THE PRINCE OF WHALES HARPOONED FOR HENIOUS CRIME
For more than a month, a young star of the pictures, a beauty and a charming young thing, the “best-dressed girl in movies” who was beloved by all who knew her, has lain lifeless in the ground following the most horrible of deeds. One Virginia Rappé perished after attending a party hosted by a giant man whose greed and demand of instant gratification knows no bounds. The exact circumstances of her death remain shrouded in mystery, due to the reprehensible fact that this clown of the pictures fails to confess and atone as any decent American might, and instead claims an entirely different set of circumstances to those reported by the shattered friends who bore witness to the tragedy.
What is known, is that over Labor Day weekend this year, Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle drove from Los Angeles to San Francisco in his brand new $25,000 Pierce-Arrow in order to host a debauched party at the Hotel St. Francis in that Bay City. Anyone who wondered at his choice to celebrate his new Paramount Contract so far from home had their questions swiftly answered. Merely one day later, young actress Virginia Rappé , a guest of the giant comedian, died in agony in a sanatorium. Those are the facts that cannot be disputed, despite the protestations of the Hollywood community, ever closing in protection around one of their own.
If I were to share even half of the goings on at such parties as this one, your dear minds might never recover from the shock, so I shall spare you. You may rest assured though, that the Volstead Act was most certainly broken with relish, not to mention other even less savoury substances that were in attendance; altogether conspiring to create an atmosphere that rivals the worst of debauched Rome and Babylon in its excess. How might any decent citizen so much as imagine a party in which the host received guests in his pyjamas? Or one in which young ladies removed their tops so that they might dance free from the constraints of decency and clothing?
This week I spoke with bereaved Maude Delmont, a close friend of the victim, who did all she could to save her. Through her tears, Mrs Delmont did her best to tell me her story.
At a quarter to three in the morning, a time when no good can happen, this bright young starlet of impending fame, undoubtedly shocked at the behaviour she had been forced to witness, began to feel unwell, and retired to a quieter room to rest so that she might recover sufficiently to make her way home to her fiancé who had been unavoidably prevented from accompanying her. Henry Lehman, a director at Mack Sennett’s Keystone studios, had entrusted the care of his dearest possession, his Virgina, to a dear friend of both Maude Delmont. Struggling to control her grief, Maude told me how she was powerless to protect her friend, when, moments later this “Fatty” Arbuckle followed Miss Rappé into her sanctuary, and announcing to guests that “this is the chance I’ve been waiting for for a long time,” he locked the door behind him. Concerned for the honour of her friend, but not wishing to insult the generous host of the festivities, Maude did nothing, a choice she will now have to live with for the rest of her natural days.
Even this degenerate party was halted in shock at the shrieks of terror that suddenly emanated from the bedroom in which lay the comedian and the starlet, and, following furious battering on the door by Virginia’s friends, Fatty emerged giggling. His torn pyjamas were testament to Virgina’s desperation to defend herself, her hat perched at a crazy angle on his head testament to the humour this comedian finds in his own actions, even the detestable ones. Mr Arbuckle announced that Miss Rappé was making altogether too much noise and suggested that they might throw her out of the window, as her friends brushed past him.
The sight that greeted Maude Delmont and Alice Blake is too shocking to disturb the sensibilities of my dear readers with. Suffice to say that there was blood, lots of it, and a sobbing, terrified, dying girl who begged her friends not to allow the star to get away with what he had done to her.
“I am dying Maudie,” sobbed Virgina. “He did this. Fatty Arbuckle hurt me.”
Her prediction proved correct, when, two days later, Virginia indeed died in a San Francisco Sanatorium, her bladder ruptured by the terrible violence that she had endured.
Mr. Arbuckle’s trial begins next month. I beg the jury to fulfil this dear girl’ dying wish: don’t let him get away with it.
PARTY OF THE DECADE!
