Tag Archives: jean harlow

Feminist Fridays: Madonnas and whores on the China Seas.

Posted on by under classic pairings, feminist fridays

Of the six films in which Jean Harlow and Clark Gable appeared together, China Seas is one of the pair’s better outings. By this time in her life, at the tender age of 24, Harlow had come into her own as an actress, demonstrating the combination of sharp-edged femininity and self-assurance that marked the final roles of her too-short career. For his part, Gable was coming off an Oscar win for Best Actor (for the previous year’s It Happened One Night), and the award had brought Gable immense popularity as well as more power at his home studio, MGM. The pair had previously made three films together–1931′s The Secret Six, 1932′s Red Dust, and 1933′s Hold Your Man–and had developed an easy rapport both on and off the screen. By the time China Seas began filming in 1935, they were old pros at playing combative lovers.

China Seas puts bickering former paramours Gable and Harlow in the middle of a love triangle on the other side of the world. Alan Gaskell (Gable) is captain of a ship traveling from Hong Kong to Shanghai with troubles aplenty on board. He has a store of gold below decks; a ferocious storm on the horizon; a former lover, Dolly “China Doll” Portland (Harlow), in his cabin; an English widow and former objet d’amour, Sybil Barclay (Rosalind Russell), among his passengers; and, unbeknownst to Gaskell, a duplicitous old friend, Jamesy McArdle (Wallace Beery), who is plotting to steal the gold. When Gaskell renews his relationship with Sybil and decides to marry her and return to England, China Doll jealously aligns herself with Jamesy, assisting in his plot by stealing the key to the ship’s arsenal so his pirate cohorts can arm themselves and take the ship. With the help of his crew, Gaskell is able to turn the tables on Jamesy and comes to realize that his adventurous and dangerous life on the seas is exactly where he belongs.

The film presents two very different women. Harlow’s character, China Doll, is pure vamp, oozing sex with every step and sideways glance. When Gaskell discover her in his bathroom and asks what she’s doing aboard his ship, she blithely replies, “Nothing alarming. Just showering dewdrops off the body beautiful.” That she thinks nothing of stripping down and jumping in Gaskell’s shower indicates the scope of their relationship–they were previously lovers, and judging by Gaskell’s anger at her unexpected appearance, he has attempted (and obviously failed) to cut her loose. China Doll calls herself “the gal that drives men mad,” and it’s true: from Gaskell to Jamesy (who later claims that loving China Doll was “the only decent thing I ever did in my life, and even that was a mistake”), she leaves a series of frustrated male libidos in her wake.

On the other hand, China Doll’s polar opposite, Russell’s high-class Sybil Barclay, is refinement personified. She views China Doll, a woman of poor breeding and “ill repute,” as nothing short of vulgar, and Sybil manages to convey her utter disdain of the woman while maintaining the regal bearing of the aristocrat. Still, Sybil’s measured personality does not prevent her from making incisive observations about her romantic rival when pushed too far by China Doll’s barely-concealed contempt. During an ill-fated dinner one evening, as China Doll becomes increasingly drunk and belligerent, Sybil finally defines (and implicitly judges) the motivation behind the woman’s uncouth behavior: “You must be very fond of him, to humiliate yourself like this.” It’s interesting to note the difference between the women as exemplified by this scene. While China Doll lets her emotions get away from her and spirals into self-destructiveness, Sybil contains her feelings behind a veneer of civility–it’s passion versus propriety, lust versus genteel sentiment.

In this way, the movie sets up the archetypal (and stereotypical) Madonna-whore complex, with each woman respectively being shunted into the role of “good girl” and “wicked woman.” In his interactions with China Doll, Gaskell is rough and animalistic, exuding wild, untamed lust; she responds in kind, seemingly welcoming the captain’s brutality, at least until it turns to outright rejection. Gaskell’s relationship with Sybil, by contrast, is almost entirely devoid of eroticism; the well-bred Englishwoman is a figure of virtue, one Gaskell intends to marry instead of ravish, and thus is not subject to the same unbridled passion that he shares (however unwillingly) with China Doll.

Gable’s relationship with these two women is like some kind of weird, wonderful Freudian wet dream. He spends the entire film torn between his feelings for each woman, each of whom represents a particular facet of his own personality. China Doll is indicative of the freedom he desires (and has found in the sea): as a woman of “loose morals” (so to speak), she does not require commitment to be enjoyed for what she can offer. As Gaskell tells her, “Now wait a minute, Dolly! You and I are friends. We’ve had a lot of fun together, and, as far as I’m concerned, you’re number-one girl in the archipelago, but I don’t remember making any vows to you, nor do I recall your taking any.” In the same breath, he both belittles her (by pointing out her “popularity” among the men of the area) and indicates approval of their no-strings-attached “friendship.”

