anyway, he took advantage of the chance
to ham it up on the screen for a fellow director. David Butler directed
this stock-in-trade Warners musical comedy starring Dennis Morgan,
Doris Day, Jack Carson, and a handful of Warner contract actors play-
ing themselves. Carson is a producer who cannot get anyone to direct
his next picture. In the opening sequence, he approaches three of the
studio’s big guns, Michael Curtiz, King Vidor, and, first up, Walsh, who,
sitting in his director’s chair on a set, tells Carson, “Arthur, you’re my
favorite producer in the world. I’d do anything for you, but not this!”
Walsh then turns back to his own crew and says, “Now, let’s get on with
this clambake. . . .”
12
If The Big Trail proved to be the great adventure of Walsh’s early career,
then the biggest challenge later on came in spearheading the massive
production of Captain Horatio Hornblower R.N., a picture that took
four months to complete and severely tested the mettle of the now sixty-
three-year-old Walsh. Confronting unpredictable weather conditions,
soaring production costs that had to be held in check, and the staging of
naval equipment both huge and small, he would call it the most difficult
film he had ever directed. The production that began January 24, 1950,
practically turned Walsh and Mary, who accompanied him, into British
subjects as they spent six months settling in England, then traveling to
France and back to England again, before returning home to California.
Warner Bros.’ intentions to put the picture on the screen were long
in the making. In fact, the studio’s connection to Captain Horatio Horn-
blower even predated its relationship with Walsh himself. Jack Warner
handed over the sum of $10,000 back in 1939 as a fi rst payment to
the British writer C. S. Forester for the picture and allied rights to his
Captain Horatio Hornblower, actually a trilogy, consisting of the novels
Beat to Quarters, Ship of the Line, and Flying Colors, centering on an
officer of the British navy during the time of the Napoleonic Wars. From
the start, Warner had Errol Flynn in mind to play Hornblower, but the
fi lm took more than a decade to come to the screen, long enough for time
and Flynn’s health problems to erode his youthfulness and vigor; eventu-
ally, he was out of the picture. Various directors and writers had also
been attached to the project, including the director William Dieterle and
the then writer John Huston. At one point, the studio even had plans for
a production featuring the husband and wife team of Laurence Olivier
and Vivien Leigh. There was never anything small scale about this story.
When Warner gave the picture to Walsh, it had been on the block for
over a decade and was considered to be a massive undertaking.
295
296 Raoul Walsh
tonight. The food situation is a little rough here, also the weather, but I
have been hard at it getting my staff together since we arrived, and we
are making good headway. I do not get a cameraman [who turned out to
be the talented Guy Green] until the 5th of January, but I’ve been lining
men and women up for tests, which I will ship to you immediately.”1 A
combination of jest and seriousness, this was typical Walsh behavior on
the set.
Warner’s decision to use American actors for the principals was, to
say the least, unpopular with the British press. Gregory Peck won the
part of Hornblower, and even though Walsh tested other actresses, such
as Constance Smith, and almost settled on Patricia Neal even as the
name of Alida Valli came up (she and Peck had gotten along well mak-
ing Selznick’s The Paradine Case previous to this), 2 the Walsh favorite
Virginia Mayo, already under contract to Warners, won the part of Lady
Barbara Wellesley. Peck rooted for Margaret Leighton to win the part,
but the voluptuous Mayo also had Warner in her corner.
Peck had been interested in the part of Hornblower for several years.
“I can tell Jack Warner a little secret,” Louella Parsons had written ear-
lier that year. “If he decides to make C. S. Forester’s popular ‘Captain
Horatio Hornblower,’ Gregory Peck would like to be his boy.”3 Peck had
a three-picture deal with David O. Selznick at that time, but Selznick
loaned him to Warner Bros. for $150,000 when Hornblower went into
production. That amount easily exceeded the $60,000 Selznick had
to pay Peck. Known for his painstaking research of the characters he
played, Peck prepared for the part by studying accounts of nineteenth-
century naval warfare, along with sailing and navigation. Peck took to
his director immediately—although Walsh later said that he liked his
star but found him a little too stiff for his taste, a little too serious.
Walsh was developing more of a crusty edge to his personality. His
humor had become more ribald, and he was given to playing around with
a young actor (if Peck could qualify as that), almost like a cat playing
with a mouse and teasing it to distraction. He often coupled that with
acting the part of the benevolent father, with a gruff yet affectionate
tenor to his words and behavior. Like scores of other actors before and
after him, Peck noticed right away that Walsh was not all that interested
in dialogue. According to his biographer Gary Fishgall, “Peck recalled
By Land and by Sea 299
proud to have had you here to-night, Virginia Mayo. I hope you
have as warm a welcome in Britain as Richard Todd has had in
America.” The whole press situation has now quieted down.5
If a small public relations fi re flared up after this, it was not much of one,
and Jack Warner and his men put it out quickly.
At one point during the production, Walsh relayed some tsuris he
and Peck had had over the actor’s insistence on making script changes.
Peck thought, not only that the script should conform more to the book,
but also that Lady Barbara’s character ought to be less sexualized. To
this end, Goff and Roberts later told Warner, “Principally we have
changed Lady Barbara’s attitude from hot-pants archness to one of inter-
est, growing admiration, and eventual love. This modulated approach
we feel preserves the dignity of the book and makes the love much less
Captain Blood and much more Captain Horatio Hornblower.” In short,
they reported, “We have de-tarted Lady Barbara. She’s not on the
make.”6 The change didn’t please Walsh, but then he also knew that a
detarted Lady Barbara didn’t necessarily a devoluptualized Mayo make.
Walsh, who produced along with Gerry Mitchell, arrived on the set
the fi rst day of shooting wearing an outfit that practically frightened his
British crew: it consisted of “pink trousers, a tweed jacket over a white
sweater, a plaid muffler covering the absence of either shirt or necktie
and a blue beret, at an extremely unrealistic angle.” “English directors
did not dress that way,” Albert Margolies reported for the New York
Times. “But Raoul Walsh did, and as he rolled his thin toothpicks of
cigarettes, his manner was as distinctly so-what as anyone’s could pos-
sibly be.” The crew expected Walsh to start the day with something like,
“Action!” or “Camera!” Instead, they got, “Okay, let’s go, hombres,”
which took some adjusting. Still, they found Walsh to be extremely
even-tempered and full of patience. “Do that slower,” he would say to
an actor. “I want your family to recognize you when they go to see this
picture.” Or he would tell an actor, “That was fine for Macbeth. Now
let’s do it for us.” “When one of the arc lights sputtered through a take,
Walsh said, ‘We’ll have to go through all that again. There was a spotted
dog getting cooked that time.’” But it was no less impressive that Mary
Walsh brought her husband’s lunch to the set everyday.7
By Land and by Sea 301
that had seen action as early as 1914. To help set decorators transform the
France into a royal warship, a 1785 frigate called the Ariel was used as a
model. Walsh also had a full-size, fifty-ton reconstruction built right on
the London set that he could use for most of the filming. It was equipped
with hydraulic machinery so that it could simulate the movements of a
ship at sea. Even though, at 140 feet in length, the reconstruction was
enormous, it was still a tight squeeze when cranes hoisted all the sound
equipment, the camera, and the lighting fi xtures onto it. Walsh, along
with his longtime assistant Russ Saunders and the cameraman Guy
Green, made the best of it. Sometimes the set was so crowded that there
was room for the actors but not Walsh himself, forcing him to direct
from the rigging. He made scrupulous notes on some points: adding de-
tail to the flogging scene and Horatio’s relationship to his crew and, on
one occasion, noting that he doubted Peck would relish the shower scene
he was expected to do, “on account of his physique.” (The scene was
later removed.)11 Even in his sixties, and later than that, Walsh walked
around movie sets shirtless; he was not a man who, at least outwardly,
harbored any doubts about his own physique or his virility—a fact that
made it easier for him to write such a note about Peck.
Warners sent miniature ships to Walsh from Hollywood. Steve Trill-
ing cabled the production in England on May 2, 1950: “Ship and gun
miniatures sent you for use Hornblower on temp loan basis and must
be returned to us. The miniature ships are old models used innumerable
times at Burbank Studio. Were built originally for Captain Blood and
Divine Lady over twenty years ago. Have small intrinsic value. Would
evaluate max $3000 for 2-inch models, $2000 for 1-inch models. $5000
total.”12 Walsh choreographed these disparate elements into a seamless
whole.
Yet there is less discrepancy between the fi lm’s life-size ships and
its miniatures than there is between the film’s battle sequences and the
heavily sentimentalized love story that Peck and Mayo fall into—enough
to know that Walsh could not have had much personal investment in
the more flowery aspects of this picture. It is not surprising, then, that
the fi lm’s crew often reported seeing Walsh’s behavior change radically
from time to time. He seemed almost like a young boy, showing personal
excitement and unlimited enthusiasm whenever he shot the battle scenes.
But he would go completely silent and look around for something to read
By Land and by Sea 303
instead of looking straight into the camera when Mayo and Peck shot
their love scenes. Walsh had exhibited this kind of fragmented behavior
before, but it became more prevalent as he directed more character-
driven stories into the 1950s and early 1960s. He avoided looking into
the camera more than he ever had.
A highlight for Walsh and the entire company was the day Princesses
Elizabeth and Margaret came to the set at Denham Studios and Walsh
gave them the full tour. Elizabeth was especially interested in the orga-
nization of the battle sequences. But Walsh became fully energized when
the company moved to Villefranche on the French Riviera to fi lm the
sea sequences. He had a new problem to solve. “I was at a loss to know
where we could fi nd period ships to represent the French squadron that
Hornblower, fresh from harrying the Spanish-American ports along the
Pacific littoral, was to take on single handed until the rest of the British
fleet arrives,” he later wrote.13 He eventually found four old schooners
for sale and rounded up “seagoing” carpenters to outfit them to replicate
Hornblower’s enemy squadron. While on the Riviera he also authorized
a bloodstock agency to make an offer for a horse, an Irish-owned Grand
National Steeplechase entry. He thought about going over to ride the
horse himself (or so he told the press), but he never did.
But an adventure that Walsh never counted on once the company
settled in at Villefranche occurred when Edmond Greville, a director of
the French team (which, for trade union reasons, doubled for the English
team there), took a great liking to Mary Walsh and it appeared that the
feeling was mutual. Greville and Mary would occasionally go off togeth-
er, causing Walsh enough agitation to walk around asking, “Where is
Mary?” and even venture off himself to look for her. The three-decades-
plus difference in their ages gave him pause, however briefly.
Walsh kept in shape, physically and psychologically. He took a swim
every morning, often with his sidekick Bear Valley Charley, who still
went with him almost everywhere as a good-luck charm. Word got out
that now he would be raising Kerry blues in the future because he no
longer had time for race horses. That, however, was just hearsay. Walsh
had not let his duties on the Hornblower set squelch any opportunities
he might get to see or purchase a horse while in England. He had the
ranch in Simi Valley to house any animal he purchased. Soon, in January
1951, back home from England, he would write to John Huston, “If
304 Raoul Walsh
you are going ahead with the African Queen and if you need a good
assistant, the chap I had helping me on Captain Horatio Hornblower is
great. His name is Jack Martin and when you get to England you can
locate him. Incidentally, knowing that you are a horse man, I know that
you will pick up a horse over there, and the fi nest and most honest man
I can recommend is Bert Kerr. . . . You can pick up yearlings very cheap
over there and when this fellow has a horse running, you can win your-
self a bet.” Huston responded, from his home at 650 North Bronson,
in Hollywood, “Dear Raoul . . . When I go to England I shall certainly
avail myself of your tips. I am especially glad to know about the honest
horse man in Ireland, as I definitely intend to buy some horses there.”14
Captain Horatio Hornblower premiered in London in April 1951
and then in New York on September 13 at the Radio City Music Hall,
ultimately earning $3 million and becoming Warner’s top-grossing pic-
ture in the United States that year. But Walsh was peeved when the stu-
dio began mounting its publicity campaign as early as January. He wrote
Steve Trilling, “I see by the enclosed clipping that they are starting to
advertise hornblower. If I can remember correctly, there were 1,200
still shots on this production and out of these, two of the worst were
selected by the publicity department. When I came back from England
I rode on the plane from New York with Mort Blumenstock [Warners’
head of publicity]. I suggested a blow-up of the two miniatures blazing
[the] hell out of each other and suggested it for a twenty-four sheet.”15
No matter what stills the studio chose to exploit the picture, Horatio
Hornblower was an immediate success with audiences and with the
critics. Variety praised, not just Peck’s performance, but also Walsh’s
direction of the story’s action sequences, calling the fi lm “a spectacular
success,” one “lensed with great skill”—albeit noting that the picture
seemed to be divided into two parts.16 Some years later, Peck attempted
to make a sequel, but that never materialized.
July 1950 when he asked Walsh to step in and direct a picture he was
making at Warners—The Enforcer (a.k.a. Murder, Inc.), a story that
Bogie disliked (proof to him of the poor material the studio was giving
him) and that turned out to be his last outing there.
Scripted by the ace writer Martin Rackin, and produced for the
studio by Milton Sperling’s United States Pictures, The Enforcer was
Walsh material anyway—there was enough police action to keep him
interested—and he was happy to step in. Slated for the European direc-
tor Bretaigne Windust, who directed very few pictures at Warner Bros.
in his short tenure there, the production hit a snag when Windust was
said to have become seriously ill after a few days on the set and couldn’t
go on. But that was far from the truth—or so the film’s writer, Martin
Rackin, told Walsh’s friend Pierre Rissient years later. The French-born
Windust was originally a New York stage director specializing in dra-
mas. He had already directed pictures for Warners, including two Bette
Davis films, Winter Meeting and June Bride, both in the late 1940s.
Neither was very successful. Windust, who happened to be homosexual,
was assigned to direct The Enforcer. But, after a few days on the set,
someone [possibly Milton Sperling, the film’s producer] went to Jack
Warner and told him he’d better look at the rushes because all the actors
playing gangsters “looked like sissies.” Warner took one look and yelled,
“Bring in Raoul Walsh! He’ll cure that!” Rissient said that Walsh was
very much a gentleman, more than many others around. He directed the
picture but refused to take credit, telling people—in error—that this was
Windust’s fi rst feature at Warners and that he needed the credit more
than he, Walsh, did.17 Bogie needed Walsh to get the picture finished as
fast as possible.
Right after The Enforcer, and before Hornblower premiered in
this country, Walsh was at work directing another western for Warner
Bros.—a curious, middle-of-the-road psychological drama in western
dress originally called The Travelers but released as Along the Great
Divide. This picture marked the last of Walsh’s ongoing contract deals
with Warners that had begun in 1939. From there on out, he would
return to the studio on individual picture deals or two-to-three deals
only. He was ready to test his mettle in more than just his own backyard.
Along the Great Divide took Walsh only as far as Lone Pine, Cali-
fornia, just north of Los Angeles—an area long a favorite with studios
306 Raoul Walsh
for outdoor location shooting. Unlike the location for Hornblower, this
landscape wasn’t exotic, but at least it was outdoors and on dry land.
The area had subbed for the Himalayas in George Stevens’s Gunga Din
in 1939, and Walsh used Lone Pine’s Whitney Portal Road for the ending
chase scene in High Sierra. Now he would use it to simulate the Mojave
Desert.
Walter Doniger, who had cowritten Universal’s Danger in the Pacific
in 1948 and adapted Tokyo Joe for Bogie in 1949, sold his original story,
“Along the Great Divide,” to Warners in October 1948 and went on to
cowrite the screenplay with Lewis Meltzer, who had coscripted the 1939
Golden Boy. As the two fi ne-tuned the script, Doniger kept Warners’
research department jumping, loading up on details about the old West,
the history of the state of Wyoming (where he placed his characters), and
U.S. marshals in general. He asked for material on water rights, on court
procedure in U.S. territories, how long a man and a horse could live in
the desert without water, what cowboys ate, how to poison a well, where
the gallows were located in western towns, and whether a fast horse
with a rider could beat fast horses pulling a stagecoach. He had done
his homework by the time Walsh came on board in October 1950. The
script was complete, and Walsh was ready to go to work again with one
of his favorite cameramen, Sid Hickox.
Virginia Mayo was hardly out of Walsh’s sight for a minute after
Horatio Hornblower (she and Mary Walsh would become very close
friends) when he cast her in Along the Great Divide as the female lead. She
would play opposite Kirk Douglas, who headed the cast as Len Merrick,
a U.S. marshal trekking across the Mojave to civilization to make certain
the prisoner in his keep gets a fair trial. This was Douglas’s first western;
he later claimed that he took the part only because it would get him out of
his then current one-picture-per-year commitment at Warner Bros. Walter
Brennan, whom Doniger later described as an actor who was “always
polite,”18 was cast as Douglas’s nemesis and John Agar, whom Walsh had
never directed before, as a deputy. Shooting began on October 16, 1950,
and ended on November 25. The picture opened in the United States four
months before the American premiere of Horatio Hornblower.
Outdoor shoots gave Walsh the natural lighting he liked best. He
never again liked to be cooped up in a studio (in some kind of bed-
room, he would say) for weeks on end. The light was too artificial, and
By Land and by Sea 307
ing the son of the local cattle baron. Merrick stops the lynching, takes
Keith into his custody, and intends to deliver the alleged murderer to the
local authorities to see that he gets a fair trial. Along for the adventure
is Keith’s sultry daughter (Mayo), who begins to look more and more
attractive to Merrick, just as Keith himself begins to look less and less
guilty. Not only do the elements work against Merrick and his two depu-
ties (Agar and Ray Teal)—the gusty wind that Walsh loved so much for
atmosphere—but he must also outsmart the unforgiving desert terrain
and outrun an angry mob on his tail. Since the western genre so easily
lends itself to the play of good against evil, the confl ict between con-
scious and unconscious feelings and behavior, Doniger makes it obvi-
ous that Merrick is also prey to a rehashing of unfi nished psychological
conflicts with his own father that being near Pop Keith triggers. While
Walsh gives power to the psychological battles at hand—including the
complex issue of justice and living up to the law—the battles of man
against nature are the ones Walsh favors in almost every frame. The
characters fi nd themselves trying to stay alive, not just as human beings
battling their own consciences, but more so as human beings battling
elements of nature—including intensely charged sandstorms and even
a poisoned water hole—much larger than themselves. Walsh had been
throwing men and women against unforgiving social elements since his
fi rst days at Warner Bros. His view of an unforgiving natural world is
every bit as threatening.
When Warners released Along the Great Divide on June 2, 1951,
critics were quick to notice that Douglas was in virgin territory in west-
ern garb. One wrote that it made sense he’d turn up on the prairie sooner
or later since every actor, it seemed, had to go through the initiation of
appearing in the genre. As have many viewers since, others appreciated
the fi lm’s visual composition more than the story line, which was decent,
if not original. But Walsh was pleased with the results, especially the
look of the film and the natural effects he produced, saying, “We had
wind all right and plenty of dust. And when the horses gallop off into the
distance they are enveloped in clouds of dust. And that helps the actors,
shooting in natural surroundings.”22 He had insisted on that sand storm
and built it up in spades. He had also insisted that Mayo not wear pants
anytime onscreen, but that would have made things difficult for her
with all that wind. The trousers only made her look sexier, embodying
By Land and by Sea 309
Dear Colonel,
When I went home last night and told the Schikse I had
passed up a two-picture deal for $75,000 per picture and was
willing to accept $50,000 per picture, she sent for Dr. Hyatt
and two psychiatrists. They worked on me until midnight, and
I fi nally came to.
Then at the psychiatrist’s suggestion, she phoned Sam Jaffe
at his home. When he heard the news he passed out, and he is
now at the Cedars [Cedars of Lebanon Hospital in Hollywood].
I phoned him this morning to see if he was feeling better, and
they had him in an oxygen tent. The doctors think that with a
little good news he may pull through.
Well, Jack, all the kidding aside, as you said yesterday, I’ve
been with the company fourteen years [Walsh’s figure was off],
and I’d like to stay another fourteen—and I’m willing to make
a big concession to stay. Meet me halfway; give me $60,000 per
picture, 37 weeks for other pictures, and I solemnly promise and
guarantee that I will save you ten times the amount involved in
shooting time. Mazel Brocha, Raoul23
Jack offered him $50,000 and stuck to it. Walsh at fi rst agreed and
then left for a hunting trip in Mexico, telling Jack to deal with Sam
310 Raoul Walsh
hunting and fishing buddies for some time. His feelings for Coop, ex-
pressed in the autobiography, aspire almost to poetry: “I never met a
fi ner man than Gary Cooper or, for that matter, a better friend. Together
we had fished the lakes of the sierra for trout. In the shivery winter
mornings, we had huddled in blinds on the Sacramento, waiting for the
fly-out of geese and ducks coming south from Canada. Now we were
to be together again, making a picture called Distant Drums.”24 Walsh
signed another one-picture contract with Warners, a practice he would
continue throughout the 1950s and early 1960s, and began production.
In Distant Drums, Cooper plays the kind of hero critics could call
Walshian by now—a loner with a tragedy in his past who leads others
into dangerous territory because there is a great need for an emotional
reward and some kind of safety or solace at the other end. Here he is
Captain Quincy Wyatt, a soldier who leads a small group of men (and
the requisite female love interest, played by the relative newcomer Mari
Aldon) into the Everglades to stave off war with the area’s Native Ameri-
cans. The story plays with the second Seminole War of 1835–1842 in
Florida, a historical subject not many fi lms had approached. Much like
the wives in many western heroic quests, Wyatt’s has been murdered, al-
though, unlike in other such scenarios, revenge is not his motive. Wyatt
envisions larger ideas, one being the wish to keep the landscape free of
Indian attacks.
Production on Distant Drums began in mid-April 1951 and fi nished
on June 7. Walsh and Mary traveled to Naples, Florida, where Walsh
shot some footage before returning to the studio on May 20 to fi nish the
film. Walsh once again worked with Sid Hickox, who enhanced the fi lm’s
already beautiful Technicolor palate with some stunning underwater
photography. Walsh either did not notice (which is difficult to believe) or
did not comment on Gary Cooper’s obvious attraction to Mary Walsh.
The actor looked shy but smitten in photographs taken on the shoot. The
attraction eventually played itself out, although Cooper carried it all the
way back to California after the film wrapped.
Distant Drums was the fi rst picture to tap what became known as
“the Wilhelm Scream,” a sound effect of a man screaming that would
be used frequently from this time to indicate men in peril, attacked
by either hostile forces or wild animals. It actually combines one long
scream accompanied by five shorter screams—although variations have
312 Raoul Walsh
ried,” Walsh added, “(to a girl who is half Portuguese and East Indian).”
Walsh had also heard that “she throws knives at him.”27
By 1952, Walsh was telling the press that he was glad to be freelanc-
ing. That way he could choose his own projects and travel more exten-
sively, not owing any particular studio favors. But he partly hoped that
he might form a group with others and brainstorm on a future movie
or television deal. Television had begun to creep into his psyche, but it
would never hold much meaning for him, and he stayed away from it as
much as he could, fielding offers when they came his way.
