Are We Shocked Yet?

Clever Sister saw this January 5 obit:

Frederica Sagor Maas, Silent-Era Scriptwriter, Dies at 111

Which prompted CS to check the library for Maas' tell-all book, The Shocking Miss Pilgrim—written at age 99!

A Salon author interview after the book's 1999 publication reflects the tone of Maas' account.

It happens that in the late 1980s she had met film historian Kevin Brownlow, who would persuade her to write her memoirs. (Brownlow's obit of Maas here.)

The book is a quick read, done since CS passed the book to me last week. If neither of us had heard of the author or her movie scripts, it's partly because her career was a rocky one, with few writing credits received for all her hard work. Frederica Sagor was 25 when she moved to Hollywood from New York, where she had been a story editor at Universal. She was something of an innocent, believing hard work and good writing would lead to the making of worthwhile films and a successful career. She worked for a time at MGM, where a higher ranking writer put his own name on a finished script Sagor had written from scratch. After pointing out a producer's bad decisions regarding another project, she was labeled a "troublemaker."

Ernest Maas became Sagor's husband and writing partner; together they would face more story theft and general frustration from the studio system. Pursuing topics that were labors of love, the couple sometimes invested years into research and writing. When they tried selling their script about photographer Matthew Brady producers insisted, "Civil War stories are out." Their story, "Miss Pilgrim's Progress," was an historical drama about women entering office work after the typewriter was invented. This time they managed to sell the story and get paid—but were then dismayed to see the script turned into a Betty Grable musical.

Frederica writes of often urging Ernest that they should change careers, but he was committed to staying in movies. After World War II the matter was decided for them. When Ernest was investigated by the FBI after applying for Pentagon film work, the couple, Democrats who had campaigned for Roosevelt, were found to read suspicious matter (they subscribed to The Daily People's World and Soviet Life). Ernest did not receive clearance for a job he needed, and Frederica says the couple were blacklisted.

I've read Hollywood histories before, so accounts of the lack of ethics—and abundance of sex, alcohol and drugs—are no surprise. I do find one thing striking, in the midst of our 2012 political "debate" about Job Creators: much of the Hollywood mogul behavior once generally considered abhorrent has become the norm for employers.

Others receiving credit for one's work; the expectation that staff be available at any hour, at the boss' whim, and will forego weekends and vacations—this is the kind of thing that could come from any of Driftglass' numerous posts on "corporate culture."

As I went to find an example, it happened that Driftglass had just this week written a post that's a staggering resumé of his accomplishments, during years of working 80-100 hour weeks.

A couple of the comments—

Anonymous said...

In other words you, in one fashion or another, are likely perceived as a threat to most who would be in a position to employ you.

David in NYC said...

So, to sum it up, it appears that you cannot hold a job. As opposed to, say, the Mittster, who has had the same job (son of inherited wealth) like forever, man.

But I know what you mean. I've summed up the attitude of the powers-that-be at my current job as, "I don't care that you're right. I want you to apologize for pointing it out."

Another very resonant bit of Maas' memoir is her account of the couple's 1937 stay in New York, in an apartment on Riverside Drive.

Almost directly facing our windows, we could see... a colony of homeless springing up along the banks of the river. Shelters were constructed out of huge cardboard packing boxes lined inside with newspapers. Some were able to get their hands on wooden boards... Some even managed to find slabs of aluminum siding—anything and everything was ingeniously thrown togehter to make a home. There they lived, whole families with children, some with grandparents. It was a veritable commune. Those who were able to find a day's work contributed almost all their wages to the enterprise. They sought donations. With this money they bought food at wholesalers in large quantities as cheaply as they could. There was one common kitchen, three large butane stoves. A good nourishing soup was the mainstay. Sometimes there was meat... Mostly it was soup, potatoes, vegetables, apples... all discards from markets and restaurants...

They were not beggars. These were decent people with families, out of work. They were proud of their community and kept it clean and orderly. Everything was shared equally and fairly—food, chores, work... The ingenuity of the have nots was amazing. Nothing went to waste.

Ernest and I visited the camps often. We made friends with the organizers. Before I knew it, I was involved, helping to raise money... I contracted with restaurants and big markets to give us their discards. I even prevailed upon two local doctors to visit the camp when needed, especially when the children or older campers took sick. At Christmastime every home had a tree, collected from the leftovers that had not been sold by Christmas Eve; decorations were either hand-made or discards. There were Christmas presents for the kids from stores and private families. A group of twenty of us women got together and provided automobile transportation for the children who had to go to school in inclement weather. We did everything we could to help these gallant people, clinging despeartely to dignity, to hope and trust in their country. To them, Franklin D. Roosevelt was the Messiah. Somehow he would restore this promised land again. They believed this. And so did we.

Then it happened. Without warning, city workers burned the shanties right down to the ground. They just came in one bitter cold wintry day and did it.

Ernest and I, bewildered and devastated ourselves, tried to offer words of encouragement, but no one said a word... They were numb. This was the end of the road for them. After these people had drifted away, God knows where, we drew up petitions of protest, appealed to the mayor, to the governor, but to no avail. The powerful had spoken. The owners of the big apartment houses lining the river claimed that their tenants had complained, that the dwellings of these vagabonds were an eyesore, desecrating their view of the beautiful Hudson River, its golden sunsets spreading across the sky. Or, was their conscience unable to face how the other half lives?