independent stardom: female film stars and the studio system in the 1930s

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Independent Stardom: FemaleFilm Stars and the StudioSystem in the 1930sEMILY SUSAN CARMAN aa PhD Candidate , University of California , LosAngeles, USAPublished online: 29 Jul 2008.

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Women’s Studies, 37:583–615, 2008Copyright © Taylor & Francis Group, LLCISSN: 0049-7878 print / 1547-7045 onlineDOI: 10.1080/00497870802205175

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GWST0049-78781547-7045Women’s Studies, Vol. 37, No. 6, May 2008: pp. 0–0Women’s Studies INDEPENDENT STARDOM: FEMALE FILM STARS AND THE STUDIO SYSTEM IN THE 1930S

Independent StardomEmily Susan Carman EMILY SUSAN CARMAN

PhD Candidate, University of California, Los Angeles

Film star Barbara Stanwyck’s promising career presented acompelling story in 1931. Both her fans and the film industrypondered why Stanwyck would contemplate turning her back onHollywood to retire at the tender age of twenty-five after hersuccessful film debut. The film fan magazine Movie Classicobserved, “Since the release of Illicit (1931) . . . she has steppedright up to take her place among the best box-office stars of themall. Her services have been so sought after that two companies heldher under contract—Columbia and Warner Brothers. Hollywoodwas just about Barbara’s oyster—yet she is refusing to open it . . .she says she is quitting . . . why?” (Standish 39). Speculation aboutthe reasons for Stanwyck’s premature retirement were rampant:some thought it was because she did not want her career to eclipsethat of her husband, actor Frank Fay; others thought it was becauseshe wanted to follow her husband back to New York; or that shewould return to the Broadway stage. The fan magazines, however,remained skeptical of these presumed reasons, insinuating thatStanwyck’s announcement was a “business tactic” on the star’s part:

It is said that Barbara has not been satisfied with her salary arrangementwith the two studios. She did not want to do Forbidden scheduled as hernext picture for Columbia. She did not like the story and in view of the

I would like to thank my dissertation chair, Vivian Sobchack and Atzlán Press Managerand lecturer Wendy Belcher, for their guidance and suggestions to this article. Theirediting recommendations and tutelage improved the essay substantially, and I am mostgrateful for their dedication and time. The research of this article was made possible bytravel grants awarded by the UCLA Center for the Study of Women and the Cinema andMedia Studies Program; I would like to thank CSW Director Kathleen McHugh and formerVice Chair Janet Bergstrom for their encouragement to pursue these opportunities thatenabled me to complete this essay.

Address correspondence to Emily Susan Carman, 269 S. Church Ln, Los Angeles, CA90049. E-mail: [email protected] or [email protected]

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584 Emily Susan Carman

success of her three last pictures, she felt she rated a decided increase insalary in keeping with her box-office draw. She was also anxious for a newsalary agreement with Warner Brothers . . . if things were not as Barbarawanted them—what could be a better time than the present lull in pictureproduction to step out of the picture temporarily to go to New York andindulge a little process known as ‘smoking them out’ until things arebrought about to her satisfaction? (39)

And indeed, there was an actual contract dispute between thestar, Columbia Pictures, and Warner Bros. Studios, which beganin mid-July of 1931. Claiming that she had already fulfilled herthree-picture commitment to Columbia, Stanwyck moved toWarner Bros., proclaiming that she would return to Columbiaonly if she received a higher salary. Stanwyck told Columbia thatshe would make Forbidden if she received a $50,000, effectivelyasking for a $20,000 raise.1 In response, Columbia’s head HarryCohn sued Stanwyck for “jumping” studios before completing hercontractual obligations.2 Meanwhile Warner Bros. argued that itwas “spending $8,000 a day standing by” for her, anxiously awaitingher return to the picture she had already begun filming.3 Thus,Stanwyck had two major studios battling over her services whileshe declined to sign a long-term contract with either studio.Although Columbia won the suit and the actress was ordered tocomplete the remainder of her contract, Stanwyck’s cunningbusiness negotiations paid off. Cohn did raise her salary to$50,000 for Forbidden and she abandoned Columbia for a morelucrative contract with Warner Bros.4 This dispute illustratesStanwyck’s professional independence as a freelance actress

1For her first two films for Columbia, Stanwyck was paid $25,000 and then $35,000.She was demanding a $20,000 raise and Cohn did increase her salary to $50,000 forForbidden. See “Miss Stanwyck Under Court Injunction.” The Los Angeles Times 11 Sept.1931, found in Barbara Stanwyck Clippings File at the Herrick Library.

2The suit is also documented by a September 4, 1931 office memo from Columbia toWarner Bros. on “the injunction which we are filling against Barbara Stanwyck,” wherebyshe “shall be restrained from performing services” pending their suit against her. SeeStanwyck Legal files at Warner Bros. Archive, University of Southern California (USC).

3See “‘Jumping’ Bars Up on Actress.” The Los Angeles Times 23 July 1931, found inBarbara Stanwyck Clippings File at the Maragaret Herrick Library.

4Her contract with Warners paid her $150,000 salary per year and stipulated thatStanwyck alone would “receive star billing alone in each production” and the “right todecline any such subject, play, or story” (2). See Barbara Stanwyck Legal File, WarnerBros. Archive, USC.

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Independent Stardom 585

working in Hollywood, a pattern that she maintained for herentire career.

In the 1930s, male “moguls” ran the Hollywood studio sys-tem, exerting almost absolute control over all elements of filmproduction, including the careers of their stars. One of the keysto maintaining this all-encompassing and powerful system was thelong term option contract, which enabled the studio to exploit astar’s image and exclusive services for seven years. Despite thisbinding document, there were a select number of stars whodesired greater control over their careers and became “freeagents” or “freelancers” while they continued to work for themajor studios. And among them were a number of female starswho achieved creative and professional autonomy by choosing tobe freelance contractors in the 1930s.

In addition to Stanwyck, Miriam Hopkins, and Carole Lombardalso worked independently when studio control was at its peak inthe mid-1930s. The notion of female stars negotiating their laborin the oligopolistic studio system raises certain questions about thecultural and industrial practices of stardom, particularly abouthow such women cultivated their public image in relation to theirindependent careers. Stanwyck, Hopkins, and Lombard begantheir careers under the studio system with long-term contracts inthe early 1930s, but chose to leave their “parent” studios whentheir contracts were up for renewal by mid-decade, seekingindependence and greater control over their careers. Instead ofre-signing, they worked with independent producers, signednon-exclusive and non-option contracts, made a limited numberof pictures at a time, or negotiated for a percentage of their film’sprofits.

These women were not alone in their decision; according tothe industry trade journal Variety, by 1938 there were roughly “fortyhigher-bracket stars and featured players not under exclusivestudio contracts” (2), available on a picture-to-picture basis.5

What is particularly striking about these female stars, however, isthat they worked independently during a time in the American

5Other freelance female stars working at this time included Constance Bennett, ClaraBow, Dolores del Rio, Irene Dunne, Janet Gaynor, and Margaret Sullavan. These stars didnot work consistently in Hollywood throughout the decade, therefore, I have chosen tofocus on Stanwyck, Hopkins, and Lombard their evolution from contract to freelance starover the 1930s.

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film industry when the male-dominated studio system presumablycontrolled and manipulated stardom for its own economic gain.Thus, we can understand these three female stars as business-savvy women who challenged this coercive system by taking amore active role in shaping their career and image.

Feminist film historian Jackie Stacey maintains that Hollywoodfemale stars merit further attention from film scholars: “Littleattention then, has been paid to female film stars by feminist filmscholars except in terms of how the stars function within the text”(11). Likewise, while there has been a significant amount ofhistorically based scholarship on the industrial aspects of starsand their labor, freelance stars of the 1930s—specifically femalestars—remains a compelling subject for further research.6 Thisessay revisits this historical moment in the American film industry,using Stanwyck, Hopkins, and Lombard as case studies in order toexamine their freelance career choices in relation to the popularconstruction of their stardom. How much power did female starsretain over their careers when they pursued professional auton-omy? What happens to a star’s image after she leaves the studiofold to function in a more economically independent mode?Does a change occur in the discourse surrounding both hercareer and stardom from studio image to self-presentationalimage? If so, how did they change?