Soon after, Walter Wanger sent him a copy of a Canadian romance
called Yellowknife, asking him to look it over for possible fi lm adapta-
tion. That was the last word on the subject (a few months later, Wanger
sent him a screenplay, “I Met You Too Late,” which Walsh turned down).
But the Variety review of Distant Drums noticed what would become a
trend in Walsh’s subsequent career. When he ended his long-term asso-
ciation with Warner Bros. in 1951 and moved from studio to studio, he
never found the quality scripts he directed at Warners. No longer tied to
the studio whose style matched his own, his choice of material suffered.
The scripts did get poorer in quality for Walsh, but whether, as Jean-
Pierre Coursodon and Bertrand Tavernier suggest, much of it had to do
with his work with John Twist—and their close alliance during these
years, fueled by a mutual love of womanizing—is debatable. 28 Walsh
never lost his natural feeling for directing action and adventure fi lms
but worked with scripts much inferior to his talents. The good material
became spotty, while his feel for pacing and action did not.
Walsh moved to his not-so-favorite studio, MGM, once again in
the spring of 1952 to direct the popular newcomer Leslie Caron and
Ralph Meeker in an atmospheric but critically unsuccessful melodrama
called Glory Alley. He hardly had to make a request that his leading
lady wear dresses and not slacks since Caron (in her only appearance
dancing in a black-and-white picture) performs numbers that mystify
in their getting past the censors. Caron looked all the better for Walsh’s
work with the cinematographer William Daniels, well known for getting
tantalizing shots of Garbo in her home studio. Despite the story’s often-
implausible plotline, Walsh seems at home rendering another aspect of
the story—the sleazy back alleys and underground dives, which come
across as flavorful and nuanced.
314 Raoul Walsh
Mineo, Troy Donahue, and, of course, Rock Hudson. They also shared
space with the older icons Walsh still loved to work with: James Cagney,
Van Hefl in, Alan Ladd, and Gregory Peck. Bogie would soon be gone,
dying of lung cancer in 1957; Raft was fortunately out of pictures for the
most part. Although Flynn passed away in 1959, he had been essentially
lost to Walsh and to the rest of Hollywood since the early 1950s as he
drank himself to death slowly but with great determination.
Meeker was Walsh’s kind of actor, terse, tough speaking, visually
tormented. It was unfortunate that the two never worked together again
and that by the close of the 1960s Meeker’s career had come to a halt.
But Walsh was out of that alleyway as quickly as he walked in. Glory
Alley received generally poor notices. The critic for Variety called the
script “both unbelievable and confusing almost from the very start,”
adding, “[It is] a tedious and pretentious film. . . . [It] seems to make an
attempt at the psychological melodrama but veers out in all directions
without ever striking a central theme.”30 The reviews helped no one’s
career, although Caron walked away generally unscathed, as did Walsh.
If the picture seemed to veer out in all directions at once, it earmarks
the various directions Walsh’s career took during this decade and the
next. The road was untamed, and Walsh never found a consistent style,
even as his gift for setting up powerful action shots or a compelling
composition never waned. The French critics later liked to call attention
to, among other things, his use of diagonals, splitting the screen by hav-
ing a lone figure or line move across it in a dissonant path for the eye to
see. But American audiences were slow to find redeeming qualities in his
1950s fi lms.
Walsh left MGM after Glory Alley and immediately signed a one-
picture deal with Universal Studios to direct The World in His Arms.
Later, on May 7, he signed another contract with Universal for The Law-
less Breed, which he was to direct further down the road. Walsh later
said, “These two films have points in common. With both of them we
tried to arrive at the same colour scheme—pastel! As I don’t like colours
that are too brilliant, I asked the photographer on each occasion to try to
fi nd me a softer colour design, something a little different from the kind
of thing you usually see.”31 The two pictures could not have had more
different landscapes, the high seas and the western frontier.
Walsh teamed again with Gregory Peck and those high seas for
316 Raoul Walsh
The World in His Arms. His fi rst choice was John Wayne, who was
not available at the time, so, having limited say in the casting, he again
minced few words with the reserved but likable Peck. The actor’s lead-
ing lady was Ann Blyth—in her only time working with Walsh—who
played Peck’s love interest and the metaphoric subject of the film’s title.
Universal paid the estate of the late writer Rex Beach $100,000 for the
story. At least fourteen of Beach’s novels had already been adapted into
successful pictures—including The Spoilers (with five versions) and The
Avengers—and Universal had high hopes for this one. Peck plays Cap-
tain Jonathan Clark, who, when the story opens, sails into San Francisco
in 1850 with a fortune in seal pelts poached in the Pribilof Islands in
defiance of the Russian authorities. When he attends a huge party given
in honor of his crew, Clark meets the countess Marina Selanova (Blyth)
and falls in love with her. But he is unaware that the countess is racing
to her uncle (Sig Ruman), the Russian governor-general of Alaska, to
avoid a forced marriage to the arrogant Prince Semyon (Carl Esmond).
Her escort is none other than Clark’s archnemesis, a man named Portu-
gee (Anthony Quinn), a rival seal poacher. But Marina’s fiancé, Prince
Semyon, reaches her fi rst and whisks her away. Thinking he has been
duped, Clark begins drinking heavily and bets Portugee that he can race
to the Pribilofs before him. He wins the race but is then captured by
Russians. To save his life, Marina agrees to marry the prince if Clark is
released. But, on Marina’s wedding eve, Clark and Portugee forget their
rivalry and steal Marina away so that she is free to marry Clark, the man
she really loves.
Thinking that he would recapture the adventure of Horatio Horn-
blower, or at the very least get in some traveling, Walsh pumped lots
of enthusiasm into this project and left for thirty-six days of shooting
in Lunenberg, Nova Scotia, just sixty-five miles south of Halifax. He
felt on top of the world as another adventure loomed in his immediate
future. Universal estimated the cost of the production would be $1.5
million, which would give him some good leeway.
Walsh began shooting the picture on September 15, 1951, and fin-
ished on October 26, most of the time in Canada, and then back at the
lot for interior scenes. He had little trouble with Breen’s office, being told
to cut down on excessive brutality in the fight sequences and to cut the
scenes with prostitutes to a minimum so that there was no indication of
By Land and by Sea 317
them in the picture. One particular line he had to cut: when the seamen
return to land, one yells out, “Who cares what her name is? A woman.
Any woman. We’ve been two years at sea!”32 But the best human (or
nonhuman) interest story during the shoot occurred when a fourteen-
year-old trained Alaskan seal named Tommy Tucker, who was supposed
to be a background extra at best, began hamming it up to the point
where he stole the scene focusing on dialogue between Peck and Quinn.
Walsh had little choice but to get rid of Tommy. Any film that captured
the seal was discarded.
Also cast in a small part was the future writer-director Bryan
Forbes. Forbes later recalled: “I had no name in Hollywood. I was sent
to see Raoul and much to my amazement he gave me a small role in The
World in His Arms—a Universal potboiler of little distinction. I believe
. . . he shot the entire film in eleven days [an exaggeration], but of course
in those days we worked incredible hours which would not be tolerated
today. [Walsh’s] philosophy for action fi lms was, ‘When in doubt start
a fight.’” Forbes also recalled that Walsh had a swear box on the set:
“Anyone who swore in . . . the demure . . . Ann Blyth’s presence . . . had
to put money in it.”33
The World in His Arms, much like Horatio Hornblower, collapses
into a love story—and with far fewer exciting moments than Hornblow-
er provides. Equipped with the requisite sea chases and the predictable
arm-wrestling scene between Peck and Quinn, the good-natured film is
significant for being one of a trend to come in which Walsh’s pictures
focus more on character interiority than on action to drive the story
forward. The love scenes in Horatio Hornblower feel tacked on—cer-
tainly the rose-colored ending does. But, in Borden Chase’s script for The
World in His Arms (Chase had also penned Hawk’s Red River), there is
hardly a moment that doesn’t service a love story. Russell Metty’s beauti-
ful photography heightens the action scenes Walsh pumps into the story.
But, throughout the picture, romance comes fi rst; the action supports
it. On its release in June 1952 in an Alaskan premiere, and throughout
the United States a few months after, The World in His Arms received
generally favorable reviews and did respectable box office after that.
Reviewers could fi nd no real fault with the picture, except its somewhat
slow pace and predictability. The sets were lavish, and the action was
hearty, even salty.
318 Raoul Walsh
Despite the enthusiasm Walsh tried to pump into the picture, he was
plagued by back problems throughout the production. Anthony Quinn
recalled how he “complained constantly of an aching back, and turned
his ailments into a metaphor on aging.” “I went over to him one after-
noon, during a break in shooting,” Quinn remembered, “and asked how
he was faring. ‘I’m sixty-five years old, kid,’ he said, ‘and at my age it’s
downhill and shady all the way.’” Age, and the stress being put on his
one eye, were just beginning to take their toll on him.34
Walsh moved all over the Hollywood map as well as Europe and
Asia during the 1950s and 1960s. Before fi nishing production on The
World in His Arms, he signed an exclusive employment contract with
the British fi rm Coronado Productions on March 14, 1952, to direct
and produce Toilers of the Sea, which became Sea Devils. RKO would
distribute the film. Then, in May 1952, he signed directly with RKO for
a one-picture deal to direct Blackbeard the Pirate, for which the studio
guaranteed him six weeks work with a salary of $45,000. If Walsh be-
gan to lose interest in this upcoming spate of adventure stories—and the
scripts could be less than thrilling—he nevertheless enjoyed the travel
and the camaraderie on the set.
Before heading to England to direct Coronado’s Sea Devils, Walsh
went to work on Blackbeard the Pirate; he began shooting on June 3,
1952, and fi nished on July 9 of that year. He hoped the picture would be
pure action adventure. Alan Le May, who penned Cheyenne for Walsh
and whose western story became Ford’s The Searchers in 1956, wrote a
script from an original story penned by DeVallon Scott about the infa-
mous storybook pirate Blackbeard. The fast production went off with
just one hitch: Robert Newton’s Blackbeard was so much a comic-book
pirate that William Bendix turned in the only performance audiences
could take seriously. The cast of heavy hitters, including Linda Darnell,
Richard Egan, Alan Mowbray, and Keith Andes, seems lost at sea in the
unconvincing seventeenth-century shenanigans in Jamaica.
For the movie’s fight sequences, Walsh had a handful of sports fig-
ures on the set, including Stubby Kruger, the onetime Olympic swim
champ, the famous track star William Johnson, and the popular wrestler
Chester Hayes—just in case the cast needed help handling the swirl of
swords, guns, pins, and cutlasses that Walsh used.
By Land and by Sea 319
The critics were kinder to the picture than they might have been,
taking in its melodramatic high jinks good-naturedly and generally
giving it good reviews. More interestingly, Walsh and Newton emerged
from the project with intentions of being business partners. At the end
of 1952, the two had plans to team up and form a new television outfit
called Caribbean Pictures Corporation, with the idea of making fi fty-
two vidpix in the West Indies. Newton would play Long John Silver
in thirty of them and Captain Blackbeard in the other twenty-two, all
directed by Walsh (who obviously didn’t mind Newton’s histrionic act-
ing style). But, unfortunately or fortunately, the project lost steam and
never got off the ground. Newton, always an actor with a spotty career
owing to excessive drinking, died four years later, at the age of fifty, of
alcohol-related causes.
Walsh went to Universal for his second promised picture, The Law-
less Breed, directing Rock Hudson as the infamous outlaw John Wesley
Hardin, whose autobiography forms the picture’s base. (Walsh’s They
Died with Their Boots On initially stemmed from a book about Har-
din.) Now under contract to Universal, Hudson was still a fixture in
Walsh’s films, however sporadically. William Alland penned the story,
and Bernard Gordon then wrote the script for this simply told, heartfelt
tale. Lawless reveals Walsh’s dominant aesthetic in the 1950s—looking
more closely at his characters, the camera focused on how their motives
move the story. Hardin’s autobiographical work portrays the speaker as
a man who might be larger than the life experiences he narrates. He he-
roicizes himself, no doubt, and, in so doing, sells out real fact for fiction,
something Walsh knew about himself. Walsh set up camp at Newhall,
Thousand Oaks, and at Agua Dulce, all north of Los Angeles, and he
shot all exteriors on schedule and without interference from the weather.
Walsh, as the fi lm’s uncredited producer, cast the young Universal
contract player Hugh O’Brian to play Ike Hanley, a Hardin foe who
turns up early in the picture. O’Brian and Hudson had been high school
classmates in Winnetka, Illinois, but now found themselves in front of
Walsh’s camera in the early 1950s. O’Brian remembered, “I was very im-
pressed that [most of the directors at that time] knew exactly what they
wanted from a character. [Most] would fight for that, and sometimes
they would become tough to deal with because the performer didn’t
320 Raoul Walsh
want to do it. Walsh was very specific. . . . He was one of the roughest
directors I ever worked with. He was absolutely a no bullshit guy. I never
had that feeling of lack of interest from him. I never felt that he was
just directing it to get the money.” He continued, “[Walsh] didn’t have
to spend as much time with me as he did with other actors, especially
with Rock, because whatever I brought to it . . . I had a very defi nite
approach to a role and [Walsh] felt that. So there was a huge difference
between how he worked with me as opposed to Rock, because Rock did
the lead . . . and Rock was not an actor. . . . He was a good lookin’ kid
but he was not an actor’s actor. . . . It would have been interesting to see
him on Broadway.” O’Brian had some respect for Hudson’s talent as an
actor, “but not a great deal.”35 Still, Walsh liked the way Hudson looked
in front of the camera; he and that “public eye” shared a deep affi nity.
Although history books offer up Hardin as a brutal murderer whose
number of victims may have exceeded fi fty, Walsh and his writers portray
him as heroic and honorable, sticking to the guns of his autobiography,
fiction or not. Walsh was never at a loss to revise history in the name of
romance, as They Died with Their Boots On had proved. Directors such
as Anthony Mann and Budd Boetticher painted the western landscape
as a grittier moral landscape where good and evil are hard to distinguish
as they chew away at the story’s borders. Walsh’s western landscape
dispensed with complex issues of right and wrong; it is easy to know on
which side of the law, and the woman, his men stand. His love of his-
torical truth extended no further than whether it made for a good story,
whether it might entertain audiences. Nothing would interfere with a
good story, even as fiction overtook truth. Conflicts between good and
evil, innocence and experience, are fodder for the good story and for
the travel it takes to go to location and shoot it. Ultimately, in Walsh’s
landscape, there is no greater story than the one about the guy getting
the girl and having to go through his paces to get her. She might be his in
the end, or he might meet his end before he can hold her. But she is the
goal. Something larger than both of them pushes them together.
The Lawless Breed departed just slightly from Walsh’s more simpli-
fied view of western male-female relations and from that of the western
hero himself. Hardin is an ambiguous man, hoping his autobiography—
which frames the story told in flashback—might help restore his reputa-
tion as a human being, might soften society’s view of him. The woman
By Land and by Sea 321
“Don’t shave, talk with an American accent and you never saw
him before in your life.” I duly presented myself along with doz-
ens of other actors and was eventually shown into Raoul’s suite
together with his producer. Bob Leonard the casting director
said, “This is Mr. Bryan Forbes.” And Raoul immediately said,
“The kid looks virile to me. I’m tired of seeing all these British
faggots; let’s give him the part of Willy.” I believe that role of
Willy had originally been thought of for Barry Fitzgerald! The
producer went into shock, but Raoul stuck to his guns and in-
sisted they give me the role. He also managed to get me an extra
fee for rewriting most of the dialogue, telling them I was a bril-
liant writer. And so it was I went to Concarno in Brittany with
Yvonne de Carlo, Joan Collins’ fi rst husband, Maxwell Reed,
and the young Rock Hudson, whom Raoul had under contract. I
shared rooms with Rock in the hotel and was somewhat amazed
one night when over dinner he confessed he was in love with me.
I told him it was very flattering but I did not swing that way, so
I suppose I was one of the fi rst to know of his homosexuality.
There is one incident I remember: we were all having lunch
in a French restaurant when Raoul was called to the phone and
[then] came to ask Rock and me how much money we had. We
asked why. He told us he’d just had a call from an Irish jockey
in Dublin [who] told him to bet the limit on the 2.30. How the
jockey ever found out where Raoul was is beyond belief. Any-
way, Rock and I and both parties [gave] what cash we had—I
think about £40 each—and Raoul duly made the bets. The
horse came in at 20 to 1 and we made what was in those days a
small fortune. 38
The picture proved a minor moment in the careers of all its princi-
pals, including its director. A love story set in the midst of a mediocre
swashbuckler hardly went over with any of the press or the audiences
who came to see the picture. Hudson had yet to fi nd his bearings as a
romantic lead in a sea adventure, and De Carlo and he as lovers were
simply unconvincing. When Walsh called some of his fi lms “turkeys,”
he no doubt had Sea Devils foremost in his mind. But, happy to travel
again to England and shoot on location, Walsh was in a good mood
By Land and by Sea 323
We were away quite a few weeks but by the time that we re-
turned to the studio, all had settled down. I got on very well
with Raoul. For some reason he always called me Pedro. He
was quite relaxed on the set. He never looked through the view-
fi nder or the camera—he would frame a composition by using
his two thumbs and forefi ngers to illustrate what size picture he
wanted. His rehearsals were quite minimal; he would listen to
the dialogue and if he liked what he heard, he would say, “This
is a very intelligent reading. Let’s go.”39
The assistant director Phil Shipway would get Walsh a copy of the
Racing Times each day. Walsh would study the form and get Shipway to
put some bets on for him. Sometimes during the stage changes he would
haul several of the crew around to the nearest hostelry, bang on the bar,
and say to the barmaid, “Give my friends here some good drink and none
324 Raoul Walsh
Some days were just unforgettable. One day almost the entire
male cast was on the set and, given that it was a period piece,
all the men wore tight trousers. And it was pretty obvious that
one actor, Jacques Brunius, was very well endowed. Walsh no-
ticed this and told Phil Shipway to get wardrobe master Charlie
Guerin on [the] set. When Guerin arrived, Walsh told him to get
Jacques a jock strap. Guerin told him that they had run out, and
Walsh turned to Wilkie Cooper, the director of photography,
and said, “Hey, Wilk, throw a gobo [shadow] over the guy’s
nuts and let’s go.”40
Sea Devils was the very last picture made using Technicolor three-
strip color photography. The demise of Technicolor three-strip fi lm
was no doubt due to business reasons. Every time Walsh saw a plane
By Land and by Sea 325
In the late 1940s they turned their attention to the movie majors
and made them divide up their operations by separating the the-
aters from the production and distributing arms. As Eastman
Kodak made all the fi lm stock used by Technicolor, the govern-
ment instituted a class action suit against both of them, alleging
that between them they had conspired to prevent any further
development of color motion picture photography. Kodak
would have been happy for the status quo to remain, as every
Technicolor picture made used three times as much raw stock as
a monochrome picture. Anyway, the government prevailed, and
so Eastmancolor single strip film became the norm.41
Walsh found himself on the edge of history once again, using a process
that would soon be extinct.
problem” in the state. Their meeting with Toscano resulted in his want-
ing to be an actor, and, by coincidence, Mother Gertrude at the Fran-
ciscan Missionary of the Immaculate Conception wrote to Walsh asking
whether he could arrange a screen test for the boy. Walsh’s response was
an offer to adopt Toscano. But, in the end, Mother Gertrude wrote to
Walsh that such an adoption “would not work out satisfactorily,” as they
planned to send the boy back to Mexico.43 In years to come, Toscano
found his way back to Los Angeles again and took a job as a cashier at
the city’s famed Farmer’s Market before attending Catholic high school.
Walsh never heard about him again, and the matter was dropped.
Walsh was never forthcoming about his feelings for the children he did
adopt in his life. Relatives later believed that he always did want to have
children. While he clearly mismanaged the relationship he had with his
fi rst two adopted sons, Robert and Jack, he seemed to do better with
Marilynn as the two stayed in touch for the remainder of Walsh’s life.
Marilynn returned to Los Angeles later on, where she died in 1987,
seven years after Walsh. He was the only father she knew.
13
Reverie
Rouben Mamoulian once said, “No matter how you put it, a fi lm for
a director is always autobiographical. You see his outlook on life. You
see how he looks at love, at honor, at life.”1 That is, the director and
his characters share the same psychological space. Even before an actor
comes along, the director wills to this character some part of himself, just
as he authors and designs the world on the screen that they inhabit. He
initiates their movements and contemplates their reactions to the world
as if, in some fundamental way, they speak for him. As Walsh, now
in his seventies, grew into old age and moved further into the decade
of the 1950s, he and his characters grew closer together than before.
Just as he put much of the young Walsh into Danny Dolan’s (Spencer
Tracy’s) ribald sense of practical joking, along with the spunk in the
Helen Riley (Joan Bennett) character in 1932’s Me and My Gal, and just
as much as Victor McLaglen and Edmund Lowe inherit Walsh’s love of
male camaraderie in What Price, Glory? Walsh’s 1950s fi lms reveal his
psychology also, although now filtered through a somewhat different
lens—contemplative, more tuned in to his characters’ inner lives. They
may not reveal themselves verbally at such an intense speed; now they
move more slowly, act more deliberately, are far more meditative before
acting than their predecessors were—as if Walsh replicates in them the
way he now measures and contemplates his own life, his own actions in
advancing age. There is more taking stock of things in a character’s life;
there is more reverie in the looking. It’s far more satisfying now, this
looking around and contemplating where one stands in the world. Clark
Gable’s and Jane Russell’s characters in, say, The Tall Men to come, or
Gary Cooper’s Quincy Wyatt in Distant Drums, speak of Walsh’s more
serious consideration of the relationship between men and women, the
way one man treats another, and the way characters live honorably in
the social and physical world. While Walsh’s physical landscape remains
327
328 Raoul Walsh
just as large, the characters in it are often more mindful of their place in
that world on the screen. They can still be young, impulsive, and ready
for action in war in the Pacific or on the American plain. But they also
take more seriously the actions they perform, the adventures they seek.
For Walsh, the cinema is still the great adventure, but it seems less an
escape from the real world than before. Even as he directed Gregory
Peck in a series of high-seas adventures, even as he directed a best seller
such as Battle Cry because it gave him the chance to re-create another
large actioner—and, thus, to place a man in the center of a confl ict—
Walsh begins now to peer more deeply into the interior lives of his men
and women, no matter what the battle, as if he were peering more into
himself than before.
Before Walsh fi nished Sea Devils and returned to Los Angeles, his old
pal James Cagney contacted him about directing a picture he’d had
on his mind for some time: a story about a corrupt southern politician
based on Adria Locke Langley’s 1945 novel A Lion Is in the Streets.
