Jack Mulhall: Riding the toboggan

jack-mulhall
Happy-go-lucky Jack Mulhall didn’t last as a movie star, but not for lack of trying.

Here’s a happy 131st birthday to Jack Mulhall, a jaunty, popular Hollywood player of the silent era who, by accidents of technology and timing, became a virtual non-entity in the talkies.

For every James Cagney, Edward G. Robinson or Spencer Tracy whose stage-honed dialogue skills made them into almost-instant Hollywood stars after the transition to sound, there were many others who were forced to adapt to the change. Reginald Denny, for example, had to drop the American characters he played in silents in favor of those that suited his British accent; his billing declined slightly, but he continued a lucrative career. John Gilbert had a perfectly suitable voice that did not match his he-man image, but he was derailed by personal concerns, as was Clara Bow.

And then there were actors like Mulhall, whose precipitous drop in the motion-picture hierarchy led him from starring roles in big-studio talkies in 1930 to bit parts at the majors (and occasional Poverty Row leads) within a year or two, and then, as the ‘30s neared their end, pretty much just bits.

Mulhall’s career mirrored that of a fellow player at Warner Bros.-First National, Monte Blue. Both men had built their screen careers since the mid-‘teens (Mulhall at the old Biograph studio, where he claimed to be the first actor with a weekly salary in three figures) and were aging into their early 40s as sound came in. They were precisely the highly experienced, high-salaried talents whom studios sought to clear from their contract rosters as folks like Cagney and Tracy came West to settle in.

“Jack Mulhall still wears that wholesome Irish smile – the kind that never grows old or never wears off,” a writer from Missouri said – sadly, in retrospect — of the New York state native in a report on a 1928 First National silent comedy, The Butter and Egg Man (which co-starred another eventual casualty of sound, Greta Nissen).

Mulhall continued to land quality assignments at the dawn of the talkies, including an unusual dual role in Dark Streets (1929), in which he portrayed twins: a cop and a crook. That film is lost, but Mulhall can be seen opposite Alice White in the musical Show Girl in Hollywood (1930), Loretta Young in the crime saga Road to Paradise (1930), and Mae Clarke in RKO’s The Fall Guy (1930). That Mulhall was significantly older than any of those female co-stars was not complained about by the filmgoing public, as Mulhall photographed somewhat younger than his middle age.

Still, Mulhall’s First National contract was not reviewed in June 1930. In a fan-magazine blurb about his farewell to FN, Colleen Moore, Dorothy Mackaill, Milton Sills, and Corinne Griffith were also mentioned as newly freed. Griffith had retired, the writing on the wall, and poor Sills, career-vulnerable at age 48, would drop dead of a heart attack that August.

Mulhall inked a new deal with RKO, which lasted for The Fall Guy and no more. More ominously, he went on to “little major” Columbia, where he made now-long-forgotten features such as For the Love o’ Lil (1930) and Lover Come Back (1931), top-billed in the latter with the declining Betty Bronson and rising Constance Cummings). At the end of 1931, you could see Mulhall headlining with his erstwhile FN co-star, Patsy Ruth Miller, in Night Beat, but this crime story was an indie, from producer Ralph M. Like’s on-the-cheap Action Pictures.

From there on out, Mulhall would be alternating between have and have-not companies, with prominent roles for the latter – as late as 1936, he headlined as criminologist Craig Kennedy in the marathon (15 chapter!) science-fiction serial The Amazing Exploits of the Clutching Hand for Weiss Productions. Four years before, Mulhall had also delved into the realm of the fantastic film as the prospective son-in-law of a death ray-creating mad scientist in Murder at Dawn (Big 4 Films, 1932).

As time passed, when most folks saw Mulhall, he was playing various uncredited reporters, photographers, clerks, and henchmen for precious little time and rarely for screen credit at Paramount (his most frequent employer in the ‘30s) and other majors.

Mulhall suffered some damage to his personal reputation in 1933, when he was ordered to pay a $50 fine imposed in court after he was found guilty of assault and battery. The charge stemmed from an incident in which the actor and a friend, both reportedly having imbibed a bit, broke into an apartment looking for a fight and had a tussle with the husband and wife therein.

“Are you a Russian?” one of the victims recounted Mulhall asking, inexplicably. It turned out the two men had the apartment house correct for the solving of their real or imagined grievance, but not the right apartment.

