From 1930 to 1934 a group of amazing little films burst onto the motion picture scene, much to the chagrin of self-appointed moralists. These movies, which today we dub pre-Codes, presented a rawer, more realistic view of the human condition, and by implication, they were a blistering critique of American society in general. Among other qualities, pre-Code films were notable for their fast pacing, snappy dialogue, edgy stories, lean, mean set designs, and most of all, tough, worldly-wise characters who more often than not were driven by self-interest, self-indulgence, sensuality, and quick fixes, including (sometimes unpunished) crime. All was presented in just an hour or so and with an obvious theatrical pedigree. In short, the pre-Code movies just had a different look and feel about them. However, under growing public pressure and threats of boycotts, the motion picture industry initiated the Code-enforced era beginning July 1934, which insisted that movies present a more wholesome view of the world. The studios by and large obliged, and, as they say, the rest is history.
Mirroring the era of pre-Code itself, the careers of many stars faded quickly in the mid and late Thirties. These former luminaries are little more than footnotes in cinema history, and they include once big names, today largely forgotten, like Ruth Chatterton, Miriam Hopkins, Karen Morley, Dorothy Burgess, Ann Harding, Mae Marsh, Ruth Donnelly, Glenda Farrell, David Manners, Warren William, Chester Morris, Mae Clark, and Dorothy Mackaill. Alas, for a number of reasons both personal and professional, Ann Dvorak was one of the casualties whose promise never blossomed to the extent that seemed inevitable in her peak year of 1932. Looked at objectively, her career arc is spotty at best, but devotees relish her performances in the pre-Codes, especially Scarface and Three on a Match, two of her best loved films. A fun bit of trivia is that she appeared as Della Street in an early film version of a Perry Mason mystery, The Case of the Stuttering Bishop (1937). But Ann Dvorak had a talent for self-destruction: she committed the unpardonable sin of challenging the big studios (she tussled with Warners over her contract amid rancorous legal battles). As was the norm in them days, she lost. A couple years later Warners let her go, and she was determined never to attach herself to a major studio again; she was now a free agent. But her career never fully recovered. She was an ambulance driver in London in World War II and later in the Forties was mostly relegated to B movies and bit parts. A starring role of some interest during this time was her appearance in The Private Affairs of Bel-Ami (1947), with George Sanders.
She left movies altogether in 1951 at the age of forty. In addition to being a rebel and free spirit, Ann Dvorak was that rare bird in golden age Hollywood: a film star who was an intellectual. Her cerebral pursuits included horticulture, book collecting, writing (a pet project was a history of the world), and most improbably, bacteriology. She spent her final years in Honolulu living in obscurity and semi-poverty and died in 1979 at the – by today’s standards – relatively youthful age of sixty-eight. But due to a number of factors – the revival of interest in pre-Code movies and their exposure via TCM, DVDs and theatrical releases; a growing online presence via various tributes and posts; and not least of all, Christina Rice’s marvelous biography – Ann Dvorak’s star has brightened in recent years and she’s finally getting the recognition denied her for decades.
Christina Rice’s Ann Dvorak: Hollywood’s Forgotten Rebel is a triumph. As the author points out tracking down information on such an under-the-radar subject was not an easy task, to say nothing of locating folks who had actually known her personally. But she persisted and her tome is veritably a model for a star biography, and especially for a biography of a once (near) major star who had faded from public view. The book then is a felicitous balance of the scholarly and the popular: reader-friendly but having the usual academic patina in the form of extensive index, notes and reading list, and a complete filmography. Especially noteworthy are the many photographs – most of them culled from the author’s private collection – of the eminently photogenic Miss Dvorak, even when she’s a bit worse-for-wear. It’s obvious Rice has a genuine affection for her subject but manages an objective view, and the sympathetic biography nicely balances professional and personal elements. As expected the big movies receive more extensive treatment but the lesser ones get respectable coverage as well. While we may infer that indeed Ann Dvorak appeared in her share of mediocre movies, even a few bad ones, she brought class and professionalism to every film she was in. The recalling of Dvorak’s attempts to challenge the big studios, mostly on contracts, reminds us of the power of the studio system in moviedom’s ‘golden age’ (the 1930s and 1940s), and the near slave-like hold the corporate giants had over its stars, both major and minor.
For ultimately the Ann Dvorak story isn’t unique in the annals of the entertainment industry, and like other performers with unfulfilled careers, any number of wha-if type questions arise. Would things have turned out differently if she hadn’t been so headstrong and hadn’t challenged the big studios early in her career; if only she’d played the game in the usual way and remained patient and let her career develop along more conventional lines; if she had gotten the role of Sadie Thompson in Rain, rather than losing out to Joan Crawford; if she hadn’t left the movies at such a relatively young age. Alas, as in all these kinds of questions, we have that always frustrating and unsatisfying answer: we’ll never know. What we do know is what she did, and, as much as is possible, who she was. But mostly we have her best films, those handful of pre-Codes, and for that we’re the richer.
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