Introduction
Looking at the life of movie mogul Samuel Goldwyn, it’s utterly amazing to see how many threads of the film industry he touched. Indeed, in many ways, telling his sprawling story is like describing the history of Hollywood itself. We hope you’ll agree it’s an incredible tale.
Schmuel Gelbfisz entered this world in July 1879. Born in a Jewish ghetto in Warsaw, Poland, the young boy’s father died early on and he was raised by his mother, who beat and mistreated him. Seeing no hope for the future, and without a penny to his name, the young Schmuel decided to leave home on his own. At the age of 16, and with almost no knowledge of the outside world, he simply started walking west.
Eventually, Schmuel made his way to London, where he began calling himself Samuel Goldfish. After hearing stories about opportunities in America, he borrowed $15 to book passage on a ship to New York.
New York
Sitting in steerage during the voyage, he heard horror stories from the other immigrants about American authorities sending penniless immigrants back to Europe. Taking no chances, Goldfish got off the boat at its first port of call in Halifax, Nova Scotia. From there, he trudged five hundred miles in the dead of winter to New York City.
When Goldfish arrived, he was broke, freezing, starving, and exhausted. Distraught after finding the slums of New York to be no better than the ones he had left in Warsaw, he found refuge with the local Jewish community. Making contacts there, he got a job working in a glove factory where he was eventually promoted to a sales position.
One day in 1913, while walking the 50 blocks between the office and his apartment, Goldfish stopped off at the Herald Square Theater on 34th Street in midtown Manhattan. There, he saw his first movie and was mesmerized by the experience. He ran straight to his brother-in-law – vaudevillian Jesse Lasky – and told him the two of them needed to leave their paying jobs immediately and start their own film production company.
Hollywood Beginnings
There was only one problem. Neither Goldfish nor Lasky knew anything about making movies. So, they reached out to a theatrical director named Cecil B. DeMille and asked him to join the company. DeMille was intrigued but was upfront about the fact he had never made a movie either.
However, after spending some time visiting Thomas Edison’s studios in New Jersey to see what the movie business was all about, the three men then decided they would make a western. To avoid any potential patent or trust issues, they also made the decision to shoot their first feature out West. They called their new enterprise the “Jesse L. Lasky Feature Play Company.” Goldfish sunk every dollar he had into it.
DeMille and his crew boarded a train and headed west. The group eventually landed in a community outside a small town named Los Angeles. It was here that DeMille decided to set up shop. He rented a barn and began shooting his movie on December 29, 1913. When he finished less than a month later, he had shot the first full-length feature film ever made in that part of the state. It was called The Squaw Man (1914).
Paramount Pictures
But the project still ran out of money before DeMille had finished. So, to pay for the completion of The Squaw Man, Goldfish and Lasky approached a distributor named Adolph Zukor. In return for the rights, Zukor gave them enough money to finish shooting.
When The Squaw Man proved a major success, a merger was proposed between Goldfish, Lasky, DeMille’s, and Zukor’s companies. The new enterprise took its name from another start-up that was included as part of the deal: Paramount Pictures.
But soon egos began to clash. Goldfish proved himself to be an emotional man and he was not shy about letting his partners know he didn’t care for Adolph Zukor. He openly derided Zukor in public. Which didn’t turn out to be a smart move when the latter acquired a controlling interest and voted Goldfish out of Paramount Pictures.
Goldfish To Goldwyn
Down, but not out, Goldfish struck up a new partnership. This time with Broadway producers Edgar and Archibald Selwyn. They formed another new company, bought some property in Culver City, California, and called it Goldwyn Pictures after a melding of their two last names. Mr. Goldfish was so delighted he legally changed his own name to match that of his new production company.
To avenge himself on Zukor and Paramount, Samuel Goldwyn began buying up property and making deals. He even decided on the company’s new logo: a lion that roared at the camera. Unfortunately, he also made another major mistake. He struck up an alliance with a dishonorable distributor who was given a sizable stake in the company.
