The studios were in a panic. They couldn’t afford to have Louella out of action. She’s too useful to them. They know how to handle her, where I’m a tougher nut to crack. If she lays hold of a scandal, she does not print it unless the studio involved is willing. When scandal comes in range of my telescope, I’ll print it so long as it’s news and true. Press agents can’t stand it; the business they’re in should be called suppress agentry. They’ve suppressed far more than they’ve ever passed out as news. In the olden days, when Louella reigned alone, there was a mighty load to suppress, too.
As she slid into a decline through sheer aggravation over Time, her spirits were rapidly restored by a suggestion put up by Adela Rogers St. John, the magazine writer: “Give Louella the most wonderful dinner party Hollywood has seen, then maybe she’ll forget about the cover story.”
Now Louella has accepted every conceivable and inconceivable degree, doctorate, scroll, and plaque held out by college or corporation. Testimonial dinners to her are routine, though Eddie Cantor may have said a little more than he meant at a Masquers Club event celebrating her thirtieth anniversary as a columnist when he conceded: “I am here for the same reason everybody else is—we were afraid not to come.”
The idea of putting on a super-size testimonial caught on with every producer who heard about it. The Ambassador Hotel’s Cocoanut Grove was hired and treated to a face lift for the big event. It was originally planned to collect $25 from each of the hundreds of guests who sat among the papier-mâché monkeys and imitation palm trees, but when Hearst heard about it, he footed the whole bill.
Daily Variety did the evening up proud: “The guest list was the Who’s Who of motion pictures, and even the oldest old-timer could not recall when so many reigning stars of the past, present, and future, in toto, as well as agents, press agents, producers, directors, authors, distributors, studio chiefs, maîtres d’hôtel, the mayor, and governor all got together in one room. Flanked by industry leaders, Miss Parsons sat on a garland-strewn dais and listened to oratory in which no adjectives were spared.”
As a climax, Louella collected a gold plaque with an engraved inscription to her “courage, accuracy, fairness and curiosity.” Time’s account noted: “Such well-established stars as Clark Gable and Cary Grant allowed themselves the liberty of not attending.”
All I know about it, I read in the papers. I wasn’t invited. Neither was Adela Rogers St. John.
My modest contribution to the welfare of Louella and her family took the form of some column paragraphs that appeared soon after the Cocoanut Grove whingding: “I Remember Mama, and you will, too, when you have seen the film. With all the elements of good theater and good cinema, humor, humanity and hominess, it will be hard to forget ... to Harriet Parsons, who found the story and produced the picture, must go a lot of credit....”
That was the final chapter in a story that had started four years earlier. Harriet is an only child; her father was John Parsons, who died following the breakup of Louella’s first marriage, before Docky came on the scene. RKO had signed Harriet as a producer, and she set to work delving into the studio’s files, looking for likely properties. She dug out The Enchanted Cottage, had it prepared for the screen, arranged a deal with Sam Goldwyn to borrow Teresa Wright as the heroine. Then suddenly it was snatched away from her and given to another writer-producer.
Undeterred, she went back to the files and excavated a story called Mama’s Bank Account, which was retitled I Remember Mama, and lined up Katina Paxinou to play in it. That, too, was grabbed from her by RKO. At that point, I stepped in with a column item relating Harriet’s misfortunes and asking: “What goes on? Harriet’s clever, and I think this is shabby treatment, even for Hollywood.”