Walsh could have cared less about the politics; he envisioned the drama.
Naturally, he said yes and was ready to begin as soon as he saw the green
light. It would be good to be back at Warners with Cagney, the man
whose screen psyche he had messed with so seriously and successfully.
Cagney and his brother, William, who produced the picture, em-
phatically denied all along that their protagonist, Hank Martin, was
a Huey Long prototype, thinking the fictional Martin’s rise in politics
did not parallel any living politician. Instead, Cagney said, the object of
their film was “to stress as much as possible the fact that any deviations
from the democratic processes are dangerous”: “The sum and substance
of our attraction to the novel and our purpose in making the picture,
aside from its dramatic qualities as an entertainment, is showing the
simplicity with which a demagogue can pervert the democratic system.”2
The fi fty-three-year-old Cagney thought that he needed to get in
shape for the part so he could convincingly strut around the southern
back roads and implore the crowds to vote for him in what was, no
matter how you cut it, a loosely based knockoff of Long’s career. He
dropped twenty-five pounds by plowing the fields of his Northridge,
California, farm himself, later saying that his foreman couldn’t under-
stand why he wouldn’t use a tractor. By the time Walsh arrived back in
Reverie 329
Los Angeles, Cagney was still working out. Production wheels began
turning on November 10, 1952. After Claire Trevor and Nina Foch
unsuccessfully tested for the part of Hank’s wife, Verity, the less-known
Barbara Hale was cast, and a young Anne Francis was cast as Flamingo,
the young woman who comes between them. With Frank McHugh also
set to appear, it seemed almost as if Walsh were back on an early 1940s
Warners set with Walsh, Cagney, and McHugh back to their old “Irish
Mafia” high jinks.
A Lion Is in the Streets, scripted by Luther Davis, tells the story
of Hank Martin (Cagney), a charismatic peddler living on the bayou.
When the fi lm opens, he meets a pretty (and naive) schoolteacher, Verity
Wade (Barbara Hale). Soon they marry, and Hank begins his rise in
politics. It takes Verity a while to realize that Hank is an expert ma-
nipulator, which is how he manages to gain a foothold in local politics.
He organizes the cotton farmers in the area and then in his fi rst election
proves his opponent to be corrupt. Along the way, Verity also discovers
that a local beauty, named Flamingo (Anne Francis), has been in love
with Hank since she was a child. Verity then understands that Flamingo
is not her only rival. Hank is driven by enormous greed in his desire to
control the people and politics around him—enough to cause his own
eventual demise.
As much as Cagney denied Martin’s resemblance to Huey Long,
Warners did its own math and came up with different results. In the
studio’s estimation, both Hank and Huey Long were “poor white” men
who “specialized” in selling similar goods—Hank sold a shortening
called Sizzle; Long sold a shortening called Cottolene. Both received
support from backcountry people. Both had the same campaign points:
highways, education for the underprivileged, and the notion of “spread-
ing the wealth” from the rich to the poor. Both had “close ties to gam-
blers.” Both met their wives while peddling. And, most important of
all, both had women on the side: Hank had Flamingo, and Long had
“a cuddly brunette who was his secretary before he became governor.”3
Walsh shot the picture’s interior scenes at the Goldwyn Studios in
Hollywood—before and after venturing back out to the Florida Ever-
glades on November 25, 1952, to film all the exterior shots. The entire
production lasted a little over a month. Anne Francis found Walsh to be
a shy man who blushed when she planted a kiss on his cheek. Her recol-
330 Raoul Walsh
lection of him was similar to those of many others who worked with
him in the 1950s: “I remember him setting up a scene and then before
the cameras rolled him heading out for the dark ends of the sound stage,
where he would stay until the scene was over.”4 Then he came wandering
back into the light.
Despite all the energy the Cagneys invested in Lion (which Walsh
neglected to mention in his autobiography later on), the fi lm had a hard
time when Warners released it. Much had happened between the time
the Cagneys fi rst bought the novel and the time they brought it to Walsh.
Columbia Pictures, which had released the director Robert Rossen’s All
the King’s Men (based on Robert Penn Warren’s novel of the same name)
in 1949, hit Warner Bros. with a plagiarism suit during production, and
the picture was pulled right after its release, not to be seen for some
years. Other than in the lead character, there is more difference than
similarity between the fi lms. Rossen’s film is a darkly serious treatment
of a corrupt political player, whereas Walsh’s is a hard-boiled, hard-
hitting melodrama whose beautiful Technicolor palette only makes the
slightly unbelievable Hank Martin seem all the more implausible. While
Walsh infuses weight into the story by giving Cagney a large physical
arena in which to strut, and while Cagney is still the virile embodiment
of anger and rage, the script renders Hank an unrealistic creation—more
a slogan than full bodied. Walsh either didn’t notice or didn’t care since
it’s hard to believe that he no longer knew the difference between a char-
acter whose actions are plausible and one whose are not. Hank is hardly
believable as a more-than-middle-aged man who still sells pots and pans
on the back roads of a small country town and then all of a sudden meets
a much younger woman and without reason heads out for a political
career. Critics could not overlook the fact that Walsh and Cagney still
made a dynamic team, even winning out over the script’s awkward mo-
ments. The scenes in which Cagney confronts his naysayers, the confl icts
between the farmers and the guards early on—all these dramatic mo-
ments deliver Cagney and Walsh lions still, vital and forceful. Cagney
never loses his confidence, his gift of the gab, and Walsh keeps his pace
quick and lively. If confl icts arise, they have to do with the director’s and
the actor’s apparent brassy and pungent moves running head on into
a story that doesn’t keep up with their gusto. Critics noticed as much
as audiences did that Walsh’s pictures began to look more splintered,
Reverie 331
Then Walsh signed a one-picture deal with Columbia Studios, the same
studio that censored A Lion Is in the Streets, and from late May to mid-
June 1953 went off to Sedona, Arizona, to direct Gun Fury, another ser-
viceable western whose only real distinction was its 3-D format, Walsh’s
bow to staying current. Just prior to that, on April 10, Walsh signed an
agreement with Columbia to direct a picture called Ten against Caesar,
a ten-week assignment for which he would be paid $60,000. But the
picture never went past the planning stages; Walsh was off to location
with another western.
The story of Gun Fury has a repetitive ring to it—not only the story
line that hinges on an ex-soldier forced to rescue the woman he loves, but
also what was by now pretty apparent, Walsh’s ambivalence about Rock
Hudson, who plays the hero. Walsh knew all too well Hudson’s weak-
nesses as an actor but still saw him as a growing box-office draw. In this
tale, Hudson is Ben Warren, an ex-Confederate soldier whose fiancée,
Jennifer (Donna Reed), is traveling from Georgia by stagecoach to meet
him. When she passes through Arizona, Ben surprises her by joining her
for the rest of the journey. When the stagecoach is set on by a gang of
outlaws, Ben is shot and left for dead, and Jennifer is kidnapped. After
Ben recovers, he sets out to rescue her, trekking a perilous road to do so.
332 Raoul Walsh
Gun Fury, based on the 1952 novel Ten against Caesar, written by
Kathleen B. George and Robert A. Granger, was scripted by Irving Wal-
lace and Roy Huggins. Unfortunately, this was Walsh’s only opportunity
to direct the actor Lee Marvin since Marvin could be a craggy-tempered
Walshian villain if ever there was one and played one of the heavies,
Blinky, in this picture. Marvin appreciated Walsh from the start. “We
called Raoul ‘Cotton-Eyed Joe’ because he had lost an eye in a car ac-
cident,” he said.
Walsh had become more set in his ways. He was in a hurry to get out the
back door—although for what reason he didn’t always know.
But he could also be subject to bouts of nostalgia, or even some
seriously misguided notions of what made good material in this decade.
During the second week of October 1953, during production on Gun
Fury, Walsh contacted H. E. Aitken, who still owned the rights to
The Birth of a Nation, inquiring about a possible remake of the fi lm.
Aitkin wired back on October 15, “answering wire there is no
commitments out for remaking the birth of a nation. I have
controlled the rights from its creation and can arrange for
a remake if proper deal is worked out. Prefer to have roy [Ob-
ringer, Warner’s attorney] come here for meeting or if speed is
necessary can meet you both in chicago answer by phone or
wire at francis hotel.”7 Nothing came of the deal, yet it’s interesting
that Walsh thought of returning to more glorious times, certainly to a
period in his life when he saw the threshold rather than the steady boat
Reverie 333
that took him slowing on his course. He either didn’t pay attention to the
story’s inherent racism or didn’t think to consider how much it mattered.
If thinking about The Birth of a Nation pushed him backward,
Walsh showed better judgment, in current cinematic trends, when he
knew to embrace 3-D technology at this juncture in time—a repeat,
although on a smaller stage, of his great enthusiasm for sound pictures
when they loomed on the horizon back in the late 1920s. While shooting
Gun Fury, Walsh gave an interview to the Los Angeles Times explain-
ing his enthusiasm for the 3-D process. He disliked wide-screen cinema
because it was, to him, unnecessary to see that much scope. He believed
that a spectator could see everything in the action with a “normal” screen
size. But 3-D excited him. He could cut a 3-D picture, he said, exactly as
he would a “2-D one, close-ups and all.” He thought that 3-D had great
possibilities because it didn’t depart from the principles of shooting a
picture that he had followed from the earliest days. To Walsh, 3-D was
part of the future. His excitement may have been for naught. Columbia
released Gun Fury on November 11, 1953, but audiences could see it
only for a short time. Columbia, like most of the other studios, quickly
left 3-D somewhere in the dust.
Columbia Studios boss Harry Cohn, known to wander onto the sets
of his directors and annoy them, sent one of the picture’s writers, a very
young Roy Huggins, onto Walsh’s set, purportedly so he could learn
a thing or two about the movies. Huggins later remembered his brief
time with Walsh. It sounded familiar. Recalling one scene in particular
where two actors were asked to yell and scream at each other, he said,
“Walsh called ‘Action,’ and sat down with his back to the actors. The
scene ended and Walsh said, ‘Cut. Print.’ Later, when the scene had to be
re-shot, Walsh again called ‘Action,’ and sat down with his back to the
actors. The scene ended and Walsh said, ‘Cut. Print,’ and stood up and
said, ‘Okay, that’s a wrap.’”8 Not reading anything in particular, Walsh
had just decided to turn around.
A week after the release of Gun Fury, Walsh was already thinking
about another picture that he had signed on for at Warner Bros.—Battle
Cry. Although the fi lm was not scheduled to begin until 1954, Walsh
was back at the studio on November 19, 1953, and sent a memo to Jack
Warner showing some concern for the picture, already in the planning
stages. “When battle cry is released,” he wrote, “we will be up against
334 Raoul Walsh
caine mutiny, with the following cast: Humphrey Bogart, Jose Fer-
rer, Van Johnson, Fred MacMurray. Where do we go from here?”9 No
response was recorded.
The fi rst place Walsh went from there was Canada, to shoot Sas-
katchewan for Universal Studios, a period picture set in nineteenth-
century Canada. The studio handed him Gil Doud’s fi nished script late
in July, and then he took cast and crew to Vancouver and into Banff
National Park for five weeks of shooting, beginning on August 4, 1953.
While Walsh drew a salary of $60,000, the fi lm’s star, Alan Ladd, had
him topped on that one, receiving $100,000. But Walsh also received a
percentage of the picture.
Saskatchewan (a.k.a. O’Rourke of the Royal Mounted) concerns
a Mountie named O’Rourke (Ladd) who is forced to do battle with the
Cree and Sioux Indians as they try to wipe out the U.S. Seventh Cavalry
in Saskatchewan. O’Rourke has several confl icts to cope with: a beauti-
ful woman (Shelley Winters) who has survived a Cree attack, a Cree half
brother, and, like many of Walsh’s western heroes, a sympathy for the
supposed enemy. O’Rourke sees the Sioux side of things as well as he
sees anything else.
Alan Ladd’s short physical stature had challenged the fleet of direc-
tors who worked with him over the years to get creative in finding ways
to keep him looking as tall as, if not taller than, the women he romanced
and the thugs who came after him. Walsh had faced this challenge a few
years earlier when he directed Ladd in Salty O’Rourke. Also working
with Walsh again, Hugh O’Brian, now cast as Ladd’s adversary, later
remembered:
[Ladd] was . . . not too much bigger than Mickey Rooney. And
we did a dolly shot on that. Whenever I did a scene with him, we
would rehearse it and then the camera would set up and all that.
And they would dig a hole for me to stand in. And the guy with
the shovel, well, he’s not too stupid, so he digs a half a hole. He
takes my dirt from the fi rst half and uses it as a mound for Ladd
to stand on so that he only has to dig it six inches. And a couple
of things happened. I mean, what bothered me most, I guess,
was . . . well, the difference between Alan and Mickey Rooney.
. . . Mickey [would say] “Hey guys, I’m short, that’s why you’re
Reverie 335
all f——n’ here—let’s do it, OK? I’m short, I’m short—that’s it.
But you’re getting paid, so let’s do your friggin’ fi lm.”
[But] Alan would kind of never admit that somebody else was
standing in a hole. They began to work and there were a couple
of things that happened. . . . I went to Raoul and I said, “Raoul,
I’ve had it. Next time we do a scene together and they dig a hole
for me . . . I don’t mind that, and I understand it. But, goddamn
it, don’t use my dirt for his mound!”10
Walsh got such a kick out of O’Brian’s joke that he roared with laughter
and continued to chuckle to himself the rest of the day.
Ladd was not the only cast member Walsh found challenging. Shel-
ley Winters, who played Ladd’s love interest, gave him pause more than
once. “Shelley Winters at the time was going with Vittorio Gassman,”
O’Brian remembered, “and Walsh was not too thrilled with Shelley,
kind of from the front. And then Vittorio came up to location and it
was very difficult to get her to concentrate. [Raoul] was not happy. And
there was a sequence where I come face to face with Alan Ladd at the
end in the fi nal gunfight between the two of us. I’ve got hold of Shelley
as a shield. And, when it comes time to actually have the gunfight, my
character throws Shelley away. So the gunfight happens, and Alan Ladd
shoots me. And, just before we went through the take, [Raoul] came
over to me and said, ‘Hugh, throw her as far as you can.’ I really threw
her across the view.”11 Walsh had gotten someone else to do his bidding.
Walsh didn’t want any stand-ins for his actors during the produc-
tion, so Shelley Winters let it be known to reporters who visited the set
that she was covered in bruises from head to foot—she also commiser-
ated with her friend Marilyn Monroe, who was nearby shooting Henry
Hathaway’s Niagara. But Walsh had a soft spot somewhere for Winters,
or at least for lovers. She told him that she was lonely for Gassman even
though he telephoned her every other night from Rome. So Walsh re-
arranged their shooting schedule so that she had the day off for her
birthday, when Gassman flew to their location site bringing a birthday
cake with him. He also had a soft spot for another actor, Richard Long,
building up his part to larger proportions to help boost his career.
Again, the chance for Walsh to surround himself with new natural
scenery and meet the locals was a top priority, almost as if he could
336 Raoul Walsh
never get enough of the new. After the production wrapped, he released
a statement that September for a studio publicity piece. He didn’t see the
racism in his words; he saw only the humor:
This story almost reached back to his antics with the actress Theda Bara
years earlier. The release continued:
Reverie 337
“We can tell when a scene is going to be good and okayed for
printing,” one of the crew said. “When Raoul is hitting on all
six behind the camera, sipping tea with the gals and doing prat-
falls with the stunt men we know everything’s going right in
front.” “[He] detects when a scene is lapsing into lethargy when
he exploits with facial contortions not unlike those of a man get-
ting his initial shif of well-ripened Gorgonzola cheese.” “Walsh
wanted a fast moving tempo from the start. Ladd calls Walsh
a one-man stock company (with his impromptu vaudeville act
and all). Once when Ladd blew his lines, he excused himself by
saying he was only waiting for Walsh to catch up with him.”
“Walsh said, ‘Well, there’s a little ham in everybody. I just got a
second helping of it when it was passed around.’”13
By now, Walsh was a seasoned raconteur; the gift was native to him.
He spent even more time talking to the media. He piled on the schmaltz
and perfected his stories until he could recite them by heart.
With Saskatchewan completed, Walsh was ready to focus on a
larger project with far more notoriety attached and, with that, a far
greater chance to succeed or fail in a large public way. Leon Uris’s best
seller Battle Cry put Walsh to the test in just the way he liked: on foreign
ground and with Jack Warner back home in Hollywood talking to him
through cablegrams.
War Diaries
The name Battle Cry had been floating around the Warners lot since
1943, when Howard Hawks spent two weeks at June Lake, near Yosem-
ite, California, with William Faulkner and the writer Steve Fisher (who
scripted Dead Reckoning and Lady in the Lake) trying to etch out a
script of a movie carrying the same name (though it had little relation to
Walsh’s film). Soon after that, Warners had the idea to base the fi lm on a
book by Ambassador Joseph E. Davies and to design it as a series of epi-
sodes, each scripted by a different author. A memo circulated around the
studio noting, “A number of the leading novelists of America, England
and France already have communicated to Warner Bros. their interest
in the project and requested that they be allowed to submit material for
338 Raoul Walsh
inclusion in Battle Cry.” Each of eighteen projected reels would tell the
story of a different soldier. The idea behind the film was “to show the
real brotherhood of man in this common struggle against Fascism”: “We
are all fighting the same thing.”14
Ten years passed, and nothing happened with the title. Then, in July
1953, Warner Bros. purchased Leon Uris’s popular novel Battle Cry for
$25,000. The studio tagged it “a story about a group of Marines in the
Pacific war”—which was not saying much about anything, not yet.15 But
Jack Warner had big plans for the book. The studio agreed to pay Uris
and his publisher, Putnam’s, an additional $12,500 should any sequels
to the fi lm be made.
Uris wrote the script himself, fi nishing just at the end of 1953. The
studio considered numerous titles, such as The American Sequence and
The Lonesome Train, before deciding to stay with Battle Cry. The story,
which focuses on a group of marines as they go from boot camp to the
battlefields of World War II, contains the requisite conceits of the genre:
one marine has a girl in every port; his buddies run the gamut from
overly zealous to running scared. Walsh signed a contract with Warner
Bros. on October 6, 1953, three months before he began shooting Battle
Cry. The contract stipulated that he would work for a period of fi fty-
two weeks for the production of at least two “but not more than three
pictures” and would receive $3,000 per week during that time. When
he signed with Warners, however, Walsh was still obligated to direct
the western Jubal Troop for Columbia, although he could renege on the
picture at his own discretion, which he did (Columbia released the direc-
tor Delmer Daves’s Jubal, starring Glenn Ford and Ernest Borgnine, in
1956—without Walsh attached to it at all). But, as part of the Warners’
contract Sam Jaffe now negotiated and Walsh signed, in addition to di-
recting Battle Cry, he was also set to direct, without screen credit, the
battle scenes for the studio’s Helen of Troy, to be fi lmed in Rome. That
would come later.
Walsh claimed he worked on the script of Battle Cry with Uris,
although it is unclear when that took place. The script was still not fin-
ished by the time shooting began, and sections of it were shipped now
and then to the company after they began fi lming in Puerto Rico. But
one thing was clear: Walsh saw Battle Cry as a chance to replicate his
success with What Price Glory? These large-scale war pictures excited
Reverie 339
him the most, as if, the more mettle he could pump into a story, the more
chance to live on the edge of danger, the more opportunity to choreo-
graph action sequences—the bigger, the better. He had been doing some
straight shooting recently with pictures such as Gun Fury and Distant
Drums. But Battle Cry would mean fi ring the big guns. “It’s one of my
favorite films,” Walsh told the British press later in a piece of puffery,
“and one of the most ambitious”:
It’s conceivable that Walsh worked on the script with Uris but more
likely that he tinkered with it during production.
Battle Cry is a smorgasbord of personalities and dramatic events
that intersect in 1942 as a group of young marines joins up to go into
battle. They spend as much time playing out personal dramas as actu-
ally seeing battle, if not more. Aldo Ray is the girl-crazy Gyrene who
somehow falls in love with the right girl; Van Heflin is the colonel who
is a soft touch beneath his steely exterior; Perry Lopez is the Hispanic
soldier (just one of many cultural types represented in the picture); and
there is Tab Hunter as the guy who has a fl ing with a married woman
played by Dorothy Malone. Also on board is Justice McQueen as the
brash southern soldier L. Q. Jones (the name McQueen took after the
fi lm). Following Uris’s script, Walsh portrayed his group of marines as
a cross section of America; they spend more screen time defining them-
340 Raoul Walsh
selves as types than they do fighting the war, a fact that many critics and
moviegoers noticed.
The picture’s long list of characters triggered a casting call heard
around the world. Hollywood’s and Broadway’s best showed up to read
for parts. James Dean was considered fi rst for the part of Ski and then
for the part of Marion, both supporting roles, but received no callback
for either. At the time, he was being groomed for Elia Kazan’s East of
Eden, and Kazan, protective of the young actor, wanted it kept under
wraps that Dean had even come in to read for Walsh’s picture. The up-
and-coming Warners producer William Orr wrote to Jack Warner’s ex-
ecutive assistant Steve Trilling saying, “James Dean is a young man who
is gaining a reputation as a fine young actor whom we tested yesterday
for the part of Ski, even though we didn’t think him quite right for the
part.”17 Neither did a young Walter Matthau impress when he read for
the part of Mac, another of the marines.
Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward came in together—Newman
fi rst reading for two parts, with Woodward reading for one. Bill Orr sent
Steve Trilling a memo:
Walsh, who must have had word that the auditions were trying, wired
Trilling from San Juan after the Newman-Woodward episode, “I am
getting better stuff each day hereafter staging all my own battles. Give
my best to all. Uncle.” He wired again on February 27, 1954: “Good to
talk to you. Don’t let these actors annoy you. To me they are strictly dog
meat. I am here to put on a battle with the Marines, which I am going
Reverie 341
to do. Uncle.”18 Walsh may have been joking, but battle scenes were for
more serious enjoyment.
More successful was Justice McQueen/L. Q. Jones, who was work-
ing as a page at CBS but was trying to break into pictures when he went
in to read for the fi lm. Walsh was there, and, after the reading, all he
said was, “Thanks, kid, we’ll be in touch.” Several days later, Jones got
the call to head over to wardrobe at Warner Bros. Jack Warner argued
against Walsh hiring Jones. “He’s only a kid; he’s got no experience,”
Warner said. “You’re going hundreds of miles away on location; what if
the kid freezes [up]? Just call him when the picture is over, offer him a
small part in another picture, and everybody’s happy.” But Walsh told
Warner, “If the kid doesn’t work in this picture, get yourself another di-
rector.” That was the end of it, and L. Q. was in. Walsh saw a quality in
Jones that he liked and even offered to put him under personal contract;
he had done that with Rock Hudson, after all. When Jones told him that
the studio had already gotten him an agent, Walsh said, “Don’t worry,
kid, I’ll take care of everything.”19 This was quintessential Walsh—open
armed and in a hurry.