The Birth of MGM
Behind Goldwyn’s back, the distributor leveraged this into a controlling interest and sold the company to theater chain owner Marcus Loew. The two men named the venture Metro Goldwyn Studios and brought in an outsider named Louis B. Mayer to run it. Mayer asked for, and the partners agreed, to add his name to the masthead. It became known as Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, or MGM, for short.
Goldwyn was livid. Not only had his company been sold out from under him, but it still bore his name. He sued to have it removed but was unsuccessful. Once again, he had been in on the ground floor of the creation of a major Hollywood studio but had been left out in the cold. It also left him with a lifetime hatred of Louis B. Mayer.
Talent and Work Ethic
This all took place in 1924, and Samuel Goldwyn fell into a deep depression. For nearly a year, he remained inactive and kept to himself. Taking stock of his finances, Goldwyn was well aware that he was still broke. He figured he needed around $250,000 to get re-started.
Goldwyn approached Cecil B. DeMille, who now sat on the board of directors at the Bank of America. Despite his old partner’s lack of assets, DeMille personally approved a loan for the struggling producer. When the bank president castigated DeMille for loaning such a large sum to someone who clearly didn’t qualify, DeMille responded that Goldwyn had the two greatest assets imaginable: talent and a strong work ethic.
Building on a passion for quality, Goldwyn used the loan to begin buying up the hottest properties he could find: hit Broadway plays, best-selling novels, and the contracts of proven screenwriters. Goldwyn was a big believer in talent and was not shy about paying top dollar to those who deserved it.
The Goldwyn Touch
In 1931, Goldwyn hired director John Ford to bring Sinclair Lewis’ tale of an idealistic young doctor to the screen in Arrowsmith. The film was nominated for four Academy Awards, including Best Picture. Goldwyn was deeply disappointed when he lost the grand prize to MGM and Louis B. Mayer’s production of Grand Hotel (1932) the following year.
It was just the beginning of a repeating pattern. Goldwyn got another taste of it in 1936 when he created another critically lauded film named Dodsworth. It garnered seven Oscar nominations but again lost the Best Picture prize to MGM and The Great Ziegfeld. In 1937 Goldwyn lost again when Dead End was nominated but failed to win.
Goldwynisms
As Samuel Goldwyn’s reputation as a major producer began to take root, stories began to circulate throughout the film industry about his unique style of phrasing. As an immigrant, Goldwyn was at first embarrassed and self-conscious about his grammatical missteps. But his publicity department reminded him that every time someone told a joke about Goldwyn, it kept his name circulating in the trade papers. And that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
To qualify, a “Goldwynism” needed to not only demonstrate a basic misunderstanding of the English language but also ironically convey exactly what the speaker meant to say:
GOLDWYNISMS–
- “Include Me Out!!”
- “An oral contract isn’t worth the paper it’s written on.”
- “I don’t care if this picture doesn’t make a dime, as long as every man, woman, and child in America sees it.”
- “Instead of sending a damn fool, next time I’ll go myself.”
- “I had a great idea this morning, but I didn’t like it.”
- “Anyone who goes to a psychiatrist should have his head examined.”
- “That man will never work for me again unless I need him.”
- “When I want your opinion, I’ll give it to you.”
- “If I did that, I’d be sticking my head in a moose.”
- “My wife is the best man I have.”
Wuthering Heights
Humor and levity aside, Goldwyn’s management style finally met its match with the classic film Wuthering Heights (1939). It starred Laurence Olivier and Merle Oberon in a tale of doomed love between a stable boy and a girl of higher social standing. After circumstances conspire to keep them apart, she falls gravely ill and dies after admitting she’s loved him all along. In his grief, the former stable boy then wanders out into a snowstorm and freezes to death.
While the film was in production, Samuel Goldwyn and director William Wyler didn’t get along at all. And when the producer saw the finished picture, he declared that no one would like a film that ended with “dead people.” So, he demanded that Wyler slap a happy ending on it. The director refused and declared his job done.