In addition to industry contracts and studio documents, thisessay addresses these questions using the contemporary film fanmagazines of the 1930s.7 Fan magazines also discussed stars’ con-tracts and career decisions, making them another illuminatingsource from which scholars can gain a sense of the constructionof star labor. By analyzing studio and fan magazine discoursetogether, I seek to investigate how these actresses’ freelancebusiness practices were presented and understood by their fans.As Anne Morey claims, fan magazines are useful for studyingstardom because they “represent a window into a complex

6These industrial histories on star labor include Balio’s Grand Design, Schatz’s Geniusof the System, Danae Clark’s Negotiating Hollywood: The Cultural Politics of Actor’s Labor, DavidPrindle’s The Politics of Glamour: Ideology and Democracy in the Screen Actors Guild. and MurrayRoss’s Stars and Strikes Unionization of Hollywood.

7I consult a number of articles from popular fan magazines from the period—Photoplay, Modern Screen, Motion Picture, Movie Classic, Movie Mirror, Screenland, Screenplay,Silver Screen—selecting articles on the careers of these three stars from 1930–1940.

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audience-industry relationship” as a “dialogue” between fans andthe industry (336). Through this dialogue, we can learn how fanmagazines characterized and interpreted the public persona ofStanwyck, Hopkins, and Lombard, shaping their stardomthrough popular discourses. We can follow the careers of thesethree women by comparing the fan discourse in the mid-to-late1930s (when these women were under contract to studios) and inthe mid-to-late 1930s (when they were working independently) toascertain how their professional autonomy affected their starimage.

What is striking is that the fan magazines underscored anindependent stardom in their discussions of the lives of Stanwyck,Hopkins, and Lombard. In this regard, independent stardomrefers to these stars’ hybrid persona as an independent, working“modern” woman, both on and off screen. Fan magazines culti-vated these independent stardoms in their discussions of theunique “feminine” aspects of each star’s career, including herexpert tips on star glamour, romance, and femininity. For instance,the stars’ advice columns mirrored their unconventional lifestylesfor American women in the 1930s, and constructed an image offeminine individuality rather than domesticity to their fans. Like-wise, each of these women also attained her own independentstardom in their careers when, each in her own way, rejectedlong-term contracts to freelance. This essay demonstrates howStanwyck, Hopkins, and Lombard negotiated the relationshipbetween their freelance labor and their star personae over thecourse of the 1930s.

Star “Options”: Star Labor and Independence in the 1930s

Previous scholarship on Hollywood star labor in the 1930s hasfocused on the amount of control the Hollywood studios exertedover their most important assets—the stars. Writing from theperspective of industrial history, Tino Balio notes how the pro-ducers controlled the star system, and that the glamour and fameof stardom was really a “dazzling illusion to the degradations ofservitude” for the actors and actresses who worked in the filmindustry during the 1930s (143). One of the keys to maintainingthe star system was the long-term “option contract, an ingeniouslegal document to control their high-priced talent” that reserved

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the studio’s right to “option” an actor’s services every six months(143). In terms of how the contract worked, Balio explains “Everysix months the studio reviewed an actor’s progress and decidedwhether or not to pick up the option. If the studio dropped theoption, the actor was out of work; if the studio picked up theoption, the actor continued on the payroll for another sixmonths . . . Note that the studio, not the star, had the right todrop or pick up the option” (145). What’s more, the long-termoption contract also permitted a studio to exclusively develop astar’s image and employ their services for a seven-year period.

These long-term option contracts enabled the studios to pre-vent many stars from becoming free agents by suspending themwithout pay, as Warner Bros. Studios did with James Cagney,Bette Davis, and Olivia de Havilland when they fought (and tookthe studio to court) for higher pay and better roles.8 In fact, it wasnot until 1944 that these unwarranted extensions of contractswere outlawed after de Havilland won her suit against WarnerBros. for its unfair labor practices and suspension policies.9 Whilemany film historians have chosen to emphasize De Havilland’slegal action as the first to significantly alter the oppressive laborcontracts of the studio system, the achievement of professionalindependence during the studio system was by no means limited tode Havilland nor by means of legal action in the courts. Stanwyck,Hopkins, and Lombard all preceded her in their practice ofactive contractual negotiation with these giant film corporationsnearly a decade earlier. Conversely, they used their contracts toattain more autonomy in the studio system. For example, Stanwyckcontinued to freelance, splitting her time between studios to

8Though Cagney successfully sued Warner Bros. for release from his contract in 1935,the studio appealed the decision with the California Supreme Court and no other majorstudio would risk employing Cagney should the court reverse the decision. He made twofilms for the struggling independent production company Grand National (both of whichlost money and were a great financial loss to Cagney, since he also produced the films). By1938, he gladly returned to his former studio as a contract star. Warner Bros. sued Davis in1936 to prevent her from making a film in London outside her contract, with the studiowinning the case. See Balio 158–161. They, along with other Warner Bros. stars GeorgeBrent, Kay Francis, and Ann Dvorak, battled the studio “less in hopes of defeating thestudio than of gaining some degree of control over their careers” (Schatz 218–19).

9For example, Schatz notes that de Havilland’s victory was a significant “for top starsand a huge setback for the studios,” as no longer could Warners or any other studioprevent an artist from sitting out and becoming a free agent” by suspending them afterdeclining a film assignment (318).

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make what one studio producer sardonically called “deals on theside” in the mid 1930s.10 Similarly, both Hopkins and Lombardnegotiated for a percentage of their films’ profits in theirfreelance contracts nearly twenty years before it became standardindustry practice. In her first freelance deal, Hopkins negoti-ated for a percentage cut of the distribution gross after her filmBecky Sharp (1935) recouped its negative costs while Lombardrelinquished her upfront salary of $150,000 in exchange for apercentage of her films’ gross receipts in 1941.11 Their effortsprefigured the widespread percentage deals among Hollywoodactors in the postwar era, a move that has been attributed tomale star James Stewart and his agent Lew Wasserman in 1949in their negotiations to do the film Winchester’73 (1950).12

These women’s contractual provisions, as Jane Gaines notes,demonstrate how the contract also became a way for stars to gainmore control over their image and establish boundaries with thestudios: “The studio used the contract to secure on-screen continu-ity through provisions for illness and vacations, wardrobe fittings,tardiness on the set . . . Stars retaliated with riders modifying ward-robe requirements, stipulating screen billing order and typefacesize on the credits, and mandating the number of close-ups perpicture” (149). Even though it limited them, the contract alsobecame a way for stars to negotiate their labor and gain indepen-dence in the studio system.13 Moreover, freelance stars used the

10See Twentieth Century-Fox memo from E.C. de Lavigne to Lew Schreiber, in whichhe vents his frustration after RKO allowed Stanwyck to make her own freelance deal withindependent producer Samuel Goldwyn (which delayed a Fox production), dated 5 May1937, found in Twentieth Century-Fox Legal Files, UCLA Arts Special Collections.

11Verification of these contractual agreements can be found in the Becky Sharp andMiriam Hopkins files in the Jock Whitney Collection, Harry Ransom Center (HRC) atUniversity of Austin, Texas, the RKO Payroll files at UCLA Arts Special Collections, and inthe Carole Lombard Legal Files at the David O. Selznick Collection, HRC, University ofAustin, Texas. Lombard had percentage deals for the films They Knew What They Wanted(1941) and Mr. and Mrs. Smith (1941) at RKO.

12Like Carole Lombard and Myron Selznick negotiated distribution percentage deals,Stewart’s agent Wasserman convinced the studio to forgo the actor’s salary in exchangefor a percentage of the film’s profits. See Gomery 195.

13See Clark’s Negotiating Hollywood for more information on the history of actors’labor in the studio system during the 1930s. Using a cultural studies framework, Clarkconsiders how that history is also a process of gaining subjectivity for stars. However, heranalysis does not focus specifically on the labor of independent stars or female stars andtheir image construction.

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contract to bargain with producers and moguls, enabling them towork more on their own terms within the studio system.