Times grew especially harsh in 1935. Mulhall and his wife of 13 years separated, and he filed for bankruptcy the same week. That same year, he supported young Lon Chaney, Jr. (newly rechristened from his original Creighton Chaney) in a gangster quickie, The Shadow of Silk Lennox. Mulhall had acted with Chaney’s famous father and could have served as a cautionary tale to the junior Chaney, who himself went on to work in increasingly thankless roles until his own death.

There were plenty of other silent stars hanging around the picture business, but few of them had been near the top as recently as Mulhall. In 1936, he was given an unusual forum for a bit player: a bylined, first-person story in the Los Angeles Times Sunday Magazine that was headlined “They Don’t Retire in Hollywood.”

Acknowledging peaks and valleys in his career, Mulhall wrote: “I’m back in harness again, in my fourth comeback, after piling up and losing several sizable fortunes. Ten years ago I had $1 million, two $6,000 automobiles, a $65,000 home in Beverly Hills, and a contract for 52 weeks at $3,250 a week.

“In one year I saw my last antique piece go: you never can save one stick – when the toboggan gets underway.”

Not long after the story appeared, Mulhall attracted the attention of popular movie columnist Jimmie Fidler, who noted that he still heard audiences break into applause for the old-time star whenever he appeared on screen. “From all evidence, he will again scale the heights,” Fidler opined hopefully.

It didn’t happen, although Mulhall never stopped trying. Television came in, so he got seen – however briefly — on Dragnet, Alfred Hitchcock Presents, and Playhouse 90. Mulhall turned up in the Best Picture Oscar winner Around the World in Eighty Days and the shot-for-peanuts monster flick The She-Creature, both in the same year (1956) that he also found work as a greeter for a Sunset Strip restaurant.

The Internet Movie Database lists Mulhall’s screen finale as a 1959 sci-fi thriller, The Atomic Submarine.

At age 91, Jack Mulhall died of heart failure on June 1, 1979, at the Motion Picture Country Home, where he had resided since 1977. Among his survivors was the wife who had separated from him 44 years before.

“It hasn’t been a rosy path out here for me, for anyone else, either, who has hit the chutes,” his Times obituary quoted Mulhall as saying during what must have been many introspective periods. But he said he always had “the old feeling, always an unmistakable one, that I am definitely on the road back.”

SOURCES

“At the Strand Next Week,” Chillicothe (Missouri) Constitution-Leader, December 29, 1928.

“The Orchid Bids Farewell to the Screen,” Talking Screen, June 1930.

“Pair Get in the Right House But the Wrong Boudoir,” Associated Press report, cited from the Baltimore Sun, August 7, 1933.

“Jack Mulhall Fined,” International News Service report, cited from Waco (Texas) Tribune-Herald, September 3, 1933.

“Jack Mulhall Files Bankruptcy Petition,” International News Service report, Nevada State Journal (Reno, Nevada), April 17, 1935.

“They Don’t Retire in Hollywood,” Los Angeles Times, November 8, 1936.

“Jack Mulhall, 91, Movie, Stage, TV Actor, Dies,” Los Angeles Times, June 7, 1979.

jack-mulhall-02
Jack Mulhall is flanked by co-stars Guinn “Big Boy” Williams (left) and Bob Steele in Mascot’s serial “The Mystery Squadron” (1933), one of many chapterplays Mulhall made after his star fell permanently. (Another was 1933’s “The Three Musketeers,” with John Wayne in the cast.)

A few notes from … Walter Pidgeon?

walter-pidgeon-skb
Walter Pidgeon wore fancy costumes in “Sweet Kitty Bellairs” (1930) and other early operettas.

To most film fans, Walter Pidgeon will be best remembered for his stolid acting in classics such as How Green Was My Valley, Forbidden Planet and, to cite just one of his many pairings with Greer Garson at MGM, Mrs. Miniver. But as we mark his 121st birthday on September 23, I’ll admit that I think of him first as a baritone in early musicals, both comedies and operettas.

A native of New Brunswick, Pidgeon (1897-1984) came to the United States after World War I service with his native Canada. He went into banking initially but gained a footing on stage and in silent pictures. When talkies came in, Pidgeon – who had studied voice at the New England Conservatory of Music – found himself in demand for singing parts.

Pidgeon sang in such Warner Bros.-First National songfests as Bride of the Regiment (1930, opposite Vivienne Segal); Sweet Kitty Bellairs (1930, with Claudia Dell); Viennese Nights (1930, Segal again), and Kiss Me Again (1931, Bernice Claire). He also appeared in, but did not sing in, Warners’ The Hot Heiress (1931) and Show Girl in Hollywood (1930). By 1931, Warner Bros. had no use for Pidgeon’s baritone, as musicals were out of vogue.