Sybil, on the other hand, represents a level of respectability that Gaskell craves–a return to “normalcy” away from pirates and stormy weather and the daily risks of captaining a crew in such a dangerous part of the world. Their connection goes deep into their shared past, as they had loved one another years ago, but had forsaken those feelings out of respect for Sybil’s husband (who dies before the movie begins). Had Gaskell remained in England and forged a life that was not fraught with strife and danger, then settling down with a now-free Sybil would have been the logical choice. In the end, though, Gaskell lets her go, forgoing the promise of civilization in favor of a woman who is much like himself–a rebel bucking the norm.

Harlow and Gable are an indelible film pair–it’s hard to think about a Harlow film without Gable coming to mind. That shouldn’t be too surprising, all things considered–of the almost two dozen feature-length movies for which Harlow received on-screen credit, Gable ultimately co-starred in 25% of them. Gable and Harlow would go on to make two more films together after China Seas: Wife vs. Secretary in 1936, and Saratoga a year later. The latter film was Harlow’s final project before her untimely death, and was eventually completed using a stand-in and a voice double. That Saratoga was completed at all is a testament to both the actress’ popularity and the potency of the Gable-Harlow pairing–in the end, no one could resist the idea of seeing these two brilliant and beautiful actors play off one another just one more time.

Celebrating Women in Classic Film: The Scribblers

Posted on by under celebrating women in classic film, screenwriters

In celebration of Women’s History Month, True Classics is taking a look at some of the women who helped shape the movie industry through their contributions behind the camera. Last week, we examined the roles of some of the women directors who made their mark both in the silent era and after the advent of sound. Today we’re going to revisit some of the female screenwriters whose work lit up the silver screen in those early years.

The Scribblers

One of my favorite books as a child was Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women, and my favorite character, without question, was Jo March. Jo spent her days in the attic, “scribbling” out stories and poems and plotting how best to get them into print. Jo was a not-so-subtle representation of the author who created her, an author whose position as a female writer sometimes made it difficult to be taken seriously in the literary field. It’s been well documented that women writers in the nineteenth century sometimes had to result to using male pseudonyms in order to see their work actually make it to print–the Bronte sisters, for example, initially published their respective works under the names Acton (Anne), Currer (Charlotte), and Ellis (Emily) Bell, and Alcott herself published several of her more “adult” pieces under the name A.M. Barnard.

By the twentieth century, women writers found it much easier to publish their work under their own names. Still, the road to fame and fortune (or mere solvency) was not an easy one. The “woman’s novel” label severely limited the general readership of a particular piece, and it was difficult for many women to break out into general popularity among readers.

In the early days of Hollywood, however, a writer’s gender generally had little influence over whether or not a motion picture would ultimately be successful. Seems strange to think about now, doesn’t it? But in the silent era of moviemaking, women were able to get an unprecedented toehold in the industry. In fact, percentage-wise, more women worked as screenwriters in the silent era than are currently doing so in modern-day Hollywood–by some estimates, more than HALF of the films produced in the first two decades of Hollywood filmmaking were written by women!

The most prolific screenwriter, male or female, to come out of those early years is Frances Marion. And yet, if you were to ask a majority of casual movie fans if they had ever heard of her, the answer would be an overwhelming “no.” Marion wrote over two hundred screenplays during those days, and her work helped guide and shape the careers of some of the greatest silent-era actors and actresses to ever grace the screen.

Marion began her tenure in Hollywood in 1912 working as an assistant for director Lois Weber. It wasn’t long before Marion started writing her own scripts, and in 1917, she formed a partnership–and a close personal friendship–with America’s sweetheart, Mary Pickford. Pickford hired Marion to be her own personal screenwriter, and Marion wrote the scripts for some of Pickford’s most enduring films: The Little Princess, Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, The Poor Little Rich Girl (all in 1917), Pollyanna (1920), The Love Light (1921, which Marion also directed), and Secrets (1933–Pickford’s last film role).

Pickford was not the only silent film actress to benefit from Marion’s pen–she wrote or reworked scripts for Marion Davies, Lillian Gish, and Marie Dressler, among many others. For Davies, Marion fought with the young actress’ controlling lover/Svengali, William Randolph Hearst, insisting that Davies was best suited to light comedic roles on screen (exemplified by her work in the Marion-penned 1932 comedy Blondie of the Follies). In regards to Gish, Marion rewrote the screenplay for the 1926 adaptation of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s paean to the ills of adultery, The Scarlet Letter–a book whose salacious material was considered nigh on impossible to adapt for the screen, despite the less restrictive pre-Code atmosphere of the 1920s.