The desire for professional sovereignty was not a newphenomenon for motion picture actors working in studio-eraHollywood. One of the first campaigns for artists’ independenceoccurred when the silent film stars Charlie Chaplin, DouglasFairbanks, and Mary Pickford along with director D.W. Griffithformed their own production company, United Artists (UA) in1919. Many prominent Hollywood artists seeking creativefreedom followed suit and worked at UA throughout the 1920s.14

Following the autonomous precedent established by these four, aselect number of stars with box-office power began to freelanceby the mid-1930s, working non-exclusively with studios asopposed to signing long-term contracts. Variety reported onfreelancing in 1935, noting that among Hollywood’s pool of con-tract players, there was “a trend by stars with strong box-officedraw to drift into the itinerant class, doing their stints for fourfigures, weekly, on one, two and three picture deals spread overseveral lots” (4). Roughly forty freelance actors co-existed withlong-term contract players in the studio era, hiring themselvesout to any studio on a picture-by-picture basis.15 However, actorscould move between studios and choose their projects indepen-dently only after they had achieved a significant box office drawto keep them in demand. Thus, established stardom became apowerful tool for actors to bargain with the studios, which in turnprovided them with greater creative freedom and personal choicein their careers.

Within this context, we can trace the independent stardoms ofStanwyck, Hopkins, and Lombard, beginning with their Hollywooddebuts as contract studio players in the early 1930s. Stanwyck wassingular in choosing not to sign a seven year long-term optioncontract with any studio from the start of her career. After a two-picture deal with United Artists in 1929, she signed nonexclusive

14Such stars included Buster Keaton, Gloria Swanson, and Norma Talmadge.Independent producers who worked at United Artists included Walt Disney, SamuelGoldwyn, David O. Selznick, and Walter Wanger. For more information on United Artists,see Balio, United Artists: The Company Built by the Stars

15Actors freelancing by 1935 include the stars Constance Bennett, Ronald Coleman,Fredric March, Ann Harding, Edward Everett Horton, Leslie Howard, and AdolpheMenjou. See Variety, “Only Ten Exlusive Stars,” 3.

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contracts with Columbia in 1930 and later with Warner Bros. in1932; by the mid-1930s, Stanwyck worked at RKO, TwentiethCentury-Fox, Paramount, and for independent producer SamuelGoldwyn as a freelancer. Hopkins signed a long-term optioncontract with Paramount in September of 1930 after success onBroadway.16 Her independent stardom began in 1934 afterParamount released her from her contract. She negotiated withthe independent production company Pioneer Pictures to playthe lead in Becky Sharp (1935) and also worked for Goldwyn andmade a film in London in 1937.17 She then moved to WarnerBros. in 1938 and remained there into the early 1940s. Afterbeginning her career in 1924 as bit player at Fox and thenbecoming a Mack Sennett “Bathing Beauty” in the late 1920s,Lombard signed a long-term option contract with Paramount inthe spring of 1930. She became a full-fledged freelancer in 1937,commanding a salary of $150,000 per picture while she worked atParamount, Warner Bros. and for independent producer DavidO. Selznick until the end of the decade.

Nascent Independence in the Studio System, 1930–1935

Before they became full-fledged freelance stars, the three womenmade initial steps from 1930 to 1935 towards attaining indepen-dence in the studio system. Analysis of each star’s contracts andtheir star image (as evidenced in fan magazine discourse)presents a different case in how she attained an independentcareer and persona. Stanwyck’s case differed from those ofHopkins and Lombard in that she cultivated an independent image,both personally and professionally, from the very start of her filmcareer. Beginning her acting career on the New York stage, she andhusband, vaudevillian Frank Fay, arrived in Hollywood in 1929

16“Miriam Hopkins Signs Paramount Long-Term Contract,” Paramount Picture NewsPress Release, 4 Sept. 1930.

17Along with other prominent Paramount stars Charles Laughton and Fredric March,Hopkins asked Paramount to exercise her option on her contract at the end of 1933. Facewith huge financial problems at the height of the Depression, Paramount complied andrelinquished these high-salary stars as a way to cut costs. In 1932, Paramount had a recordprofit loss of $21 million and filed for bankruptcy. For further elaboration the Paramountstars’ exit, see Swindell 134. On Paramount’s dire financial situation in the early 1930s, seeBalio, Grand Design,16.

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when Fay was offered a Warner Bros. contract. After making twomediocre films for United Artists in 1929, Stanwyck establishedher independent reputation in Hollywood after the successfulfilm, Ladies of Leisure (1930), for Columbia.

On the heels of Stanwyck’s Columbia-Warner Bros. contractdispute publicity, the fan magazine Modern Screen emphasized her“challenging spirit of independence,” her dedication to her work,and her ability to avoid Hollywood elitism in their 1932 interviewwith the star (Fletcher 34). The magazine noted Stanwyck’shonesty, extolling her for staying true to herself and resisting thetemptations of stardom, and characterized Stanwyck as astaunchly independent and strong-willed actress dedicated tocareer. She told Modern Screen, “If I am not going to be happyhere, if I am not going to make good pictures, I may as well quit!”(34). In response, the magazine sympathized with Stanwyck’sdefiant attitude:

Barbara has been called a stormy petrel on occasion. Anyone who won’tstand in line, who doesn’t conform, is always called that. The executivesno doubt find Barbara difficult. The honeyed threats they aim at herdon’t hit home; don’t drop her into that old morass of fear. Hollywoodand her name in electric lights are important enough to Barbara but notthat important. (104)

Although Modern Screen seemed to side with the studios, insinuat-ing that Stanwyck’s independence sometimes clashed with studiopolicy, the magazine supported the actress’s rebellious actions,and cautioned readers not to assume that Stanwyck was the “tem-peramental kind who holds up productions and makes things dif-ficult for the studios,” as she was “too good a trouper for that”(34). In this way, the magazine fuses Stanwyck’s headstrong spiritwith her professional decisions. She turned down a long-termcontract offer from Columbia after the court case and returnedto Warner Bros. for a deal that gave her a higher salary (at$175,000 per year), star billing, and story approval of her filmprojects.18 Stanwyck’s studio “jumping” demonstrates how, evenin this early period of her career, she refused to be tied down toany one studio.

18See Barbara Stanwyck contract dated September 29, 1930, Warner Bros. Legal Filesat Warner Bros. Archive, USC.

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Mirroring the fan magazines and studio publicity, Stanwyckoften played sexually liberated and modern young women in herearly films like Illicit, Forbidden, and Babyface (1933). An ad for thefilm Ladies They Talk About (1933) in Movie Mirror reinforced herindependent alluring image, promoting “the Stanwyck they talkedabout,” and featured the actress cradling her hair with a playfulsmile in a very low cut dress (3). The ad tempted fans: “See her nowin all her seductive glory as a girl who asked all men for love—andtricked them when they offered it! Is she really wicked—or just mad-deningly, fatally alluring?” (3). This example demonstrates how thestudios also capitalized on Stanwyck’s rebellious off-screen antics inorder to publicize her films. In sum, the fan discourse and studiopublicity revealed that Stanwyck’s independent stardom was firmlyestablished by the mid-1930s, in concert with her decision to remaina freelance actress rather than sign a long-term studio contract.

Like Stanwyck, Miriam Hopkins arrived in Hollywood freshfrom the Broadway stage in September of 1930. However, shesigned a long-term option contract with Paramount studios,making her debut in Fast and Loose (1930).19 Her screen debutmade an immediate impact in Hollywood, as documented in this1931 Movie Classic article telling fans to “Watch Out for MiriamHopkins!” following her success in The Smiling Lieutenant (1931)in which she “stole the picture from French star Maurice Chevalieras a prim princess (Pryor 59). Her artistic ambition, Broadwaysuccess, and “southern accent” prompted Movie Classic to remarkthat, “Hollywood chuckled and immediately set Hopkins down asan intriguing and slightly a dangerous lady—which counts morein this town than merely being a good actress” (59). In 1932,Silver Screen noted how the new medium of sound motion pictureshad necessitated a need for “professionals” like Hopkins, whoseBroadway background was precisely what producers were searchingfor: “youth, beauty, talent, and most important of all, brains!”(Rush 24–25). Corresponding with fan magazine discourse,Paramount marketed Hopkins as a sophisticated actress of “intel-ligence and independence.”20 Although she was under long-term

19Paramount Pictures Press Release, 4 Sept. 1930, found in Miriam Hopkins’Clippings file at the Herrick Library. Fast and Loose was the filmed version of the stage playThe Best People in which Hopkins also starred on Broadway.

20Paramount Press Release on Miriam Hopkins, Mar. 1932, found in Miriam HopkinsClippings file at the Herrick Library.

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contract to the studio, Hopkins’ independent star personaemerged from the beginning of her film career. Moreover, as theaforementioned publicity suggests, the studio actively encour-aged and fortified this image for her through their press releases.

