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Louella didn’t regard me as a serious rival when I got started as a columnist in 1938. Andy Harvey, in MGM’s publicity department, had recommended me to Howard Denby of the Esquire syndicate: “When we want the low-down on our stars, we get it from Hedda Hopper.” I was signed by Mr. Denby and sold to thirteen papers straightaway, the first to buy being the Los Angeles Times.
The betting in town after column number one appeared was that I wouldn’t last a week. My mistake was being too kind to everybody. I didn’t tell the whole truth—only the good. I set out to write about my fellows in terms of sweetness and light, not reality. I began:
Just twenty-three years ago my son was born. Since then I’ve acted in Broadway plays. Sold Liberty Bonds in Grand Central Station. Knitted socks for soldiers—which they wore as sweaters. Made very bad speeches on the steps of the New York Library. Helped build a snowman on Forty-second Street ... when the streetcars were frozen solidly in their tracks. Earned money for one year as a prima donna in The Quaker Girl with only two tones in my voice, high and low—very low. Played in Virtuous Wives, Louis B. Mayer’s first motion picture.
I’ve worked with practically every star in Hollywood. Sold real estate here—made it pay, too, but not lately. Was a contributor to one of the monthly magazines. Did special articles for the Washington Herald. With a friend, wrote a one-act play. Through pull had it produced at the Writers’ Club and was it panned! Ran for a political job here; thank goodness the citizens had a better idea! Coached Jan Kiepura in diction. Learned about the beauty business from Elizabeth Arden in her Fifth Avenue salon. Made three trips abroad, one to England on business. Put on fashion shows. Have a radio program.
And today I begin laboring in a new field and am hoping it will bring me as much happiness as that major event which took place twenty-three years ago. I can only write about the Hollywood I know. About my neighbors and fellow workers. Amazing stories have been written—many true. Hollywood is mad, gay, heartbreakingly silly, but you can’t satirize a satire. And that’s Hollywood....
I was green as grass, and the town jeered at me. Luckily, I had a good friend at my side. Wonderful Ida Koverman carried the title of executive assistant to Louis B. Mayer, but she was the real power behind his throne. To all intent and purpose, she ran MGM. Two months after my launching, when I was sinking slowly in an ocean of kind words for everybody, she gave a hen party for me. On the guest list were Norma Shearer, Jeanette MacDonald, singer Rosa Ponselle, Claudette Colbert, Joan Crawford, Sophie Tucker, press people, public-relations people—every woman you could think of. There was only one holdout—Louella.
It was a night to remember. A forest fire was blazing in the hills, and the sky was lit with flame. I was burning, too. Ida had just set me straight about column writing. “They’ve laughed at you long enough. You’ve been too nice to people. Now start telling the truth.”
That was the best advice she ever gave me. It marked a turning point. My telephone started ringing like a fire alarm every day soon after.
“Hedda,” the callers would moan, “how can you print such things about me?”