“The Whole Thing Was a Mistake…”
But when Wyler saw the finished picture with an audience, he was positively horrified. Goldwyn had gone ahead and added a final shot to the picture on his own. It showed the ghosts of the two protagonists wandering toward a cliff in the Scottish moors. The poorly conceived matte shot didn’t look too convincing over a fake snow-covered mountain. But audiences didn’t care and lauded the film as a romance classic. Wyler however groaned, feeling he was the only person in the world who realized the whole thing was a mistake.
More Short Straws
Both men were probably assuaged when the film was nominated for eight Academy Awards. But 1939 was an extremely competitive year. In the Best Picture category, Wuthering Heights went up against the likes of The Wizard of Oz, Mr. Smith Goes To Washington, Goodbye Mr. Chips, Ninotchka, and Stagecoach. Yet, they all lost out to the evening’s big winner: Gone With The Wind. Once again, history repeated itself as Goldwyn’s film lost out.
In 1941, Goldwyn lured Wyler back to work with Bette Davis on The Little Foxes. Critically acclaimed, the film was nominated for no fewer than nine Academy Awards, including Best Picture, but didn’t win any of them.
Goldwyn’s next big film turned out to be one of his most profitable ever: The Pride of the Yankees (1942). In addition to having Gary Cooper utter one of the most famous movie lines in movie history (“…today, I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth…”), it also became one of the most iconic sports films of all time. The American Film Institute places it third on that particular list, behind Raging Bull (1980) and Rocky (1976).
In addition to making a lot of money at the box office, Pride of the Yankees also racked up an incredible eleven Academy Award nominations. Yet once again, in the Best Picture race of 1942, it lost to Mayer and MGM’s Mrs. Miniver.
For those keeping count, Pride of the Yankees marked the sixth Goldwyn film to be nominated for Best Picture and lose. Five of those losses came at the hands of Louis B. Mayer – probably the one man Goldwyn hated above all else.
The Best Years of Our Lives
As World War II came to a close, Goldwyn’s wife brought him an article she had recently read in Time Magazine. It told the story of a bunch of Marines who had come home on a thirty-day furlough and the joys and heartaches they had encountered when reunited with their loved ones. Their interviews had moved Mrs. Goldwyn to tears. Sam acquired the rights and hired the screenwriter Robert Sherwood to turn the idea into a script.
That screenplay turned out to be The Best Years of Our Lives (1946). It tells the story of three returning war veterans and the very real problems they face once they arrive home. With William Wyler directing and Gregg Toland behind the camera, it still resonates today in ways one wouldn’t think possible for a movie that’s over seventy-five years old. It’s one of those rare films which is truly timeless.
Not a Dry Eye in the House
One of the veterans is played by Hollywood stalwart Fredric March. In one of the most famous scenes in film history, he returns unannounced to his apartment after being off fighting the war for several years. The audience hears the voice of March’s wife (played by Myrna Loy) from the end of the hall. She asks who is at the door.
This is followed by a few seconds of silence as the audience can almost sense her feelings of guarded anticipation and hope. Loy comes out of the kitchen and stares at her husband as he walks down the hall and away from the camera. They collapse into each other’s arms and begin quietly sobbing.
It’s one of those sublime movie moments, perfectly realized by Toland’s deep-focus photography and Wyler’s flawless direction. Those few seconds of nearly silent cinema effortlessly captured a scene being repeated millions of times across the country in 1946. Theater after theater, there simply wasn’t a dry eye left in the house.
How Far We’ve Come
However, it’s one of the other veterans you’ll always remember. His name is Harold Russell, and as an actual enlisted man, had never acted in a film before. What made his performance so unique was the fact that he didn’t have any forearms or hands. They had been blown off during an explosives training exercise prior to Russell’s deployment overseas. Deprived of the use of the lower part of his arms, he was forced to use metal hooks in order to perform everyday chores.
Wyler had spotted Russell while viewing an army documentary on disabled veterans and made the courageous decision to include him in the film. Showing an actual severely handicapped individual on screen was simply unheard of at the time. The subject just wasn’t considered acceptable for “popular entertainment.”