And as for Dressler, Marion plucked the aging actress out of near-obscurity and made her a bona fide star. In 1930, when Marion was working on the screen version of another controversial work–Eugene O’Neill’s Anna Christie (which was, incidentally, Greta Garbo’s first talkie)–she not only used her influence to score Dressler the supporting role of Marthy, but also developed the screenplay for Min and Bill, the movie which would eventually present Dressler with the Academy Award for Best Actress. Marion also went on to write the treatment for Dinner at Eight (1933), in which Dressler was given top billing.

Dressler and Beery as Min and Bill

Dressler’s frequent co-star, Wallace Beery, also benefitted greatly from his association with Frances Marion. Beery, who like Dressler had almost given up on Hollywood by 1930, made a mark through his pairings with Dressler in Min and Dinner, as well as the later film Tugboat Annie (1933–not written by Marion). But Beery finally gained immense, lasting popularity in the two films that also, signficantly enough, awarded Marion her two Oscars for screenwriting: 1930′s The Big House (which, according to many film critics, actually invented the “prison drama” genre of films) and, the following year, The Champ (in which Beery co-starred with popular child actor Jackie Cooper). Beery was nominated for the Academy Award for Best Actor for both movies, and won the award for The Champ (in a tie with Fredric March).

Marion’s remarkable output of screenwriting work slowed to a trickle by the mid-1930. By that time, she had been the highest-paid screenwriter in Hollywood for fifteen years, and she had raised the ire of studio executives for her participation in the formation of the Screen Writers Guild in 1933 (she also served as the first vice president of the group). The 1936 death of her biggest supporter, MGM’s boy wonder producer Irving Thalberg, however, marked the beginning of the end of Marion’s career in Hollywood. She remained under contract to the studio for the next decade, but eventually left Hollywood in 1946. Her last film for which she was credited was the 1940 jungle adventure Green Hell. Marion passed away in 1973 at the age of 84, soon after publishing her memoirs.

One of Marion’s contemporaries and good friends, Anita Loos, also wrote many scripts for MGM, and even collaborated with Marion on several projects including the screenplay for Blondie of the Follies, for which Loos is credited for contributing additional dialogue.

Like Marion, Loos made her initial splash in Hollywood in 1912, when her short subject script for The New York Hat was produced by D.W. Griffith, starring Pickford and Lionel Barrymore. She wrote almost exclusively for Griffith until 1916, when she joined forces with future husband John Emerson to write screenplays for silent star Douglas Fairbanks. The collaboration with Fairbanks made Loos just as big a star as some of the actresses for which she was writing.

Emerson was, by most accounts, a source of heartbreak and anxiety for Loos. For many years, they were credited as a screenwriting duo–except, in many cases, Loos was the one doing all of the work. Emerson became a hypochondriac in his later years, using his various illnesses and ailments in an attempt to guilt Loos into abandoning her career, as her success made Emerson insanely jealous, to the point where he actively tried to suppress some of her work.

In the midst of her personal turmoil, Loos’ arguably most popular creation emerged: the character of Lorelei Lee, the diamond-desiring gold-digger-to-beat-all-gold-diggers and unlikely heroine of her 1925 novel Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. Based upon the hijinks of her social circle in New York, Loos’ insightful commentary on the modern American woman who regularly parlayed her beauty into an ever-increasing jewelry collection struck a chord with readers, and it became one of the best-selling novels of the decade. Loos adapted the book for the Broadway stage in 1926 and for the screen in 1928. It was then adapted as a musical, first on Broadway in 1949, and then in its most famous incarnation, the Marilyn Monroe-Jane Russell film version in 1953.

Loos had an ear for the catchy, sometimes nonsensical slang of the 1920s and 30s, which was reflected in some of her more memorable screen treatments, including her screenplay for the 1939 film adaptation of Claire Booth Luce’s caustic treatise on upper-class femininity, The Women, as well as the five films she wrote for star Jean Harlow: Red-Headed Woman (1932); Hold Your Man (1933); The Girl for Missouri (1934); Riffraff (1936); and Harlow’s final film, 1937′s Saratoga. Loos contributed quite a bit to the Harlow mythos, as Harlow’s roles in these films helped craft the sexy, no-nonsense screen persona that is so familiar to modern film audiences.

