Most people believe Alan Ladd
committed suicide, but the details surrounding his death are so convoluted no
one can be sure what really happened. History is often guilty of erring on the
side of sensationalism — but in Ladd’s case suicide is the logical
assumption. In 1962 he was found lying half-dead in a pool of blood with a
bullet lodged in his chest. The newspapers bought into the story of an
accident, but everyone who knew him believed it was a botched suicide attempt.
It really doesn’t matter whether his January 1964 death was intentional or not;
Ladd’s life had been in a downward spiral for years — some could say from
the moment he broke into the movie business — and it was apparent that he was
hell-bent on digging an early grave.
The average movie
watcher doesn’t understand how difficult life could be for the stars of
studio-era Hollywood, or how truthful that old industry adage: “you’re only as
good as your last picture” really was. It’s a dollars and cents, bottom line,
what-have-you-done-for-me-lately kind of business, and despite a product that
was typically lighthearted, uplifting, and sentimental, the industry itself
could be painfully harsh. It goes without saying that Hollywood dreamers had to
be made of tough stuff, but as is often the case in life, many of those who
struggled mightily to achieve success didn’t know how to hold themselves
together once they made it — or what to do when the spotlight moved on to
the next big thing. Certainly this was the case with Alan Ladd, a hardscrabble
kid who worked a million humble jobs before he finally arrived, only to be so
terrified of losing it all that he let his insecurities devour him. The
foundation upon which his self-esteem stood was simply not strong enough to
sustain him. His fame and wealth notwithstanding, he was the most insecure,
frightened, and guilt-ridden superstar in Hollywood.
Few performers
ever made as smashing a debut as Ladd did in the 1942 film This Gun for Hire — if it can be called a debut at all.
Devotees know This Gun wasn’t his first appearance, though
the misconception exists owing to the “and
introducing Alan Ladd as Raven” treatment he gets in the title cards. Ladd had appeared from time to time, usually inconsequentially, in movies since the
mid-thirties; he had a small but important part in 1942’s Joan of Paris, and a bit role as a reporter in Citizen Kane. His breakout in This
Gun for Hire is unforgettable. After the first rushes came in, Paramount execs
and director Frank Tuttle realized they had a potential superstar on their
hands, and reworked numerous shots to build him up, shifting the focus away
from top-billed Robert Preston, and bolstering Ladd’s scenes with Veronica
Lake. It still fell to the inexperienced actor to make good on the investment,
and within a few minutes of running time he establishes himself as a bona fide
movie marvel, creating the screen persona that he would riff on for more than a
decade — one that would see him ascend to the peak of Mount Hollywood, and
become for a few years the most popular screen actor in the world.
Ladd emerged from This Gun for Hire as Paramount’s
shooting star — bigger even than Bing Crosby — so the studio went to
work carefully crafting an image that would ensure the continued adoration of
the public. Adolph Zuckor felt it was important to create for him a
fantastical, picture postcard life. The public loves movie stars a lot more than
they do actors, so Paramount set out to turn Ladd into the biggest movie star of
them all. Certain aspects of his past, such as the brief first marriage and
resulting child were swept under the rug; he was given a carefully devised
script from which to draw on for press interviews and public appearances. The
newly-minted version of Alan Ladd would be featured primarily in romantic hero
roles — still tough as nails — but always the good guy. The smiling
family man on the cover of innumerable fan magazines wasn’t an outright lie,
but it was surely a sanitized version of the truth — and an impossible one
for him to live up to, though he felt obliged to try.
In spite of the
one-dimensional character types he played in his films, Ladd was a talented man. He was kind and
good-natured, but horribly apprehensive about his size, his background, and
most of all his acting. His costars usually found him unapproachably distant,
though those he worked with more than once came to realize he was just
mortified of being revealed as a fraud. Ladd’s greatest problem was that he
took to heart every negative thing written about him. When Geraldine Fitzgerald
encouraged him to accept the lead in The
Great Gatsby he confided, “I won’t be able to do it because I can’t act,
you know.” Yet Robert Preston said, “…he was an awfully good actor. So many
people didn’t realize this. It’s said that the publicity department invented
him, but they didn’t really have to. He would have made it without that
— and I think his life would have been happier.” Virginia Mayo, who adored
him, said it best: “The whole problem with Alan’s psyche was his inability to
remember that he was a big star. And he was the biggest…. The lack of artistic recognition affected him, affected
him tragically…” Though Veronica Lake, who appeared alongside Ladd more often
than any other actress, and whose life in some ways paralleled his,
characterized their time together in surprisingly professional terms: “both of
us were very aloof…. We were a very good match for one another. It enabled us
to work together very easily and without friction or temperament.” However, all
who worked with him sensed a deep sadness in the man. When an interviewer asked
him what he would change about himself if he could, he famously replied, “Everything.”