August 12th 1922
Infectious jazz mingled with laughter and glittering chatter to fill the air last night at the home of the celebrated picture producer Mr Louis Mayer. Quite the spectacular affair the we have come to expect from Mr Mayer and his lovely wife, it was attended by every luminary of Hollywood. Their imposing mansion nestles in the Hollywood Hills where the air is tinged with the acrid odour of burning orange groves and the heady scent of success and power. The drive, which leisurely winds and curves on its way to the house, was filled with gleaming motor car after gleaming motor car depositing the superstars of the pictures: the chosen few who live the jazz baby life. Men in white dinner jackets with silken scarves, their slicked hair glistening in the spotlights that illuminated the great house, accompanied women who dripped in jewels, furs and blood-red lipstick. Their thousand-watt smiles outdid the flashbulbs of the gentlemen of the press, which popped constantly like 4th of July fireworks.
Inside the glorious party, Mr Charlie Chaplin danced a charming Charleston with Mary Pickford as her husband Douglas Fairbanks looked on. Dashing Paramount director William Desmond Taylor attended the event with his dear friend, and dear to the world, comedienne Mabel Normand. Gloria Swanson caused chills to dash down the spines of assembled guests - including adorable in a pretty dress and golden ringlets child star Mary Miles Minter, who shrieked aloud - with a lurid ghost story. Fatty Arbuckle, expected any day now to sign a new contract with Paramount that is rumoured to be worth $3million, was accompanied by his lovely wife Minta, and put on a breathtaking display of tumbles and somersaults that had guests quite rapt with pleasure.
The banquet - oh the splendour! - was piled high with exotic delights of the Orient, and many guests gasped in wonder at the incredible feast that lay before them. Forgive me if I share a minor tidbit: as I waited in line to sample the feast prepared for all guests, of which I was one, Mrs Charlotte Shelby, mother of Paramount starlet Mary Miles Minter, chose not to wait her turn, but instead barge straight past in the manner of a steam train, scattering innocent would-be diners in her wake. I wouldn’t, of course, like to speculate that this unfortunate incident was indicative of Mrs Shelby’s character, but I do feel that I owe my readers the truth. Although I hate to say it, “charming” is not a word I would use as readily as “glamorous” in regards to some of those beautiful ladies! Well, what would one expect - they are the royalty of the entire world, one must expect them to act as such!
While dancing with a young man whose name escapes me just now, I will not deny that I was somewhat shocked to receive a venomous look from the hitherto (in my opinion) sweet Mary Miles Minter, caused by no crime of mine that I could think of. It may have simply been jealousy due to my enjoying the company of the young man, whomever he was, or it is possible that, off camera, her face is simply permanently fixed that way, as I am sure mine would be, if I had such a mother.
That is all I will say about that, I won’t dwell on the unpleasant aspects of the evening! I shared a brief conversation with Mr Charles Chaplin, and was utterly charmed to hear my first British accent! He used words that barely seemed English, yet with such panache that I understood his every meaning. I won’t deny, however, that I wasn’t quite so charmed by an unpleasant fragrance that pervaded in his presence. Perhaps it is not the British way to bathe as we do, but I rather hope that he cottons on to our American ways without much further ado. He seemed entirely pleasant to me. However, after witnessing a display of friendship and affection between he and his United Artists colleague and America’s Sweetheart (a title hardly rendered fraudulent by the unsuspected truth that she comes from Toronto) Mary Pickford, I was then rather surprised to accidentally overhear an acerbic exchange between the two. Mrs Pickford hissed in a manner quite unbecoming to a lady of her stature a rather impertinent question concerning Chaplin’s designs on his young leading lady Lita Grey. Chaplin retorted that she might stick her opinion in a place I am loathe to repeat, even to my dear readers whom I am sure will not judge me.
The highlight of my evening was a moment in which I was fortunate enough to bask in the splendorous charm of director William Desmond Taylor. While I was still catching my breath from being so unceremoniously removed as an obstacle in Mrs Shelby’s pursuit of nourishment, Mr Taylor kindly and gently placed his hand on my arm, introduced himself - such a gentleman! - and inquired as to my health. It is possible that he mistook me for an actress, I wouldn’t like to assume. I listened in joy to my second melodious British accent (this time without the accompanying odour) and stammered a reply that I was quite sure that I would recover from the shove. He smiled again and begged me not to be concerned; Mrs Shelby was a great friend of his, he shared with me, and yet he had also fallen victim to her enthusiasm for mealtimes. He didn’t use those precise words, I admit, but his meaning and sympathy for me was clear.
