[dropcap]T[/dropcap]wenty-eight year old King Vidor released his fourteenth motion picture on Jun. 3, 1923. Talent, hard work and a little luck turned the star-struck Texan into one of Hollywood’s finest film makers.
The Galveston native, who survived the 1900 hurricane as a boy of six, was mesmerized by the newfangled medium called “the movies.” Landing a part-time job at a local theater, he spent countless hours watching the screen spring to life with thrilling tales of faraway places.
To the young Texan picture shows were pure magic, and soon he had his heart set on becoming a behind-the-scenes sorcerer. Although Vidor’s first attempts at homemade cinema, an amateurish recreation of the Great Storm and live footage of troops on maneuver, were nothing special, his simple story of a seaside car race showed real promise.
With his future wife, the beautiful Florence Arto, in the starring role, In Tow enjoyed modest success at movie houses throughout southeast Texas. Rushing to New York to peddle his pride and joy, Vidor was swindled by an unscrupulous distributor who stole his money and disappeared with the only copy of the film.
Unfazed by the setback, Vidor and his new bride set off for California in a Model T Ford in 1915. Arriving six weeks later with a shriveled nest egg of a dollar and twenty cents, the couple lived on second-hand food scrounged from grocery store trash bins before finally finding work.
While Florence got in on the ground floor as a bit player, Vidor doggedly cranked out screenplays, writing a grand total of 52 before his first sale. To make ends meet, he labored as a nameless extra for a buck and a half a day plus lunch.
When Universal offered him a clerical position at the stupendous salary of 12 dollars a week, Vidor jumped at the chance for a steady paycheck. He soon graduated to scripting comedies for the immortal Mack Sennett and his slapstick crew that included the Keystone Kops, Charlie Chaplin, Ben Turpin and Mabel Normand.
Following a sudden layoff at Universal in 1918, Vidor became an independent producer not so much by choice but out of dire necessity. Financed by a group of California doctors, he completed a melodrama with, strangely enough, a strong Christian Science message. The Turn in the Road cost a modest $9,000 but grossed over $365,000.
Vidor satisfied the physicians’ demand for more of the same with three similar movies in a hectic seven months. Foolishly investing his last penny in Vidor Village, his own short-lived studio, he published a lofty “Creed and Pledge” in Variety which proclaimed in part: “So long as I direct pictures, I will make only those founded upon principles of right, and I will endeavor to draw upon the inexhaustible source of good for my stories, my guidance and my inspiration.”
Five years later, Vidor made his mark with The Big Parade, a silent-era classic. A smash hit at the box office as well as with the critics, the brutally honest depiction of World War I combat established John Gilbert as a Twenties matinee idol and Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer as a major studio. The picture earned an amazing $15 million, but the director made a $3 million mistake by giving up his 20-per cent share for a pittance.
Vidor followed The Big Parade with the highly acclaimed La Boheme featuring Lillian Gish. In preparation for the famous death scene, the great actress drank no liquids for three days and mastered a mysterious technique for imperceptible breathing. Her moving performance reduced everyone on the set to tears and caused Vidor to marvel, “The movies have never known a more dedicated artist.”
In spite of his well-intentioned “Creed” and silent achievements, Vidor fathered several talking turkeys. Maybe the worst was a 1932 bomb made to order for Darryl Selsnick, who insisted upon casting Delores Del Rio opposite Joel McCrea in a South Seas romance. “I don’t care what story you use,” said the studio head, “so long as we call it Bird of Paradise and Del Rio jumps into a flaming volcano at the finish.”
Vidor’s 27 sound films were by no means all b-movie embarrassments. The best of the bunch were Hallelujah (1929), Billy the Kid (1930), The Champ (1931), Our Daily Bread (1934), The Citadel (1938), which earned an Academy Award nomination, Northwest Passage (1940) and The Fountainhead (1949).
Wrapping up his 54th and final feature in 1959, Vidor reluctantly retired. After four decades behind the camera, his exit was less a voluntary departure than tacit admission that decent scripts were no longer coming his way.
Vidor spent his last years pursuing the perfect picture for a comeback. With the unsolved 1922 murder of fellow director William Desmond Taylor, he found the ideal vehicle. But the shocking identity of the killer caused him to shelve the project shortly before his death in 1982.
As much as he wanted to get back on top, King Vidor could not bring himself to put on the screen the true story of a Hollywood homicide that went unpunished.
It won’t be long now! “Unforgettable Texans,” Bartee’s fourth book for The History Press, will come out July 24 and be available for pre-order sooner than that!