Ladd was always
more at ease with the crew than he was other performers or studio executives.
He had begun in Hollywood as a laborer and enjoyed being around those who
worked behind the scenes. Yet he was able to form lasting friendships with a few
of his costars in spite of being “aloof,” including Edmond O’Brien, Lloyd
Nolan, and Van Heflin — but most notably William Bendix. The pair met
while costarring in The Glass Key and
would appear together in often. They began auspiciously, after Bendix accidentally
cold-cocked Ladd during a fight scene. Ladd was so taken by the big man’s
concern for his safety that they formed an immediate bond. Their close friendship
was widely publicized — they even purchased homes across the street from
one another. According to Bill’s wife Tess Bendix, things went astray when Ladd’s
wife Sue Carol made an offhand remark about Bendix’s lack of military service. Stuck
in the middle, Ladd was obliged to choose between his friend and his wife, and
it would be a decade before the two would have a conversation that didn’t
involve reading lines on a movie set. Once they finally reconciled, Ladd would
lean heavily on his old friend. Bendix was constantly out of town during the
early sixties, working almost exclusively on the stage. Tess remembers many late-night
phone calls that involved a despondent Ladd pleading with Bendix to break his
contracts and return to California. Bendix’s heartbreak in the wake of Ladd’s 1964
death was tremendous, and unfortunately short-lived — suffering from
pneumonia, he would follow his best friend in death before the year was out.
The roots of
Ladd’s depression can almost certainly be traced back to his childhood, which was
anything but stable — his father died before his eyes when he was only four
years old. When his mother remarried, the family began a Joad-like trek west
and eventually settled in California. Their itinerant days cost Ladd a few
years in school — and consequently he was not only the smallest, but also
the oldest boy in his year. Nor did it help that he made poor grades, was
excruciatingly shy, and had no stable male role model. If suicide is
hereditary, then he never had a chance. In 1937, wrecked on alcohol and
poverty, his mother swallowed ant poison and died before his eyes, just as he
was struggling to get his first break. The incident naturally devastated him,
and many insiders have speculated that he spent the rest of his life seeking to
replace the doting woman who had been his only source of reassurance and
approval. Sue Carol, ten years his senior, filled some of the void left in his
mother’s wake, and Ladd came to consider the Paramount a surrogate home.
Nonetheless, he was plagued with guilt about his mother for the rest of his
days, and when he left the comfortable surroundings of Paramount his peace of
mind and sense of stability deteriorated even further.
Even in the years
after he achieved stardom and financial security, Ladd’s self-image and the
rigors of a public life were a source of distress — he referred to himself
as “the most insecure guy in Hollywood.” He wanted to be thought of as a
serious actor but took to heart the whisperings that he was more a product of
Paramount’s publicity machine than his own ability. He wanted to try different
roles, but Adolph Zuckor considered him too valuable, and wouldn’t risk
damaging his carefully constructed screen persona by giving him other kinds of
parts. Ladd never complained much — he would have felt too guilty. The
studio had given him his start, and after having been poor for so long he felt
deeply indebted; so much so that he played ball with his bosses in ways that
seem perplexing today. For much of his career, he kept his first marriage and
the resulting child, Alan Ladd Jr., a secret from the public. The fan magazines,
as well as Sue Carol herself, were more than happy to go along with the script.
Ladd’s squeaky-clean image sold millions of magazines, and it did no one any
good to rock the boat.
Carol, a former
actress-turned-agent, represented Ladd tirelessly during the period leading up
to This Gun for Hire. Even in the
years after they were married, when her public role shifted to that of wife and
mother, she remained the guiding force behind his career. Everyone from film
historians to family friends has suggested that she did as much to maintain
Ladd’s screen image as the studios, and that while their marriage was sound
(Ladd absolutely refused to remove his wedding ring during production of his
films) she nevertheless contributed to the burden of stardom that so weighed on
her husband’s shoulders. She also contributed greatly to his happiness by
giving him two children. Alana was born in 1943, followed by David in 1947.
