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Born in Smith Center, Kansas, to Mollie and William Goodrich
Arbuckle, he had several years of Vaudeville experience, including work at Idora
Park in Oakland, California. One of his earliest mentors was comedian Leon Errol.
He began his film career with the Selig Polyscope Company in July 1909. Arbuckle
appeared sporadically in Selig one-reelers until 1913, moved briefly to
Universal Pictures and became a star in producer-director Mack Sennett's
Keystone Cops comedies.
Arbuckle was also a talented singer. After Enrico Caruso
heard him sing he urged the comedian to "give up this nonsense you do for a
living, with training you could become the second greatest singer in the world".
On August 6, 1908 he married Araminta Estelle Durfee
(1889-1975), the daughter of Charles Warren Durfee and Flora Adkins. Durfee
starred in many early comedy films under the name Minta Durfee, often with
Arbuckle.
Screen comedian
By Wanda Felix
Abandoned By Hollywood
A Truly American Scandal
Mack Sennett recalled meeeting him:
"A tremendous man skipped up the steps as lightly as Fred Astaire. He was
tremendous, obese --- just plain fat. 'Name's Arbuckle,' he said, 'Roscoe
Arbuckle. Call me Fatty! I'm with a stock company. I'm a funnyman and an acrobat.
But I could do good in pictures. Watcha think?' With no warning he went into a
featherlight step, clapped his hands, and did a backward somersault as graceful
as a girl tumbler."
Adela Rogers St. Johns remembered the
early days in Hollywood like this: "Everybody loved everybody. There were love
affairs going on, and everybody had an excitement about the whole thing that
I've never seen since. None of us knew even vaguely what we were doing. None of
us knew what this picture business had come to; the greatest form of art and
entertainment the world has ever known was put together there for awhile. It
didn't last long but it was great, and here we were, right in the middle of the
goldfish bowl, with everybody beginning to look at us."
By
1921 Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle was one of the highest paid actor/directors in the
motion picture business. But on September 5 of that year, during a weekend party
he was throwing at the Saint Francis Hotel in San Francisco, the water in the
goldfish bowl turned murky. Virginia Rappe (Rap-pay), a girl attending the
party, ran screaming from a bedroom, took sick and died four days later.
On September 17 Roscoe Arbuckle was arraigned in San Francisco charged with the
rape and murder of Virginia Rappe. The legendary producer, Adolph Zukor (who
footed the legal bill) tried to bring in the great trial lawyer, Earl Rogers,
father of Adela, but Rogers was in ill health and couldn't take the case.
Adela remembered her father speaking to her about Fatty's plight, "They will
make it very tough on him, because of his weight. A man of that enormous fatness
being charged with the rape of a young girl will prejudice them, even just the
thought of it."
Indeed, they made it very tough on the fat man.
As Kevin Brownilow puts it in Hollywood: The Pioneers:
"District Attorney Matthew Brady ... must have been beside himself. An intensely
ambitious man, he planned to run for governor. Here presented to him in the most
sensational terms, was the scandal of the century-an apparent open and shut
case."
The ambitious Mr. Brady had a very helpful ally in
William Randolph Hearst --- the undisputed champion of yellow journalism. Early
director, and friend of Arbuckle's, Viola Dana recalled,
"Hearst was instrumental in wanting the motion picture
industry in Northern California (i.e. San Francisco), and instead it settled in
Southern California. I think that was part of his motive in crucifying Arbuckle."
Hearst crucified Arbuckle for another reason --- circulation ... Hearst was
gratified by the Arbuckle scandal; he said later that it had "sold more
newspapers than any event since the sinking of the Lusitania."
The ugliest twist, one many people are unaware of, is that Arbuckle was
completely innocent. He was set up by a venal woman named Maude Delmont, known
as "Madame Black." Delmont would provide girls for parties and then have the
girl claim she was raped by a prominent director or producer. Concerned about
his career, the victim would submit to Delmont's request for money to keep the
story out of the press. When Rappe died a few days after the party, from a
condition unrelated to the events at the St. Francis Hotel, Delmont gave Fatty
Arbuckle's name to the police.
Arbuckle's wife stuck by him
throughout the trial --- such was the public's scorn that she was shot at while
entering the courthouse --- but the producers in Hollywood forbade his movie
friends to testify on his behalf fearing that their careers would be besmirched
and that the scandal would cut into profits.
After two trials
resulted in hung juries, Fatty was acquitted at the third, with a written
apology from the jury --- an apology unprecedented in American justice.
"Acquittal is not enough for Roscoe Arbuckle [they wrote]. We feel that a great
injustice has been done him ... there was not the slightest proof adduced to
connect him in any way with the commission of a crime. He was manly throughout
the case and told a straightforward story which we all believe. We wish him
success and hope that the American people will take the judgement of fourteen
men and women that Roscoe Arbuckle is entirely innocent and free from all blame."