Hopkins’ film choices also influenced her independentimage throughout her tenure at Paramount in the early 1930sthrough successful films like Trouble in Paradise (1932), Dr. Jekylland Mr. Hyde (1932), and Design for a Living (1933) in which sheplayed cunning and overtly sexual young women. Many of herfilms generated controversy with the Production Code Administra-tion (PCA), a trend that culminated in her portrayal of a southernbelle with a wild streak in The Story of Temple Drake (1933).21 Afterthe threat of a national boycott in 1933, the film industry strictlyadhered to its self-censorship organ, the Production Code, a set ofmoral guidelines published by the PCA for producers to follow.22

As the screen adaptation of William Faulkner’s sensational novelSanctuary, Temple Drake violated many of the Production Code’srules including the depiction of prostitution and rape.23

As publicity for this picture’s release, Hopkins critiqued theProduction Code in a 1933 Movie Classic interview titled “MyMovie Moral Code,” which assumed that readers were aware ofthe institutional practice of Hollywood censorship. The magazinereminded readers of her standing in the film industry as“mentally the most daring woman in Hollywood” with her owntake on motion picture censorship, an “enlightened moral code”

21The Story of Temple Drake was a solid box office success despite its “shocking” portrayalof bootlegging, prostitution, and rape. See PCA file on The Story of Temple Drake at theHerrick Library for more on the censored and objectionable material in this film as well asJacobs 36–37, 111. See also the American Film Institute Catalog entry on the film for itsbox office popularity in 1933–34.

22The film industry first formed their own self-censorship committee, the MotionPicture Producers and Directors Association, to thwart a national, government controlledcensorship institution in 1922. Former Postmaster General Will Hays headed the organiza-tion, and beginning in 1924, the office began publishing moral guidelines for producersto follow. However, these guidelines were basically ignored by Hollywood producers until1934, when the Production Code Administration was formed with Joe Breen as itsdirector. From this moment on the Code was strictly enforced in order to thwart federalcensorship. For more information on the PCA, see Jacobs 106–132. For more on thethreat of national boycotts, see Schatz 203–204. He cites the threat of a Catholic boycott ofWarner Bros. films in Pennsylvania during the mid-1930s as a case study to illustrate howHollywood began to abide by the Production Code.

23To reference the clauses regulating the depiction of sex, the Production Code canbe found in Fabbri 359–380.

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that she adheres to both on and off the screen (Chapman 72).This interview was particularly striking in that Hopkins criticizedthe Production Code that substantially affected her own starimage, calling for motion pictures “with no regard for censor-ship” that “show life truthfully with artistic realism” (72).24 Andshe adds, “So the censors decision on whether this picture wasmorally good or bad, clean or unclean, depended on the flip of acoin—obviously the censors are to blame here; the producers haveto do the stories that will get by the censors” (72). Movie Classiccommented further that Hopkins’ code was “the logical, morewholesome one. She doesn’t believe, like our official guardians ofmorals, that marriage is a miracle-worker that can instantlychange black sin to pearly virtue!” (72). Through own starpersona, Hopkins encouraged fans to trust the film industry moreso than the moral watchdog groups in regard to film censorship.In this way, fan magazine discourse embraced the sensationalaspects of Hopkins’ career—her “slightly dangerous” image incontentious films like Temple Drake—as a part of her screenpersonality that in turn bolstered her image as an intelligent, mod-ern, and liberated woman in Hollywood, which would motivateher move towards independent stardom by the end of the year.

Hopkins continued her critique of social institutions, takingon modern marriage in a 1934 Modern Screen interview titled “If Ishould Love again.” The piece related how “she bungled romanceand made a mess out of marriage,” but this “bitter experience”finally taught Hopkins the answers, which she disseminated to fans(Hall 56). She drew on her own experience to give the followingadvice to career women who wish to marry: “Professional womenshould not marry while they are at the beginning of theircareers . . . I know what I am talking about . . . believe me! I’vetried it [marriage] twice. I am a professional. I am feminine. And Iam afraid that because of these perverse and unfortunate charac-teristics I shall have to live in perpetual sin surrounded byadopted babies!” (56–57). Indeed, Hopkins’ lifestyle representedan unorthodox path for American women in the 1930s. At this

24Eight years later in an February 1940 interview for Modern Screen, Hopkins explainswhy none of her pre-Code pictures (Barbary Coast, Design for a Living, Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,Temple Drake, Trouble in Paradise) can be reissued since “Hays office stopping us from beingbad! (March 39).

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point, she was twice divorced, first from actor Brandon Peters in1931 and then from writer Austin Parker in 1933, and she becamea single mother after she adopted a son in 1933.25 While on thesurface, Modern Screen appeared to caution women from followingHopkins’ cautionary example as a professional woman, the witty,sardonic tone of the text belies the patriarchal message on thesurface for female readers, and allows for another interpretation.As film scholar Janet Staiger notes, female fans “were sophisticatedconsumers of entertainment” (88), and were thus capable ofinterpreting subversive meanings in fan magazine discourse.Understood in this way, we can assert that Modern Screen alsoconstrued Hopkins’ jet-set, financially secure lifestyle of “perpetualsin” as an attractive option for adult women that deviated from theoption of marriage.

Hopkins concluded the interview by connecting her uncon-ventional life back to her Hollywood labor, voicing her desire toleave Paramount so she could “do the pictures I want to do” (57).And at the end of 1933, Hopkins requested to be released fromher long-term option contract from her contract, leaving herunattached to any major studio. By the mid-1930s, Hopkins’independent lifestyle and screen image coincided with her desireto leave Paramount studios in order to have more creative andprofessional freedom.

Carole Lombard’s studio image as a “glamour girl” differedfrom those of Stanwyck and Hopkins. A 1931 Screenland featureda portrait of Lombard in a chic white bathing suit, harkeningback to her days as a Mack Sennett bathing beauty. Lombardbegan her Hollywood career in the 1920s as an extra, working herway up through the star system until she became a Paramountcontract player in 1930, and she did not become a freelanceruntil 1937 after the completion of her long-term option sevenyear contract. We can document both the changes in her starpersonae and her move towards independent stardom in fanmagazine discourse, beginning with a 1931 Screenland portrait of

25See a 1933 interview from the Gladys Hall Special Collections at the Herrick Librarytitled “Today! Tomorrow? And Miriam Hopkins,” on her reason for adopting a baby.Explained Hopkins, “I don’t know..there was no sense of a mission in life attached to it . . .I am not passionately maternal, so that wasn’t it. I did it, as most people do it, either byadoption or via the more personal stork, from purely personal-selfish motives. And thatwas it (2).

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her and those in other magazines framed Lombard’s image as asophisticated, stylish lady in second-tier Paramount films like Manof the World (1931), No Man of her Own (1932), and White Woman(1933). A favorite of Paramount fashion designers Travis Bantonand Edith Head, the statuesque blonde played elegant womenwearing glamorous couture evening gowns in these films. InFebruary 1932, Movie Classic featured a stunning Lombard in arevealing backless evening gown and raved more about herbeauty than her acting skills: “Of course it isn’t every little actresswhose back is worth a camera study. But they can’t go wrong withCarole . . . For several reasons, including her blonde hair, hercameo profile, and acting ability to match” (35). Thus, early1930s fan magazine discourse and studio publicity emphasizedLombard’s image as a fashion icon.

By 1933, Lombard was dissatisfied with her second-rate career atParamount as a contract player, and she felt compelled to take aproactive role in cultivating her own image. Her frustration withParamount’s handling of her career led Lombard to campaign forthe lead female role starring opposite John Barrymore in HowardHawks’ picture, Twentieth Century (1934). Although it wouldrequire that she be loaned to the less prestigious studio Columbia,she saw in this particular part (that of an independent and high-spirited actress Lily Garland) a unique professional opportunityto achieve leading lady status. Lombard’s instinct proved correct,as the film was a critical success and revitalized her career, prov-ing that she was a bankable commodity for Paramount. AfterTwentieth Century, Lombard was either the co-star or sole star ofher pictures. In their review of the film, Photoplay rated her actingas one of the “best performances” of the month and noted herskill as a screwball comedienne in this biting and witty satire,remarking on Lombard’s “fiery talent which few suspected shehad” (57).

