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The
Interferer
Howard Hughes is all too often dismissed
as a psychotic oddball billionaire. He was all that, but,
David O'Mahony
argues, he left an indelible stain on the history of cinema.
[Extract]
Everybody wants crazy millionaires. Foisting eccentricity
upon the untouchables in our midst is just too tempting to
resist. This sort of spurious reasoning, however, has proved
unnecessary in relation to Howard Hughes - he was every bit
as fantastical as we could have hoped. The image of the unkempt
old billionaire recluse has achieved iconic status (even The
Simpsons - our great cultural barometer - saw fit to lampoon
it) that has overshadowed his actual achievements. In 1925
Howard Hughes wrote down his ambitions on the back of a receipt
for Foley Bros., a clothing store: to be 1) the best golfer
in the world; 2) the best pilot; 3) the most famous producer
of moving pictures. He went on for the most part to achieve
these goals. In hindsight we can see this as being typical
of Hughes character - a blinkered, unquestioning awareness
that he will have his way. It isn't arrogance or stubbornness,
but a strange childlike confidence in his abilities - if he
wants it, he gets it. Simple as that.
Howard was the son of Howard Robard Hughes Sr. and Allene
Gano Hughes. A playboy and a braggart, his father had repeatedly
failed in his attempts to capitalise on the burgeoning oil
industry until in 1909 he invented a drill-bit that surpassed
existing methods of tapping into oil reserves hidden beneath
bedrock. Shaped like three engaged pinecones, the tool would
prove to be a massive source of income and a springboard for
his son's career. He wisely decided to lease the bit to companies
on a monthly basis to yield a greater return. It worked. Howard
was thus born into money. Still, he had few friends and was
unexceptional at school preferring to spend his time tinkering
with mechanics - he motorised his bicycle when he was twelve
and charged the neighbouring kids a nickel a ride (his uncanny
talent for engineering was usually linked to dollar signs!).
His mother, a fragile hypochondriac, subjected her son to
daily ritual examinations. Every part of the boy was inspected
for abnormalities - the physical even extended to a study
of his bowel movements. Convinced of his weakness, Allene
would frequently whisk him out of school and place him in
the care of well-paid doctors. This conditioning formed the
germ of an idea in young Howard's mind - his illnesses, whether
real or imaginary, could effect change. Subsequent phantom
maladies kept him out of school for extended periods.
Howard's latent brilliance as a businessman became apparent
soon after his parents died. In accordance with his father's
will, the Hughes Tool co. was splintered and scattered among
the remaining relatives. An infuriated Howard set out to gain
total control over a legacy he saw as his own - to do so he
would have to divest himself of 'the disabilities of minority'and
be declared an adult. A statute in the inheritance laws of
Texas (of which he was a resident) allowed nineteen year olds
to be declared adults in the eyes of the law. Upon reaching
this age he offered his relatives cash for their shares in
the company - they acquiesced. Rich, handsome, and free -
his gaze turned to the silver screen.
Howard's introduction to cinema can be traced to his Uncle
Rupert, who was by the end of the twenties writing and directing
films. Hughes took to hanging around his sets - enthralled
as much by the starlets as by the mechanics of production.
Although shy, he was developing a taste for the business and
its attendant female attention. He saw dollar signs everywhere.
In 1925 he hired Noah Dietrich as his personal aide and right-hand
man. Dietrich, an accountant and former prizefighter, was
the public face, and in many ways the de facto leader, of
the Hughes empire. Howard then set about spending $80,000
to finance his first movie - Swell Hogan - directed by a Houston
friend of Howard Sr.'s named Ralph Graves. It was originally
to have cost just $40,000, but Hughes' effectively wrote Graves
a blank cheque. The director didn't object - Howard learned
a lesson. Swell Hogan opened and closed on its first night
amid peals of audience laughter. Uncle Rupert took the embarrassed
young producer aside afterwards saying, "Give it up.
You won't succeed, and you'll end up squandering your entire
fortune."Hughes countered this advice by forming his
own production company - The Caddo Company (a subsidiary of
Hughes Tool) - a typically obstinate gesture to those who
would doubt him.
Howard craved control and saw it as damage limitation. His
ignominious cinematic debut led him to become increasingly
active in future productions. He needled his directors with
specifics, questioning everything from hairstyles to advertising.
This hands-on experience didn't stop at his own sets - he
haunted every studio in town, learning the shuck and jive
of the Hollywood system. Such persistence afforded him the
chance of meeting some of the world's most beautiful women
- many of whom fell for his odd charm. The next two films
he financed - Everybody's Acting and Two Arabian Knights -
were extensively re-edited by Hughes. Directing his own feature
was inevitable.
Hughes' true passion was for aviation. He felt free in the
air - unaccountable and independent. With his next project
- World War 1 epic Hell's Angels - he sought to combine his
aerial derring-do with his movie savvy, and he planned to
do it using two million dollars of his own and without the
backing of a major studio - a brave move considering the clubbish
nature of the Moguls. "The brash young man," wrote
Louella Parson, queen of the Hollywood scandal column, "is
going it alone." The industry waited for the well-heeled
young flyboy to fall off of his perch. Hell's Angels proved
to be a mammoth undertaking and a logistical nightmare. It
took nearly three years to complete. Hughes paid half a million
for forty fighter planes left over from World War I, to be
used in aerial stunt sequences. Disinformation fed the movie's
attendant hype machine with reports of one hundred planes
being used. Hughes worked ceaselessly planning the special
effects laden battles, his innate grasp of aviation proving
itself invaluable. One such sequence that utilised two sixty-foot
models of zeppelins, and involved a raid on London, cost $460,000
alone. He often refused to sleep for days at a time. Marshall
Neilan, the film's ostensible director, was filming interiors
when Howard began appearing in full director's regalia of
cavalry britches, leather flying jacket, and shiny boots.
His interference pushed Neilan to walk. Luther Reed, aviation
editor of the New York Herald Tribune, was asked to take up
the reigns, but he too clashed with his producer saying, "If
you know so much, why don't you direct this film yourself!"
Hughes accepted the challenge.
The film grew into an obsession, with the director performing
some of the more dangerous stunts himself. He paid for his
arrogance. On January 10th 1928 he crashed a Thomas Morse
Scout airplane while petulantly proving that he could out-manoeuvre
his fellow fliers. Although seriously injured, he was back
on set a few days later. Recently it has been posited that
this crash, the first of many, left long-term brain damage
- residual shards of metal, which had lodged in his skull,
were discovered post-mortem. Howard, however, was more concerned
at the straightening out of his attractively clefted chin
during cosmetic surgery.
By February 1929 Hughes had spent $2.2
million on Hell's Angels and another problem loomed: Òtalkies'
were now the rage - Hell's Angels was silent and thus redundant.
Hughes converted it to sound at a further cost of $1.7 million.
Greta Nissen, the leading lady, was axed on account of her
thick Scandinavian accent and replaced by an unknown, Jean
Harlow. In 1930, after a ludicrously extended editing process
he delivered a manageable version of Hell's Angels. A spectacular
premiere at Grauman's Chinese Theatre cost a further $40,000.
But the stunt paid off - Howard and his hit movie were the
talk of the town. Grudging respect was due. It was almost
40 years before any independent in Hollywood would bring off
a success that mixed megalomania, obsession and commercial
savvy with quite the same panache (difference being Apocalypse
Now was actually quite good!).
The
full text of this article is printed in Film Ireland
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