It was, of course, too little too late. Will Hays, the ex-Postmaster General,
had been installed as a kind of overlord-Pope charged with cleaning up the
movies for America. As Arbuckle faced his second trial, so Brownlow puts it in
his book:
Hays went into a sort of metaphorical desert to
consult with his conscience ... On April 19, 1922 Will Hays made the first major
policy decision of his new job. He banned Roscoe Arbuckle from the screen.
Roscoe Arbuckle's career was decimated. The funnyman who'd done handsprings down
the steps to introduce himself to Mack Sennet; the fat man who'd two years
earlier signed a contract with Adolph Zukor for the astronomical sum of one
million dollars a year; the director who'd acted as mentor to his friend Buster
Keaton, would never rise again. A scandal fueled entirely by innuendo had been
hideously successful. Fatty's time was past.
Arbuckle worked
as a director, under another name, on several films after the trials. Keaton
suggested he use the name Will B. Good, he did ... almost. Louise Brooks told
Kevin Brownlow about working with Arbuckle at that time.
He was working under the name William Goodrich. He made no
attempt to direct this picture. He sat in his chair like a dead man. He had been
very nice and sweetly dead since that scandal had ruined his career. It was such
an amazing thing for me to come in to make this picture and to find my director
was the great Roscoe Arbuckle. Oh, I thought he was magnificent in films. He was
a wonderful dancer --- a wonderful ballroom dancer, in his heyday. It was like
floating in the arms of a huge doughnut --- really delightful.
Arbuckle died a few years later.
In the short history of the
motion picture, Fatty Arbuckle is of central importance. His coat and hat were
borrowed by a young Charlie Chaplin to create a character that became an
American icon. He was a very close friend of Buster Keaton's and is credited
with singlehandedly sheparding Keaton's early film career. That Arbuckle is
usually conceived as a minor figure stands as testament to the power of the
vendetta directed at him.
"Oh, we kept having scandals right
along," said Adela Rogers St. Johns. "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."
In His Own Words - Roscoe On The Scandal
The hardest
thing I have ever done in my life was to keep still for the twelve weeks between
September 10th, when I heard that Virginia Rappe had died in a San Francisco
hospital, and November 28, when I went on the witness stand to tell my story for
the first time.
As soon as I was told that I was being held responsible for
Miss Rappe's death and that I would have to clear myself in the eyes of a jury
and of the world, I wanted to tell the truth. No one but myself could tell the
whole truth of the affair, for no one else knew. Other people knew part of the
story, and some of them thought that they knew a great deal more than they
really did, but I alone could tell everything.
However, I realized that my attorneys knew best and that if I
spoke too soon there would be danger of hurting my case and that the wisest
thing would be to keep silent until the right time came to speak. So although I
did not look forward with any pleasure to going on the witness stand--no man
likes to have to defend himself against charges that he knows are unjust--I was
really glad that at last the chance had come to let the whole world know that I
was not guilty of the crime charged against me.
I did not hurt Virginia Rappe in any way whatever. I never
had any intention of hurting her. I would not hurt any woman.
Whatever motive inspired the people who accused me, it was not knowledge that I
had done the thing they said I did. It seems almost impossible to me that anyone
could be so cruel and malicious as to make such terrible charges against a man
without the most positive proof to support those charges, and yet that is what
happened.
I was accused of saying and doing things that never entered
my mind, and not only that, but things I did say and do were twisted and
misinterpreted until they sounded very different from the truth.
People have talked about me as entertaining a gay party in my rooms at the hotel
that day. It has been referred to again and again as the "Arbuckle party."
It wasn't my party at all. The only person who came to those rooms that day at
my invitation was Mrs. Mae Taube, with whom I had made an engagement to go
driving in the afternoon.
Other people invited all the other
guests. Most of the guests I had never seen before that afternoon. Miss Rappe
came at the invitation of Fred Fishback, and he invited her at the suggestion of
Ira Fortlouis, who had seen the girl and thought she would do for a model. Mrs.
Delmont came with Miss Rappe. I really don't know how the others happened to
come. The first thing I knew, they were there, and that was all there was to it.
I had arisen that morning about 11 o'clock, and had put on my
pajamas, bathrobe and slippers. If I had had any idea that people were coming to
the rooms, I certainly would have changed my clothes, but, as I say, the people
simply walked in. When they were there, they made themselves at home, went back
and forth between the rooms, and I had no time to dress. I hadn't invited them,
but they were in my rooms, and I couldn't be rude.
There were three rooms in the suite, 1219, 1220 and 1221. The
sitting room was 1220, and the other two were bedrooms, one on each side of the
sitting room. Most of the time the people stayed in 1220, but they went into the
other rooms whenever they wanted to.