Loos continued to work on several films throughout the 1940s and early 1950s, but eventually left Hollywood for New York. She spent her remaining years as a contributor to several magazines, including Vanity Fair and Harper’s Bazaar, and was a well-known social butterfly in the city until her death in 1981 at the age of 93.

Like Marion and Loos, who were so instrumental to the careers of Pickford, Dressler, and Harlow, June Mathis was well-known for her championing of a silent-screen star. In her case, it was heartthrob Rudolph Valentino, for whom she was credited by many–including the star himself–for discovering.

Mathis began writing scripts in 1915 and soon found success at MGM. Within three years, she became the head of the studio’s writing department–the first woman to be named a film executive in Hollywood. During her tenure with MGM, Mathis wrote screenplays for several stars, including Ethel and Lionel Barrymore and legendary comedian Buster Keaton, for whom Mathis co-wrote the script for his first full-length feature, 1920′s The Saphead.

But it was her partnership with Valentino for which Mathis is now most remembered. In 1921, Mathis wrote the screenplay for The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, and when asked for her input on who should star, the writer suggested Valentino. Up until then, the actor had been relegated to small roles in B-grade pictures. That was soon to change–Valentino’s smoldering good looks, coupled with the sensuous tango scene and the melodramatic appeal of the film’s anti-war plot, made it an instant success at the box office, and only served to solidify Mathis’ influence in Hollywood.

Mathis wrote several more films for Valentino, including 1921′s Camille and The Conquering Power, 1922′s The Young Rajah and Blood and Sand, and the initial script for 1924′s The Hooded Falcon. Although Mathis and Valentino enjoyed a close relationship for several years–some scholars claim that their relationship was more mother-child than friendly–tension grew between them in the wake of Valentino’s elopement with Natacha Rambova (a marriage that began with Valentino’s arrest for bigamy, as his divorce from his first wife was not yet finalized at the time). When Valentino rejected the script for Falcon, Mathis ended their professional–and personal–relationship, and the pair did not speak for two years.

Not long after their reconciliation in 1926, Valentino died suddenly at the age of 31, shocking the country. When it was revealed that Valentino had left behind no burial arrangements, Mathis offered her own crypt in the Hollywood cemetery. It was intended to be a temporary solution. However, less than a year later, Mathis herself sadly passed away at the age of 38, and she was laid to rest beside Valentino. They remain resting side by side to this day.

These women–along with contemporaries like Jeanie MacPherson, Lenore Coffee, Gene Gauntier, Adela Rogers St. Johns, and untold others–wrote the screenplays for some of the most entertaining, memorable films that early Hollywood has to offer. Yet their names have been largely forgotten as the years have passed. It’s important to remember their contributions, however, for their witty, wise, and wonderful words not only helped create the foundation for the Hollywood we know and love today, but also influenced the work of numerous writers and filmmakers–male and female–in the decades that followed.

“She may be his wife, but she’s engaged to me!”

Posted on by under blogathon, screwball legends

In the mid-1930s, the screwball comedy was still a relatively new subgenre of film. Many critics label It Happened One Night, released in 1934, as the first “screwball” picture ever produced, and subsequent films such as Twentieth Century (also 1934) and Hands Across the Table (1935) built upon the elements that would become typical tropes of the screwball picture: daffy dames, class warfare, rapid-fire zingers, and a never-ending battle of the sexes.

But the genre really came into its own in 1936 with the release of Libeled Lady. Combining elements of farce, romance, social commentary, and slapstick, Lady is a veritable treasure trove of hilarity, delivered by one of the most talented comedic quartets to ever grace the screen.

Warren Haggerty (Spencer Tracy), the editor of the New York newspaper the Evening Star, mistakenly runs an unsubstantiated (and ultimately untrue) story accusing heiress Connie Allenbury (Myrna Loy) of being a homewrecker. Connie and her father, J.B. (Walter Connolly), declare their intention to sue the paper for libel to the tune of five million dollars. Warren tracks down former employee Bill Chandler (William Powell) and convinces him to help force the Allenburys to drop the lawsuit. Bill’s plan is to marry a woman–in name only–and then trap Connie into “breaking up” the marriage so that she will have no choice but to forgo the lawsuit against the paper. Warren offers up his own fiancé, Gladys (Jean Harlow), who has grown increasingly tired of Warren’s repeated delays in marrying her. She agrees to the scheme on the promise that Warren will finally make Gladys his wife once it’s over. But Bill doesn’t count on actually falling in love with Connie … and no one counts on Gladys deciding that marriage to Bill is infinitely more enticing than marrying the reluctant Warren …

By all accounts, the making of this film was nothing less than sheer pleasure for its four main stars, who shared a great friendship and camaraderie that shines on and off the screen. Each actor plays off the others beautifully–it’s truly an ensemble, in the best sense of the word.