Pidgeon also sang in Universal’s first talkie, Melody of Love (1928), which may or may not be a musical. (Someone will have to find it, and see it, before we know for sure.)

Pidgeon endured a downturn in his film career and returned to New York for a spell in the 1930s, but as we know, he rebounded very nicely.

I’m planning to write more about Bernice Claire and Kiss Me Again soon, so consider this a teaser of sorts …

Alice White: A flapper’s life

alice-white-2
Alice White was a Jazz Age movie charmer whose relatively short starring career was followed by many tumultuous years.

Here’s a happy 114th birthday to that blonde jazz baby Alice White, whose spunk and cuteness made her a popular star of light comedy and musical films of the late-silent/early sound era.

The title of a 1929 fan-magazine story praised Alice as “The Girl Who Licked Hollywood” – meaning that this 5-foot, 98-pound spitfire had shot to the top of her profession quickly, and through the force of her vivacious, no-nonsense personality. That personality wasn’t always an asset, however.

New Jersey-born and Hollywood-bred, White was a script girl for Charlie Chaplin and a secretary for a spell. But the camera liked her better in front of it.

“I was so stubby and fat and pink-looking that everybody there called me ‘Peter Rabbit.’ I had no thought of becoming a movie actress,” White recalled in 1958. “One day, the still cameraman had a new lens he wanted to test, and he said, ‘Peter Rabbit, how about posing for me?’

“So I put on an act with gestures … [and] the pictures turned out fine. When Mr. Chaplin saw them, he said, ‘Peter Rabbit, you ought to go into the movies.'”

Upon losing nearly 40 pounds, White moved up fast. She cagily signed a studio contract that demanded no worse than second leads. White’s first big hit was in a synchronized silent, First National’s Show Girl (1928), in which she portrayed Dixie Dugan, the wisecracking Broadway chorister made famous in J.P. McAvoy’s popular novels and comic strip.

She couldn’t play Dixie, at least not by that name, in every picture, but similar roles at FN and Warner Bros. kept on coming – in films with self-descriptive titles such as Naughty Baby (1928), Hot Stuff (1929), Broadway Babies (a 1929 musical/crime drama opposite frequent co-star Charles Delaney), The Girl From Woolworth’s (1929), Playing Around (1930), Show Girl in Hollywood (a delightful 1930 musical Dixie Dugan sequel), The Naughty Flirt (1930) and Sweet Mama (1930). When called upon to sing and dance, White could do so adequately but no better than that, and although she did take on a few serious roles, her lack of range or growth as an actress caught up to her.

Some of White’s talkies are occasionally shown on TCM and are available on DVD for modern appraisal, but while she lived, White’s onscreen achievements were overshadowed by personal setbacks, both self-inflicted and by chance.

In 1931, after an argument with a studio executive over money, she was bumped down to a Poverty Row chiller, Tiffany’s Murder at Midnight (which you can watch here). She spent most of ’31 and ‘32 refocusing her career with a vaudeville tour.

White returned to the movies in 1933 and even landed some parts back at the majors, opposite Joe E. Brown, for example, in Warners’ A Very Honorable Guy (1934). But a headline-grabbing scandal emerged. In the fall of 1933, two men were indicted in Los Angeles for the robbery and attempted disfigurement of an English actor, John Warburton. It was alleged the defendants were acting at the behest of White and her longtime boyfriend, banker-turned-actor-turned-agent-turned-screenwriter Sy Bartlett, in retaliation for a vicious beating of White by Warburton during a party in Beverly Hills.

“He beat me up all over the street and grabbed me by my hair,” White said in newspaper accounts of her testimony to a grand jury about Warburton’s alleged attack. “It’s a wonder I didn’t die.”

White and Bartlett were exonerated in the affair. They soon married but were separated within a year and a half. By 1937, their union was kaput, and White – in search of what turned out to be a temporary $65-per-week alimony award — told a judge that she had $100 left in the bank and was living with a friend because she couldn’t afford to pay rent.

White’s final film appearance saw her on screen with another ‘20s jazz baby, Joan Crawford, in Warners’ Flamingo Road (1949). By this time, Crawford was one of the biggest stars in Hollywood and White’s ninth-billed “comeback” role as a roadhouse hostess was little more than a novelty.

alice-white-joan-crawford
By the time Alice White (left) made “Flamingo Road” (1949), she was firmly in support of Joan Crawford, her jazz-baby contemporary of the ’20s.