Early in the afternoon I
saw Virginia Rappe go into Room 1221. I did not see her come out again. It was
almost time for my automobile to arrive, and so I went into Room 1219, which was
my bedroom, intending to dress. I had no idea that there was anybody in the room.
I closed the door into 1220 and locked it, because the people were going back
and forth between the rooms, and I wanted to keep them out while I was dressing.
I went straight to the bathroom, and as I opened the door, it
struck against something. I pushed in, and saw Miss Rappe lying on the floor,
clutching her body with both hands and moaning. Of course, I thought right away
that she was ill, and my first thought was to help her.
As quickly as I could, I picked her up from the floor and
held her while she suffered an attack of nausea. She seemed to be very sick, but
she had been drinking some liquor, and I thought that was the trouble.
And by the way, the liquor which was served that afternoon was not mine. All I
know about it is that Fred Fishback went to the closet in Room 1221 and brought
out a couple of bottles of Scotch whiskey and a bottle of gin. Some orange juice
and seltzer were sent up from downstairs, and everyone helped himself to drinks.
Miss Rappe drank gin and orange juice, about three drinks.
As
soon as Miss Rappe was able, I helped her out into the room. She said something
about wanting to lie down, and I set her on the edge of one of the beds. She lay
down, and I lifted her feet to the bed and left her there for a minute, as I
thought that she was simply ill from too much liquor and would be all right if
she could lie quietly.
I stepped out of the room for a minute, and when I came back,
Miss Rappe was lying on the floor between the two beds, again clutching her body
and moaning. All this time she said nothing that I could understand, just moaned
and seemed to be in pain.
I picked her up and laid her on the bed. Then I went out into
1220, and found Zey Prevost [Prevon] there.
I said: "Virginia is sick" and Miss Prevost went into Room
1219.
Mrs. Delmont was not in 1220 when I came out. I know
that she has said and Miss Prevost has testified that they knocked at the door
from 1220 into 1219, and Mrs. Delmont has insisted that she kicked as well as
knocked, but I never heard a sound, and when I came out to get somebody to help
Miss Rappe, Mrs. Delmont was not in sight.
She came in a
moment later from Room 1221, and went into Room 1219 with Miss Prevost.
I followed them into the room, and saw Miss Rappe sitting on the bed, tearing at
her clothing. She had both hands gripped in her waist, and was ripping it to
shreds, gritting her teeth and making noises. She tried to tear the green jacket
she was wearing, but she could not tear it. Then she took hold of her stockings
and garters and ripped them off.
I told Mrs. Delmont and Miss
Prevost to make Miss Rappe stop tearing her clothing, but she wouldn't stop. She
acted like a person in a terrible temper, almost beside herself. She didn't
scream or say anything, just moaned and tore at her garments.
One sleeve of her waist was hanging by a thread. I thought
perhaps the best thing would be to try to quiet her instead of opposing her, so
I sent over to her and took hold of the sleeve, and pulled it off, saying: "All
right, if you want it off, I'll help you." All I meant was that she seemed in an
uncontrollable spasm of some kind, and I was afraid that if tried to argue with
her, she might hurt herself.
After that I went out of the room,
and when I came back a little later, Miss Rappe was lying unclothed on the bed
and Mrs. Delmont was rubbing her with a piece of ice. I picked up a piece of ice
that was lying on Miss Rappe's body, and asked Mrs. Delmont what was the idea.
It seemed to me pretty dangerous treatment for anybody but a doctor or a nurse
to try.
Mrs. Delmont turned on me angrily and told me to shut
up and mind my own business--that she knew how to take care of Virginia. It made
me angry, for all I wanted to do was to help the sick girl, and Mrs. Delmont was
talking to me in a way I didn't like, so I told her to shut up or I would throw
her out of the window. Of course, I wouldn't really have done it; it was just
one of those things one says in a moment of anger without any idea of literal
meaning.
That is an example of how things I really did say have been
twisted and turned against me. It has been made to sound as if I had said that
to Virginia Rappe while she lay there suffering and ill. I said it, but I
certainly did not say it to Miss Rappe, nor did I mean her when I said it. I
would have been a brute to have spoken to a sick girl like that.
I realized by that time that Miss Rappe was probably more
seriously ill than I had thought, and should have a room to herself, so I went
back into the other rooms and asked Mrs. Taube to telephone to the manager of
the hotel and ask for another room. The manager came up in a few minutes, and
told us where we might take Miss Rappe.
We rolled her up in a bathrobe--she had been lying nude on
the bed all this time, and uncovered except after I had managed to pull the
spread out from under her and cover her with it. Then I took her in my arms and
started down the hall toward the other room. When I was nearly there, she
started to slip from my arms; she was limp and half-conscious, and very hard to
hold. I asked the hotel manager to lift her up a little, but he took her in his
arms and carried her into the room.