How far we’ve come. It’s just another reason why The Best Years of Our Lives was so groundbreaking at the time. When Russell returns to his friends and family, he experiences nothing but frustration in his attempts to be considered “normal” again. It really hits home as he speaks as a real human being you might meet in everyday life.
History is Made
When The Best Years of Our Lives was completed, the film ran two hours and forty minutes. In the 1940s, this was considered an utterly noncommercial length, since it limited the number of showings the film could get. Despite these odds, the picture became a tremendous hit at the box office. It pulled in over $10 million in 1946. At the time, only Gone With the Wind (1939) had done better during its first year.
Still, The Best Years of Our Lives was considered a long shot at that year’s Academy Awards. It was nominated in eight categories, including one for Harold Russell as Best Supporting Actor. However, so sure was the governing body that a Goldwyn film was once again going to draw the short straw, they decided ahead of time to create a “special” Oscar. It was to honor Russell for:
“bringing hope and courage to his fellow veterans”
They anticipated a loss and wanted to make sure Russell was appropriately recognized for his work in the film. However, Russell made movie history that night when he also took home the award for Best Supporting Actor. By doing so he became the first (and only) person to ever win two separate Oscars for the same performance. He wasn’t even a professional actor.
Vindication
Best Years of Our Lives also won Best Picture, Best Director (Wyler), Best Screenplay (Sherwood), Best Actor, Best Editing, and Best Music. As the icing on the cake, Goldwyn was additionally bestowed with one of the industry’s highest honors: The Irving Thalberg Award for Lifetime Achievement. After thirty-three years and sixty-seven films, Samuel Goldwyn’s moment of vindication was finally at hand. He had come a long way since getting off that boat in Nova Scotia without a dollar in his pocket.
That night, after they arrived home from the ceremony, Goldwyn’s wife became alarmed when her husband failed to come to bed. She crept down the stairs to see what had become of him. She found Goldwyn sitting in the dark on the living room couch, clutching his Best Picture and Thalberg trophies. He was silently weeping.
Career Sunset
By the late 1950s, Samuel Goldwyn knew the old Hollywood was dying. A few years earlier, Louis B. Mayer was fired from his post as head of MGM. When he tried to stage a boardroom coup to regain control, Goldwyn purchased $10,000 worth of MGM stock. “Here’s 10,000 votes against Louis,” he said as he signed the check. Mayer failed in his bid to take back MGM and died soon after in 1957.
The following year, Jesse Lasky came calling. He was bankrupt, broke, and had been washed up in the industry for quite some time. Goldwyn met with him, and the two men reminisced about how far each had come since they had made The Squaw Man together in 1913. There were no recriminations and each made their peace with the other. Three days later, Lasky died of a heart attack.
Realizing that life is short, Goldwyn also arranged a meeting with Cecil B. DeMille. The latter was taking it easy after suffering a heart attack during the filming of The Ten Commandments (1955). Goldwyn wanted DeMille to know he still remembered the loan his old partner had secured for him when he was down on his luck and had nowhere else to turn. All of Goldwyn’s successes had sprung from that one act of generosity. He made that fact known and thanked DeMille, who passed away himself less than a year later.
Samuel Goldwyn’s Legacy
Samuel Goldwyn died on January 31, 1974, at the age of 94. He had certainly led a remarkable life. But his legacy lives on. Even during the height of the Hollywood Studio era, Goldwyn had laid down the template for today’s “independent producer.” This included the principles of solitary “deal-making” and gritty “self-reliance.”
The latter was never more evident than in the months leading up to the former producer’s death. Still dealing with the aftermath of his stroke, he nevertheless insisted on being carried downstairs every day for his meals.
One afternoon, the elderly Samuel Goldwyn was having trouble eating his soup. He just didn’t have the coordination to bring the spoon up to his lips. His live-in nurse came over to assist him, but he waved her off. “Mr. Goldwyn,” she exclaimed, “there’s nothing wrong with getting a little help…” Goldwyn snapped back:
“Help? I don’t need any help! How the hell do you think I got out of Poland!!”