Another wild marriage to a screenwriter, one Jack Roberts of Columbia Pictures, fizzled in divorce in 1949 after eight years. According to the Los Angeles Times, White told a divorce court that Roberts “called her vile names, threw things around and was carrying on with other women.” White and Roberts accused each other of spouse-swapping allegations involving a studio musician, William Hinshaw, and his wife, actress Barbara Brown.

White found new work in her old occupation as a secretary. In 1957, she fell off a ladder while trimming her garden, landed on a pair of scissors, and was temporarily blinded for several months as a result.

“My life isn’t so frantic anymore,” she said in a 1958 wire-service interview when asked if she missed her acting career. “I never look back. What’s past is past. I never saved a clipping when I was a star.”

Childless and now a redhead, Alice White died in 1983 after suffering a stroke in her Hollywood Hills home. Her death made headlines nationwide, so at least she had not been forgotten.

The moral of our story: Even if you think you have the movie biz licked, the Hollywood fates can lick right back.

 

SOURCES

“The Girl Who Licked Hollywood,” The New Movie Magazine, December 1929.

“Alice White Charges Actor ‘Beat Me All Over Street,’” Associated Press report in Philadelphia Inquirer, October 14, 1933.

“Slugging of Ex-Sweetie Reveals Alice White’s True Love – Or Does It?” New York Daily News, October 15, 1933.

“Alice White’s Husband Forced to Pay Alimony,” Los Angeles Times, September 2, 1937.

“Alice White Making a Comeback,” Associated Press report in Newport (R.I.) Daily News, May 23, 1958.

“Actress Alice White Dead at 76 [sic],” United Press International report, February 25, 1983.

“Former Actress Alice White Dies,” Los Angeles Times, February 26, 1983.

“Alice White, 76 [sic], Flapper Movie Star in ’30s,” Associated Press report in Chicago Tribune, February 27, 1983.

alice-white-1
Alice in her heyday, as we’d like to remember her.

Charles Delaney: A smiling, flying Irishman

Charles Delaney-Alice-White-Woolworth
Charles Delaney gets to know Alice White a little better in First National’s 1929 comedy with music “The Girl From Woolworth’s.”

Let’s wish a hearty 126th birthday today to Charles Delaney, a jaunty, handsome fellow from the East who topped out in leading-man roles as sound was taking hold in Hollywood.

Delaney’s career mirrored that of a better-known, East Coast-bred Charles – Charles Farrell — in that they were both late bloomers to top parts and well-known for being paired with cute-as-a-button female stars.

Farrell (who would have turned 118 today, by the way) was, of course, the longtime screen partner of Janet Gaynor. In Delaney’s case, however, he was widely associated with two ladies: Sally O’Neil and Alice White.

Delaney got his big break in films opposite O’Neil in Frisco Sally Levy (1927), was reteamed by MGM with her in The Lovelorn (1927) and was heard as well as seen with Sally in the Tiffany musical romance Kathleen Mavourneen (1930). At First National, he played White’s sweetie thrice — in the synchronized silent Show Girl (1928) and two 1929 talkies, Broadway Babies and The Girl From Woolworth’s.

Delaney served his female contemporaries well, as his open-faced, distinctly Irish look and energy appealed to viewers without being a distraction. In a 1928 review of Universal’s Home, James, in which Delaney appeared with Laura La Plante, New York Daily News critic Irene Thirer praised him as “our idea of a leading man, who is just handsome enough and yet not too handsome. His pleasing appearance and flashing smile ought to net him more good roles.”

They did, although Delaney’s work at the peak of his career isn’t that easy to find. In Broadway Babies, Delaney plays a brash stage manager whose romance with singer-dancer White is imperiled by the presence of Fred Kohler’s “importer” from Detroit. Delaney spends much time stewing, but Alice comes around. There are three songs in this musical comedy, but Charlie sings none.

In Kathleen Mavourneen, a contemporary story inspired by the long-running play by Irish writer Dion Boucicault, Delaney is a singing plumber named Terry. He is in love with O’Neil’s Kathleen, who is just off the boat and living in an Irish neighborhood of NYC. The local ward boss (Robert Elliott) is the younger man’s competition for the heroine’s hand, but the plumber wins out over the pol. The two leads perform a pair of James Brockman compositions, “Kathleen” and “Mother My Own”; she may or may not be dubbed, but his voice sounds as if it was.