After she was put to bed, I told them to get a doctor, and
then I went back to my rooms.
I did not know that Virginia
Rappe was even seriously ill until I got word of her death. I went back to Los
Angeles the next day, because I had reservations on the steamer for my party and
my car. There was never any thought in my mind that Miss Rappe was suffering
from anything more than the effects of too much liquor or an attack of slight
illness. The news of her death was my first intimation that it was serious.
The State's witnesses have testified that they heard screams
coming from my rooms. I know that all afternoon the window was wide open, and
any sound louder than an ordinary conversation could have been heard without any
difficulty; and people who occupied adjoining rooms have declared that they
heard nothing.
They have made a great deal out of some finger
prints that were found on the door of Room 1219--the door that lead into the
hallway. Experts have tried to show that the prints must have been made by
Virginia Rappe's fingers and mine, and that when they were made, her hand was
against the door and I was trying to drag it off.
I don't know where they get such ideas. There seemed to be
marks on the door when it was brought into the courtroom, but I certainly did
not put them there. I am positive that I never touched that door with my hand
all day, as I had not gone out into the hallway, but only into the other rooms
of the suite. Certainly I never touched it in the way they said I did. It's a
mystery to me.
Jesse Norgaard, who said he was a janitor at
the Culver City studios when Miss Rappe and I were both working there, testified
that once I asked him for the keys to her rooms, saying that I wanted to play a
joke on her. I suppose the idea was to show that I tried to force myself into
her room when she didn't want to let me in.
That is absolutely false. I never made any such request of
Norgaard, nor did I offer him money for the keys, as he said I did. In fact,
when I saw Norgaard on the witness stand, I couldn't remember ever having seen
him before. He may have been at the studios, but there were so many people there
that I couldn't remember them all.
All this talk of my having
been infatuated with Miss Rappe or trying to "get her," is absurd. I knew her
for several years; we had worked at the same studios, and I had met her in other
places, but that was absolutely all.
I knew when I went on the
witness stand that my cross-examination was going to be as rigid as it could be
made, but I had no fear, for I was telling nothing but the truth. I know that
the lawyers tried many times to catch me on details, but they couldn't, because
everything I said was true, and there was no need to remember what I had said
the first time. No man can do any more than to tell the truth, and it was the
truth I told on the witness stand.
A great many very harsh and unjust things have been said
about me since this affair began and they have hurt me very much. I have always
had many friends, but I found when this trouble came, who my real friends were.
It has hurt me deeply to think that the people to whom I have tried to give good
clean enjoyment for so many years could turn on me and condemn me without a
hearing. I suppose every man accused of crime must expect that, but it didn't
make it any easier for me.
I have been very grateful to the other people who refused to
believe that I was guilty merely because I was accused of crime. There have been
many of them. I have received many many letters and telegrams from people all
over the country, assuring me that they believed in me, and I am glad to know
that I have these real friends.
If everything is straightened
out at last and I am cleared of all the charges, I hope that these friends will
be as ready to welcome me back on the screen as I shall be glad to get back. I
like to make people laugh and enjoy themselves. It pleases me because children
are amused at my pictures, and I have always tried very hard not to do anything
in any picture that would offend or be bad for the children.
One really good thing has come out of all this trouble. It has been the means of
reuniting my wife and myself after five years of separation. We are happy to be
together again, and we have discovered that the things that kept us apart were
very unimportant after all.
Mrs. Arbuckle has been wonderfully
loyal to me during all this trouble. She came all the way across the continent
to be with me, and every minute she has stuck by me. Her faith and love, and the
faith and love of her mother, who is like a mother to me, have been my greatest
helps all these long hard weeks.
While, through the
technicalities of the law, I have not been legally acquitted of the charge of
manslaughter in connection with the death of Virginia Rappe, I have been morally
acquitted.
After the organized propaganda, designed to make
the securing of an impartial jury an impossibility and to prevent my obtaining a
fair trial, I feel grateful for this message from the jury to the American
people. This comes, too, after hearing only part of the facts, as the efforts of
the District Attorney succeeded, on technical objections, in excluding from the
jury the statements from Miss Rappe to several people of high character,
completely exonerating me.
The undisputed and uncontradicted
testimony established that my only connection with this sad affair was one of
merciful service, and the fact that ordinary human kindness should have brought
upon me this tragedy has seemed a cruel wrong. I have sought to bring joy and
gladness and merriment into the world, and why this great misfortune should have
fallen upon me is a mystery that only God can, and will, some day reveal.
I have always rested my cause in a profound believe in Divine justice and in the
confidence of the great heart and fairness of the American people.
I want to thank the multitude from all over the world who
have telegraphed and written to me in my sorrow and expressed their utmost
confidence in my innocence. I assure them that no act of mine ever has, and I
promise them that no act of mine ever shall cause them to regret their faith in
me.