It was equally clear to me that Mr Taylor extended only pity to Mabel Normand by allowing her to accompany him to the ball. A brash, uncouth thing like her - her many years in Hollywood do little to stamp out her Staten Island roots! - is rather unlikely to have any appeal to a dignified gentleman such as William D Taylor. I don’t mean to be unkind, but I suspect that Miss Normand, following her unfortunate broken engagement with Mack Sennett (the story was, don’t forget, that she threw herself from Santa Monica pier after discovering Mr Sennett enjoying the personal company of another young starlet from the Keystone Studio) is in need of positive press coverage, so Mr Taylor agreed to be her escort to a high profile event. I may be wrong, of course, I don’t really know, but that is my opinion based on my personal observation of them last night. The fact that William shared conversations with assorted young ladies in attendance - myself included! - further supports my suspicions. I am sure that Miss Normand is a very nice person, and I certainly enjoy her comedic performances, but I really am loathe to address the rumours of a romance between the two in print. My job here, after all, is to report only the truth and the facts from life in the movie colony to my readers in Ohio, so I will desist from commenting on speculation at all.
Infectious jazz mingled with laughter and glittering chatter to fill the air last night at the home of the celebrated picture producer Mr Louis Mayer. Quite the spectacular affair the we have come to expect from Mr Mayer and his lovely wife, it was attended by every luminary of Hollywood. Their imposing mansion nestles in the Hollywood Hills where the air is tinged with the acrid odour of burning orange groves and the heady scent of success and power. The drive, which leisurely winds and curves on its way to the house, was filled with gleaming motor car after gleaming motor car depositing the superstars of the pictures: the chosen few who live the jazz baby life. Men in white dinner jackets with silken scarves, their slicked hair glistening in the spotlights that illuminated the great house, accompanied women who dripped in jewels, furs and blood-red lipstick. Their thousand-watt smiles outdid the flashbulbs of the gentlemen of the press, which popped constantly like 4th of July fireworks.
Inside the glorious party, Mr Charlie Chaplin danced a charming Charleston with Mary Pickford as her husband Douglas Fairbanks looked on. Dashing Paramount director William Desmond Taylor attended the event with his dear friend, and dear to the world, comedienne Mabel Normand. Gloria Swanson caused chills to dash down the spines of assembled guests - including adorable in a pretty dress and golden ringlets child star Mary Miles Minter, who shrieked aloud - with a lurid ghost story. Fatty Arbuckle, expected any day now to sign a new contract with Paramount that is rumoured to be worth $3million, was accompanied by his lovely wife Minta, and put on a breathtaking display of tumbles and somersaults that had guests quite rapt with pleasure.
The banquet - oh the splendour! - was piled high with exotic delights of the Orient, and many guests gasped in wonder at the incredible feast that lay before them. Forgive me if I share a minor tidbit: as I waited in line to sample the feast prepared for all guests, of which I was one, Mrs Charlotte Shelby, mother of Paramount starlet Mary Miles Minter, chose not to wait her turn, but instead barge straight past in the manner of a steam train, scattering innocent would-be diners in her wake. I wouldn’t, of course, like to speculate that this unfortunate incident was indicative of Mrs Shelby’s character, but I do feel that I owe my readers the truth. Although I hate to say it, “charming” is not a word I would use as readily as “glamorous” in regards to some of those beautiful ladies! Well, what would one expect - they are the royalty of the entire world, one must expect them to act as such!
While dancing with a young man whose name escapes me just now, I will not deny that I was somewhat shocked to receive a venomous look from the hitherto (in my opinion) sweet Mary Miles Minter, caused by no crime of mine that I could think of. It may have simply been jealousy due to my enjoying the company of the young man, whomever he was, or it is possible that, off camera, her face is simply permanently fixed that way, as I am sure mine would be, if I had such a mother.