In 1935, Lombard was newly divorced from actor WilliamPowell and with a successful film under her belt, and with hercareer finally on the upswing, her independent stardom began toemerge in fan magazine discourse. Screenland highlighted “Carole’sColorful Career” that November, insinuating that her newfoundsuccess spanned from her failed marriage: “So Carole’s firstmarriage and last marriage was not a success, nor was it a failure;rather it was a successful failure . . . it gave her a sense of responsibility,

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for now she had her own home and her own affairs to run; butmost of all, it gave her a career” (Wilson 70, emphasis added).Screenland connected Lombard’s new social freedom to her drivefor greater economic and professional independence, since it was“an unwritten law in Hollywood that no woman can be both a suc-cessful wife and a successful actress” (70). The magazine goes on tounderscore that the only logical thing left for Lombard to do wasseparate from her husband and enjoy her success—alone. However,Screenland reassured fans that Lombard was not through with love,“but it could wait until she had fulfilled her childhood ambition” tobecome an actress (70). In line with Hopkins’ advice about mod-ern marriage, fan magazine discourse upheld Lombard’s examplethat a career should come before marriage, since her divorceworked to rejuvenate her career and established her independentimage as a sophisticated comedienne by the mid-1930s.

Independent Stardom in the Studio System, 1935–1940

By the mid-1930s, Stanwyck, Hopkins, and Lombard were allre-evaluating their careers and considering new options after theyhad firmly established their independent stardom. From 1935 to1940, the three pursued independent careers as freelancer artists,effectively terminating any long-term contractual obligations withtheir former studio employers. Each star experienced varyinglevels of success with independent stardom, either strengtheningor undermining her career in the process. A review of the early1930s fan magazines reveals the trope of “independence” attachedto their rising stardom, with Stanwyck associated with an image of“honest” independence, Hopkins with an “intelligent” indepen-dence, and Lombard with a “stylish” independence. Moreover, fandiscourse shows how the images of Stanwyck and Hopkins weredefined by their independent screen personalities from the begin-ning of their Hollywood careers while Lombard’s independentstardom emerged only after she attained greater professionalautonomy in the mid-1930s. What happened to their stardom ofindependence as these women attained independent stardom?26

26There were other cultural and industrial changes during this time, mainly theenforcement of the Production Code in 1934. While this aspect transcends the scope ofthis paper it would be a compelling aspect to consider in future research.

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By continuing to examine excerpts from contracts, fan magazinearticles, and interviews, we can determine how their freelancebusiness practices affected their star image during the mid-1930s to1940.

Upon the completion of her four-year contract with WarnerBrothers in 1934, Stanwyck decided against signing any exclusivecontracts and continued to work as a freelance artist, and thensigning a joint contract that not only split her time between Foxand RKO, but also allowed her to make freelance deals at otherstudios in between projects. Stanwyck’s unique deal with the twocompanies often provoked frustration from studio executives,since they could not use her services at their disposal, and thefollowing Twentieth Century-Fox interoffice memo dated May 5,1937 highlighted the tension between the two studios when Foxwas unable to employ Stanwyck due to one of her freelance deals:

I have talked to Mr. Hastings, Legal Counsel for RKO, who informs methat RKO was not in a position to utilize Miss Stanwyck’s services at thistime, and therefore when they were requested by Miss Stanwyck that RKOgrant her permission to render her services for Samuel Goldwyn, Inc.,Ltd., in the Goldwyn picture Stella Dallas, permission was granted to MissStanwyck to do this picture for Goldwyn . . . RKO claims they did not lendher services, but the deal was a separate one made by Miss Stanwyck . . .Since RKO seems to be adopting a policy of allowing Miss Stanwyck tomake her own deals on the side, I am wondering if we have a pressingneed for her services, if we cannot procure RKO’s consent to utilize herservices and perhaps make a deal with Miss Stanwyck to that effect.27

Even though Fox technically shared Stanwyck’s contract withRKO, Fox found themselves making their own deals separatelywith the actress as a result of her increased professional auton-omy as a freelance artist. They were forced to comprise and towork around her schedule and honor her original contractualagreement.

Both her career and private life continued to influenceStanwyck’s image as a dedicated “trouper” from 1935 on, and inparticular, her much publicized divorce from husband Frank Fay.Photoplay’s 1936 “The Story Behind the Stanwyck-Fay Break-Up”

27See Barbara Stanwyck Legal File, Twentieth Century-Fox Collection, UCLA ArtsSpecial Collections.

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supplied readers with the saga that even “Hollywood didn’tknow,” unveiling the darker side to Stanwyck’s apparent Cinder-ella rags-to-riches story.28 When she married successful Broadwaycomedian Fay at age nineteen, and she accompanied him toHollywood after he signed a contract with Warner Bros. in 1929.Yet while his film career fizzled and (as a result) his alcoholismworsened, Stanwyck’s career soared; their troubles began as herstardom eclipsed that of Fay’s. Not only did Photoplay providereaders with the manufactured knowledge of Stanwyck’s stardom,but they demystified the allure and glamour of Hollywood fantasyand instead, fans learned how the actress’s ultimate success as afilm star undermined her off-screen role as a wife. The magazineexplained, “With her bleeding hands she was trying to restore thebalance of power that Hollywood had destroyed” in her marriage,and consequently, Stanwyck was now “alone with her fame”(Rogers St John 100). Nonetheless, Photoplay instructed readersnot to despair from this sob-story, promising that the star “willsurvive it . . . in her work” (100), insinuating that Stanwyck maynot find success in love off-screen, they find satisfaction in theirwork, perhaps without a husband. In line with their interpretationon Hopkins and Lombard’s failed marriages, fan magazine dis-course also framed Stanwyck’s divorce as a positive contribution toher career.

Hence, fan magazine discourse emphasized Stanwyck’scareer as a freelancer more than it did typical female star charac-teristics and topics like glamour and romance. Her star personareflected her consummate professionalism in Hollywood. Forinstance, in 1936, Stanwyck told Modern Screen: “I take it [work]far too seriously to have tantrums about it, I want to work. I canwork now with my whole heart in it. It brings me more peace thananything I do” (Hall, “Through the Looking Glass” 49). Providingan explanation for this star’s “famous personal popularity” inHollywood, Modern Screen, in concert with major industry tradejournals like Variety and The Hollywood Reporter, highlightedStanwyck’s unique freelance contracts with three major Hollywood

28Though the couple adopted a son (Dion Anthony Fay) in 1932 in an attempt tosalvage their marriage, but by 1935 Stanwyck moved out with their son and filed fordivorce while Fay returned to New York. Supposedly the films What Price Hollywood? (1932)and A Star is Born (1937) are based on the Fay-Stanwyck marriage. See also DiOrio, BarbaraStanwyck.

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studios in 1937: “She’s under contract there (RKO) [sic] for acertain number of pictures a year, just as she has a similar con-tract arrangement with Twentieth Century-Fox and Paramount”(126).29 Thus, her “honest” star persona continued to mark herindependent stardom. According to Stanwyck, honesty was the onequality that she consistently conveyed in her work, particularly infilms such as Annie Oakley (1935), Stella Dallas (1937), and GoldenBoy (1939). These roles illustrated a shift from her earlier filmroles as sexualized promiscuous women in the early 1930s. By theend of the decade, Stanwyck’s strong-willed independent off-screen image shifted to also encompass her “honest” independentwork ethic.

Stanwyck’s professional independence as a freelance actressalso began to influence the “feminine” advice she gave to femalefans. Drawing on her personal experience, she urged “girls tohave their own lives” before “losing their wits” in love (Hall,“Advice to Girls” 5). After her divorce from Fay in 1935, Stanwyckexplained that she was now “living dangerously,” living life as shepleased outside the constraints of marriage. “I am free. I am myown man. And it’s dangerous because no women can live inmarriage this way”; instead, she preferred “the romance of livingher own life” (5). Here Stanwyck equated her personal indepen-dence with being a man, and it is not a stretch to connect this toher autonomous labor as a freelancer. She appropriated mascu-linity in order to maintain both personal and professionalindependence—thereby continuing to participate effectively inthe patriarchal structure of Hollywood. While she cultivated anindependent image, Stanwyck still had to conform to the normsof the male-dominated studio system as a freelance actress byacting “masculine.”