Jones had a singular view of Walsh. “At that period of time there
were only three or four directors who did whatever they wanted to do,
and Raoul was one of them. Ford was another; Wild Bill Wellman was
another,” he recalled. “Raoul ran his set the way Raoul wanted to run
it, and you did what he wanted to do. Russ Saunders [Walsh’s assistant
director] had been with him for so long he knew exactly how to run the
studio and keep them off [Walsh’s] back. If you worked with Raoul you
worked with Russ, and Russ did not like actors. He’d seen too many
have too much crap. Russ ran a tight ship—there was no waste.”20
Walsh took his cast and crew to the U.S. Marine Corps depot in San
Diego on February 15, 1954, to begin shooting. He cabled Trilling: “Get
Gloria Grahame for Pat [Nancy Olson was cast]. Think her name has
some value with Marines. The best actors we have are James Whitmore,
Spanish, L. Q. Jones, Pedro [Perry Lopez], Danny [Tab Hunter] and Andy
[Aldo Ray]. The rest are dog meat. Everybody working hard here under
tough conditions, but we are going to bring home the bacon and I hope it’s
kosher. . . . Uncle.” They were in San Juan by the end of that month. Af-
terward, Walsh wrote Trilling on March 4: “Shipping artists back to their
342 Raoul Walsh
agents this week. Don’t give out any scripts until I get there. I am staying
here to photograph D Day landing’s ship maneuvers and naval cannon
fire. If you have not yet selected a cutter, suggest Alan Crosland as a good
man. I have lost twelve pounds owing traffe [trafe, ‘bad, not kosher’; he
probably meant food] and no sleep because of Kinnen [unknown]. But if
we can win the war that’s all that counts. Give my best to JL and all the
misphoka [mishpocha, ‘family’]. Love, Uncle.” He later added, “Everyone
down here beating their brains out trying to get a good picture.”21
The Marines invaded three to four times a year on Vieques, an is-
land municipality of Puerto Rico in the northeastern Caribbean; that
was their practice. Walsh was very aware of this, and he coordinated
his shoot with one of the invasions so that he could use their ships and
their men. That way he had twenty to twenty-five thousand men at his
disposal and knew exactly how to run them.
On March 8, Jack cabled Walsh: “Dear Uncle . . . Can you put
cameraman front of tank or shooting through gun turret or some other
intriguing way having tank bearing down on whatever is in front and
have camera vibrate when tank goes off? Steve and I have seen all fi lm.
Looks really great. Everybody doing wonderful job. Be happy [to] see
your smiling batesmer ponem [‘beautiful face’] again. Jack.”22
According to Jones, Walsh didn’t like to work on Saturdays since
he thought he already worked hard enough Monday through Friday. If
there happened to be a Saturday call, he would show up at 9:30 a.m.,
step out of the “limo”—a Jeep—and, if it was too hot, look up at the sun
and say, “My God, it’s raining. That’s it for the day.”23 He’d go home,
and the production would disband. That was only one of Walsh’s quirks.
Another actor, Tommy Cook, who played one of the marines, later re-
membered him sitting in his chair as the cameras rolled, just reading the
Hollywood Reporter. 24
Walsh returned to California in the middle of March. He was back
hardly one day when the Warner Bros. story editor Finlay McDermid
wrote him:
Welcome home! While you have been fighting the battle of Vi-
eques, the home front has been staging a close-quarter battle
with the Breen Office. This has been a nip and tuck affair but I
Reverie 343
Dear Stevie,
We arrived in San Diego this morning and ran into very un-
usual weather for California. Plenty of rain and lots of fog. This
evening we had an earthquake and the two Indians went tearing
through the lobby in the nude. Guthrie was still chasing them
at 9:00 [p.m.]. We found one of them in a bar down the street,
and the other one was singing with a band. He said, “I wanta go
back to the reservation.” . . .
The present script is lacking in humor. I thought we were
going to put in the scene where L. Q. [Jones] goes to the ranch
and has the disastrous affair with a country girl. This to me was
a very funny episode and I think the audience is more interested
in seeing the escapades and situations that our platoon gets into
rather than have two officers yakking all the time. . . .
The manager just phoned and said the Indians have gone to
bed with their clothes on, waiting for another earthquake. I have
had one good break here. The fleet is in Honolulu so Guthrie
can’t call up any admirals and have them over for dinner.
Best wishes for a Happy New Year. Uncle. 26
344 Raoul Walsh
On April 17, Walsh began fi lming the Saipan battle scenes at Camp
Pendleton, near San Diego. The cast and crew then left for San Juan
again to complete most of the picture. Shooting ended July 2, 1954, five
months after Walsh started out in this war.
Dear General,
We press previewed the picture “Battle Cry” last night before
a regular paid admission audience of approximately 2,500 men,
woman and children at The Pantages Theatre in Hollywood.
It was stirring to hear the enthusiastic response and it was the
consensus of opinion, “A wonderful tribute to the Corps and
unquestionably the best Marine picture ever made.” I am happy
to report this because of my promise to you at Vieques Island
that I would endeavor to make “Battle Cry” a better picture
than “What Price Glory?” and from last night’s reception I feel
we have accomplished that. My compliments to you, and the
Marines have landed again.
Warmest Regards,
Raoul Walsh28
On the set, Walsh would often tell his actors where to be, what
to do. Then again he might just trust them. They had to learn what to
Reverie 345
In early 1955, Walsh went off to Rome to fulfi ll the second half of his
Warners contract and conducted the battle scenes for the director Robert
Wise’s Helen of Troy, released in early 1956. His good friend John Twist
coscripted the picture, which featured the newcomer Rossana Podesta,
346 Raoul Walsh
along with Stanley Baker and a young actress named Brigitte Bardot. If
nothing else, he received a trip to Rome and later made a good story out
of it. He told Hedda Hopper in 1965:
Walsh’s contract with Warners to direct Battle Cry was the last one
brokered by his longtime agent Sam Jaffe, who would close shop in 1959
to become a producer. Although there was no animosity between the
two, Walsh left Jaffe before the mid-1950s. When he signed with Fox,
in February 1954, to direct his next picture, the western story The Tall
Men, he signed with his new agent, Herb Brenner at MCA, whose other
clients at the time included Shelley Winters, Robert Taylor, and Mervyn
LeRoy. Walsh worked with Brenner for the rest of his career.
1866, are seen riding their horses into the Montana Territory. The two
have emerged from the Civil War physically intact but psychologically
wounded. The opening words on the screen tell as much: “They came
from the South headed for the goldfields . . . Ben and Clint Allison, lonely,
desperate men. Riding away from a heartbreak memory of Gettysburg.
Looking for a new life. A story of tall men—and long shadows.”
The country inside Walsh’s frame is strikingly beautiful—blue sky
and spectacular snow-covered mountains. This kind of grandeur fi lled
Walsh with a soaring energy. The men who ride within its folds are mi-
nuscule and, as the story unfolds, made to look smaller still—physically
and psychologically. Ben and Clint (Gable and Mitchell) arrive in a small
town with the purpose of getting money any way they can. They spot
Nathan Stark (Robert Ryan) in the back room of a saloon unloading a
hefty amount of money onto a table. Within minutes, they ambush him
outside, rob him of his money belt, and take him along until they reach
an isolated spot where he can’t call for help. Stark then turns the tables
on them and offers them a job that he promises will make them rich. He
needs men to accompany him to Texas with the objective of bringing as
many head of cattle as they can back up to Montana, where the animals
will bring in a huge profit.
The three become business partners and head out for Texas. But the
blizzards are tough going, and when they take shelter, they run into a
young woman, Nella Turner (Jane Russell), whom Ben rescues from an
Indian attack a little while later. The two fall in love, but Nella has big
dreams that do not match Ben’s smaller ones. She goes along with him
anyway, and she meets Stark, who has departed for a while, when they
all gather in Texas. Hotheaded Clint is killed by Indians. From then on
Nella fights with herself: she loves Ben but wants the life Stark’s kind of
money can fetch. All three make it back to Montana, where Ben and Stark
wrangle the square up and Nella comes to terms with her love for Ben.
The picture’s screenplay took some doing before the Fox produc-
tion chief Darryl F. Zanuck thought it in good enough shape: if Walsh
thought Jack Warner was a controlling overseer, Zanuck, a goy like
Walsh, was a hands-on producer who liked a good story meeting but
could just as easily walk a script through to production on his own.
The producers William Hawks and William A. Bacher bought Clay
Fisher’s novel The Tall Men early in 1954 and showed it to Zanuck
348 Raoul Walsh
with the highest of hopes. When Zanuck read the story, he sent a memo
through the ranks on April 19, 1954: “I have read this story, which I un-
derstand has been purchased by Hawks and Bacher. While it contains a
great deal of material seen in other spectacular outdoor fi lms, neverthe-
less it does have the ‘look’ of a great, big, mammoth outdoor fi lm. Too
bad it comes from a third rate book. It is a colossal undertaking from
a fi nancial standpoint. It cannot be touched for less than three million,
five hundred and be done in a way it should be done—particularly with
an all-star cast.” “Make a deal with the author and publisher,” Zanuck
said, “to have the book rewritten in such a way that you could sell copies
and make it a best seller. It would of course be published under another
title as this title is too close to ‘Ten Tall Men,’ which was a picture
released last year.” Then he had another idea—to combine the story of
The Tall Men with a remake of The Iron Horse: “The picture would tell
the story of ‘The Tall Men’ but would have the characters bringing cattle
to railroad builders in Montana.”32 Zanuck eventually scrapped the Iron
Horse idea, and Frank Nugent came in to write a revised script, which
he gave to Zanuck on February 12, 1954.
Walsh had his own ideas about script changes and met with the
producers to offer rewrite ideas amounting almost to an entire overhaul.
The opening credits seemed uninteresting, and he asked to change them
to include “some good shots of the wild country under the titles”: “Then
we come to a shot of a barren hill, hold for a moment, then the two men
ride into it. Their horses should have long hair, and the men should look
pretty rugged, indicating they have been on this trip for a long time.”
Walsh got what he wanted for most of the opening shots, but not those
depicting Ben and Clint coming on “the hanging spot,” where they fi nd
two men hanged by Indians (there is only one in the fi nal fi lm) and Ben
says to his brother, “At least they died with their boots on.”33
Walsh wanted the intimate scenes between Ben and Nella to be
cooled down, especially the fi rst time they are alone in the cabin: “While
we want to have a sexy scene here, we also want it to be in the picture
after the Breen boys see it.” Walsh proposed: “Ben and Nella arrive at
the prospector’s cabin; we play it as it is, up through the kiss. Now it
looks as though the next step will be in the direction of a bed, but before
this can happen, the cavalry patrol arrives. Ben looks out, sees them,
then looks back at Nella and remarks, ‘This is the fi rst time I’ve not been
Reverie 349
glad to see the Texas troopers.’” Then Walsh has the scene proceeding to
“the next morning.”34 He received his “next morning,” but the cavalry
never arrive, and Ben and Nella have to go it awkwardly alone, falling
in love, Nella even getting a foot rub without it looking sexual. Breen’s
office surprisingly left the scene intact.
Walsh didn’t get all the changes he asked for, but he did get an im-
portant one: “The more scenes we can have between Nella and Ben, and
the more arguments we can have between these two, the better it will
be for the story,” he said, wanting some sexual fi reworks. He also said:
“We should always have the big herd moving in the background, stirring
up clouds of dust.” (Walsh loved dust.) Fox’s special-effects department
contributed obvious matte shots of dust, cloudy skies, even towns and
stampeding herds of cattle. In addition, Gable had a few ideas about
script changes that he passed along through Walsh to the producers. He
thought that “Ben should take complete control of the trek” and that
“the scenes between Ben and Nella should be built up, and there should
be more of them.”35 That way, Gable would be front and center, which
he was.
Walsh later said that the shoot was a rough one: four hundred
people from the production came down with dysentery, and, on top of
that, Ryan contracted hepatitis. But the cast and crew still grew close.
Walsh and Gable, both notorious practical jokers, went at each other
constantly, at one point Walsh putting a descented skunk in Gable’s ho-
tel room, scaring the actor out of his wits. Russell recalled that, before
she went on location with Walsh, she was told “not to go anywhere near
a Walsh set” since he was “horrible to actors.” She found him to be just
the opposite. He was “a pussycat,” she later said, who began calling her
“Daughter” while she called him “Father.” For the remainder of Walsh’s
life, Russell sent him a Father’s Day card every year and later became
close friends with Mary Walsh after the Walshes moved to Simi Valley. 36
Although the fi lm grossed $6 million after it opened domestically in
September 1955 and put Gable—in his fi rst real cowboy picture—back
at the top of Hollywood’s top ten list of actors, the critics were not kind,
especially citing the picture’s wealth of weather-weary clichés. However,
the fi lm’s reputation has improved over the years, in good part owing to
its physical beauty—the expansive picture Walsh paints. His signature
wide panning shots are so free-flowing they seem almost haphazardly
350 Raoul Walsh
to catch one or two lonely figures traveling within them, dwarfed by the
huge size of this physical space.
Walsh’s characters interact with each other and their physical envi-
ronment in a contemplative way, as if very cognizant of their behavior
toward one another, especially the two men who see the woman they
love. They are heroic travelers, the kind of traveler Walsh might want
to be at this stage in his life—not the childlike Errol Flynn but a full-
fledged, grown-up man. He might want to be, like Ben, a man other men
want to emulate, one who still conducts himself with dignity around
others. Ben Allison, as Clark Gable plays him, is the masculine yet soft-
spoken man Walsh wishes to be. In fact, Walsh confuses Ben with Gable,
unable to see a difference between the actor and the character he plays.
In his autobiography, Walsh mentions directing Gable in this picture and
talks of how he and Gable went hunting together, masculinizing and
romanticizing the bond between them. Ben embodies a self-sacrificing
nature, embracing not so much a fictional persona as a real one for
Walsh. A sense of reverie seems to have settled on Gable, and Walsh sees
it. It’s triggered by a recognition of so much time, and life, having gone
by. The Tall Men speaks to this: its characters are hearty, earthy, and
organically rooted in the soil they travel. There is a realism to them that
cancels out any holes in the script. Walsh gives them a physical presence
that is almost staggering.
14
Although Walsh’s brother, George, left the movies in the early 1950s
to take up horse training and ranching, he kept his heart in the fi lm
business. When he began working with horses, he did so for Walsh until
he branched out working for other members of the Hollywood com-
munity. But the two brothers had collaborated on scripts several decades
earlier, and George never stopped suggesting project ideas to Walsh. He
sent them along in a letter no matter where his brother happened to be.
From 1955 to 1963, Walsh received countless letters from George, each
with a new movie project, none of them realized, however. An early idea
was Alexandra Orme’s novel Comes the Comrade, a story about the
Russian occupation of Hungary seen through “the eyes of an attractive
woman” that describes a mysterious “Red” character taking over the
land. This indictment of communism was not to Walsh’s taste. The same
year, 1956, George sent Walsh various other ideas, including a story of
modern Mexico replete with bullfight action and “color and romance.”
He also tried to sell his brother on “The Life of Mary Jemison” (telling
the tale of a white colonist captured by the Seneca Indians when she was
thirteen). Along similar lines, he told Walsh about “Birch Coulie,” a ro-
mantic story about an Indian uprising in 1862 Minnesota. George knew
his brother well; the story was very sympathetic to Native Americans.
Other ideas over the years had to do with horse racing, the Irish sweep-
stakes, and Senator Joe McCarthy, who was, in George’s words, “the
victim of a most undeserved censure by the Senate for the monumental
crime of patriotism above personal popularity.” Walsh did not go for
any of those either, even though all the stories George sent his brother
had one common element, a love story. Each wrapped around the love
of a man for a woman or a man fighting the odds to fight the good fight
while still knowing a woman stood waiting for him.1
351
352 Raoul Walsh
so, in the fi lm, Mamie is a good girl with naughty edges. When the film
opens, she is escorted by the San Francisco police to a pier and then to
the ship that will take her to Hawaii. In essence, she’s told to get out of
town. In Walsh’s frame, this makes her the female equivalent of the sad,
lone traveler out to escape a bad history and looking to redeem himself
in a new one.
On the ship to Hawaii, Mamie meets the writer Jim Blair, who
immediately takes an interest in her sadness and befriends her when
they get to Hawaii. Mamie finds work in a gentleman’s nightclub called
the Bungalow run by a woman named Bertha; she entertains men in
her room but strictly at the level of music and friendly conversation.
Soon, Mamie and Jim realize that they are in love, and he sheds his
more aristocratic girlfriend, Annalee Johnson. But Mamie is viewed as
a whore all around town, and when Jim tries to take her to the local
officers’ club, they are shunned. A soldier himself, Jim is soon shipped
overseas. He and Mamie pledge their love. But the Japanese bomb Pearl
Harbor, and Mamie realizes that she has enough money to buy property
in the hard-hit area of town. In order to make more money and to grab
as much power as she can (as a man would), she keeps working at the
gentleman’s nightclub even though she promised Jim she would quit.
When Jim gets wind of this, he asks her to stop, which she refuses to
do. Jim leaves her, and at the story’s conclusion, Mamie leaves Hawaii,
passing through San Francisco on her way back home to Mississippi. She
had made a fortune in real estate but gave her money away. Now alone,
Mamie wonders whether the independence was worth it all.
Jane Russell’s home studio, RKO, loaned her to Fox for The Revolt
of Mamie Stover, and Walsh had his girl with him again. Richard Egan
was cast as Jim Blair, and Agnes Moorehead played Bertha Parchman.
Joan Leslie, who began her career in Walsh’s High Sierra, made her fi nal
screen appearance as Annalee Johnson.
The Mamie Stover script went through almost six months of changes
at Fox before Walsh began shooting the picture in late November 1955
in Los Angeles. A first treatment, dated June 1955 and written by Huie,
has Mamie no longer an out-and-out prostitute but certainly something
close to it: a woman living on the edges of proper society. She is “beaten
up” and “wearing large, dark glasses to hide a black eye”: “She is
twenty-two. She is a lush woman; golden hair, tall, and proportioned
His Kind of Women 355
accordingly. She is not a tramp. She is a fresh and fairly sensitive girl who
has been treated harshly.” In several subsequent treatments, Mamie is
already on the ship when the story opens, omitting the scene in the fi n-
ished fi lm that has her booted out of San Francisco, escorted to the ship
that will take her to Hawaii to make sure she is on it. A fi nal shooting
script, dated October 31, 1956, does little to change that opening.4 On
November 4, 1955, Zanuck met with Walsh to discuss the script. Also in
that meeting was the soon-to-be Fox production chief Buddy Adler, who
would take Zanuck’s job in a short while after Zanuck left the studio in
what some say was a midlife crisis exemplified by an urge to chase the
young actress Bella Darvi around Europe (he returned to filmmaking
five years later as an independent producer).
Zanuck, Walsh, and Adler considered revisions to the script. Zanuck
liked the script “immensely,” saying that it would make “an interesting,
off beat picture.” But he worried that it didn’t dig deeply enough into the
characters. “Are we too much on the surface?” Zanuck asked (propheti-
cally). “As an example,” he said, “take the character of Jim Blair. I like
him but I found it hard to believe that he was an author. I do not feel
wisdom in him. He is so obvious, it seems to me. Now take the newspa-
perman, William Holden’s character, Mark Elliott [in Love Is a Many
Splendored Thing]. His observations on life, and what makes us tick,
and his observations on things in general were pretty adult.” Zanuck ob-
viously had a high opinion of writers. He added, “Jim Blair in this script
sounds to me like a lousy writer because, among other things, he doesn’t
seem to be on a higher intellectual plane than does Mamie [Zanuck had
little respect for Mamie’s intellect]. I do not feel any wisdom in him; he
seems a little naive. I think he should be more intrigued by Mamie, by
the kind of girl she is, and by her philosophy. At fi rst we should see him
watching Mamie, and sizing her up. Then he gets hooked by her.”5
Sydney Boehm’s fi nal shooting script, dated November 9, 1955, in-
cludes the opening scene with the San Francisco police escorting Mamie
to the ship. Mamie is a bad girl who, by story’s end, learns a good lesson
and loses her man. She owns a good amount of property but is punished
for her transgression, not only because she is unable to quit her profes-
sion as a hostess, but also because she wants money as much as any man
does. In the 1950s, Mamie is still too aberrant in her desire for power.
A feminist reading (in which even Walsh’s strong women are pieces of,
356 Raoul Walsh
rather than owners of, property) would see Mamie’s end as a punishment
for her wish to be independent of a man, for no longer wanting to be a
commodity but instead wanting to control a commodity—and herself.
Mamie isn’t punished for being a prostitute—not outwardly—but she is
punished nonetheless.
Walsh shot the picture in Hawaii and on Pier 13 in Wilmington,
California, just south of Los Angeles, before returning to the Fox lot for
interior scenes. He and Russell often worked from 8:45 p.m. until 1:45
a.m., forming a close friendship once again, this time Egan joining them
in playing practical jokes on each other, privately and in public. When
they were in Hawaii, Walsh showed his affection for Russell by readjust-
ing their shooting schedule so that she could get home to California for
Christmas to be with her husband, the Los Angeles Rams quarterback
Bob Waterfield, and their children. He made certain that she, Egan, he,
and Mary changed to a hotel closer to the airport in Hawaii so as to
catch an early fl ight to Los Angeles. The three remained close friends
for years.
The riches of Mamie are many. Walsh and Jane Russell are natural-
born allies, coming together serendipitously for The Tall Men and now
for this tale of a woman who is the destination for all Walsh’s celluloid
women over the years. She is, of course, down on her luck, struggling to
stay afloat, and using a cynical sense of humor to help her get by. Rus-
sell’s earthy sexuality is the female equivalent of Walsh’s male bravado
and virility. Mamie Stover is Walsh’s most important film of this decade,
revealing an emotional landscape in which he lets his guard down and
creates pure vulnerability on the screen. Mamie exists in a script with
potholes, and she is pulled down by the weight of the world around her.
Yet she is a real woman, full bodied enough to capture the spectator
with the full force of her honesty.
But there was no love lost between Jane Russell and Buddy Adler.
Getting Russell’s hair color just right for the character was harder than
expected. Her natural color, black, was wrong for Mamie, who in the
book is a platinum blonde. Adler decided that her hair should be red,
even though Russell preferred to go platinum. She called him on the
phone one morning to make that suggestion, adding that Moorehead
should keep her natural, “beautiful” red hair. “He sounded annoyed
that I’d gotten him so early in the morning,” Russell said, “and he told
His Kind of Women 357
Jo Van Fleet, who played the story’s matriarch. To him, Van Fleet was a
powerhouse and a true professional.