That is all I will say about that, I won’t dwell on the unpleasant aspects of the evening! I shared a brief conversation with Mr Charles Chaplin, and was utterly charmed to hear my first British accent! He used words that barely seemed English, yet with such panache that I understood his every meaning. I won’t deny, however, that I wasn’t quite so charmed by an unpleasant fragrance that pervaded in his presence. Perhaps it is not the British way to bathe as we do, but I rather hope that he cottons on to our American ways without much further ado. He seemed entirely pleasant to me. However, after witnessing a display of friendship and affection between he and his United Artists colleague and America’s Sweetheart (a title hardly rendered fraudulent by the unsuspected truth that she comes from Toronto) Mary Pickford, I was then rather surprised to accidentally overhear an acerbic exchange between the two. Mrs Pickford hissed in a manner quite unbecoming to a lady of her stature a rather impertinent question concerning Chaplin’s designs on his young leading lady Lita Grey. Chaplin retorted that she might stick her opinion in a place I am loathe to repeat, even to my dear readers whom I am sure will not judge me.
The highlight of my evening was a moment in which I was fortunate enough to bask in the splendorous charm of director William Desmond Taylor. While I was still catching my breath from being so unceremoniously removed as an obstacle in Mrs Shelby’s pursuit of nourishment, Mr Taylor kindly and gently placed his hand on my arm, introduced himself - such a gentleman! - and inquired as to my health. It is possible that he mistook me for an actress, I wouldn’t like to assume. I listened in joy to my second melodious British accent (this time without the accompanying odour) and stammered a reply that I was quite sure that I would recover from the shove. He smiled again and begged me not to be concerned; Mrs Shelby was a great friend of his, he shared with me, and yet he had also fallen victim to her enthusiasm for mealtimes. He didn’t use those precise words, I admit, but his meaning and sympathy for me was clear.
It was equally clear to me that Mr Taylor extended only pity to Mabel Normand by allowing her to accompany him to the ball. A brash, uncouth thing like her - her many years in Hollywood do little to stamp out her Staten Island roots! - is rather unlikely to have any appeal to a dignified gentleman such as William D Taylor. I don’t mean to be unkind, but I suspect that Miss Normand, following her unfortunate broken engagement with Mack Sennett (the story was, don’t forget, that she threw herself from Santa Monica pier after discovering Mr Sennett enjoying the personal company of another young starlet from the Keystone Studio) is in need of positive press coverage, so Mr Taylor agreed to be her escort to a high profile event. I may be wrong, of course, I don’t really know, but that is my opinion based on my personal observation of them last night. The fact that William shared conversations with assorted young ladies in attendance - myself included! - further supports my suspicions. I am sure that Miss Normand is a very nice person, and I certainly enjoy her comedic performances, but I really am loathe to address the rumours of a romance between the two in print. My job here, after all, is to report only the truth and the facts from life in the movie colony to my readers in Ohio, so I will desist from commenting on speculation at all.
Background
Reportedly, in 1928, the dying words of film comedienne Mabel Normand, a close friend of Taylor’s and the last person to have seen him alive, were, “I wonder who killed poor Bill Taylor?”
Despite numerous leads, suspects and unsubstantiated confessions the case has never been conclusively solved. The most popular theory, favoured by Special Investigator Ed C. King and director King Vidor, was that Charlotte Shelby -- mother of Mary Miles Minter, a Paramount star who has been identified at various times as Taylor’s lover, fiancée, unrequited admirer and protégé – killed Taylor. Charlotte Shelby was, however, never charged nor arrested and was even publicly exonerated by Prosecutor Asa Keyes in 1928.
In private papers made public after his death, director King Vidor remarked of the case: “Before we can make accurate speculations on the case and guilt of those involved we must know something of the community in which the victim lived, and in which he died. It is my first contention that the murder itself and its consequent lack of solution had its roots buried deeply in the inner character of the community. I am convinced of this. I was there!”