Moreover, a 1940 interview from Modern Screen chose toshowcase Stanwyck’s image as a career woman even after her sec-ond marriage to film star Robert Taylor (himself under long-termcontract to MGM studios) in 1939. Modern Screen reassured fansthat Stanwyck’s marriage had not altered her independence in

29The fan magazine and trade coverage of Stanwyck’s labor practices are validated bythe aforementioned Fox-RKO joint contract. For the industry trade coverage of Stanwyck’sfreelancing, see “WB Releases Stanwyck” 2 (in which the journal profiles Stanwyck’sdecision to “freelance”), “Stanwyck Wanted by 3 [sic] Studios” 1, “Stanwyck Wanted ByFox for Termer” 1, “Junior After Stanwyck,”1, and “Radio Pacts Stanwyck” 1.

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any way. “Barbara is always called Miss Stanwyck, for instance,never Mrs. Taylor . . . For Barbara being called Miss Stanwyckmeans that marriage hasn’t submerged the ‘selfness’ of theStanwyck self” (Hall, “Information If You Please” 4).The careervs. marriage and family dilemma did not preoccupy Stanwyck; infact she explained that the idea of “giving up” her career has neverarisen with her husband. On the subject of retiring, Stanwyck con-fessed: “I break out in a cold sweat. Why, there’s nothing I coulddo, I tell you, nothing. I never want to stop working, there’s nostopping me!” (5–6).30 Accordingly, her second marriage did notaffect Stanwyck’s career; if anything, it seemed to have strength-ened her drive to make “important pictures” like Stella Dallas,which as a freelance actress she could personally select.31 By theend of the 1930s, fan magazine discourse reflected how Stanwyck’sprofessionalism and independent screen image converged toforeground her independent stardom; she was now a successfulworking wife who remained committed to her career.

Though independence and intelligence framed her studioimage, Hopkins’ did not crystallize her independent stardom as afreelance actress until the mid-1930s. In the summer of 1934,Hopkins left Paramount to freelance, winning the coveted role ofBecky Sharp in the film adaptation of the novel Vanity Fair. Shenegotiated a lucrative deal for the film that granted her approvalof her director, star billing, and in addition to her $60,000 salary,she received a ten percent of the film’s gross receipts after itrecouped its negative costs.32 As her first freelance film, BeckySharp was the highpoint of Hopkins’ film career; she carried thepicture as its only star.

As the first Hollywood live-action feature filmed in the three-strip Technicolor process, Becky Sharp was one of the most publicizedfilms of the decade. A 1935 Motion Picture interview with Hopkins

30Indeed Stanwyck would never really retire. Her career spanned over eight decadesin film, radio, theater, and television. She appeared in 83 films.

31Stella Dallas was indeed an important picture for Stanwyck; made for SamuelGoldwyn and directed by King Vidor, it was a prestige picture that garnered Stanwyck herfirst Best Actress Academy Award nomination (though she lost to Luise Rainer, who wonfor her performance in The Good Earth (1937).

32See Miriam Hopkins-Pioneer Pictures contract dated September 25, 1934, found inthe David O. Selznick Collection, HRC. See also “Radio Finally Gets Hopkins for Becky”:“Miriam Hopkins and Radio finally got together yesterday, and the star agreed to step intothe title role of Becky Sharp” (1).

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publicized both her new freelance status and vivacious screenpersona in which “Becky Sharp says it’s still a man’s world”(Davis 65). Here she maintained that even “ultra modernwomen” like herself must resort to the same methods of “feminineflattery” utilized by Victorian women like Becky Sharp (65). MotionPicture posed a compelling question to Hopkins that underscoredhow her newly established independent stardom informed herscreen persona:

You are the most independent actress in Hollywood. You turn downlong-term contracts, rush away to New York leaving picture roles whichother stars would give their teeth to get. You turn your back on enormousHollywood paychecks to do plays on Broadway. You come nearer to livingas you please than any other girl I know. How can an ultra-modern likeyou understand poor Victorian Becky Sharp whose whole plan of lifedepended on winning the help and protection of some man? (65)

Hopkins maintained that Becky Sharp was still a role model for“ultra-modern” (65) female stars like herself, and observed thatno matter how much education a woman has, she still had toresort to the same feminine trickery to get ahead in the world. Atthe same time, she emphasized how Becky’s flirtation tactics actu-ally worked to manipulate men to women’s advantage. She wentone step further, applying her theory to the patriarchal businessstructure of Hollywood and remarking that even a successfulactress like herself still answered to all the men who ran the town(emphasis added):

Women today might be able to support themselves, and to earn bigsalaries and hold high positions. But they are paid by men, and given posi-tions by men, and it is to men that they have to look for everything just asit has always been men who owned and run the world! It said that this is a‘woman’s town but it isn’t! Men own the picture business, men producethe pictures, give our contracts [sic]. It is a man who hires the biggestwoman star and a man who directs her work. The same thing holds true inall professions . . . To get ahead in the world, modern, emancipated, inde-pendent women have to know how to get along with men, how to pleasethem. It brings out the Becky Sharp in them all! (65)

As an actress working within this male-dominated system, Hopkins’thorough critique of the masculine hegemony of Hollywood wasframed within a feminine context acceptable to her female fans. In

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this regard, Motion Picture implied that, in addition to her inde-pendent labor practice, Hopkins’ femininity also enabled herto succeed in the “male” world of Hollywood. “What attracts themasculine eye to Miriam: her cleverness, brains, or indepen-dence” . . . or “is it her utter and complete femininity?” (65).While Stanwyck adopted a masculine persona to succeed in thefilm industry as an independent artist, Hopkins—a “modern”Hollywood Becky Sharp—embraced femininity as a part of herscreen image, fusing it with her freelance independentstardom.

Hopkins, too, gave her fans advice in a 1935 Movie Classicinterview, where she counseled all girls who “desire careers, indi-vidual personalities, charm and romance” in their lives (Reeve60), encouraging them to be a “one of a kind girl” and to followher own personal and professional example. Like Stanwyck,Hopkins’ advice began to reflect the independent career and“modern” lifestyle choices that constructed her own stardom.Although this interview focused primarily on the typical “femi-nine” topics of fashion and beauty, it also stressed the importanceof a woman’s personal autonomy above all else. ExplainedHopkins, “The smartest thing a girl can do is to be her own type!And you’ll have something that no other girl in the whole worldcan reproduce: a one of kind personality . . . a you type” (30). Themagazine advocated the star’s own independent personality (asexemplified in her film Becky Sharp) as a model through whichfemale fans could mimic and achieve success.

After Becky Sharp, Hopkins chose to work with the independentproducer Samuel Goldwyn in 1935, which that granted her morecreative control compared to the stringent working conditions atParamount.33 Working with an independent producer, Hopkinsnow experienced greater artistic and professional advantage overstars under long-term contracts to the studios in that she couldprovide input to Goldwyn about the details of her performanceand the film and that she enjoyed a more flexible workingschedule. For example, her contract enabled her to takeextended leaves of absences to do Broadway plays in New York.34

33See also “Hopkins-Goldwyn 4-Year Ticket” 8 and “Miriam Hopkins East” 3.34See Article 20 in Miriam Hopkins Samuel Goldwyn Inc., LTD. Contract dated

August 31, 1934, found in the Miriam Hopkins Legal File, Warner Bros. Archives, USC.

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Hopkins acknowledged how working with Goldwyn granted hergreater agency in her career in a 1935 Screenland interview, statingthat she never worked under such happy and pleasant conditions:“With Goldwyn’s undivided personal attention, I feel like an indi-vidual, never part of a great machine” as she did at Paramount(Rankin 55). As his leading female star, her film roles alsoreflected her new professional autonomy. Beginning with BarbaryCoast (1935), Hopkins made a series of Goldwyn films until 1937,in which her roles did not retain the sensational subject matter ofher Paramount films that had violated the Production Code.Nevertheless, she continued to portray challenging roles such asin Splendor (1935), where she plays a wife who experiences classconflict with her once-wealthy New York in-laws, and in TheseThree (1936), the screen adaptation of Lillian’s Hellman’s playThe Children’s Hour.35 While fan magazine discourse still depictedHopkins as a self-determining woman, her independent stardomwaned after the mediocre box-office performance of her 1937films.36 Since Goldwyn was an independent producer, he distrib-uted his films through United Artists, which did not have as largean exhibition chain in comparison to the five major studios(MGM, Warner Bros., RKO, Paramount, and Fox). Thus, herfreelance films did not necessarily lose money merely because oflow ticket sales since her Goldwyn films were not as widelyexhibited in theaters as were her Paramount films.37 Hence, whileprofessional independence strengthened both Stanwyck’s andLombard’s standing in the industry, it came at the expense ofHopkins’ screen exposure and market appeal.