Gable plays a middle-aged, still handsome cowboy who learns that
a widow and her four daughters-in-law live on a ranch where $100,000
lies buried, money stolen by the sons in a robbery. Three of the sons are
known to have been killed in the robbery, but one is said to be alive.
Gable’s character, Dan, wants the money and moves in on the women,
telling them that he knew that son. The film, shot in St. George, Utah,
shines little in Walsh’s body of work but nonetheless earmarks once
again the maturity of the characters he defined in his 1950s fi lms. At the
story’s conclusion, Dan ends up with one of the daughters-in-law, Sabina
(Eleanor Parker), who confesses to him that she and her supposed hus-
band were never married. This leaves her free to ride off with Dan. The
two decide to stay together not so much because of a passionate love for
each other as because they realize they make a good team—and the best
kind of life is one where you are not alone in the end. This was Walsh ac-
knowledging that getting older affords, or necessitates, seeing the world
in wider, more inclusive terms. The landscape grows broader and be-
comes more tolerant of human flaws. These flaws no longer necessarily
kill his men (and sometimes his women) but instead paint them as more
sensitive to their own vulnerabilities and their need for one another. The
critics unanimously disliked the film, considering it melodramatic and
implausible at best. Gable was none too happy and, after the stress of
producing a fi lm, decided he would do better working for someone other
than himself. Walsh never much liked the script; when he was fi lming,
he found out that his friend the director Sam Fuller was nearby fi lming
Run of the Arrow. Walsh told Fuller that he loved his actors but hated
his script and jokingly suggested that the two of them swap pictures.7
Walsh’s maturing characters stem not only from his approaching old
age—he was now nearing seventy—but also from his steady marriage
to Mary, who more and more became his emotional foundation, even
though he never gave up the habit of straying should the occasion ever
present itself. Still, this was his idea of a happy marriage. When he left
their home in Toluca Lake to go on location, he had a habit of leaving
Mary little notes—addressed to “Gip Gip,” his pet name for her. “Dear-
est Gip Gip,” he wrote in one undated note, “Wherever I go, wherever I
am, you are never far away from me because I love you. I told Gussy and
His Kind of Women 359
Shep and Gin Gin [the Walshes’ pet dogs] to watch over you and protect
you. All my love, Papa.” In another note, also undated, Walsh wrote to
her, “Dearest Gip Gip, I love you and I am going to miss you. But you
are never far away from me. All my love, Papa. P.S. The little fellows
will keep you company till I return.” When Walsh left for Puerto Rico to
shoot Battle Cry, he wrote her, “Now Baby, take good care of yourself
while I am away and always remember you and you alone are the only
one in this world I love with all my heart. If I can get good transporta-
tion to San Juan I will send for you. Love, Papa.”8
In the fi rst years of their marriage, Mary traveled with Walsh when
she could but tired of it as time went on. A homebody at heart, her fa-
vorite pastime was to walk around the house barefoot doing housework
and taking care of her husband and their menagerie of animals. Yet,
when Walsh signed on with Warner Bros. to make his third and final
picture with Gable, Band of Angels, Mary was still in traveling mode
and accompanied him to Baton Rouge, Louisiana, for a ten-week shoot
beginning January 18, 1957.
Glad as usual to be back at Warners, Walsh was also pleased to be
working again with the cinematographer Lucien Ballard, although this
picture would be their last collaboration. Band of Angels—the title refers
to the short life expectancy of freed blacks who fought in the Civil War
with the Union troops—is based on the celebrated novelist-critic Robert
Penn Warren’s The Destiny of Hamish Bond, a story of miscegenation
in antebellum Kentucky and Louisiana, which Warners had purchased a
year earlier. Gable plays the reformed slave trader Hamish Bond (although
many saw Rhett Butler lurking inside the character), who buys a beauti-
ful slave girl, Amantha Starr (Yvonne De Carlo), who has been raised
as the daughter of a wealthy white plantation owner but now has found
out that her deceased mother was black: Amantha has just been sold
down the river, her father’s plantation sold to pay off his debts. Hamish’s
guilt about his slave trader past forbids him from treating his slaves as
slaves, and Amantha is given star treatment and soon enough becomes
Hamish’s lover—and eventual mistress. Also in the picture is a young
Sidney Poitier, who plays Hamish’s “son,” a slave rescued, raised, and
educated by Hamish who might also be his biological son. After a few
life-threatening skirmishes, Poitier helps Hamish and Amantha escape,
just as the Civil War begins and the slaves look toward a new freedom.
360 Raoul Walsh
When the team of John Twist, Ivan Goff, and Ben Roberts com-
pleted the fi lm’s script, Breen’s office had more than a few problems
with it. The office issued a memo to the effect that the script “in its
present form” was an “unacceptable treatment of illicit sex,” though it
was agreed that anything “illicit” in it would be “removed”: “In its place
would be substituted a desire on the part of the leads for each other, but
because of the fact that they are master and slave . . . they would refrain
from indulging in sexual intercourse until they are married.”9 What is
curious about the Breen Office statement was the explicit anxiety about
only sexual relations outside of marriage, not about what was undoubt-
edly the more disturbing subject in the picture and in Penn Warren’s
novel: the sexual/power relationship between a white male slaveowner
and his half-black female slave. The issue of sexual relations and power
struggles between blacks and whites was only just becoming a subject
in American films, especially in pictures such as Robert Rossen’s Island
in the Sun (1957), Delmer Dave’s Kings Go Forth (1958), and, the most
well-known example, John Ford’s The Searchers (1956), whose implied
subject of illicit sex between Debbie and Scar veils the fi lm’s true, hid-
den subject: black-white relations. Breen’s office was unconcerned with
anything other than explicit sexuality between the races if the man and
woman were unmarried, even though there is more than a suggestion
of sexual attraction between Poitier’s and De Carlo’s characters as well.
Walsh initially wanted the young Natalie Wood to play Amantha
but couldn’t get her. His attraction to the story lay in its possibility for
action, sweep, and romance. After the critics, and Gable himself, panned
Band of Angels, Walsh still defended it, thinking of it as a story with
mysterious undertones and layers of narrative that slowly reveal them-
selves. Walsh thought that the picture had an unusual beauty, especially
its opulent sets and sensual atmosphere—enlivened in great part by
Max Steiner’s often-sweeping score (unfortunately burdened down in
the beginning credits with lyrics, as was a 1950s trend). But Gable never
forgave Walsh’s having him take De Carlo in his arms in their big love
scene, as all the while a hurricane was raging outside the windows of the
room—curtains flowing madly, lightning piercing the sky with boister-
ously loud sound effects. Walsh loved the scene; he found it exciting. The
only part of the shoot he regretted was having to start the picture in the
His Kind of Women 361
month of January, when Baton Rouge looked brown instead of the lush
green he wanted. But Gable had a limited amount of time to shoot, and
Walsh was left with little choice.
The controversial subject of slavery and black-white relations was
not the attraction for Walsh. He had always been fascinated by the South,
and he knew that controversy—he saw it strictly as a story element, not
a political matter—brought with it the possibility for great action, great
drama. He was not a political animal in any sense, nor had he ever been
during any time of his life—despite his propensity for wooing William
Randolph Hearst and enjoying the celebrity Hearst could provide him
on the world stage. Walter Doniger noted that Walsh was never active
in the Director’s Guild, a clear sign in Doniger’s eyes that he had little
interest in politics and might even be politically conservative.10 Walsh
consistently voted the Republican ticket and coupled that with true toler-
ance of anyone around him without regard to race or social status.
The Variety critic was somewhat kind to the picture on its release
on August 3, 1957. But most critics found it to be a superficial, melodra-
matic treatment of a serious subject. The New Yorker said, “Mr. Warren
was after . . . a description of Southern society when slavery was the
order of the day. What we are offered [in the fi lm] is a spate of romantic
hokum.”11 As much as Gable respected Walsh, he decided not to work
with him again.
Later in his life, when he looked back at this period, Walsh still
seemed unaware of the political potential of Warren’s book. He blew hot
and cold about this period in his career, considering which films stood
up and which did not. He dismissed The King and Four Queens as one
of his “turkeys,” as he liked to say. Band of Angels still stood high in
his estimation, especially his good memories of working with Gable and
De Carlo, despite the trouble he had with the Breen Office. But Mamie
Stover was the great disappointment: “The biggest mistake we made—I
didn’t make it, the studio made it—was they bought that damn book,
The Revolt of Mamie Stover. Well, that book is all about prostitution in
Hawaii. They knew they couldn’t show prostitution and yet they bought
it. We wrote a script and we put it on. And it was nothing.”12 But eventu-
ally the picture gained a broad audience who appreciated the mediated
rhythms in Walsh’s fi lms of the 1950s.
362 Raoul Walsh
But Walsh worked up great enthusiasm for his next film, The Naked
and the Dead, adapted from Norman Mailer’s best-selling antiwar novel
about World War II. He approached the picture with high hopes—it was,
after all, another large-scale war effort—but later became disillusioned
with the Breen Office cuts. The censors took out all the naked and left
the dead, Walsh liked to quip. His one-liners, thrown out seemingly
casually, were difficult to read at this point. They were ambiguous re-
sponses to disappointment—or maybe indifference. It was hard to know
which. Mailer’s lengthy, seven-hundred-plus-page novel follows an army
unit stationed in the South Pacific and struggling for survival against the
Japanese even as its own platoon leader, the sadistic Sergeant Croft, ter-
rorizes the men in his charge. The higher-ups are split on whether Croft
should be stopped, some believing that, the more the men are goaded
and abused, the better fighters they will be. Individual soldiers’ stories
intertwine with the action sequences as the men gear up and go into
battle. Mailer’s novel was hailed as one of the greatest wartime novels
ever written—as it follows a fourteen-man infantry platoon struggling
to keep its dignity while experiencing the horrors of war.
After a lengthy journey to see the book adapted for the screen, Mail-
er sold the movie rights to The Naked and the Dead—for $250,000—to
the independent film producer Paul Gregory, who had just produced his
fi rst fi lm, Charles Laughton’s The Night of the Hunter. Gregory tried
to interest Laughton in directing Mailer’s novel, and Laughton actu-
ally wrote a script for it. But, feeling exhausted after The Night of the
Hunter, and in ill health, Laughton left the project. Then Gregory went
to Warner Bros. The studio agreed to fi nance the picture but insisted
on almost complete control. RKO would produce, and Warners would
release it. Warners wanted Walsh and got him. Jack wanted “tits” in the
picture, and he knew Walsh would put them in and damn the censors.
Before he began shooting The Naked and the Dead, Walsh followed
through with some unfi nished business with Rock Hudson, who had
not worked for Walsh since 1953. He sued Hudson in September of
1957 for $1 million in damages and asked for a court order preventing
him from working for anyone else. Walsh alleged that, in July 1952,
Hudson agreed to appear in four pictures to be produced by Walsh and
His Kind of Women 363
then reneged. Walsh fi led the suit when he learned that Hudson had
plans to appear in a fi lm produced by Henry Ginsberg. (The picture
was, presumably, George Stevens’s 1956 Giant, which Stevens and Gins-
berg produced for Warner Bros. However, Hudson worked on Giant in
1955 and made no other picture for Ginsberg.) The suit was eventually
dropped, and Walsh and Hudson worked together again in 1961 when
Walsh produced (uncredited) Come September, in which Hudson ap-
peared with Gina Lollobrigida, Sandra Dee, and Bobby Darin. The urge
to go to court hadn’t yet abated.
pened to him, even now. He made sure the Colonel did not self-destruct.
“It was Trilling’s job to make sure Warner didn’t have a hissy fit or a
heart attack,” Jones also recalled. One episode to that effect stayed in
Jones’s mind for years:
As I stood in Steve’s office one day you could hear Warner [in
his next-door office] screaming and absolutely having a fit. The
door burst open and Warner burst in, screaming, “That bitch!”
He’d go off on some woman, how he’s going to sue her, how
he’s gonna have her killed. “I’m going to get rid of her!” he said.
Then Steve would say, “You’re right. Let me call and I’ll get the
thing going.” And he’d get him out of the room, and he’d dial
up and he’d say, “Look, Betty, we’ve got a problem here. And
we’ve got to get the picture done. Do you want to get paid? I can
maneuver this if you’ll do this.” When he was through, he’d go
to Jack and say, “Now, she called, and she apologized, so why
don’t we just accept that and we’ll go on.” So, he, Steve, ran the
business of Warner Bros. Jack Warner gave bad speeches and
insulted people; Steve Trilling saw that A, B and C got done.13
Warner told Walsh to go ahead and write a script with Denis and
Terry Sanders behind him. Sometimes, however, the writing went minute
by minute and it had strictly to do with Walsh. He would show up every
morning during filming and get Jones, Cliff Robertson, and Joey Bishop
to do some improvisations. Then he’d shoot—without a formal script.
But the producer Paul Gregory was never happy with the picture,
especially with Jack Warner’s habit of cutting financial corners when-
ever he could. Nor did Gregory enjoy working with Walsh, who was
surrounded by his own group of actors and crew and moved swiftly
along to the fi nish. He especially disliked Walsh tacking on an alluring
fan dancer, played by Lily St. Cyr, who appears in the fi lm’s opening
nightclub sequence. But Walsh had his own adventures with Gregory. He
would go up to Gregory’s room every night because there was no script.
One night he knocked on the door, and Gregory opened it. Gregory
didn’t have a stitch of clothing on, but Walsh said nothing. He walked
in, and they sat down and talked for about two or three hours about the
script. Then they got up, and Gregory opened the door for Walsh, who
His Kind of Women 365
started down the hall. Then he turned around and saw that Gregory was
about to close the door. Walsh turned back and said, “By the way, your
fly is open.”14
The episode went even further. “Now, Raoul dressed for himself,”
Jones said. “He wore the puttees, the riders, the cowboy shirt, the ten
or fifteen gallon hat, and he carried the swagger stick. That’s the way he
always dressed. Well, about the fourth or fifth day we’re out on the set
and the limo pulls up, and it’s Gregory. He gets out of the car and he’s
got on puttees, and the rider’s pants and a ten gallon hat and a swagger
stick.”15 Gregory was trying to look like Walsh, but the attempt failed,
succeeding only in giving the crew laughing fits for hours.
Neither Gregory nor Mailer was happy with Walsh’s fi nished fi lm—
nor was Walsh himself. Mailer could never have been satisfied with a
picture that had to be sentimentalized and sanitized to please a wide
1950s audience. The one redeeming feature was Walsh’s suspenseful war
scenes and battle sequences—which even today drive home the tragedy
of the waste of human lives so fundamental to Mailer’s antiwar theme.
In this regard, The Naked and the Dead could have had much more in
common with What Price Glory? than Walsh believed Battle Cry might
have had. Walsh saw no further than the censor’s cuts.
Unfortunately, the studio thought it necessary to water down Mail-
er’s violence and replace it with Hollywood conceits—a barroom brawl
and some equally unconvincing flashbacks when soldiers recall the girls
they left at home. Walsh’s direction shows him to be interested in the
battle scenes and deeply detached from the love scenes—not because
they might be intimidating in their intimacy, but because they feel so
detached from the film’s central action. Back in 1950, Burt Lancaster
thought about producing Mailer’s novel but believed that the country
was not yet ready for its antiwar story.16 Eight years later, the country
wasn’t any closer to being ready. No one was more disappointed than
Walsh to see so much of Mailer’s gutsy story also expelled by the cen-
sors, and his battle with them was reminiscent of his troubles with Sadie
Thompson and Klondike Annie years earlier. He worked furiously while
on location to please Warners and Breen, but he could not restore all that
had been lost. To say the least, the conventional treatment of Mailer’s
subject, the way it is dispersed to make it acceptable to the broadest
popular audience, obliterates any thought about war’s insanity. Walsh
366 Raoul Walsh
But, again, adventure and travel were Walsh’s escape from disappoint-
ment. After seeing the censors slice up The Naked and the Dead, he
looked at traveling again. In March 1958, he returned to Fox and began
work on the western spoof—or, as it might have been called, the Jayne
Mansfield vehicle—The Sheriff of Fractured Jaw. His Fox contract called
for a twenty-week production schedule that sent him to Spain for exte-
riors and then to Fox England for interior shots. Jacob Hay’s short story
“The Sheriff of Fractured Jaw” was fi rst published in McLean’s maga-
zine in April 1954. Four years later, Arthur Dales completed a script
for the story, and the studio set about preparing to produce the picture.
Walsh actually shot the picture in seven weeks—a fact that impressed
many (although he never understood why). After its release in the United
States on March 14, 1959, a short item appeared in newspaper syndica-
tion across the country on June 25, 1959, entitled “How to Make Movie
Money”: “Raoul Walsh shot [Fractured Jaw] with Jane Mansfield and
Kenneth More in seven weeks for $700,000 in Spain and England. As
of June 25th, the picture [has taken in] $2,300,000.” Walsh had not
slowed down, even now at the age of seventy-one.
Walsh began shooting at Pinewood Studios in England for the fi lm’s
interiors and for the prologue, which is set in London. Then the produc-
tion traveled to a remote location in the Spanish province of Aragon,
the fi rst time a western was shot in Spain. Walsh recruited men from
a nearby gypsy encampment to play ranchers and Native Americans.
He also recruited the actor Henry Hull, one of his oldest friends; the
two had known each other since their Biograph days. Although Hull
appeared in countless Walsh films at Warners, he was now in near retire-
ment but came to work for Walsh.
Fox studios in Los Angeles put together a prefabricated western
town and shipped it to the plains of Spain. The production was under
way practically without a hitch, save for the moment Walsh and his crew
were surprised by a number of high-powered explosives on the day they
were to begin fi lming. Walsh found out that the Fifth Spanish Army
Corps was holding its annual maneuvers, ignoring his request that they
postpone.
His Kind of Women 367
at the Walshes’ Toluca Lake house with them drinking all night. Walsh’s
attendance as one of the pallbearers at Flynn’s October 1959 funeral was
too large an event not to contribute to his reverie about the changing face
of Hollywood. But his adventures were nowhere near fi nished; he had a
store of sadness he needed to escape.
15
In this early poem to his wife, Walsh enjoys catching Mary’s youthful,
voluptuous body, her ripeness and joy; not only are they a pleasure to
him, but they also reflect on him and the kind of virility a woman such
as Mary would love:
370
The Adventure Is Larger Than the Man 371
Deviating from biblical history, Walsh saw the story of Esther as a love
triangle between the beautiful Hebrew woman Esther (Joan Collins), her
young lover, Simon (Rik Battaglia), and King Ahasuerus of Persia (Rich-
ard Egan). Although engaged to marry Simon when the story begins,
Esther is abducted by the king’s men and taken to the palace, where,
eventually, she falls in love with the king. She agrees to marry him, and
her actions ultimately save her people. Along the way, the king must
also confront Haman, a confidant who betrays him until Ahasuerus
has him assassinated at the story’s conclusion. In his notes on the fi lm’s
characters, Walsh saw Esther as “a girl of great beauty with a ‘light in
her’ and an element of spirituality.” He thought that there should be in
Ahasuerus “a simplicity about this big, muscular warrior.” There should
be “no pompousness in him”: “He is always more soldier than king. . . .
A man of quick, dangerous violence, but capable of love and justice.”2
Ahasuerus was another expression of Walsh’s hero, this time in the sands
of Persia instead of riding on the American frontier.
A little-known writer, Michael Elkins, who hailed from Lichten-
stein, produced an early screenplay for Esther and the King in February
1960. Two months later, Walsh wrote a story outline and added some
comments on the front page of the script about the story’s weaknesses.
“It is especially important to emphasize a dangerous risk and a great
sacrifice—and the memorial day of Purim,” he wrote. “So let us estab-
lish something for Esther to sacrifice. I do not believe it is any distortion
of the Testament to try to create what happened backstage—and what
probably did happen. It would seem incredible that a girl of Esther’s
beauty did not have some young man in love with her. Hence, the build-
ing up of the script’s character of Simon which provides the missing
element of triangle-confl ict which this story has always needed for the-
atrical dramatization.” Walsh added, “I can fi nd nothing in the Book
of Esther indicating that Esther’s joining of the beauty contestants was
voluntary. To the contrary the Scripture states, ‘Esther was also taken
into the palace and put in custody of Hegai who had a charge of the
women.”
In early June, Walsh revised the script the way he liked it, and by the
end of the month, he and Elkins produced a fi nal-draft shooting script.
Walsh shot the picture at Titanus Appia Studios in Rome. He assured
the Fox front office that he could make the picture in six or seven weeks
The Adventure Is Larger Than the Man 373
Dearest Gip,
I was so lonesome last night I had to talk to you; am feeling
better today—start the picture the 20th and hope to finish Sept.
First. Then home—to you and the little fellows—However, will
phone you from time to time and let you know about coming
back & me. The script is fi nished and I have selected a good
cast. Have interviewed about one hundred Italians and believe I
have the best—the weather here is getting warmer and have had
some rain. I see a lot of Dick [Richard Egan] and his wife [Pa-
tricia Hardy] and the baby is real cute. He likes the script very
much. Eve gets here Sunday and John [Twist] is very happy. He
has taken a violent dislike to all black poodles. We took Reggi
some steak last night. Well, Gip, I love you more each day and
miss you all the time. Write me and take good care of yourself.
All my love, Papa5
On July 18, 1960, Warners sent Walsh’s agent, Herb Brenner, a note
letting him know that Walsh had agreed in 1956 to direct a picture for
374 Raoul Walsh
them called Bury Them Together, which he was to begin on August 29,
1960, and complete by January 15, 1961. Ten days earlier, Warner had
written Walsh personally asking him to cancel that picture; he did, and
it never came to pass. Since Walsh was still in Rome shooting Esther
and the King, Mary acted as signatory in his absence, sealing a deal
with Universal to have the studio distribute Walsh’s upcoming produc-
tion Come September, scheduled to begin shooting in Rome in 1961,
which was to star Rock Hudson and Gina Lollabrigida. Walsh would go
uncredited as the fi lm’s producer.
Walsh always spoke casually about Esther and the King:
I shot the film in six weeks. There was a writers’ strike in Hol-
lywood, and Fox had to get a film out very quickly. Mr. Skouras
[Spyros Skouras, president of Fox at the time] and Buddy Adler
asked me to do them a favor and make a film very quickly for
them, because they had nothing at all, the studios were practical-
ly shut. That’s why we made Esther in Italy. Working conditions
were very different from Hollywood. Those guys, the Italians,
work hard enough though. And I had the chance of using a very
good cameraman, Mario Bava, who works very quickly. He is a
master of everything that concerns lighting. He could do marvel-
ous things with only the smallest amount of light.6
Mario Bava was Walsh’s right-hand man, the two working seamlessly as
an integrated team.
Fox released Esther and the King in December 1960. In an era satu-
rated with wide-screen, big-budgeted biblical epics—and with Joseph
Mankiewicz’s Cleopatra about to eat up the budget of numerous Fox
productions—Esther and the King performed poorly at the box office.