Of his three kids
David would follow most closely in his father’s footsteps. He appeared briefly
in Shane, and then won a much larger
role alongside Ladd in 1958’s The Proud
Rebel. David received solid notices for his work — as well as a Golden
Globe for Best Juvenile Actor — and quickly became a sought-after child star.
He worked for two decades as a film and television actor, then transitioned to a
long career as a film executive, and was married to Charlie’s Angels actress Cheryl Ladd for seven years.
The need to
protect Alan Ladd’s image waned with his stardom, and the full story of his first
marriage and son finally became public. Movie fans embraced Laddie with no hint
of scandal, though the guilt the father felt at keeping his son a secret for so
long was debilitating. Alan Ladd Jr. would also enjoy a significant career in
the movie industry, becoming one the most successful executives in Hollywood. His
tenure as president of Twentieth Century Fox saw Young Frankenstein, Star Wars,
and Alien hit theaters. In 1995 he
was awarded the Academy Award for Best Picture as producer of Braveheart. He continues to produce quality
films — most recently Ben Affleck’s Gone
Baby Gone.
Alan Ladd spent a
decade at Paramount following This Gun
for Hire, in a succession of weaker and weaker films that still scored
millions for the studio. By the end of the forties, he was arguably the most
popular actor in the world, regardless of the second-rate material the studio
put him in. Darryl Zanuck called him “the indestructible man,” and fully aware
of Ladd’s reputation as a one trick pony, he longed to get him under contract
at Fox. When Ladd finally left Paramount for big money from another studio, it
wasn’t Zanuck but Jack Warner who placed the winning bid. Warner would quickly
come to regret the deal however, as Ladd, no longer in the comforting embrace
of Paramount, began to flounder. His performances got worse and worse, and even
1953’s Shane — made at Paramount but
released after he and the studio separated — couldn’t resurrect his
career. He got great buzz and Shane
was a colossal success, but the studios responded by rushing every awful Ladd
picture they had canned into release in order to cash in — before long he was
back where he started, longing to appear in a decent picture and wondering
where things went wrong. For the rest of the fifties Ladd made one bad movie
after the next. He was hopeful about 1957’s Boy
on a Dolphin. Cast next to rising star Sophia Loren, he was devastated when
director Jean Negulesco favored the statuesque Italian beauty and treated him
like an afterthought in every shot. Michael Curtiz helmed 1959’s The Man in the Net, with Ladd in the
title role. He was excited to work with an A-list director, even if Curtiz had
a reputation for being a tyrant. Both were awful failures; it was clear to all
that Ladd’s tenure as an above-the-title film star was over.
Lacking the
meaningful work to distract him from his thoughts, Ladd became an alcoholic. He
couldn’t sleep and got hooked on Secobarbital. Neither his family, his legacy,
nor his tremendous wealth could undo the damage. He believed he had never been
given the chance to be a real actor and had never been taken seriously as
anything other than a pretty face. His problem was that he believed every bad word the critics had ever written about him, and
it was too late to rewrite history. He appeared one last time, in 1964’s The Carpetbaggers, as an aging western
star. He got decent notices and there was talk of a comeback as a character
actor, à la Edward G. Robinson, but it wasn’t to be. The once beautiful lead of
such films as Lucky Jordan, Two Years Before the Mast, and The Great Gatsby was simply used up. On
January 29, 1964, eight weeks prior to the release of The Carpetbaggers, Ladd’s butler discovered his body in his Palm
Springs bedroom. Having mixed liquor and sleeping pills one time too many, his
body finally failed. It’s easy to believe he killed himself, but whether he
chose to end his life that night or not, the more important truth is that some
people are simply not blessed with happiness, despite fame and fortune, and try
as they might their pain is such that it eventually overwhelms them. Nobody in
Hollywood was surprised to learn that Alan Ladd was dead.
***
Returning to This Gun for Hire after viewing the full arc of Ladd’s career is
jarring: his blonde hair is burned into our memory, though for his debut
Paramount ironically dyed his hair black — a character named Raven
couldn’t possibly be fair-haired. Ladd’s mop had held him back for years
—studios believed dark hair photographed better! Paramount, home of Sterling
Hayden and William Holden, was the only lot where sandy hair wasn’t considered
a setback. However it’s the industry’s never-ending campaign to camouflage
Ladd’s height that we recall now, particularly in This Gun for Hire. Few other actors have been so stigmatized by
their shortness, Ladd especially so because he was a screen tough guy. Sure,
Edward G. Robinson was Little Caesar,
but with him size was part of his swagger, an integral part of his screen image
— and unlike Ladd, Robinson was never a romantic leading man. In Ladd’s
case, everyone wished he were taller.