35The film version portrayed a heterosexual love triangle between the two teachersand the male fiancé rather than the play’s lesbian theme in order to receive approval fromthe PCA and avoid censorship. See PCA file on These Three at the Herrick Library for moredetails on adapting the play for the screen.

36See Balio, Grand Design, 104–07. Another possible reason for Hopkins’ screenabsence was the Production Code. Many of Hopkins pre-Code Paramount films wereeither denied re-release or severely censored by head of the PCA Joseph Breen in the late1930s. Goldwyn also lended Hopkins out to RKO to make Wise Girl and The Woman I Love,both of which were not big money makers for the studios.

37Another possible reason for Hopkins’ waning box-office popularity was the PCAand its censorship of pre-1934 films. Many of Hopkins pre-Code Paramount films wereeither denied re-release or severely censored by head of the PCA Joseph Breen in the late1930s. See Jacobs, The Wages of Sin and Maltby, “The Production Code and the HaysOffice,” for further detail on the re-release of pre-1934 Hollywood films.

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Hopkins left Goldwyn’s company in 1938 and returned towork for a major studio, negotiating directly with Warner Bros.with the hope of reviving her floundering film career. In spite ofher questionable leading-lady status, her contract stipulated thatshe would star in two pictures of outstanding quality for whichWarner Bros. granted her approval over the script as well as hermale costar and director. The following studio memo dated Oct.3, 1939 from entertainment lawyer Roy Obringer to productionhead Jack Warner underlines how exceptional this non-exclusivetwo picture deal was for a star during the studio era:

Hopkins’ contract is not the ordinary contract because for a reduced com-pensation she obtained the right to do two outstanding pictures. She gaveup the right to get $300,000 for 4 pictures of unspecified stories for theright to do two pictures of specified stories and which pictures, onaccount of her leading man approval and director approval automaticallybecome high class pictures. Hopkins’ financial loss according to this wayof reasoning would be $200,000, which loss she took for the chance ofobtaining two important pictures.38

By agreeing to reduce her salary to $150,000 for the right to do two“quality” pictures and for increased creative control, Hopkins effec-tively challenged the studio, who did not realize the extent that hercontract protected her creative interests, and as a result, they strug-gled to find an appropriate film project that complied with hercontract. In fact, the remainder of this memo documents howWarner Bros. tried to appease Hopkins and prevent her fromsuing for the studio for violation of her contract. Although sheand the studio eventually came to terms on a film project,Hopkins found her stardom in question as she struggled to findher a comeback vehicle, and remained off-screen for all of 1938until she costarred with Bette Davis in The Old Maid (1939).

38See Miriam Hopkins Legal File, Warner Bros. Archive, for further details onHopkins’ unique agreement with Warner Bros. Also, the term used by Obringer—picturesof extraordinary quality—refers to the production hierarchy in the studio system, wherebythe “major” studios like Warner Bros. divided their production into “A” films (big budget,prestige productions that showcased stars and creative talent) and “B” films (low-budgetfilms made quickly and often without stars) in order to meet their output quota for theirnational theater distribution chains. Most stars (like Hopkins) appeared only in A motionpictures. For more on the production hierarchies of the studio system, see Balio, GrandDesign, 73–108 and on B films, see Taves, 313–350.

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Nonetheless, the fan magazines documented Hopkins’absence and took note when she finally returned. That yearModern Screen praised her dedication to quality films and upheldher high artistic standards when she selected her films: “If that isa fault, it is perhaps a wise one. For, many stars have sufferedbecause they have been forced to take mediocre parts. MissHopkins, consequently, has waited for what she considered some-thing really worthwhile” (Benjamin 88). While Hopkins’ stardomnever fully rebounded, she managed to maintain her independentpersona during this professional setback. She continued to clashwith Jack Warner over possible film assignments and thus a solidcomeback never materialized. For example, many of the filmsthat she selected the studio had already promised to its topcontract female star, her rival Bette Davis.39 Thus, Hopkins’experience at Warner Bros. in the late 1930s underscores howprofessional independence and a non-exclusive affiliation with amajor studio sometimes came at the expense of stardom, espe-cially if faced with competition from long-term contract stars.

Lombard made the most complete transformation of thesethree actresses in that she waited until the completion of her long-term seven year contract with Paramount and left to freelance onlyin the late 1930s. As she moved towards professional independenceafter her hit Twentieth Century (1934), Lombard achieved anothercritical and commercial success on loan out to Universal in thescrewball comedy My Man Godfrey (1936) for which she received aBest Actress Academy Award nomination. In 1937, Paramountfinally realized Lombard’s star commodity and they wanted toexploit her marketable status by extending her long-term con-tract.40 Yet she and her agent Myron Selznick had something else inmind. In a deal that stunned her home studio, they negotiated alimited, non-exclusive contract for Lombard at Paramount and atSelznick-International, the company of Myron’s producer-brother,

39For example, Hopkins’ had chosen the films Dark Victory (1939), All This and Heaven Too(1940), and even requested to play the more sympathetic role of Charlotte in The Old Maid,and all of these roles went to Davis in spite of Hopkins’ contractual stipulations. See theMiriam Hopkins Legal File, Warner Bros. Archive, USC, for further detail on these situations.

40See also “Carole Lombard Asks Para [sic] Freedom or Boost” headline in TheHollywood Reporter: “Carole Lombard, whose Paramount option is due during August, hasasked the studio to free her or else give her a boost higher than the option period calls for.She states she has offers on a freelance basis much higher than her Paramount salary” (1).

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David O. Selznick: three pictures for one year only at $150,000each, making her the highest paid star in the industry for the yearof 1937 with an annual income at slightly under a half million($450,000).41 Mirroring Stanwyck’s and Hopkins’ freelance con-tracts, Lombard’s one picture deals with Selznick and WarnerBros. contained several special provisions, including the right forWarners to employ her personal wardrobe designer and camera-man, as well as specifying her star billing type-size font and aneight hour a day shooting schedule.42 She moved to RKO Studiosin 1940, sealing a three picture deal in which she dropped herupfront salary to $25,000 per film in order to earn a percentageof the film’s distribution profits.43

The fan magazines publicized Lombard’s new freelancedeals as a shrewd business tactic on the star’s part. A June 1937Photoplay interview titled “How I live By a Man’s Code” providesthe most illuminating example. Here Lombard dispelled careertips that emulated Stanwyck by giving advice on femininity—thiswith a masculine twist. The interview outlined her “male code,”noting she lived life on the logical premise that women haveequal rights with men. Lombard offered ten masculine traits forwomen to follow; numbers six, seven, and ten all directly relatedto the benefits of a career (Hart 12).44 Lombard’s advice

41Her one picture deal for the Warner Bros. picture Fools for Scandal in 1937 confirmsher freelance salary: she was paid $150,000 for a period of 9 consecutive weeks at $16,666.67a week, found in the Carole Lombard Payroll file at Warner Bros. Archive, USC. Shereceived the same salary for Nothing Sacred: “Producer agrees to pay Artist, for Artist’s services. . . salary at the rate of $18,750 a week” of eight weeks salary, “or $150,000 by the end of thesaid term” (3), see Nothing Sacred production file, David O. Selznick collection at the HarryRansom Center, University of Texas at Austin.See also “Selznick Terms Lombard onOne-Pic-A-Year [sic] Deal” 1. Leo Rosten also notes in 1941 that Lombard was amongHollywood’s highest paid with her salary of $150,000 per picture. See 341.

42See Lombard Contract for Fools for Scandal, Warner Bros. Archive, USC.43A memo dated November 16, 1938 from Selznick employee Dan O’Shea to David

highlights her percentage deal with RKO (one that Selznick himself would adopt in hisdeals with Lombard and other stars): “The proposed Lombard deal at RKO is as follows:$7500 a week for 10 weeks, plus 50% of the distributor’s gross over and above 1 ½ negativecost, or $1, 125,000, whichever point is sooner arrived at, until Lombard has an additional$75,000. Thereafter she gets 7 ½% of the distributor’s gross. Schaeffer, I think, assuredPan (Berman, head of production at RKO) that any Lombard picture would do at least$1,500,000.” See Carole Lombard File, David O. Selznick Collection, HRC.