But there was more to it. Some of the most scathing critical remarks
noted that the story of Esther had been transformed into a crude cos-
tume parade that at times came close to looking like a lineup of Las
Vegas showgirls waiting to wind the Persian king. Each review, one even
suggesting that Walsh’s direction looked almost funny, put one more
nail in the coffi n. The fi lm has never been able to gain a good enough
reputation to rise above the criticism. It did well in France, however, and
helped Walsh gain a reputation there.
The Adventure Is Larger Than the Man 375
But Walsh kept leaning forward—at the same time as he gave more
thought to his inevitable retirement. He and Mary bought their Simi
Valley ranch in 1960 but let it sit before they built on it in 1963. In the
meantime, by spring 1961, Walsh had an idea for a picture Fox would
release as Marines, Let’s Go!—a rehashed but also updated scenario
Walsh liked, fi rst essayed with What Price Glory? over thirty years ear-
lier. He thought he might recover the magic that had recently deserted
him with another marine tale. He wrote an original story for Marines,
coscripting it with John Twist. Fox gave the go-ahead, and by May 1961
Walsh had flown to Kyoto for location shooting. He would also produce
the picture—with an estimated budget of $2 million. Over the years,
both Walsh and his fi lms enjoyed great popularity in Japan; High Sierra
and White Heat, for example, had never waned in popularity there.
On location in Kyoto, Walsh described the picture to the New York
Herald Tribune reporter Walter Briggs as a story about U.S. Marines
“fighting the Reds in Korea and loving the local belles while on ‘rest
and recuperation’ leave in Japan.” The action would be robust and fast-
paced. Walsh also said that he liked using a cast of relatively unknown
actors—including Tom Tryon, Tom Reese, and David Hedison. “I’m try-
ing to break in some new faces to get youth and virility into the picture,”
he told Briggs. “In Hollywood movies we’ve got old men making love
to twenty-year-old girls,” Walsh said. These guys were old men in the
1930s. Walsh expected the newcomers to be as popular as McLaglen
and Lowe’s marines in What Price Glory? He said, “The audiences will
really go for what these character do, no matter how outlandish. These
are sympathetic characters because they’re on borrowed time. They’re
going right back into the war.”7 At this early point, he believed that the
picture would fi nd an audience. He saw it as a buoyant, infectiously
likable tale of three marines’ misadventures in Japan. He had convinced
himself that this was, again, another What Price Glory? He still lived so
fully in his earlier prototype of male adventure and camaraderie that he
no longer could see where it had ceased.
Walsh took along with him his new secretary, Hisayo Kawahara
(later Hisayo Graham, after she married), a UCLA student who was
bilingual and would help him with translation in Japan. Graham’s first
challenge was to teach all the Chinese actors Fox had hired how to speak
with a Japanese accent—it seemed that the studio didn’t know the dif-
376 Raoul Walsh
was past his prime and not up to producing the tough, prestigious kind
of picture this story needed. (George Stevens Sr. was sent a synopsis of
PT 109, yet it is unknown to what extent this meant he might have been
a candidate to direct—a misguided choice for sure since he was not a
war-picture director. This may or may not have influenced his son to
screen Marines, Let’s Go! at the White House.) Marines, Let’s Go! was
an odd choice to show Kennedy since it is a comedy, not a war picture,
and would have given little indication of the kind of war story Walsh
would direct—something Stevens surely knew.
On seeing Marines, Let’s Go! Stevens “was relieved” when Kennedy
halted the screening “with a sailor-ly exclamation of ‘Tell Jack Warner to
go fuck himself.’”12 Stevens disliked Kennedy’s suggestions for a replace-
ment for Walsh—either Fred Zinnemann or John Huston—a response
that angered Foy. Nevertheless, Warner sent Walsh a check for $100,000
with an explanation saying nothing more than “circumstances beyond
the control of each of us.”13 Jack Warner later tried to get Zinnemann
for the job, but the director passed on the project. After a brief time on
the picture, Lewis Milestone left it (he complained about never having
worked at a studio that trusted him less than Warners did), and a young
Leslie H. Martinson, who later directed for television, took Milestone’s
place. Martinson, along with the actor Cliff Robertson, who played
Kennedy, failed to please moviegoers with the fi nished fi lm. It has gone
down as a misfi red and mediocre moment in Warner Bros. history.
Months later, the studio had to decide how to write off the $100,000
sent to Walsh. On July 13, 1962, Steve Trilling decided to charge the
figure “to the PT 109 production.” “At the present time there is no in-
dication we will want to apply it to another picture, nor do we want
to charge [it] off to overhead.”14 For his part, Walsh never commented
publicly about the fiasco. It takes little to imagine Jack Warner’s posi-
tion: fi ring his close friend but bowing to pressure from Washington and
a possibly robust box-office return. Walsh told friends soon after that he
didn’t want to direct the picture with the president still alive.
By now, Walsh and Mary were living on their Simi Valley ranch. After
the PT 109 incident, Walsh understood on some deep level that his posi-
tion in the industry had shifted. It could have been that foreknowledge,
coupled with that loner instinct that had always defi ned him more deeply
The Adventure Is Larger Than the Man 379
than any other, that prompted him to leave Toluca Lake for Simi, a much
further distance from the Hollywood lifestyle he barely allowed himself
to have in the fi rst place. “Walsh wanted to go to Simi,” Graham later
recalled, “but Mary didn’t.” When the Walshes fi nally built on their
Simi property and moved into their new house in 1963, Mary became
a different person—and she never recovered from the change. “She be-
came bitter and almost seemed to withdraw into herself,” Graham said.
“She used to like to dress up and have lunch with the girls when she and
Walsh lived in Toluca Lake; now she lost interest in all that.”15 It helped
that Rock Hudson would come to visit; he would rather go shopping
with Mary than stay and visit with Walsh.
The Simi house pleased Walsh: it was smaller than the one in Toluca
Lake. He wanted it that way; he didn’t especially want visitors stay-
ing over. The wood-paneled ranch-style home had a swimming pool in
back, a myriad of orange trees and magnolia bushes on the grounds,
and acres of property so that Walsh could bring his horses back from
the stables he rented and have them close to him. The cook they had
had in Toluca Lake retired now, and Mary did all the cooking herself.
To compensate for her losses, Mary surrounded herself with even more
dogs and cats—and other assorted small creatures—than she had had in
the Toluca Lake house. The stream of pets coming and going in Simi was
endless. She also spent more time managing Walsh’s affairs. Although he
understood how to budget a motion picture, he didn’t really understand
budgeting when it came to his private life—decades of horse-betting
debts were proof enough of that. She was trying to prevent them from
going bankrupt because of Walsh’s continuing investments in horses.
Walsh didn’t like parties, and he and Mary never attended them.
He was more isolated now, but no matter who saw him or who didn’t,
he never lost his love of wearing custom-made clothes, a habit ingrained
in him by his haberdasher father. It was as if he half expected some-
one to drop by—little had changed over the years. If he didn’t travel to
England, Europe, or some other foreign destination to buy suits, he had
them custom made in Los Angeles. Never mind that they might seem at
odds with the cowboy bent in him (he never left the bedroom without
his cowboy boots).
Hank Kilgore, Mary’s nephew, spent much of his childhood with
his aunt and uncle. Kilgore remembered Walsh wearing cowboy boots
380 Raoul Walsh
no matter where he was. Once, when he was no more than five years old,
Kilgore took his uncle’s boots, put them on, and walked straight down
the steps of the swimming pool in the Walsh’s backyard. “I could see
that he was angry, but he never yelled at me. He held in the anger and
tried to explain how important those boots were to him. He asked that
I please not do that again.”16
A Distant Memory
Around this time, Warner Bros. sent Walsh Charles Schnee’s estimating
script for The Marauders; the studio wanted him to direct it as a replace-
ment for PT 109, closing out the three-picture contract hanging over
him for so long. But that picture never went into production. Instead, the
studio replaced it with what would be the fi nal picture of Walsh’s career,
a western called A Distant Trumpet. Fittingly, he would make it for Jack
Warner. Rumors spread that Walsh was considered too old to be insured
for the picture and that Warner posted the bond himself, but nothing
in the fi lm’s production fi les supports this claim, although it would not
be out of character for Warner to make this gesture for his old friend,
especially to assuage the guilt he had over fi ring Walsh from PT 109.
When there was a fi nished script ready to go, A Distant Trumpet
would evolve the same way as the fi rst picture Walsh ever directed—and
all the pictures since. Every action, every sequence, was committed to
memory before he walked onto the set. Long before Walsh came on
the scene, Laurence Harvey had plans to produce and star in a screen
adaptation of Paul Horgan’s popular book of the same name published
in 1960. Steve Trilling sent word to Jack Warner on August 1, 1960, that
Alan LeMay was interested and available; Harry Brown, the coscriptor
of George Stevens’s A Place in the Sun, among other films, was also in-
terested. But, eventually, Harvey dropped out, and Richard Fielder and
Albert Beich adapted Horgan’s novel. Later, John Twist was brought
in to write the fi nal script. The studio had Leslie H. Martinson set to
direct, but in an ironic twist, he was soon out of the picture.
Steve Trilling wanted to hire Walsh. He wrote to William H. Wright,
the producer of A Distant Trumpet, on January 15, 1963, “Following
are suggestions for a director for A Distant Trumpet, listed roughly in
The Adventure Is Larger Than the Man 381
in setting up the strategy of large battle scenes (the sequences were that
beautiful)—Walsh might not be superior to Ford and Hawks.
changed the look of storytelling on the big screen. And many of the
iconic actors Walsh had worked with had died or retired. Walsh suc-
cessfully kept up with the times, yet doing so often meant using a less
convincing actor such as a Troy Donahue instead of a Gary Cooper or
an Errol Flynn, which presented serious challenges to a picture’s believ-
ability factor. The picture Walsh made his last also marked, ironically,
the changing map of movie faces, even in the background. Many veteran
cowboys worked on A Distant Trumpet “for the last time as a group,
playing cavalrymen who attempt to fight off an Indian attack.”22
Walsh begins A Distant Trumpet with his signature shot, panning
across a huge natural vista of mountain ranges, snow-covered hills,
deep valleys—a natural backdrop in which a lone human figure rides,
so small that he is dwarfed by the nature surrounding him. Walsh fans
have commented that, much as in Michelangelo Antonioni’s expansive
landscapes, in Walsh’s the natural environment substitutes, or perhaps
speaks, for the emotions of that lone human being. More to the point,
however, in Walsh’s body of work that human is dwarfed by the natural
vista because the vista always holds out the possibility of adventure—and
the adventure is always larger than the man. Its largeness holds unseen
promises, unseen places to reach, and unseen roads to travel. To the very
end, Walsh’s cinema attempts to take men and women—and him—away
from misery, sadness, and adversity. It is the peaks of High Sierra, the
mountain ranges of Pursued, Colorado Territory, and The Tall Men,
even the steaming terrain of Objective, Burma! and the doomed but still
open range of They Died with Their Boots On. The open vista provides
the only landscape a Walshian character will inhabit if he or she wants
to feel truly free—not unlike Walsh himself.
Walsh saw the end of his filmmaking career staring him in the face. After
the mid-1960s, he had very few projects to consider. As he told Hisayo
Graham, he could no longer get good scripts. After A Distant Trumpet
was released, he was scheduled to make a picture in Japan for Fox, his
friend Pierre Rissient, the French film producer, recalled. “At a certain
point [maybe even before Trumpet] he was thinking of casting Stephen
Boyd in [a picture]. . . . [But] he was pretty off by that time.”23 Then there
was the notice that Walsh wanted to direct a picture called Jack of All
Trades to feature Dennis Hopper. 24 There was also a comedy with Jackie
The Adventure Is Larger Than the Man 385
Like all the Irish [he would call himself “the other Irishman”
to John Ford], I like to have horses around. Our ranch is in
Simi Valley. It was blowing a gale up there this morning—but
nice and clear—a warm desert window, like the Santa Anas we
used to have here. . . . I spend a lot of time traveling now. I
have friends in Japan who want me to make pictures there. I
have a good story but need Cantinflas and Jackie Gleason—but
Gleason won’t fly. And it takes fourteen days by boat to Japan.
His manager agreed that this story is the kind that would put
him on top in pictures. . . . I just turned down a picture because
I didn’t want to make it in Rome. I fly all over then go back to
the ranch and the horses. . . . I expect to stay here for a while.
The mares will foal in February and March. I love the ranch and
love living there.28
He was not out of the business just yet; he and John Twist wrote a script
that Walsh initially thought he might direct, but they sold it to Frank
Sinatra shortly after that. Sinatra decided to direct None but the Brave
himself, and Twist received coscreenwriting credit.
The Adventure Is Larger Than the Man 387
Walsh had always been extremely health conscious; the stories about
his hard drinking (the “laughing water” he said he drank with so many
buddies) was one more good story but hardly the truth. And though he
was always close to John Ford even if he wasn’t part of the Ford clan
fishing trips, he preferred to stay home in the evenings and read instead
of spending his time out drinking with an entourage. By the mid-1960s,
however, Walsh had become nostalgic for the old days of Hollywood.
He showed his deep disillusionment with the current film industry trends
when he told Hopper, “Cooper, Gable, Flynn—all gone at once—it left a
big hole. The Academy Awards are now a joke—a songwriter’s holiday.
It’s, ‘What song can we get him or her to sing?’ This used to be a place
out of the Arabian Nights in earlier times—now the so-called stars go
around dressed like bums—in old jeans. It’s unbelievable.” When Hop-
per asked him where Hollywood was going to fi nd new stars, he said,
“Not from TV—all they have is a mop of hair—and many look a bit on
the feminine side—no virility. We used to have a barn where we would
box, we used to run—to ride—to keep fit. Now when they fi lm a fight
there are doubles all over the place—we never used to do that.”29
Although Rissient had been corresponding with Walsh since the
time of Band of Angels, they became closer in 1964, and Rissient came
out to California to visit. He recalled that Walsh took him to the Santa
Anita Race Track. The two men went over to where the horses were held,
and Walsh was enjoying touching them. He asked Rissient whether he
wanted to bet on them. Rissient told him he had no money. Walsh said
that was all right; he would give him the money. Rissient still said no,
so Walsh bet alone. “Four times out of five he won,” Rissient later said,
incredulous. Also on that visit, the two men went to the Gaslight Club
on La Cienega in Beverly Hills and “smoked cigars and cigarettes.” They
had quite a time then. Rissient also recalled an incident that showed him
Walsh’s sense of humor. The two men were at a gathering, and a woman
“about the age of sixty-four and wearing a mini skirt” approached them.
She was talking heavily about fi lm theory, which the United States had
just discovered. She asked Walsh why his movies had so many crowd
scenes in them, and she urged Walsh to give her “the semiotic answer.”
“You must teach us, Mr. Walsh,” she implored him. Walsh answered, “I
don’t know . . . maybe because I come from a big family . . . the more
the merrier!”30 To get along with Raoul Walsh, Rissient said, and to get
388 Raoul Walsh
him to say more, it was better not to ask him to reflect on what he was
thinking. Anything even remotely intellectual would bore him. At least
that was what he offered the public.
Rissient recalled watching The Enforcer with Bertrand Tavernier
one day and Tavernier mentioning that the picture looked as if Walsh
(who was not the credited director) had directed it. It turned out that
Tavernier was remarkably observant; Walsh had, in fact, directed the
fi lm. “The fact that Walsh did that without credit,” Rissient noted, “was
very important to French fi lm buffs [at the time]—they had not heard of
such a thing before.”31
Walsh used to talk over his career with Rissient. He told Rissient
that, while he and Lorraine had had a very busy social life and that he
allowed himself to get caught up in it now and then, it was something he
regretted later. Rissient thought that that explained why Walsh’s Para-
mount films weren’t so good. By the time Walsh went to Warner Bros.,
he had already removed himself psychologically from the marriage. His
years at Warners meant a great deal to him, and now it was all winding
down. The industry seemed to be changing before his eyes, and he didn’t
like everything he saw.32
“The screen has become a window on depravity,” Walsh also told
Hopper. “Why would they give a seal to a picture like kiss me stupid?
They should never have let the salacious Italian and Scandinavian pic-
tures be shown in this country in the fi rst place. This started the trend.
And it’s unbelievable what’s happening to the young in this country.
We send missionaries to the Congo; they could do with some of them
in some of the so-called dance places. And these are the people who are
going to vote soon! When I made the Marine pictures with McLaglen
and Lowe there was a little rough stuff, but it wasn’t salacious. The
studios used to protect their stars.”33 Walsh’s worries for the studios ran
all over the map.
After Hopper published her syndicated interview with Walsh, he
wrote her, using his Raoul Walsh Enterprises, Inc. (under which no films
were produced) letterhead, “Dear Hedda . . . I have just returned from
Mexico. A fishing trip. Or I would have written you sooner to thank you
for the nice write up. It was so kind and thoughtful of you to remem-
ber the Wild Irishman. Thanks again. And may God bless you always.
Raoul.”34
The Adventure Is Larger Than the Man 389
(The wrath of the just ones). The novel is an adventure yarn set at the
close of the Civil War. Three men, each of whom has fought for the
Confederacy, now head west in order to find adventure and make their
fortunes. Johnny McGraw hails originally from California and, had he
stayed in San Francisco, would have become the heavyweight champion
boxer of the world. Jebnah, from Kentucky, studied the law before fight-
ing in the war, and he puts his education to work for himself in his
travels. Lord Wesley Connaught St. George hails from England but came
to the Confederacy to fight, soon shedding his name in favor of the title
“Pretty Boy.” As expected, given Walsh’s psychological aesthetic, the
three men also come on some strong women along the way.
The characters in Walsh’s novel, not unlike the characters in his
films, are simply and straightforwardly etched. They embody an innate
goodness of heart and of intention in the way they treat others. These
fictional men are a compilation of Walsh’s three uncles, who themselves
set out to make their fortune after arriving in America from Ireland
(whether or not they were real or imagined by Walsh), along with the
characters he created on the screen: Gentleman Jim, Horatio Hornblow-
er, and the actors Victor McLaglen, Errol Flynn, Gary Cooper, even
Clark Gable. They are a chivalric group of souls, and Walsh can’t help
but like them as he moves them along. Somewhere in this group is Walsh
himself, in as many guises as he can muster.
Rissient helped get the book to publication and later said of his work,
“[It is] very impressive in terms of what happens in event and character
. . . very Raoul Walsh. It’s written with force as a great Raoul Walsh
film. Of course Walsh would have liked it to become a script and a fi lm.
I don’t think he was really thinking of directing at that time, because of
his age and also because he probably realized at that time that no one
would fi nance a picture of that magnitude directed by him. It was a big
film. [The book] was very revealing of his feelings at the time. Walsh
was very happy to write it.”37 The novel prepared him for another large
project—his own life story.
Walsh wrote two other manuscripts. One, Come Hell or High Wa-
ter, is another version of his Civil War manuscript. The other, Only One
Love Have I, is a story that mirrors his life with Mary. He dedicated
Only One Love Have I to Mary, saying, “I dedicate this story to my
lovely wife who is the springtime in the autumn of my life.”38
The Adventure Is Larger Than the Man 391
Walsh had built a wall around himself since the mid-1960s. Rissient
believed that he came out of his shell in 1972 when the retrospectives
began to materialize. Until then, he had been very bitter about not work-
ing. He didn’t say it, and he didn’t show it, but he would much rather
have worked. So, when he realized that work would not be coming his
way anymore, he closed himself off and retreated to Simi Valley—just as
he would toward in the last two or three years of his life.
Retrospectives of his work took him out of Simi Valley, as did in-
vitations to appear at conferences organized to celebrate his fi lms. Ac-
colades carried him for the next ten years, the last decade of his life, and
also triggered visits from younger scholars and fi lmmakers. In 1972,
Walsh met Robert Bookman, a Yale law student who grew up in south-
ern California, Walsh’s home turf. Bookman later said, “I met Raoul
through Dick [Richard] Schickel. We taught a class together at Yale
called ‘Art, Craft and Power in the American Film,’ and Dick had just
done a documentary called ‘The Movie Crazy Years’ for PBS and Raoul
is interviewed in that. Out of that came the documentary for Eastman
Kodak [The Men Who Made the Movies]. He is the one who turned me
on to Raoul more than anybody else. I wouldn’t know Raoul without
Dick Schickel.”40 Schickel’s influence went far and wide.
Bookman invited Walsh to Yale for a retrospective of his fi lms to
be held in April 1972. Walsh would also visit Richard Schickel’s class at
Yale and attend another at Wesleyan. After Bookman’s invitation, Walsh
responded by letter on March 2:
Roberto, My Lad,
Good to hear your cheery voice on the phone the other night.
As I told you, I am off to Japan for a few weeks to see the melan-
choly Geshisas [sic], also to catch up with a Japanese Producer
who wants me to direct a picture in Mangolia [sic].
The Adventure Is Larger Than the Man 393
bills in different pockets and places of his coat so he knew what to do.
He gave me a fifty-dollar bill, and this is a lot of money in 1972 to go
out and have dinner. So Mary sends Raoul to New Haven, and he can’t
see [his eyesight was going]! He flew!”44 Walsh had enough vision and
enough chutzpah left in him during a Museum of Modern Art event to
ask a nurse attending him briefly if she might like to join him when he
took his nightly bath at the hotel.45
The festivals and retrospectives were a way of life now; Walsh ap-
preciated each one of them. If nothing else, they gave him something to
do, some sense of purpose. Southern Methodist University and the USA
Festival in Dallas also honored Walsh, and President Nixon gave him a
citation for a “lifetime of creative contributions to the motion picture
industry.” In October 1972, the San Francisco Film Festival paid tribute
to Howard Hawks and to Walsh, both of whom attended the event. In
his biography of Hawks, Todd McCarthy saw the event as a launching
pad to discuss some similarities and differences between the two men
whose careers paralleled each other but who never became close friends
the way Walsh had become with Allan Dwan and even his legendary
rival John Ford:
Among the many fi lm historians and young directors who made the
trek out to Walsh’s Simi Valley ranch house, Peter Bogdanovich was a
frequent visitor. He interviewed Walsh twice, the fi rst time in 1970. He
remembered:
[Walsh] was very friendly, and his wife [Mary] was very hospi-
table. She made us some great orange juice from oranges they
had growing there. I remember the house. It was a sprawling
ranch style, but not that big. The colors were a little garish . . .
a little yellowy and orange. He was not that tall by then, maybe
five foot ten or so. Oh, he was attractive, though, still attractive.
He was very vital and funny. He was a guy. Men aren’t like that
anymore. He was macho but he was gentle, and he liked women.
He wasn’t the type of macho guy who doesn’t like women that
[we] mostly [have] now. He was kind of courtly.
that he liked women generally. He liked them vulgar and even a little
crass. He liked tough women and he celebrated them in his movies, like
in Mamie Stover. I see a movie that runs three hours and I say, Raoul
could have done this in ninety minutes. There’s no bullshit in his movies.
