IN OUR REGULAR SERIES, WE EXPLORE A SLICE OF CINEMA LORE

WORDS TOM ELLEN ILLUSTRATION THE RED DRESS

THIS MONTH: The First Academy Awards

LOUIS B. MAYER HAD A PROBLEM.

As the head of MGM Studios, the stocky, bespectacled mogul had long been one of the richest and most powerful men in Hollywood — but by the mid-1920s he was beginning to recognise a pair of looming threats to his livelihood.

The first was unionisation. A staunch capitalist, Mayer had been troubled by the signing, in 1926, of an industry-wide agreement to negotiate wages, benefits and working conditions for film-studio labourers. How long, he wondered, before the actors, writers and directors got the same idea, and started clamouring for pensions, healthcare and a bigger slice of the profits?

Mayer’s other issue was image. The first half of the ‘Roaring Twenties’ had seen the motion-picture industry’s reputation take a catastrophic nosedive. Beginning in 1920 with the fatal drug overdose of actress Olive Thomas, and snowballing the following year with slapstick star ‘Fatty’ Arbuckle’s trial for rape and manslaughter, the scandals had come thick and fast, tarnishing many of Tinseltown’s biggest names. The press lapped it up, churning out hysterical tales of Hollywood debauchery, and across the Prohibition-era US, Protestant ministers condemned the depravity of ‘Sin City’ to their congregations. It all spelled trouble for the industry and — by extension — Louis B. Mayer.

Fortunately, he was a problem-solver — atwo-birds-one-stone kind of guy — and he set about fixing both his worries at once. What he needed was a way to placate the creative talent, without giving up a sizeable chunk of the studio’s earnings, while at the same time cleaning up Hollywood’s image. Rebranding ‘Sin City’ as something more distinguished and legitimate.

As an impoverished kid in Canada, Mayer had spent his pre-teen years collecting scrap metal to sell for cash. Trudging home every day, he would pass a luxurious hotel dining room, all silver candlesticks and flaming-opink lampshades. He’d vowed one day to get rich, stride in, and order a slap-up meal. It had never happened (he got rich, but by the time he returned, the hotel had been torn down), but the experience had left him with a taste for glitz and glamour, pomp and ceremony. Maybe a little pomp and ceremony was what he needed now.