Wild Bill Wellman: Hollywood Rebel

From chapter 6: The Director's BoardAs a contract director at Fox Studios, Wellman earned $185 a week. After seven pictures, his salary was . . . $185 a week. The seventh film, The Circus Cowboy, premiered June 19, 1924, at the Loew’s in New York City. This effort was also produced and directed by Wellman, and once again starred Buck Jones and Marian Nixon.   Variety, June 29, 1924: “Once in a while along comes a picture full of melodrama with high strung and far fetched situations which, neverthe­less, gets over through the excellent direction and strength of the story. This is one of those rarities.”   Now, at least, Wellman could afford his own place. Several months earlier, he had said goodbye to Dan Dix and Virgil, and moved into an apartment a few blocks from the studio. It had two rooms plus a bath­room with a shower. One room was a combination living room and bedroom, with a pull-down wall bed. The other was the kitchen. Fortu­nately, the apartment was large enough to accommodate Wellman’s new roommate—a big chow dog.   Before Cowboy had gone into production, Wellman had found Chow, as he named him, walking the streets in much the same way as he had done looking for places to live near the studios where he was employed. Wellman put up notices around the area, then hoped nobody would respond. Nobody did, and the roommates became great pals. Wellman put together a large dog bed, placing it next to his pull-down.   The initial problem was Chow’s eating. Dog food was expensive. Often they ate the same things, but Chow’s portions were larger than his master’s and he wanted to eat more often. In order to save food money, Wellman made a deal with his landlord that covered six months at a time. The second problem was what to do with the dog when Wellman was working. The landlord introduced him to an elderly female tenant in their building. She liked animals and took on the job of feeding Chow and letting him out once during the day. This worked quite well.   The whole business of working hard for almost a year, making seven quality pictures, but receiving no raise, was definitely wearing on Well­man. He was a big studio contract director. Why should he have to worry about feeding his dog? He had gotten nowhere with studio executives; his agent told him not to rock the boat, that he had a good deal and a bright future. Wellman was not convinced. He even discussed the matter with Chow.   “Chow and I went walking in the hills, Chow full of pep, me full of hatred that had been ripening in the last few Buck Jones pictures. My hatred was no raise in salary . . . I really got mad and explained the whole bloody business to Chow, there was nobody around except the squirrels who stopped their tree climbing the minute we came within ear shot. They didn’t even move, just sat very quietly listening to a dumbwit talk­ing business to a dog.”   On Monday morning, the great mogul William Fox arrived at the stu­dio. Since nobody would give Wellman a break, he decided to take things in his own hands and go see the big man. Encyclopaedia Britannica: “Wil­helm Fried Fuchs . . . motion picture executive who built a multimillion-dollar empire controlling a large portion of the exhibition, distribution, and production of film facilities during the era of silent film.” At the tender age of nine months, his German-Jewish parents changed his name to the direct English translation, William Fox. Known as “W.F.,” he was a publicity-shy individual whom the press called “a brilliant, excited, ener­getic, roughneck.”Wellman sat in the roughneck’s office all day waiting for an audience. W.F. knew he was there and guessed for what reason. “Funny how flying could enter this problem but it did, and in a very understandable way. I was never afraid while flying fighting, some few times I couldn’t breathe for a while, but it passed and the fear, such as it was, changed to a fright­ful anger, topped by a desire to kill. That’s a hell of a topper. Being afraid of a man named Fox was as ridiculous as if I were going to have a fist fight with a nun.”   It was getting late and the secretary was preparing to leave. She repeated the familiar phrase that had been used throughout the day, “Mr. Fox is too busy to see you today.” Suddenly, W.F.’s door opened and out he came on his way home. He stopped, looked at Wellman, and said, “What do you want?” Wellman answered with two words, “A raise.” He answered back with two words, “You’re fired,” and went out into the hallway. Wellman followed behind, reminding him that he had made seven pictures for the same salary. W.F. turned and restated, “You heard me, you’re fired.” With this, Wellman grabbed hold of his necktie at the throat and twisted it tight. He considered exploding a right fist in his startled face, then reconsidered after seeing the fright in the mogul’s eyes. No more words were spoken. “I saw the fear of a coward on his face, so I did the thing a face like that deserved, I spit on it. I went out of the studio for good, he went back to his office to cleanse his face of the only sincere tribute he had received for a long time.”   Wellman’s name came down from the directors’ board at the Fox Stu­dios, and wouldn’t appear on any other studio billboard for a long time. His agent was disappointed; however, he told the unemployed director that with his credits, jobs would come soon. Soon didn’t happen. The rumor was out that Wild Bill had hit the saliva bull’s-eye, and W.F. made sure the studio executives got the word—Wellman was blackballed. This state of exclusion would last for over a year.