He [just] told it. And the way he shot it—it was so tight and there was
so much energy. High Sierra, White Heat, The Roaring Twenties—High
Sierra has such a sense of doom.” He then recalled: “At the end, he and
Allan Dwan kind of shared some time together. [Then] I would call him
and say, ‘How’s it going?’ ‘Pretty tough,’ or ‘Pretty good, Pedro,’ Walsh
would say. ‘Old Allan came over.’”49
The accolades came from abroad as much as from the United States.
Walsh traveled to the Cinémathèque in Paris in June 1972 to attend a
retrospective of his work and, in a sense, to thank the French for the
renewed interest in his pictures and his reputation. A week or so later,
he was still in Paris to help promote La colère des justes. A journalist,
Mary Blume, caught up with him in the lobby of the Paris Hilton, just
around the corner from the Eiffel Tower, and wrote about him in the
International Herald Tribune. Walsh gave her an interview and pretty
much rehashed all he had been saying in other interviews for the past ten
years. Blume also noted his appearance: “a windowpane plaid jacket,
a neckerchief, a five-gallon hat, tiny cowboy boots and a dapper little
white mustache.” “Mr. Walsh looks the proper dude,” she wrote, “but
he isn’t. He is a survivor from the old Western days when men were men
and toughness was something to be proud of.” The floor waiter attend-
ing Walsh at the Hilton told him he went to see Gentleman Jim. “One
minute I laugh, one minute I cry. I never do that before.”50
ash, and cowboy boots—tells her how to tend the bird’s wing and what
fodder to give it (‘bread ’n scratch’).” With this spirit, Higham went on
to describe Walsh as a man’s man of a director, someone who confessed
to enjoy working outdoors on action pictures more than on anything
indoors.51
The spirit was still vibrant. When Walsh still had hopes that his
novel Days of Wrath would be published in the United States and then
adapted into a fi lm, he wrote to Bookman, now a book agent and living
in Los Angeles:
As his vision grew dim, Walsh stayed home even more, reading
books. When he could not read the words himself, he hired girls to read
to him—adventuring even in old age into the pages of his imagination—
just as he had learned from his mother. He had always enjoyed reading
popular novels of the day, and he loved reading Shakespeare. He also
continued painting, a hobby he had taken up decades earlier. When he
had difficulty seeing the canvas, he used a magnifying glass until that no
longer worked. But he produced a great number of paintings: nudes of
Mary and copies of works by other well-known traditional artists. Until
very late in his life, he kept a separate studio in the San Fernando Valley,
398 Raoul Walsh
once inspiring Mary’s rage when she walked in on him there painting a
nude female model. Mary had no qualms about her wrath: she slashed
the painting right then and there in front of Walsh. He took it out to the
garbage himself.
Mary continued to care for Walsh, even as it became harder and
harder to do so. She complained little but nevertheless felt the frustration
of it all. Sometimes she was cold to him and stayed away from him, no
doubt a result of his growing dependence on her as he became blind and
more housebound. Still, she prepared his meals every day. One morning,
Walsh sat in the dining room, barely able to see, but able to see enough
to notice that Mary had not set the table with a tray of food the way she
always had done: orange juice to the left, coffee to the right, eggs in the
middle, napkin next to the plate, utensils in their place so that Walsh
could reach for them instinctively. Something was missing, he noticed.
He complained and asked Mary why one plate was not in its place. This
was enough for her. She calmly walked over to her husband, took the
tray of food, and dumped it upside down onto his lap. “How do you like
it there?” she said, and walked away.53
Toward the end, when Walsh could no longer see at all and had dif-
ficulty moving about, Mary served him his meals in bed. He was more
sedentary; Father James McCuen came out to the house every Sunday
to visit him. Then Walsh dictated a letter to Hisayo Graham for Bob
Bookman and relayed the thoughts he had about no longer being able to
see the world around him:
Dear #1 Son,
There is little I miss now that I am completely blind. Sure I
must be telling you . . . there are scents, and sounds that I know
the seeing people never have, the scent of grass and the scent of
new-mowed hay.
The trees speak to me in the wind. I know the soft digni-
fied music of the pine tree, and the oak tree with the chatter
of the little gray squirrels, and I know the sad music of the tall
Eucalyptus tree.
It is not a terrible thing at all to be old. I have seen the young
folk start out in life, and before them there’s the shower and
lightning. But I am in warm, brown October.
The Adventure Is Larger Than the Man 399
You know, dear Bobby, the Irish are a wild lot . . . nomads,
who wander on the face of the earth. 54
Living in darkness the last years of his life, Walsh did what he had
always done: created an adventure from the material he did have and
used his imagination, the landscape that never failed him. Mary could
do the same, sweeping away her little grievances and seeing the bigger
picture: the man she had loved for almost four decades now. At Walsh’s
request, she signed an agreement never to contradict anything he had
said, or written in his autobiography, especially about the details of how
they met. Those were secrets locked away.
On December 29, 1980, Walsh complained to Mary of having chest
pains. She called an ambulance, and he was transported to Simi Valley
Hospital. He remained there two days and then was released. The next
day, December 31, 1980, his heart gave out, and Raoul Walsh passed
away at the age of ninety-three. At Walsh’s funeral, Mary told Bob
Bookman that, upon being admitted to the hospital the day before he
died, Walsh was flirting with the admitting nurse. The spark had not
gone out yet. His time on earth had run out; there was no telling where
he could go from here. Several months later, on February 8, 1981, the
city council of Simi Valley passed an honorary resolution commemorat-
ing Walsh. His good friend Allan Dwan spoke lovingly of Walsh, calling
him “a student, a hard-working . . . sensitive man who made great mo-
tion pictures, some of the very greatest.”55 But Walsh would never have
tolerated such praise; it was a good thing he was out wandering again,
striking out to see where his imagination might now take him.
Epilogue
Walsh’s American Scene
400
Epilogue 401
or small, exists. While the lines Walsh paints are vertical and strong,
they point upward to the sky more than to a community of other men
and women. When his men were young and full of themselves, their
immaturity was held in check by others close by, such as in What Price
Glory? and even The Bowery—by male comrades and a temporary
band of brothers. But it was not a lasting formation, not a permanent
experience. Walsh’s characters are too compelled to light out for the
territory on a small raft of sorts where there is room for no one else
by their side save a woman. When they reach maturity and take stock
of themselves in the world, they realize that they are meant to seek an
adventure of necessity and to suffer the consequences of any of their
actions. Although Walsh touched down now and then on a nostalgic
collection of souls—such as in The Strawberry Blonde and Gentleman
Jim—the truest Walshian character is the lone wolf. He is Mad Dog
Earle, and he is the hero of Distant Drums. He is even George Custer
and the Errol Flynn of the Walsh-Flynn World War II cycle. Should a
character travel with a pack, he ultimately must fend for himself. In
war—in battle—if he must do without his woman, he will seek her out
when he can, even in his imagination if need be. Walsh’s characters, like
Walsh himself, are happiest living in their imaginations, pondering what
might be. Like Walsh, they are loners more apt to be leaving the room
than walking into it to stay.
Hawks’s frame may capture a small band traveling together, but, if
they are in outdoor country, they nevertheless crowd together (just as his
characters tend to do in Only Angels Have Wings and Red River). Ford’s
visual language suggests that cropped hills and rocks are extensions of
the community, the family of men and women who live within their
borders; the physical plain is familiar and integrated into the action as if
it were family. But Walsh’s physical environment, his visual composition,
whether one notices the vertical, the horizontal, or the circular patterns,
is a beckoning place, a place the isolated character is driven to fi nd:
the Sierra Madres for Mad Dog Earle, the billowing combustion that
consumes Cody Jarrett, the huge backdrop of the mountainside in which
Walsh’s western characters move along in The Tall Men, Pursued, and
Colorado Territory. That environment beckons its lone wanderers with
its false or true promise of an adventure yet to be had, an adventure that
402 Raoul Walsh
can be realized only by the sheer force of the imagination. The adventure
must always be tinged with danger; the adventurer will always be stand-
ing on the psychological edge of a cliff.
Walsh’s imaginary world is large and contains multitudes. One place
he traveled after his death was into the imagination of those who loved
and admired him. Stories about Walsh never cease to abound, just as he
would have wished. “He was a very private man,” L. Q. Jones said. “Af-
ter we worked together, I was always afraid of intruding, saying ‘He’s
too big; he’s got too many things going on.’ I didn’t want to interfere.
Raoul was a movement unto himself. I called him up at the end. I asked
Mary, ‘How’s he doing?’ ‘Why don’t you ask him yourself?’ she said,
and gave the phone to Walsh. He gets on the phone, ‘Goddamn it, how
you doin’ kid? Listen, I’ll get rid of Mary. I’ll pick up some hookers. . . .
No, you pick up some hookers; I’ll get the booze. Come on out, let’s have
a party!’ He was dead two days later.”1
Walsh never won an Academy Award and, some say, never received
the recognition he should have gotten in his lifetime. But, toward the
end, his enduring and, indeed, revolutionary place in the history of
American cinema became the subject of critics, historians, and friends.
It would be no surprise, then, that when Miriam Cooper died in April
1976, a silver tea set she owned triggered an auction bidding war be-
cause so many famous lips had touched it, including those of Carole
Lombard, Rudolph Valentino, Douglas Fairbanks, Mary Pickford, Pola
Negri, and, of course, Raoul Walsh.
Two years earlier, in October 1974, Walsh wrote to his friend Rich-
ard Schickel that he was losing his eyesight—he was entering a dark
world. Schickel wrote back the next week from New York:
Dear Raoul,
I know you are in darkness. But what you can’t see is the light
you shed on the lives you have touched. You and some of the
other men I did on the series [The Men Who Made the Movies]
have given me so much. You gave to me before I even knew
you with your movies . . . taught me a lot of what a young man
needs to know about being a grown up man, about strength
and tenderness and honor and the need for love between man
Epilogue 403
and woman, man and man. Now in your twilight you continue
to teach me with your gallantry and sweetness of spirit.
One year ago I was guiding you around the St. Regis here.
Someone asked me if you were my father. I said, “No, but I
wish he was,” and I do. Mine was not like you at all and so your
example has meant so very much and always will.
In fact, you have many sons—many you haven’t even met, I
suspect. You, the essence of you, has been in your fi lms and now
it is in us. 2
what a dog can do! But he did it for humanity. It’s looking forward. It’s
just going there.”3
That is why Raoul Walsh loved that day on the set of The Naked
and the Dead when the budding young actor Jones did his fi rst death
scene. He was emoting; he was writhing; he was doing all he could to
please Walsh and the camera, both just a foot away from him. Raoul
Walsh laughed and said, “OK, kid, die, goddamn it, and let me get on
with my picture.”
Filmography
405
406 Filmography
Cast: Wallace Reid (Reporter), Irene Hunt (Helen), Raoul Walsh (Joe Reed),
Ralph Lewis (Phelan), Howard Gage, William Lowery.
Robert Harron (The American lover), Eagle Eye (The outlaw’s servant),
Walter Long (Federal officer), Spottiswoode Aitken (The soothsayer), W. E.
Lawrence (Federal officer).
Note: Filmed in Mexico. A reissue or reedited version of The Life of Villa.
Cast: Theda Bara (Carmen), Einar Linden (Don Jose), Carl Harbaugh (Esca-
millo), James A. Marcus (Dancaire), Emil De Varney (Capt. Morales), Elsie
MacLeod (Michaela), Fay Tunis (Carlotta).
The Red Dance (a.k.a. The Red Dancer of Moscow) (Fox, 1928)
Producer: Raoul Walsh. Director: Raoul Walsh. Screenplay: James Ashmore
Creelman (based on a story by Eleanor Browne, adapted from the novel The
Filmography 421
Jump for Glory (a.k.a. When Thief Meets Thief) (United Artists, 1937)
Producers: Douglas Fairbanks Jr., Marcel Hellman. Director: Raoul Walsh.
Screenplay: Harold French, John Meehan Jr. (based on a novel by Gordon
McDonnell). Cinematographer: Victor Arménise. Editor: Conrad von Molo.
Original music: Percival Mackey. Art director: Edward Carrick. Costume
designers: Norman Hartnell, Schiaparelli. Running time: 90 minutes. Re-
leased: June 14, 1937.
428 Filmography
Cast: Douglas Fairbanks Jr. (Ricky Morgan), Valerie Hobson (Glory Fane),
Alan Hale (Jim Diall/“Col. Fane”), Jack Melford (Thompson), Anthony
Ireland (Sir Timothy Haddon), Barbara Everest (Mrs. Nolan), Edward Rigby
(Sanders), Esme Percy (Robinson).
colm Stuart Boylan, Virginia Van Upp (based on a story by Eleanore Griffi n
and William Rankin). Cinematographer: Theodor Sparkuhl. Editor: Wil-
liam Shea. Music: Frank Loesser. Art director: Hans Dreier. Running time:
87 minutes. Released: February 3, 1939.
Cast: Dorothy Lamour (Norma Malone), Lloyd Nolan (Dave Guerney), Tito
Guízar (Rafael San Ramos), Jerome Cowan (Ivan DeBrett), Jessie Ralph
(Aunt Tibbie), William Frawley (Maj. Martingale), Mary Parker (Punkins).
Cast: Gary Cooper (Capt. Quincy Wyatt), Mari Aldon (Judy Beckett), Rich-
ard Webb (Lt. Richard Tufts), Ray Teal (Pvt. Mohair), Arthur Hunnicutt
(Monk), Robert Barrat (Gen. Zachary Taylor).
Note: Filmed in the Everglades.
lace, Roy Huggins (based on the novel Ten against Caesar by Kathleen B.
Geoorge and Robert A. Granger). Cinematographer: Lester White. Editors:
James Sweeney, Jerome Thomas. Music: Mischa Bakaleinikoff. Art director:
Ross Bellah. Set decorator: James Crowe. Sound: J. S. Westmoreland. Assis-
tant director: Jack Corrick. Running time: 83 minutes. Released: November
11, 1953.
Cast: Rock Hudson (Ben Warren), Donna Reed (Jennifer Ballard), Philip Carey
(Frank Slayton), Roberta Haynes (Estella Morales), Leo Gordon (Tom Bur-
gess), Lee Marvin (Blinky).
Note: Filmed in Sedona, AZ.
Cast: Clark Gable (Dan Kehoe), Eleanor Parker (Sabina McDade), Jean Wiles
(Ruby McDade), Barbara Nichols (Birdie McDade), Sara Shane (Oralie Mc-
Dade), Roy Roberts (Sheriff Tom Larrabee), Arthur Shields (Padre).
Note: Filmed in St. George, UT.
L. Simpson. Music: Irving Gertz. Art directors: Jack Martin Smith, Alfred
Ybarra. Sound: Warren B. Delaplain, Bernard Freericks. Makeup: Ben Nye.
Assistant director: Milton Carter. Running time: 103 minutes. Released:
August 15, 1961.
Cast: Tom Tryon (Pfc. Skip Roth), David Hedison (Pfc. Dave Chatfield), Tom
Reese (Pfc. Desmond “Let’s Go” McCaffrey), Linda Hutchings (Grace
Blake), William Tyler (Pvt. Russ Waller), Barbara Stuart (Ina Baxter), David
Brandon (Pvt. Newt Levels), Steve Baylor (Pvt. Chase).
Note: Filmed in Kyoto, Japan.
Erroneous Attributions
The Burned Hand (Majestic, 1915)
Director: Tod Browning. Running time: 2 reels.
Cast: Miriam Cooper, William Hinckley, W. E. Lowry, Cora Drew.
Note: Sometimes erroneously attributed to Walsh.
446 Filmography
Prologue
1. Raoul Walsh, Each Man in His Time (New York: Farrar, Straus, Giroux,
1974), 17.
447
448 Notes to Pages 23–44
Ranch, in Texas, where they made westerns. Whether Walsh ever met the Melies
brothers is unknown.
22. Raoul Walsh, interview by Peter Bogdanovich, in Peter Bogdanovich,
Who the Devil Made It? Conversations with Legendary Film Directors (New
York: Ballantine, 1997), 147.
23. Walsh, Each Man in His Time, 67.
20. Ibid.
21. Cooper, The Dark Lady of the Silents, 91.
22. Kevin Brownlow has suggested that this might be Olga Grey, who ap-
peared in Walsh’s Pillars of Society.
23. Walsh, Each Man in His Time, 91.
cence: Sex, Violence, Prejudice, Crime: Films of Social Conscience in the Silent
Era (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1990), 32.
26. Motion Picture Weekly, December 22, 1917.
27. No projectionist dared drop much below sixteen frames per second
because the nitrate could easily catch fi re. The Griffith studio photographed
everything at sixteen frames per second until midway through Intolerance
(1916), when it increased to eighteen frames per second. Lasky was shooting at
twenty-one frames per second, and, by 1920, other companies had increased as
well. When MGM was formed in 1924, it shot at twenty-two frames per second.
This did away with the habit of “racing” that Walsh objected to—projectionists
speeding up fi lms so that they could get home earlier. Kevin Brownlow, personal
communication, September 28, 2010.
28. Quoted in Kevin Brownlow, The War, the West and the Wilderness (New
York: Knopf, 1978), 134.
29. Cooper, Dark Lady of the Silents, 155.
30. Both Walsh’s and Wellman’s comments are in Raoul Walsh, interview by
Kevin Brownlow, April 1967.
31. Raoul Walsh, interview by Peter Bogdanovich, 160.
32. Ibid.
5. Pre-Code Walsh
1. Raoul Walsh, interview by Kevin Brownlow, April 1967.
2. Ibid.
3. Cited in Julian Fox, “Action All the Way,” Film and Filming, June 1973, 39.
4. Kevin Brownlow, personal communication, September 28, 2010.
5. Walsh, Each Man in His Time, 201.
6. Gloria Swanson, Swanson on Swanson: An Autobiography (New York:
Random House, 1980), 290.
7. Raoul Walsh, interview by James Child.
8. See the discussion of this form of censorship in Brownlow, Behind the
Mask of Innocence, 20.
9. Gloria Swanson Papers, Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center,
University of Texas at Austin.
10. Raoul Walsh to George Walsh, June 22, 1927, Gloria Swanson Papers.
11. Welford Beaton, “Trying to Delouse Sadie Thompson,” Film Spectator,
December 10, 1927.
12. Sadie Thompson was considered lost for many years, the only extant
copy held by the Swanson estate. As the writer John Gallagher reported in the
late 1980s, after Swanson’s death in 1983, Don Krim of Kino International
purchased the rights and set Dennis Doros to work on a full restoration of
the fi lm. Since the last reel of the print had decomposed, still photographs, the
original titles, and footage from the 1932 remake, Rain (with Joan Crawford),
shot by the same cinematographer, Oliver Marsh, re-created the missing eight
minutes of the fi lm. Then, with Doros’s two and a half years of restoration and
an original score composed and conducted by Joseph Turrin, the film was ready
to be seen once again. See John Gallagher, “Raoul Walsh,” Films in Review,
October 1987.
13. The quotation is taken from a copy of the letter given to the author by
Walsh’s friend Bob Bookman.
14. Alma Whitaker, “Directors Are Doormats,” Los Angeles Times, Octo-
ber 2, 1927, 17.
452 Notes to Pages 108–124
15. Raoul Walsh, interview, in Eric Sherman, ed., Directing the Film: Film
Directors on Their Art (Los Angeles: Acrobat, 1976), 294.
16. See Wilson Mizner, “Wilson Mizner Turns Informer,” Photoplay, No-
vember 1928, 40, 94.
17. Herbert Cruikshank, “He Envies His Actors,” quoted in Fox, “Action
All the Way,” 40.
18. Walsh, Each Man in His Time, 221.
19. Ibid., 222.
20. Ibid., 224, 225.
21. The fi lm historian William Everson found The Red Dance politically
fascinating. When it was released, the art of titling was pretty much being aban-
doned as part of the “old” Hollywood, Everson writes. Walsh’s fi lm “reverted
to the methods employed by Griffith in Intolerance twelve years earlier,” though
“with so little stress on the device that it was probably done at the instigation
of [Walsh] rather than to impress audiences.” Everson notes, “Dialogue titles
spoken by, or informational titles relating to, the aristocracy or military of old
Russia were placed on a tapestry-like card imprinted with a black Tsarist sym-
bol. Trotsky and other leaders of the Revolution were given titles printed against
a rough, rock-like surface. The poor, ignorant peasants, with little to say or do,
had to be satisfied with the old, nondescript white lettering against a plain black
background.” See the extended discussion of this subject in William K. Everson,
American Silent Film (New York: Da Capo, 1998), 138.
22. See the discussion of Fox Movietone in Donald Crafton, The Talkies: Ameri-
can Cinema’s Transition to Sound, 1926–1931, History of the American Cinema
series (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1997), 280.
23. Ibid., 282.
24. Walsh, Each Man in His Time, 235.
25. Dallas Morning News, February 19, 1930.
26. New York Times, March 16, 1929.
27. “New York Graphic,” Film Daily, August 29, 1929, 11.
28. Twentieth Century–Fox Papers.
29. Cited in Film Daily, January 30, 1929.
30. “The Screen Rabelais,” New York Times, November 17, 1929.
31. Hal Evarts, log of The Big Trail, 4, Twentieth Century–Fox Papers.
32. Ibid., 7.
33. Ibid.
34. Wayne had been a student at the University of Southern California.
35. Raoul Walsh, interview by Richard Schickel, in Schickel, The Men Who
Made the Movies, 37.
36. Hollywood Reporter, November 10, 2010.
37. Raoul Walsh, interview by Richard Schickel, 37–38.
38. Kevin Brownlow, personal communication with author, September 28,
2010.
39. Film Daily, April 20, 1930, 5; August 1, 1930, 11; and August 28, 1930,
9, cited in Crafton, The Talkies, 364–65.
Notes to Pages 124–145 453
40. Cited in “The Making of The Big Trail,” included in The Big Trail (Twen-
tieth Century–Fox Home Entertainment 2-disc DVD release, 2008).
41. Evarts, log of The Big Trail, 48.
42. Ibid., 46.
43. See the lively discussion of the making of The Big Trail in Robert Parrish,
Growing Up in Hollywood (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1976),
63–71.
44. Ibid., 64.
45. Ibid., 65.
46. Ibid., 66.
47. Ibid., 69.
48. Jack Warner Papers, Cinematic Arts Library.
49. Variety, December 31, 1930.
50. “Widescreen faded out in the early thirties. The Hays office decided the
conversion was too expensive for the industry. Widescreen was only practical in
theatres seating about 1,500 and exhibitors were not at all keen to install new
equipment on top of sound-on-disc and sound-on-film installations—in the teeth
of the greatest depression in modern history. In all, fewer than twenty theatres
in the whole of the United States were equipped for 63mm, 65mm and 70mm.
