I have never liked Mary Pickford. Although obviously an actress of some merit, she was forever being cast in smarmy Pollyanna-ish roles, including, in fact, “Pollyanna.” Even her less saccharine efforts–“Kiki”, for instance, in which she (gasp!) smokes, leave her looking like a nun who’s dressed up as a hooker for Halloween. The truly creepy part of a Pickford movie is that one suspects she really IS like that and isn’t just acting.

What a relief to learn, courtesy of a recent biography, that Pickford was a steel-hulled bitch. Abandoned by an alcoholic father early on, she and her mother and sisters were forced, yes forced, to lower themselves to the theatre, and then (gasp again!) forced to turn to the galloping tintypes when The Stage wasn’t producing enough income. Little Gladys Smith (I’m not sure how Mary Pickford can sound more homespun than a name like Gladys Smith, but evidently it did) proceeds to marry a handsome tippler, refuses to sleep with him and goes home to Mother at night, and then blames him for the ruination of their marriage. Leaving poor Owen in the lurch as his career fades, she sets her sights on also-handsome but better-built Dougie Fairbanks, whose star was on the rise. Never mind that Dougie was inconveniently married–what’s a bit of adultery when you’re America’s Sweetheart? Sensing that some timely patriotism couldn’t hurt her career, the Canadian-born Pickford made sure that she was frequently photographed kissing flags, got herself named an honorary Colonel in the U.S. Army, and sold more war bonds than anyone. The Little American was also photographed with a spiked medieval cudgel. “Did you know,” she quavered, “this is what the Huns use to kill the boys when they don’t want to use ammunition?” No, I didn’t, and I’ll bet the Huns themselves didn’t know either. Sentiment aside, it’s hard to imagine the maniacally-efficient German Army coming after the enemy with the equivalent of a pointy softball bat. If Owen Moore didslug that prissy little monster, as she claimed in divorce court, more power to him.

Doug and Mary were everything that was and is wrong with Hollywood aristocracy. Being from the polar opposite of genteel birth, they decided to give themselves gentility and naturally got it all wrong. Uneducated, they surrounded themselves with luminaries of academe as well as screen. Striving for 100% By Gawrsh American Wholesomeness, they refused to serve liquor or even wine at Pickfair, the architectural accident from whose disjointed clapboard halls they reigned. Certain parties were not admitted to the Royal Presence: Clara Bow (too Brooklyn; noticeably said “fuck” onscreen), Valentino (too Italian, too much competition for Doug), Ramon Novarro (too Hispanic, too gay) and Joan Crawford (hell, I wouldn’t let her in my house, either). While the facade of propriety hid their sub-bourgeois roots, other pretensions spray-painted the facade. Incurably romantic, they committed vast gaucheries by insisting on being seated together at formal dinners and refusing to dance with anyone else at balls.

From Doug and Mary’s Excellent Adventure, I’ve learned a few things:

1) There’s a reason I liked Clara Bow better.
2) Maybe money can buy happiness, but it can’t buy class.
3) If you’re going to pretend you’re something you’re not, get it right.