Legislation was ordered for every kind of emergency: reestablishing farm credit to stop the wholesale robbery of foreclosures, financing big public projects, establishing the National Recovery Act, raising the minimum wage, spreading out jobs by shortening working hours, and encouraging the organization of labour unions. This was going too far; this was socialism, the opposition shouted. Whether it was or not, it saved capitalism from complete collapse. It also inaugurated some of the finest reforms in the history of the United States. It was inspiring to see how quickly the American citizen reacted to constructive government.
Hollywood was also going through a change of life. Most of the silent screen stars had disappeared – only a few of us were left. Now that the talkies had taken hold, the charm and insouciance of Hollywood were gone. Overnight it had become a cold and serious industry. Sound technicians were renovating studios and building elaborate sound devices. Cameras the size of a room lumbered about the stage like juggernauts. Elaborate radio equipment was installed, involving thousands of electrical wires. Men, geared like warriors from Mars, sat with earphones while the actors performed, with microphones hovering above them like fishing rods. It was all very complicated and depressing. How could anyone be creative with all that junk around them? I hated the whole idea of it. Then someone found that all this elaborate junk could be made portable, and the cameras more mobile, and that equipment could be rented for a reasonable sum. Notwithstanding these improvements, I found little inducement to start work again.
I still toyed with the idea of pulling up stakes and settling in China. In Hong Kong I could live well and forget motion pictures, instead of languishing here in Hollywood, rotting on the vine.
For three weeks I dallied about, then one day Joe Schenck telephoned me to save the week-end for his yacht – a beautiful sailing boat, a hundred and thirty-eight feet long, that could comfortably accommodate fourteen people. Joe usually moored around Catalina Island near Avalon. His guests were seldom exciting, usually poker-players, and poker did not interest me. But there were other interests. Joe usually embarked with a bevy of pretty girls, and being desperately lonely, I hoped I might find a pretty little ray of sunlight.
That is precisely what happened. I met Paulette Goddard. She was gay and amusing and during the course of the evening told me she was going to invest $50,000, part of her alimony from her ex-husband, in a film venture. She had brought aboard all the documents ready to sign. I almost took her by the throat to prevent her. The company was obviously a Hollywood gyp enterprise. I told her that I had been in the movie business almost since its inception and with my knowledge of it I would not invest one penny except in my own pictures – and even that was a risk. I argued that if Hearst, with a literary staff and access to the most popular stories in the States, had lost $7,000,000 investing in movies, what chance had she? Eventually I talked her out of it. This was the beginning of our friendship.
The bond between Paulette and me was loneliness. She was just out from New York and knew no one. It was a case of Robinson Crusoe discovering Friday for both of us. During the week there was plenty to do, for Paulette was working in a Sam Goldwyn movie and I attended to business. But Sunday was a forlorn day. In desperation we would take long drives, in fact we combed the whole coastline of California. There seemed to be nothing to do. Our most thrilling adventure was to go to San Pedro harbour to look at the pleasure boats. One was for sale, a fifty-five-foot motor cruiser which had three state-rooms, a galley and an attractive wheel-house – the kind of boat I would have liked.
‘Now if you had something like that,’ Paulette said, ‘we could have lots of fun on Sundays, and go to Catalina.’ So I made inquiries about purchasing it. It was owned by a Mr Mitchell, manufacturer of the motion picture cameras, who showed us over the boat. Three times within a week we looked it over until our presence became embarrassing. However, Mr Mitchell said that until it was sold we were welcome to come aboard and look at it.
Unbeknown to Paulette I bought the boat and provisioned it for a cruise to Catalina, taking aboard my own cook, and an ex-Keystone Cop, Andy Anderson, who had been a licensed captain. The following Sunday everything was ready. Paulette and I started out very early, as she thought, for a long drive, agreeing that we would just have a cup of coffee and go somewhere later for breakfast. Then she discovered we were on our way to San Pedro. ‘Surely you are not going to look at that boat again?’
‘I’d like to go over it once more just to make up my mind,’ I answered.
‘Then you’ll have to go alone, it’s too embarrassing,’ she said mournfully. ‘I’ll sit in the car and wait for you.’
When we pulled up at the boat landing-stage, nothing would induce her to get out of the car. ‘No, you’ll have to go alone. But hurry – we haven’t had breakfast yet.’
After two minutes I returned to the car and persuaded her much against her will to come aboard. The cabin was gaily decorated with a pink and blue table-cloth and pink and blue china to match. A delectable aroma of bacon and eggs frying came up from the galley. ‘The captain has kindly invited us to breakfast,’ I said. ‘We have wheat-cakes, bacon and eggs, toast and coffee.’ Paulette looked down into the galley and recognized our cook. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘you wanted some place to go on Sunday so after breakfast we’re going to Catalina for a swim.’