Kathleen Mavourneen was no help to Delaney’s career, or anyone else’s. Filmed in the summer of 1929, it sat on the shelf until the middle of 1930, possibly because of instability in the management of the Tiffany studio. Thus considered creaky by the time it could be seen, the picture was dismissed by The Film Daily as “a week number plugging the Irish angle,” while Photoplay readers were advised to “save your money.”

(For the curious, Broadway Babies occasionally airs on TCM and is on a Warner Archive DVD, and Kathleen Mavourneen is in the public domain and is easy to access.)

Charles Edward Delaney was born on August 9, 1892 to a large New York City clan; his coachman father and housekeeper mother, both born in Ireland, produced six children on U.S. soil. According to accounts of Delaney’s life written when he was a film actor, he left his native country during World War I to serve in the Canadian flying corps. While the claim of Canadian duty might be legitimate, we also know that a Charles Edward Delaney was posted at the Bay Shore U.S. Naval Air Station on Long Island in 1917.

Charles-Delaney-young
A young Charles Delaney.

In any case, Delaney became known as a stunt flier after the war, and that skill is what brought him to Hollywood. He was credited for flying stunts in as many as 200 movies (a likely exaggeration). He also was said to have performed in vaudeville in a mind-reading act but that his stage career ended when he was injured in an airborne publicity stunt. His acting credits date from 1922.

If there was any doubt over Delaney’s two-fisted nature, it would have been countered by a tussle with Jack Kearns, the former manager of champion boxer Jack Dempsey, after a golf outing at the El Rancho Country Club in July 1929. Kearns emerged with two black eyes and Delaney sustained a broken nose following a disagreement with Delaney over their scores. “We made up and will be good friends again, but I don’t think we’ll play golf together,” Delaney wisely told a Los Angeles Times scribe.

Delaney’s reputation as an action man widened the scope of his parts even as the prestige of his projects began to decline. In 1931, Delaney – now pushing 40 — was cast in two “Thrill-O-Dramas” for the small-time Sono Art-World Wide Company. In Air Police, he was a federal law enforcement pilot battling illegal-immigrant smuggling with Kenneth Harlan, and Hell-Bent for Frisco (now lost) saw him playing a prizefighter.

With the majors, Delaney had played opposite canines as well as humans – with Bonaparte “The New Dog Star” in MGM’s The Thirteenth Hour (a 1927 Old Dark House thriller with Lionel Barrymore) and the great Rin-Tin-Tin in The Man Hunter (Warner Bros., 1930). Now, on the way down, he was a crusading journalist who was Captured in Chinatown (1936), a Consolidated Pictures Corporation production with “Tarzan the Police Dog” and the much prettier Marion Shilling.

Delaney married circa 1920 and stayed such, living childless in Los Angeles. (There was a curious 1926 newspaper report about his saving his wife in a suicide attempt when he discovered the gas from his stove being turned on.) Until his death on August 31, 1959, he continued to play small roles, credited and not, in films and television, with many Westerns included.

When he left us, his final role — billed seventh in the teen exploitation drama The Beatniks (1959) — was new on display in theaters. With direction, script and songs by legendary voice actor Paul Frees, that undistinguished film gives Delaney quite a bit to do as a fatherly talent agent who (despite the bad influence of gang punk Peter Breck) tries to turn “singing sensation” Tony Travis into a star.

There are worse ways for an actor to go out.

Charles-Delaney-and-Peter-Breck
In his film finale, “The Beatniks,” Charles Delaney stares down gang creep Peter Breck.

SOURCES

Home James, Comedy at Hip, Has Laura La Plante as Star,” New York Daily News, September 11, 1928.

“Charles Delaney Affords Story for Movie Thriller,” Los Angeles Times, April 24, 1927.

Kathleen Mavourneen,” The Film Daily, July 20, 1930.

“Brief Reviews of Current Pictures,” Photoplay, October 1930.

“Kearns Makes Ring of Nineteenth Hole,” Los Angeles Times, July 9, 1929.

“Stunt Flier Decries Movie Perils,” New York Daily News, March 22, 1931.

“Answers to Movie Fans,” Lincoln (Nebraska) Star, January 15, 1928.

“Actor Rescues His Wife From Death by Gas,” Los Angeles Times, September 14, 1926.

“Charles Delaney” (obituary), Los Angeles Times, September 2, 1959.

Ancestry.com