The community Vidor speaks of is of course the “movie colony” – Hollywood. A community founded as the 20th century dawned by filmmakers running from New York in order to escape paying patent rights on filmmaking equipment – so it was, perhaps quite rightly, immediately awarded the image of a haven for the wanton and wicked. Writer Adela Rogers St. Johns cheerfully remembers in Kevin Brownlow’s Hollywood: the Pioneers: “Oh, we kept having scandals right along. If you throw into one small town and one small industry, the people who can impress the world with their drama, their sex appeal, with their lovemaking, with all of the big emotional dramatic things that can happen, and you put them all together in one little bowl, you're going to have some explosions. I'm only surprised we had so few.”
By the time of Taylor’s death in 1922, Hollywood had been rocked by the fatal heroin overdose of starlet Olive Thomas in Paris, Charlie Chaplin’s marriage to child star Mildred Harris, and Fatty Arbuckle’s first trial for the rape and murder of Virginia Rappé. Shortly after Taylor’s murder, the drug addictions of matinee idol Wallace Reid and comedienne Mabel Normand were exposed. One of the many rumours that circulated regarding Taylor’s murder was that he had been helping Normand kick the habit, and a drug dealer, furious at losing her very lucrative trade, shot Taylor in revenge.
Almost as soon as Hollywood started having scandals, the tabloid press realized the money to be made in reporting them: publishing tycoon William Randolph Hearst once boasted that he had sold more newspapers on the Fatty Arbuckle case than on the sinking of the Lusitana. Eminent Hollywood historian Kevin Brownlow commented of the press reports at the time, in the foreword to The Humour of a Hollywood Murder (serialised in the online newsletter Taylorology), “how (the press) got away with their repellent stories, gory photographs and sanctimonious hypocrisy while women’s clubs got steamed up about the charming love-making of silent films, is beyond me.”
The murder of William Desmond Taylor was a tabloid editor’s dream. There was the debonair British director’s murky past: shortly after his death it emerged that he had been born William Deane Tanner, and had disappeared from New York abandoning his wife and young daughter in 1908. Then there was the fact that celebrated comedienne Mabel Normand was the last person to see him alive – and the investigation revealed her hitherto covered up cocaine addiction. Following that, were rumours that Famous Players-Lasky manager Charles Eyton, head of Paramount Adolf Zukor and Normand herself were already at the death scene raking through and destroying potentially crucial evidence with the police arrived; not to mention the love letters – and lingerie – supposedly from a plethora of female stars which were found by the police in Taylor’s bungalow, did much to fuel the fires of intrigue and prurient gossip. The suspect list grew daily and totalled at least 49 within months. The potential involvement of Edward Sands, the mysterious valet who had disappeared weeks prior to the murder having robbed Taylor – and who supposedly bore a striking resemblance to the slain director’s brother Dennis Deane Tanner; or of Henry Peavy, the man servant who discovered the body, and whose trial for public indecency Taylor had been due to testify at, was ripe for lascivious editorials to speculate over. Not to mention the large sum of money that Taylor withdrew from the bank on his last day alive… the salacious details kept readers rapt for months following the murder. An editorial in the Salt Lake Telegram on February 11, 1922 opened: “With each succeeding day producing new gossip concerning life California’s film colony, it is to be hoped that the Taylor murder mystery, which has baffled the coast police for a week, will soon be solved.“
Despite numerous leads, suspects and unsubstantiated confessions the case has never been conclusively solved. The most popular theory, favoured by Special Investigator Ed C. King and director King Vidor, was that Charlotte Shelby -- mother of Mary Miles Minter, a Paramount star who has been identified at various times as Taylor’s lover, fiancée, unrequited admirer and protégé – killed Taylor. Charlotte Shelby was, however, never charged nor arrested and was even publicly exonerated by Prosecutor Asa Keyes in 1928.
In private papers made public after his death, director King Vidor remarked of the case: “Before we can make accurate speculations on the case and guilt of those involved we must know something of the community in which the victim lived, and in which he died. It is my first contention that the murder itself and its consequent lack of solution had its roots buried deeply in the inner character of the community. I am convinced of this. I was there!”