He stood 5’6”, as tall as Cagney and just two measly inches shorter than
Bogart. Yet there was something about his look — his boyishness, the
pretty face, thin frame — that made him appear smaller than his older and more
famous peers. Like most small men Ladd was sensitive; he would shy away from
making personal appearances in order to avoid the surprised expressions and
hurtful slights of his those surprised at his size. And while he could
occasionally dodge the public, his stature was an inescapable issue on-set.
Robert Preston would write of their time doing This Gun for Hire, “…you couldn’t use a stand-in when you were
working in a scene with him because there would be so many cables and stands
and reflectors you couldn’t get in or out. And this is what sort of stultified
Laddie. They were photographing a doll … It’s so sad, because he was an awfully
good actor.”
Yet it is to
Ladd’s credit that Paramount went to such extremes to give him a public face,
as well as conceal his height — for anyone else they wouldn’t have
bothered. He was the studio’s golden goose; audiences just loved him. There was
no need to purchase a major literary property or shoot on-location, Ladd’s name
on the marquee ensured major profits — even if the picture was a stinker.
Throughout the 1940s his movies were simply bulletproof: every single one made money,
to the tune of $55,000,000 in the studio coffers. No other star made so much
money in such cheap pictures. In the grand scheme of things, making him look
taller was just good business.
Nowhere are the
studio’s efforts to carefully cultivate Ladd’s screen image more apparent than
in This Gun for Hire’s opening scene,
which finds his Philip Raven waking from a night of troubled sleep. He sits up
and reaches for an envelope, while palming his nickel-plated automatic. The
camera work is all strictly low angle, and when Ladd finally gets off the bed
his head practically brushes the ceiling. Whether it was the camera position, a
shallow depth of field, or a cut-down set, the shot is obviously contrived to
make Raven appear a great deal taller than Alan Ladd. When that famous
kitten-hating maid shows up, itching for one of the best slaps in movie
history, the camera angle shifts from low to high, and Ladd, now looming over
the girl, is suddenly ten feet tall. This sort of cinematic sleight of hand
would characterize his career. The studios used a number of tricks to make him
appear as tall as possible: he might stand on a raised platform or his leading
lady might step into a freshly dug hole. It’s worth noting that in addition to
their great sexual chemistry, Paramount loved pairing Ladd with Veronica Lake
because she was barely five feet tall — one of the few actresses who could
wear heels and still look right to him.
Although Ladd is
more often described as a movie star rather than an actor (which meant then, as
it does now, that critics credited his success more to his looks than his
ability), his performance in This Gun for
Hire is damn good. The producers knew the film depended casting an actor
able to portray a psychopathic killer who would come across as both
cold-blooded and sympathetic. Ladd was blessed with a face that was chiseled
and attractive, and his knife-edge voice was simply magnificent. His
early-career experience as a radio actor had given him precise control over his
pitch and timbre — he could
portray different emotions while keeping his face cold, making Raven one of
noir’s iciest killers. In a few key moments throughout the movie Ladd softens
his character just enough to give the audience a glimpse of the hurt kid
lurking underneath the grim façade. The effect is powerful, and in terms of
Hollywood currency, a star-maker. His special ability to play characters both
vulnerable and tough-as-nails was unique — it was his special something,
the “it” that made him a magnificent screen star. His physical beauty and
potent chemistry with Lake was the icing on the cake. The Hayes code demanded
that Raven pay for his crimes in the final reel of This Gun for Hire, but you ache for it not to be so. You wish that
he could somehow survive to escape with the girl, his misdeeds revealed as a
frame-up or as a hoax. Instead, the denouement is clumsy and artificial, with
Lake and her putz boyfriend Preston awkwardly embracing as Ladd bleeds to death
at their feet.
The New York
critics may have had Alan Ladd’s number when they derided him as merely a movie star, and it may also be
true that the “serious” career he wanted so badly eluded him. But in spite of
all the criticism and Ladd’s immense self-loathing, his movies have pleased
millions. He made his first splash as a professional killer in an iconic film
noir, establishing a potent new character type that would stand the test of
time and be exploited to the point of cliché in the crime pictures of the forties
and fifties. From trendsetting early efforts such as This Gun for Hire and The
Glass Key, through the more mature The
Blue Dahlia, and even in less well known noirs such as Calcutta, Chicago Deadline,
and the fantastic Appointment with Danger,
Ladd was a key actor in the canon of film noir. His screen charisma, immense
popularity, and ability to humanize the hoodlum ensured the continued
development of the noir style in the Hollywood studio system; and his movies
have weathered the years in ways he couldn’t possibly have imagined. His last
great role came as the good-guy hero in what many consider to be the American western.