What’s more, nearly all the films were failures at the box office. Could this have
had something to do with the way they looked? Most of the widescreen films were
projected on 35mm through Magnascope enlarging lenses, which must have upset
the cameramen, whose work was shown cropped and made dimmer, grainier and
softer by this method. Exactly the opposite of the original idea.” Kevin Brown-
low, personal communication with author, September 28, 2010.
7. Beshert
1. Otto Friedrich, City of Nets: A Portrait of Hollywood in the 1940s
(Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1997), 154.
2. Raoul Walsh Legal Files, Warner Bros. Archives, University of Southern
California.
3. Walsh, Each Man in His Time, 298.
4. Raoul Walsh, interview by Patrick McGilligan and Debra Weiner, 1974,
in Film Crazy: Interviews with Hollywood Legends, ed. Patrick McGilligan
(New York: St. Martin’s, 2000), 26.
5. Phil Hardy, ed., Raoul Walsh, Edinburgh Film Festival, 1974 (Colches-
ter: Vineyard, 1974), 42.
6. Ibid.
7. Rudy Behlmer, ed., Inside Warner Bros., 1935–1951 (New York: Viking,
1985), xxxi.
8. Walsh, Each Man in His Time, 298.
9. Raoul Walsh, interview by Hedda Hopper, January 13, 1965, Hedda
Hopper Papers, Margaret Herrick Library, Academy of Motion Picture Arts
and Sciences, Beverly Hills, CA.
10. Raoul Walsh Legal Files.
11. The Roaring Twenties production fi les, Warner Bros. Archives.
12. Ibid.
Notes to Pages 169–190 455
13. James Cagney, Cagney by Cagney (New York: Doubleday, 1976), 89.
14. The Roaring Twenties production fi les.
15. Ibid.
16. Raoul Walsh, interview by Patrick McGilligan and Debra Weiner, 27.
17. The Roaring Twenties production fi les.
18. Boxoffice, October 21, 1939.
19. Variety, October 25, 1939.
20. The story also had it that Ford was so angry at Wayne for appearing
in Walsh’s The Big Trail—and that Walsh got Wayne before Ford did—that
he refused to hire Wayne for ten years. The historian Kevin Brownlow has
posed the question, If Ford wouldn’t hire Wayne for those ten years, why didn’t
Walsh? One answer might be that Walsh hardly directed a western throughout
the 1930s and that Wayne was already typecast as a western actor. There might
be other explanations, of course.
21. Julian Fox, “Action All the Way,” Films and Filming, June/July 1973, 38.
22. Claire Trevor, interview by John Gallagher, Films in Review, October
1987, 472–79.
23. Cited in Michael Munn, John Wayne: The Man behind the Myth (New
York: New American Library, 2003), 74.
24. McBride reports Wayne telling Dan Ford (John Ford’s son) in 1976, “To
this goddam day I don’t know why he didn’t speak to me for years” (Searching
for John Ford, 79).
25. Raoul Walsh, interview by Patrick McGilligan and Debra Weiner, 26.
26. Manny Farber, Negative Space (New York: Da Capo, 1998), 283.
27. Pierre Rissient, interview by the author, October 2007.
28. Joan Leslie, interview by the author, July 13, 2007.
29. Walsh, Each Man in His Time, 313.
30. Pierre Rissient, interview by the author, October 2007.
31. Raoul Walsh Legal Files.
32. Ibid.
12. Ibid.
13. Cited in Sperber and Lax, Bogart, 124.
14. W. R. Burnett, interview by Ken Mate and Patrick McGilligan, in Patrick
McGilligan, ed., Backstory 1: Interviews with Screenwriters of Hollywood’s
Golden Age (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986), 49–84.
15. Joan Leslie, interview by the author, July 13, 2007.
16. High Sierra production fi les.
17. Walsh, Each Man in His Time, 307–8.
18. High Sierra pressbooks, Warner Bros. Archives.
19. W. R. Burnett, High Sierra (New York: Zebra, 1940), 7.
20. Ibid., 6–7.
21. High Sierra production fi les.
22. Raoul Walsh, interview by Patrick McGilligan and Debra Weiner, 29.
23. W. R. Burnett, interview by Ken Mate and Patrick McGilligan, 76.
24. Variety, December 31, 1940.
25. Walsh himself directed a westernized remake, the 1949 Colorado Ter-
ritory.
26. W. R. Burnett, interview by Ken Mate and Patrick McGilligan, 67–69.
27. The Strawberry Blonde production fi les, Warner Bros. Archives.
28. Ibid.
29. Ibid.
30. Ibid.
31. Los Angeles Herald Examiner, August 29, 1940.
32. The Strawberry Blonde production fi les.
33. Rudy Behlmer, interview by the author, July 18, 2007.
34. The Strawberry Blonde production fi les.
35. Olivia de Havilland, interview by the author, June 2007.
36. Julius J. Epstein, interview by Patrick McGilligan, in McGilligan, ed.,
Backstory 1, 170–95.
37. Raoul Walsh, “Leave Me Out of the Literati,” Hollywood Reporter,
December 31, 1940.
38. Los Angeles Herald Examiner, March 31, 1941.
39. Manpower production fi les, Warner Bros. Archives.
40. Ibid. The entire Raft-Robinson episode is fully documented in these fi les.
41. Life, August 1941.
42. Olivia de Havilland, interview by the author.
43. “Raoul Walsh, February 16, 1972,” in Conversations with the Great
Moviemakers of Hollywood’s Golden Age at the American Film Institute, ed.
George Stevens Jr. (New York: Vintage, 2006), 29.
44. In This Our Life production fi les, Warner Bros. Archives.
3. Ibid.
4. Ibid.
5. Ibid.
6. Ibid.
7. Ibid.
8. Ibid.
9. Olivia de Havilland, interview by the author.
10. Elizabeth Bacon Custer, Boots and Saddles: Life in Dakota with General
Custer (New York: Harper & Bros., 1885), 265.
11. They Died with Their Boots On production fi les.
12. “Raoul Walsh, February 16, 1972,” 20–22.
13. Walsh, Each Man in His Time, 311.
14. New York Times, November 21, 1941.
15. Desperate Journey production fi les, Warner Bros. Archives.
16. Ibid.
17. Ibid.
18. Ibid.
19. Ibid.
20. Saunders was the assistant director Walsh trusted more than anyone else
and was often by his side.
21. Desperate Journey production fi les.
22. Ibid.
23. Ibid.
24. Ibid.
25. Ibid.
26. Ibid.
27. Ibid.
28. Ibid.
29. Pierre Rissient, personal communication, October 2007.
30. Gentleman Jim production fi les, Warner Bros. Archives.
31. Ibid.
32. Ibid.
33. Ibid.
34. New York Times, November 26, 1942.
5. The Nation, July 3, 1943, in Agee on Film, 2 vols. (New York: Perigee/
Putnam, 1958–1960), 1:45.
6. Northern Pursuit production fi les, Warner Bros. Archives.
7. Variety, December 31, 1942.
8. Jean Sullivan, interview by John Gallagher, Films in Review, October 1987.
9. Uncertain Glory production fi les, Warner Bros. Archives.
10. Los Angeles Times, April 20, 1943.
11. Richard Erdman, interview by the author, September 10, 2007.
12. Variety, January 1, 1945.
13. Mary Simpson Walsh kept the cigarette case on the Walsh living-room
table, where her family keeps it still.
14. Papers documenting the case can be found in the Raoul Walsh Papers,
Wesleyan University Cinema Archives, Middletown, CT.
15. Errol Flynn, My Wicked, Wicked Ways (New York: Dell, 1959), 338.
16. William Prince, interview by John Gallagher, Films in Review, October
1987, 476.
17. Objective, Burma! production fi les, Warner Bros. Archives.
18. Ibid.
19. Ibid.
20. Ibid.
21. Ibid.
22. Richard Erdman, personal communication, September 10, 2007.
23. Ibid.
24. Dallas Morning News, May 3, 1945.
25. Cheyenne production fi les, Warner Bros. Archives.
26. None of these titles were ever fi lmed.
27. Jack Warner Papers.
28. Louise Randall Pierson, one of many Warners contract writers, who also
worked briefly on Mildred Pierce.
29. Steve Trilling Papers, Cinematic Arts Library.
30. Donati, Ida Lupino, 129.
31. The Man I Love production fi les, Warner Bros. Archives.
32. Ibid.
33. Ridgeway (Reggie) Callow, interview by Rudy Behlmer.
34. The Man I Love production fi les.
35. Ibid.
36. Los Angeles Herald Examiner, September 11, 1945.
13. Reverie
1. Quoted in George Stevens Jr., dir., George Stevens: A Filmmaker’s Jour-
ney (Castle Hill Productions, 1984).
2. James Cagney, interview by Thomas M. Pryor, New York Times, Octo-
ber 19, 1952.
3. A Lion Is in the Streets production fi les, Warner Bros. Archives.
4. Anne Francis, interview by the author, September 2009.
5. Farber, Negative Space, 288.
6. Lee Marvin quoted in Gallagher, “Raoul Walsh,” 476.
7. Jack Warner Papers.
8. Daily Variety, October 27, 1987.
9. Gun Fury production fi les, Warner Bros. Archives.
10. Hugh O’Brian, interview by the author.
11. Ibid.
12. Saskatchewan production fi les, Universal Pictures Collection, Cinematic
Arts Library, University of Southern California.
13. Ibid.
14. Battle Cry production fi les, Warner Bros. Archives.
15. Ibid.
16. Cited in Fox, “Action All the Way,” 37.
17. Battle Cry production fi les.
18. Ibid.
19. L. Q. Jones, interview by the author, December 21, 2009.
20. Battle Cry production fi les.
21. Ibid.
22. Ibid.
23. L. Q. Jones, interview by the author, December 21, 2009.
24. Tommy Cook, personal communication, January 5, 2011.
25. Battle Cry production fi les.
26. Ibid.
27. See Tab Hunter, with Eddie Muller, Tab Hunter Confi dential: The Mak-
ing of a Movie Star (Chapel Hill, NC: Algonquin, 2005), 95.
28. Battle Cry production fi les.
29. L. Q. Jones, interview by the author.
30. New York Times, February 3, 1955.
31. Raoul Walsh, interview by Hedda Hopper.
32. Darryl F. Zanuck Papers.
462 Notes to Pages 348–376
33. The Tall Men production fi les, Twentieth Century–Fox Papers, Cinematic
Arts Library, University of Southern California.
34. Ibid.
35. Ibid.
36. Jane Russell, interview by the author, June 2008.
10. Ibid.
11. Dallas Morning News, September 21, 1961.
12. Cited in Nicholas J. Cull, “Anatomy of a Shipwreck: Warner Bros., the
White House and the Sinking of PT 109” (n.d.). Cull generously provided me
with a copy of this essay (a chapter in a forthcoming book project), which covers
the entire episode (and the fiasco) of the making of PT 109.
13. PT 109 production fi les, Warner Bros. Archives.
14. Correspondence regarding Walsh’s dismissal from the PT 109 produc-
tion is to be found both in the Raoul Walsh Legal Files and in the Jack Warner
Papers, both at the USC Cinematic Arts Library.
15. Hisayo Graham, interview by the author, March 8, 2010.
16. Hank Kilgore, interview by the author, February 19, 2010.
17. Jack Warner Papers.
18. A Distant Trumpet production fi les, Warner Bros. Archives.
19. William Clothier, interview by John Gallagher, Films in Review, October
1987, 474.
20. Ibid.
21. A Distant Trumpet production fi les.
22. See the photograph gallery, especially shot and caption, from A Distant
Trumpet in Diana Serra Cary, The Hollywood Posse: The Story of a Gallant
Band of Horsemen Who Made Movie History (New York: Houghton Mifflin,
1975).
23. Pierre Rissient, interview by the author.
24. Los Angeles Times, January 19, 1965.
25. Hisayo Graham, personal communication, March 8, 2010.
26. Ibid.
27. Pierre Rissient, interview by the author.
28. Raoul Walsh, interview by Hedda Hopper.
29. Ibid.
30. Pierre Rissient, interview by the author.
31. Ibid.
32. Ibid.
33. Raoul Walsh, interview by Hedda Hopper.
34. Hedda Hopper Papers.
35. Bill Stephens, “Freud Wears a Black Hat in Western Author’s Credo,”
Los Angeles Times, 1963, courtesy Bob Bookman.
36. Original manuscript in the private collection of Bob Bookman, courtesy
Bob Bookman.
37. Pierre Rissient, personal communication, November 2007.
38. Original manuscript in the private collection of Bob Bookman, courtesy
Bob Bookman.
39. Pierre Rissient, personal communication, November 2007.
40. Bob Bookman, interview by the author, March 2010.
41. Courtesy Bob Bookman.
42. Jeanine Basinger, interview by the author, June 2007.
43. Bob Bookman, interview by the author, March 2010.
464 Notes to Pages 394–404
44. Ibid.
45. Charles Silver, curator, Department of Film, Museum of Modern Art,
personal communication, June 2008.
46. Todd McCarthy, Howard Hawks: The Grey Fox of Hollywood (New
York: Grove, 1997), 464.
47. Peter Bogdanovich, interview by the author, June 2008.
48. Ibid.
49. Ibid.
50. International Herald Tribune, July 2, 1972.
51. New York Times, April 14, 1974.
52. Courtesy Bob Bookman.
53. Sue Kilgore, personal communication, October 2009.
54. Courtesy Bob Bookman.
55. Courtesy Fred Lombardi, Allan Dwan’s biographer.
Epilogue
1. L. Q. Jones, interview by the author.
2. Raoul Walsh Papers (used with the permission of Richard Schickel).
3. L. Q. Jones, interview by the author.
Selected Bibliography
465
466 Selected Bibliography
Books and Articles Discussing Walsh, His Films, and His Times
Custer, Elizabeth Bacon. Boots and Saddles: Life in Dakota with General
Custer. New York: Harper & Bros., 1885.
D’Angela, Toni. Raoul Walsh o dell’avventura singolare. Rome: Bulzone, 2008.
Donati, William. Ida Lupino: A Biography. Lexington: University Press of
Kentucky, 1996.
Douglas, Kirk. The Ragman’s Son. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1998.
Everson, William K. American Silent Film. New York: Da Capo, 1998.
Farber, Manny. Negative Space. New York: Da Capo, 1998.
Fiedler, Leslie. Love and Death in the American Novel. New York: Stein &
Day, 1966.
“Film Division Names Director Advisors.” Moving Picture World, July 20,
1918, 363–64.
Fishgall, Gary. Gregory Peck: A Biography. New York: Scribner, 2002.
Flynn, Errol. My Wicked, Wicked Ways. New York: Dell, 1959.
Forbes, Bryan. “The Last Buccaneer.” Observer Magazine, December 2, 1979.
———. Notes for a Life. London: Collins, 1974.
Fox, Susan, and Donald G. Rosellini. William Fox: A Story of Early Holly-
wood. Baltimore: Midnight Marquee, 2006.
Freedland, Michael. The Two Lives of Errol Flynn: The Legends and the Truth
about a Lovable, Outrageous Rogue. New York: Morrow, 1978.
Gallagher, John. “Raoul Walsh.” Films in Review, October 1987, 472–78.
Giddins, Gary. Bing Crosby: A Pocketful of Miracles: The Early Years, 1903–
1940. Boston: Little, Brown, 2001.
Giuliani, Pierre. Raoul Walsh. Filmo no. 14. Paris: Edilig, 1985.
Golden, Eve. Vamp: The Rise and Fall of Theda Bara. Vestal, NY: Empire,
1996.
Gomery, Douglas. The Hollywood Studio System: A History. London: British
Film Institute, 2005.
Grady, Bill. The Irish Peacock: Confessions of a Legendary Talent Agent. New
Rochelle, NY: Arlington, 1972.
Graham, Cooper, Steve Higgins, Elaine Mancini, and Joao Luiz Viera. D. W.
Griffith and the Biograph Company. Metuchen, NJ: Scarecrow, 1985.
Gunning, Tom. D. W. Griffith and the Origins of the American Narrative Film:
The Early Years at Biograph. Champaign: University of Illinois Press, 1993.
Hardy, Phil, ed. Raoul Walsh, Edinburgh Film Festival, 1974. Colchester: Vine-
yard, 1974.
Henry, Michael. “Raoul Walsh, le roman du continent perdu.” Positif, Decem-
ber 1998.
Higham, Charles. “He Directed Them All.” New York Times, April 14, 1974.
“His Beard Was Long and His Hair Hung Down, and the Girl of His Heart Was
Coming to Town.” Moving Picture World, October 4, 1919, 66.
Huggins, Roy. “Remembering Raoul Walsh.” Variety, October 27, 1987.
Hunter, Tab, with Eddie Muller. Tab Hunter Confi dential: The Making of a
Movie Star. Chapel Hill, NC: Algonquin, 2005.
468 Selected Bibliography
Kemp, Philip. “Raoul Walsh.” In World Film Directors (2 vols.), ed. John Wake-
man, 1:1149–59. New York: Wilson, 1987.
Kildare, Owen. My Mamie Rose: The Story of My Regeneration. New York:
Baker & Taylor, 1903.
Marmin, Michael, Raoul Walsh. Paris: Seghers, 1970.
Mason, Fred. American Gangster Cinema: From Little Caesar to Pulp Fiction.
New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2002.
Mayo, Virginia. The Best Years of My Life. Chesterfield, MO: Beach House,
2001.
McBride, Joseph. Searching for John Ford: A Life. New York: St. Martin’s,
2001.
McCarthy, Todd. Howard Hawks: The Grey Fox of Hollywood. New York:
Grove, 1997.
McGilligan, Patrick, ed. Backstory 1: Interviews with Screenwriters of Hol-
lywood’s Golden Age. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986.
———, ed. White Heat. Wisconsin/Warner Bros. Screen Play Series. Madison:
University of Wisconsin Press, 1984.
McGilligan, Patrick, and Paul Buhle. Tender Comrades: A Backstory of the
Hollywood Blacklist. New York: St. Martin’s, 1997.
McLaglen, Victor. Express to Hollywood. London: Jarrolds, 1935.
McNiven, Roger. “Raoul Walsh, 1887–1981 [sic].” Film Comment, July–Au-
gust 1981.
———. “The Western Landscape of Raoul Walsh.” Velvet Light Trap, Autumn
1975.
Mizner, Wilson. “Wilson Mizner Turns Informer.” Photoplay, November 1928.
“A Motion Picture Director’s Problems.” Moving Picture World, May 4, 1918,
702.
Munn, Michael. John Wayne: The Man behind the Myth. New York: New
American Library, 2003.
Nasaw, David. The Chief: The Life of William Randolph Hearst. New York:
Mariner, 2001.
Oppenheimer, Jerry. Idol: Rock Hudson. New York: Bantam, 1987.
Parrish, Robert. Growing Up in Hollywood. New York: Harcourt Brace Jova-
novich, 1976.
Phillip, Claude-Jean. “Un sublime si familiar.” Presence du cinema, May 1962.
Poitier, Sydney. This Life. New York: Knopf, 1980.
Quinn, Anthony, with Daniel Paisner. One Man Tango. New York: Harper
Collins, 1995.
Ramsaye, Terry. A Million and One Nights: A History of the Motion Picture
Industry through 1925. New York: Touchstone, 1954.
“Raoul A. Walsh to Direct George Walsh.” Moving Picture World, September
22, 1917, 1838.
“Raoul A. Walsh to Make Special Stills for Use on Posters.” Moving Picture
World, August 21, 1920, 1055.
Selected Bibliography 469
471
472 Index
Dunn, James, 137 Flynn, Errol, 5, 17, 95, 116, 253, 257
Dwan, Allan, 62, 71, 109, 398 death of, 368–69
Desperate Journey and, 221–22, 228
Each Man in His Time (Walsh’s autobiog- Gentleman Jim and, 231–33
raphy), 4, 7, 391–92 Mary Walsh’s dislike of, 368–69
Eagle Eye, 30 Northern Pursuit and, 241
Eagles, Jeanne, 101 Objective, Burma! and, 248–52
Earp, Wyatt, 7, 38 physical deterioration, 280, 295
Eastman, George, 6 relationship with Walsh, 219–21, 276
Eastman Kodak, 325 Silver River and, 274–75
East of Suez, 88 They Died with Their Boots On and,
Echinelle, René, 19 212, 215–21
Edendale, CA, 40 Uncertain Glory and, 241–42
Edeson, Arthur, 122 Fonda, Henry, 154, 174
Edison, Thomas, 46 Forbes, Bryan, 317, 321–22
Edwards, J. Gordon, 51, 62 Ford, John, 58, 67, 71, 91, 94, 120, 129,
Egan, Richard, 318, 356, 372–74 219, 400
18 to 45, 69 competition with Walsh, 174–75
Eilers, Sally, 137 Forester, C. S., 296
Elkins, Michael, 372 For His Master, 34
Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 27 Fox, William, 28, 42, 46, 51, 52, 57, 59,
Enforcer, The, 305 61, 67, 68, 69, 91, 93, 96, 98, 134
Enniskillen (schooner), 2, 15, 17, 18 Fox Film Corporation, 16, 43, 44, 53, 56
Epstein, Julius, 199, 200, 202, 225 See also Twentieth Century–Fox
Epstein, Philip, 199, 200, 225 Fox Hills Studios, 91
Erdman, Richard, 244, 252 Fox Studios, 119
Esther and the King, 371–74 Foy, Bryan W., 377
Evangeline (fi lm), 71–73, 74, 99 Francis, Anne, 329–30
Evangeline (poem), 71 Frank, Harriet, Jr., 274
Evarts, Hal, 120–30 Fred Ott’s Sneeze, 6
Every Night at Eight, 148 Friderici, Blanche, 101
From Now On, 74
Fairbanks, Douglas, 82–86, 95, 155
Family Tree, The, 112 Gable, Clark, 327, 357
Famous Players Lasky, 69, 86 Walsh’s admiration of, 350
Farmer, Frances, 183 Gallagher, Tag, 353
Farrar, Geraldine, 52 Gangs of New York, 28
Farrell, Charles, 107, 131, 135 The King and Four Queens and, 358
Farnum, Marshall, 51 The Tall Men and, 346–47, 349
Father of the Bride (1950), 135 Garber, David, 261
Faulkner, William, 240, 337 Gardiner, Reginald, 244
Fellowes, Rockliffe, 49 Gaynor, Janet, 115, 131–32
Ferber, Edna, 130 Gentleman Jim, 219, 230–35, 401
Fiedler, Leslie, 96 adaptation from Corbett biography,
Fielder, Richard, 380 230–31
Fighter Squadron, 280–84 casting, 231
Film Daily, 123 critical response, 234
Film Spectator, 105 fiction in, 233–35
Fine Arts Studio, 28, 32, 39, 42, 64 Walsh’s aesthetic in, 233–35
Fisher, Steve, 337 as Walsh fantasy autobiography, 233
Flynn, Emmett, 131 George, Kathleen B., 332
Index 475