The community Vidor speaks of is of course the “movie colony” – Hollywood. A community founded as the 20th century dawned by filmmakers running from New York in order to escape paying patent rights on filmmaking equipment – so it was, perhaps quite rightly, immediately awarded the image of a haven for the wanton and wicked. Writer Adela Rogers St. Johns cheerfully remembers in Kevin Brownlow’s Hollywood: the Pioneers: “Oh, we kept having scandals right along. If you throw into one small town and one small industry, the people who can impress the world with their drama, their sex appeal, with their lovemaking, with all of the big emotional dramatic things that can happen, and you put them all together in one little bowl, you're going to have some explosions. I'm only surprised we had so few.”
By the time of Taylor’s death in 1922, Hollywood had been rocked by the fatal heroin overdose of starlet Olive Thomas in Paris, Charlie Chaplin’s marriage to child star Mildred Harris, and Fatty Arbuckle’s first trial for the rape and murder of Virginia Rappé. Shortly after Taylor’s murder, the drug addictions of matinee idol Wallace Reid and comedienne Mabel Normand were exposed. One of the many rumours that circulated regarding Taylor’s murder was that he had been helping Normand kick the habit, and a drug dealer, furious at losing her very lucrative trade, shot Taylor in revenge.
Almost as soon as Hollywood started having scandals, the tabloid press realized the money to be made in reporting them: publishing tycoon William Randolph Hearst once boasted that he had sold more newspapers on the Fatty Arbuckle case than on the sinking of the Lusitana. Eminent Hollywood historian Kevin Brownlow commented of the press reports at the time, in the foreword to The Humour of a Hollywood Murder (serialised in the online newsletter Taylorology), “how (the press) got away with their repellent stories, gory photographs and sanctimonious hypocrisy while women’s clubs got steamed up about the charming love-making of silent films, is beyond me.”
The murder of William Desmond Taylor was a tabloid editor’s dream. There was the debonair British director’s murky past: shortly after his death it emerged that he had been born William Deane Tanner, and had disappeared from New York abandoning his wife and young daughter in 1908. Then there was the fact that celebrated comedienne Mabel Normand was the last person to see him alive – and the investigation revealed her hitherto covered up cocaine addiction. Following that, were rumours that Famous Players-Lasky manager Charles Eyton, head of Paramount Adolf Zukor and Normand herself were already at the death scene raking through and destroying potentially crucial evidence with the police arrived; not to mention the love letters – and lingerie – supposedly from a plethora of female stars which were found by the police in Taylor’s bungalow, did much to fuel the fires of intrigue and prurient gossip. The suspect list grew daily and totalled at least 49 within months. The potential involvement of Edward Sands, the mysterious valet who had disappeared weeks prior to the murder having robbed Taylor – and who supposedly bore a striking resemblance to the slain director’s brother Dennis Deane Tanner; or of Henry Peavy, the man servant who discovered the body, and whose trial for public indecency Taylor had been due to testify at, was ripe for lascivious editorials to speculate over. Not to mention the large sum of money that Taylor withdrew from the bank on his last day alive… the salacious details kept readers rapt for months following the murder. An editorial in the Salt Lake Telegram on February 11, 1922 opened: “With each succeeding day producing new gossip concerning life California’s film colony, it is to be hoped that the Taylor murder mystery, which has baffled the coast police for a week, will soon be solved.“
Introduction
Tinseltown is a series of ‘society’ columns supposedly in an Ohio newspaper: a fictional-non-fiction eye witness account of 1920s Hollywood. The columnist, Mary-Beth King, is a young Midwestern girl, with pretensions to be in with the in crowd of Hollywood, and who isn’t above moral - some might say bitchy - editorialising on occasion. Tinseltown will form her first three years as a gossip reporter, from 1921-1924, and will follow her from a star struck wannabe to a society gatekeeper who can make or break a star at will, as she mingles with - then cheerfully tears apart - luminaries of early cinema including Charlie Chaplin, Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks, Fatty Arbuckle, William Desmond Taylor, Mabel Normand, Wallace Reid, Rudolph Valentino and many more along the way. Her personal journalistic oath involves telling “most of the truth, some of the truth and a bit of the truth, so long as it suits me,” and through her, Tinseltown will expose the blithe lack of integrity that dogged the baby tabloid press and ruined the careers and lives of many who came under their fire.