44The entire list includes: (1) Play Fair (2) Don’t Brag (3) Obey the Boss (4) TakeCriticism (5) Love is Private (6) Work—and Like It! (7) Pay your Share (8) The CardinalValue (9) Be Consistent (10) Be Feminine.

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imparted to female fans that the key to success for a woman’scareer depended on a combination of masculine and femininetraits. In number six, “Work—and Like It,” Lombard warnedagainst women becoming idle, asserting, “Working women areinteresting women, they’re easier to live with precisely because theykeep busy” (78). In number seven, “Pay Your Share,” Lombarddisputed the assumption that men should take care of all finan-cial matters: “You don’t have to surrender your femininity if youpay your share of the bills,” she explained, as the custom of the“Dutch treat” was quite in vogue (78).

Finally, she urged women to “be feminine” in number ten,which elucidated her revamped Hollywood image as a glamorouscareer woman with a male business sense. Hence, her male workethic would not prevent women from preserving their feminineside: “You can still be insane about what kind of perfume youwear . . . but play fair and be reasonable. When a woman can dothat, she’ll . . . wind up running a whole department store!” (78).Like Hopkins, she also utilized “all her feminine prerogatives” inorder to construct her revamped image as an independent careerwoman (12). Hence, her freelance practice and professionalismwere “masculine,” as she organized all her affairs, lived by a codedesigned to fit a man’s world, and handled her business affairswith “devastating serenity” (78). In this way, she remained theepitome of feminine Hollywood glamour by never forgetting“that a woman’s first job is to choose the right shade of lipstick”(12). This Photoplay feature implied that women would be wise toadapt Lombard’s strategy and incorporate a masculine businesssense into her work, alongside their femininity, and then they’dtriumph professionally.

Known as the “profane angel” in Hollywood, Lombard was alsooften characterized as a tomboy “shooting it with the boys” offscreen.45 We can infer that fan magazine discourse attempted tobalance her “masculine” side by underscoring her more glamorous,feminine attributes. This unique blend of masculinity andfemininity motivated Photoplay to herald Lombard as the “perfectexample of the modern Career Girl” in 1937 (12). As opposed toHopkins’ view that Hollywood was a male enterprise, Lombard

45For more on Lombard’s off-screen antics and personality, see Swindell, Screwballand Matzen, Carole Lombard: A Bio-Bibliography.

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emphasized women’s success in the film industry, citing theactress-turned-producer and United Artist co-founder Mary Pickfordas an outstanding Hollywood business icon (13). Moreover, themagazine extolled Lombard’s “excellent example of success inbusiness” to its readers due to her new freelance deal withParamount and remarked on the extra responsibility that she tookon as an independent star who did not have a “parent” studio (13).Praising Lombard’s keen business skills, Photoplay commented:

She has to talk business with dozens of producers scrambling to sign herup to their advantage, not hers . . . Carole must have every wit sharpenedto be on guard against a bad contract or even worse a script . . . she hascounsel, as all good business men should. She has a capable agent, plusthe advice of a most capable associate—who happens to be anotherwoman, her secretary [Madeleine Fields]. (13)

Thus, Photoplay’s characterization of Lombard conflated herfreelance labor with her star persona, highlighting her “male”attributes alongside her femininity. Seven years after her long-term contract at Paramount, Lombard transformed herself intoan accomplished actress and savvy businesswoman who hadrefined her beauty regimen as well as her business skills, a trendaccentuated in the fan magazine discourse.

In 1939, Photoplay again discussed Lombard and her freelanc-ing status in the feature “Do Hollywood Women Spoil Their Men?”in which the magazine scrutinized the change in her image aftershe married actor Clark Gable. She was no longer the carefreeHollywood divorcee who frequented the party scene; Lombardnow shunned the nightlife in favor of staying at home with Gableand accompanying him on early morning hunts and camping trips.In spite of its critical stance toward her compromised domestic life,Photoplay still lauded her professional achievements: “Carolefreelances; she draws approximately one hundred thousand dollarsper picture, plus profit percentage. Last year her income totalednearly half a million” (Baldwin 19). Yet since Hollywood’s top box-office screen lover became her husband, the magazine ponderedwhy this consummate career woman suddenly preferred his life-style to her own. In fact, Photoplay seemed to caution the “indepen-dent, witty, and lovely” Lombard from altering her way of life anyfurther, since she was a modern “glamorous woman whose career is

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still on the up-beat” who “could “have men forming a front line onthe right to ask for a date” (19). While approving of her freelancebusiness tactics, the magazine chastised Lombard for amendingher independent demeanor in order to accommodate her hus-band. Photoplay preferred the free-spirited and liberated Lombardimage to her altered image as the rustic Mrs. Gable.

Lombard’s screen roles after her departure from Paramountwere in stark contrast to her glamorous fashion icon image, and canbe attributed to the increased creative control that she enjoyed withher independent stardom. After her Oscar-nominated performancein My Man Godfrey, Lombard followed this hit with more screwballcomedies, such as Nothing Sacred and True Confession (both in 1937).In 1939, Lombard shifted to dramatic roles, with Made for Each Otherand In Name Only (both in 1939) before returning to comedy in 1941with Mr. and Mrs. Smith. In the comedies, Lombard often playedmadcap heroines and working girls searching for romance while herdramatic films featured her as a wife or lover desiring domestic bliss.Overall, her post-Paramount screen roles were entirely differentfrom the roles she played in the early 1930s, for she continued herportrayal of independent screen heroines first established with 20thCentury, an image she crystallized in her final role as Maria Tura inErnst Lubitsch’s comedic satire, To Be or Not Be (1942). Thus, wehave seen an evolution in both her career and star image—fromcontract player to sophisticated comedienne to modern careerwoman who created a male code for Hollywood success. Lombard’sfreelance career prevailed until her sudden death in a plane crash inTable Mountain in Nevada on her return to Los Angeles from a warbond tour in 1942. Interestingly enough, even her obituaries cham-pioned her business acumen over her marital status, star persona, ormemorable film performances. In The Los Angeles Times obituarytitled, “‘Tomboy Lombard Earned $2,000,000,” the newspaperaccentuated her “sure pay climb” as “the highest of any woman inmotion pictures” in its eulogy, posthumously noting Lombard’sindependent stardom as a trend-setting freelance actress.

Conclusion

After establishing their box-office value, these female starsattained professional autonomy while maintaining their inde-pendent screen image in uniquely different ways. Stanwyck

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freelanced throughout the decade and remained in demand bythe studios in the 1940s. In contrast, independence hinderedHopkins’ career, preventing her from winning the star rolesthat she had earlier at Paramount. And Lombard emerged asthe highest paid star in Hollywood—male or female—by theend of the decade, negotiating for a percentage of her films’profits as part of her salary ten years before it became standardindustry practice.

This analysis of contractual and fan magazine discoursereveals how Stanwyck, Hopkins, and Lombard crafted anindependent stardom over the course of the decade in theirHollywood careers and set an early precedent for motion pictureactors to become free agents in the 1930s. Furthermore, mysurvey of fan magazine discourse shows how fan magazines are arich resource through which to document industrial history asare studio contracts, legal documents, and memos. While thispaper has demonstrated how fan magazine discourse reportedon the independent freelance careers of these women, it has alsoshown how these independent stardoms were framed in a femi-nine context acceptable to their fans. In turn, we can see howfemale fans were encouraged to emulate these stars and to followtheir advice in order to appear independent and “modern”themselves.

Stanwyck, Hopkins, and Lombard worked within the studiosystem on their own terms, and their independent stardom meritsfurther examination from film historians, as this phenomenonincluded other actresses also were working as freelancers by themid-1930s. By working as autonomous freelancers, these femalestars maintained a level of agency in 1930s Hollywood and thisnotion also raises historiographical questions about how certainhistories are conceived and written. This study engenders a morenuanced understanding of American film history, one in whichwomen are recognized as active agents bargaining for theircreative and professional independence in an era of presumedmonolithic control. While one historical “truth” about the 1930sAmerican film industry prioritizes a historical narrative ofmonolithic and patriarchal control, I suggest that this is only onetruth among many, as there were women who cultivated andmaintained their own independent stardom in the Hollywoodstudio system.

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independent stardom: female film stars and the studio system in the 1930s

Documents