And he thought he was
small.
This essay was originally published in Noir City, the magazine of the Film Noir Foundation. If the noir community has a hub, it’s the FNF. My pals over there are working hard to preserve original 35 mm prints of classic noirs, putting on the fantastic Noir City film festivals, and publishing a great magazine. Consider clicking the link and sending ’em a couple bucks. They’ll put it to good use — you’ll become a real part of film conservation, and get some cool swag too.
Returning to This Gun for Hire after viewing the full arc of Ladd’s career is
jarring: his blonde hair is burned into our memory, though for his debut
Paramount ironically dyed his hair black — a character named Raven
couldn’t possibly be fair-haired. Ladd’s mop had held him back for years
—studios believed dark hair photographed better! Paramount, home of Sterling
Hayden and William Holden, was the only lot where sandy hair wasn’t considered
a setback. However it’s the industry’s never-ending campaign to camouflage
Ladd’s height that we recall now, particularly in This Gun for Hire. Few other actors have been so stigmatized by
their shortness, Ladd especially so because he was a screen tough guy. Sure,
Edward G. Robinson was Little Caesar,
but with him size was part of his swagger, an integral part of his screen image
— and unlike Ladd, Robinson was never a romantic leading man. In Ladd’s
case, everyone wished he were taller.
He stood 5’6”, as tall as Cagney and just two measly inches shorter than
Bogart. Yet there was something about his look — his boyishness, the
pretty face, thin frame — that made him appear smaller than his older and more
famous peers. Like most small men Ladd was sensitive; he would shy away from
making personal appearances in order to avoid the surprised expressions and
hurtful slights of his those surprised at his size. And while he could
occasionally dodge the public, his stature was an inescapable issue on-set.
Robert Preston would write of their time doing This Gun for Hire, “…you couldn’t use a stand-in when you were
working in a scene with him because there would be so many cables and stands
and reflectors you couldn’t get in or out. And this is what sort of stultified
Laddie. They were photographing a doll … It’s so sad, because he was an awfully
good actor.” 
Made
in the spirit of rehabilitation and reform, the Unchained tells the story of Chino, or the “Prison without Walls,”
and, as stated in the film’s closing title card, is “suggested by the life and
work of Kenyon J. Scudder, and by his book Prisoners
are People.” Chino opened in 1941 as the California Institution for Men,
the largest minimum-security prison, or “honor farm,” in the world. The rules were
simple: no walls, no armed guards, no gun towers; the only barrier between the
inmates and the outside world is a livestock fence — in an early scene the
warden shocks the new men by showing them how to go over without cutting their
hands on the wire. Inmates live in dormitory style housing and are free to
visit with family and friends every weekend. Opportunities for self-improvement
and self-governance abound. Only one in four California prisoners are eligible
for incarceration at Chino, yet any man who flees is barred from return and
must do the rest of his time with the hard boys at Folsom or the big Q. And as
opposed to other such prisons, the inmates at Chino are selected for their
temperament rather than the nature of their offense, meaning that the
population is composed of everyone from murderers and armed robbers to mere
paperhangers and bunco artists.
Unchained has an intriguing cast,
beginning with star Elroy “Crazylegs” Hirsch. Certainly Hirsch was no actor,
but he isn’t terrible either — the sort of guy who hits his marks and
reads his lines, albeit too stiffly for a film career that would outlast his
popularity as an athlete. His appeal to Hollywood producers was understandable
— he stood well over six feet, with blonde hair, a square chin, and
chiseled, all-American features. The Wisconsin-born Hirsch was an all-American
running back at Michigan, the only athlete in school history to letter in four
sports in a single year. He spent a decade with the L.A. Rams, eventually to be
elected to the NFL Hall of Fame. He retired as the University of Wisconsin’s
athletic director in 1987. Hirsch’s stint as a movie star was entirely
contained in his tenure with the Rams. His first film was Crazylegs (1953), another Oscar nominee in which the running back starred
in his own life story. He followed with Unchained,
and then played co-pilot to a nervous Dana Andrews in 1957’s Zero Hour!, his last film. 