Stylistically, think Louella Parsons meets Dominic Dunne with an occasional twist of today‘s celebrity gossip tomes; Miss King will twist the facts to suit her opinions. For example, jealousy over Mabel Normand’s friendship with William Desmond Taylor (for whom she has a bit of a soft spot) will motivate her to tear the comedienne’s reputation to shreds at every opportunity. She will dismiss any contradictions or gaps in the chronology of the versions that she prefers - even glaring contradictions like the discovery of the telegram Maude Delmont sent to a friend as Virginia Rappé lay dying, reading “We have Roscoe Arbuckle in a hole here. Chance to make some money out of him” will hardly suffice to change her pronouncement of “guilty whether proven innocent or not”. She will gleefully expose the day-to-day chinks in the armour of some of cinema’s greatest heroes - legend has it that Chaplin wasn’t a great fan of personal hygiene, and Mary-Beth, having once been snubbed by the Londoner who was known not to suffer fools gladly, will rarely miss an opportunity to highlight his “curious odour” in print.
The Tinseltown columns will give salacious and gleefully bitchy insight into flapper society and the then-fledgling juggernaut of the celebrity gossip industry.
Primarily though, the columns will explore the unsolved mystery of the death of William Desmond Taylor. Rather than attempt to solve the unsolvable, the columns will draw on the press of the day to reveal the social climate and explore why the murder was never solved. The victim was high profile, a witness observed a person leaving the scene of the crime moments after shots were heard, and the might of the Los Angeles Police Department was thrown into the investigation, yet 84 years later we are yet to learn who fired the shot that killed the director. The position the book ultimately represents, is that the wild stories, gossipy asides and slanderous accusations that the tabloid press - in particular agenda-driven columnists such as our very own Mary-Beth King - circulated and perpetuated so much blinding smokescreen to whatever truth might have otherwise been revealed, that the investigation was severely hindered. Ultimately, the press and gossips of the time assisted the real killer to remain undetected.
Stylistically, think Louella Parsons meets Dominic Dunne with an occasional twist of today‘s celebrity gossip tomes; Miss King will twist the facts to suit her opinions. For example, jealousy over Mabel Normand’s friendship with William Desmond Taylor (for whom she has a bit of a soft spot) will motivate her to tear the comedienne’s reputation to shreds at every opportunity. She will dismiss any contradictions or gaps in the chronology of the versions that she prefers - even glaring contradictions like the discovery of the telegram Maude Delmont sent to a friend as Virginia Rappé lay dying, reading “We have Roscoe Arbuckle in a hole here. Chance to make some money out of him” will hardly suffice to change her pronouncement of “guilty whether proven innocent or not”. She will gleefully expose the day-to-day chinks in the armour of some of cinema’s greatest heroes - legend has it that Chaplin wasn’t a great fan of personal hygiene, and Mary-Beth, having once been snubbed by the Londoner who was known not to suffer fools gladly, will rarely miss an opportunity to highlight his “curious odour” in print.
The Tinseltown columns will give salacious and gleefully bitchy insight into flapper society and the then-fledgling juggernaut of the celebrity gossip industry.
Primarily though, the columns will explore the unsolved mystery of the death of William Desmond Taylor. Rather than attempt to solve the unsolvable, the columns will draw on the press of the day to reveal the social climate and explore why the murder was never solved. The victim was high profile, a witness observed a person leaving the scene of the crime moments after shots were heard, and the might of the Los Angeles Police Department was thrown into the investigation, yet 84 years later we are yet to learn who fired the shot that killed the director. The position the book ultimately represents, is that the wild stories, gossipy asides and slanderous accusations that the tabloid press - in particular agenda-driven columnists such as our very own Mary-Beth King - circulated and perpetuated so much blinding smokescreen to whatever truth might have otherwise been revealed, that the investigation was severely hindered. Ultimately, the press and gossips of the time assisted the real killer to remain undetected.
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