As the male leads, Tracy and Powell are dynamite, sparring with their female partners in an increasingly frenetic pas de deux. Loy matches them step for step, and Connolly gives a typically wonderful performance as Loy’s put-upon father. But if I had to name the true “star” of the film, it would be Jean Harlow, hands down. She certainly got some of the best quips in the film, at any rate:

Warren: “Gladys, do you want me to kill myself?”
Gladys: “Did you change your insurance?”

I think Libeled Lady is the film where Harlow’s comedic talents finally gelled into something damn near close to perfect. She had always exhibited an instinctive comic ability in her roles, even from the earliest days of her career, when she was a contract player at the Hal Roach Studios. After MGM acquired her contract from millionaire producer Howard Hughes in 1932, Harlow reached superstar status in the wake of sex-bomb roles in pre-Code potboilers like 1932′s Red-Headed Woman and Red Dust–characters that were equal parts smolder and smart-ass. These parts were followed by more mainstream comedic roles in films such as Dinner at Eight and Bombshell (both in 1933), movies that showcased, in part, the depths of her hilarity.

But Harlow, who often felt typecast in the role of a wisecracking sexpot, reportedly sought to cultivate a less sexualized air on-screen. She attempted to move in a more refined direction with some of her later films, including Suzy and Wife vs. Secretary (both 1936), which muted the brassier tones of her past shtick into something a bit more dignified (at least in comparison).

Libeled Lady represented a sort of “return to form” for Harlow, presenting the actress with a practically custom-made role that combined her innate sexiness with the kind of rapid-fire, quick-witted dialogue at which she excelled at delivering. And this did not go unnoticed by critics. New York Times film reviewer Frank S. Nugent, in his 1936 review of the movie, expressed his thanks to the studio for Harlow’s return to her forte, writing:

“[W]e are so pathetically grateful to Metro for restoring Miss Harlow to her proper metier that we could have forgiven even more serious lapses” than the “slackening of pace toward the picture’s conclusion.”

Indeed, throughout the movie Harlow shines brightest of all, and her performance as Gladys is the one that draws your eye every second she is on the screen, from the moment she storms into the newsroom–in full wedding regalia–to claim her absent groom … 

… up through the film’s conclusion, when Gladys finally decides that Warren is the right man for her, despite his predilection for newsprint. In every scene, Harlow makes you laugh even while you marvel at her sexy swagger (and even when she’s undergoing the torture treatment known as a permanent, you can’t help but envy that gorgeous mug of hers).

Not for nothing is Jean Harlow still remembered as one of the most beautiful women to ever grace filmdom.

The movie marked a personal milestone in Harlow’s life–it was during the shooting of Libeled Lady that she formally changed her name from Harlean Carpenter to Jean Harlow. The film also gave Harlow the opportunity to work with her real-life love, William Powell, in the second of their two films together (after the previous year’s Reckless). Though she seems like a perfect fit for the role of Gladys, Harlow initially expressed interest in playing Connie because she wanted her character to end up with Powell’s in the end. The studio, however, wanted to cash in on the public’s love for the on-screen team of Powell and Loy, which had come to such great fruition two years earlier in the first Thin Man film. Still, as Gladys, Harlow got to play a wedding scene with her man, fulfilling (at least cinematically) her desire to become Mrs. William Powell. Sadly, that union never materialized in reality before Harlow’s untimely death the following year.

Jean Harlow was so beloved as a brash, sexy comedienne that, had she lived beyond the age of 26, she may very well have found herself typecast in those sorts of roles for the remainder of her career. But would that have been such a bad thing, in the end? Could she have made the transition from ingenue roles to more “adult” fare with aplomb, or would she have found it difficult to maintain her position as one of the brightest stars in the cinematic sky? It’s a futile exercise to play the ”what if” game, but it’s nonetheless interesting to consider where Harlow’s career may have taken her if circumstances had been different.

Happy one hundredth birthday, Baby.

This post is our contribution to the Jean Harlow Blogathon, sponsored by the Kitty Packard Pictorial in honor of Harlow’s centenary. To see more entries in the blogathon, check out the Pictorial. And for more information about Harlow’s years in Hollywood, pick up a copy of the new biography Harlow in Hollywood: The Blonde Bombshell in the Glamour Capital, 1928-1937, by Darrell Rooney and Mark A. Vieira.

Honoring the original “Platinum Blonde.”

Posted on by under blogathon

Tomorrow marks the start of the Jean Harlow Blogathon, hosted by the Kitty Packard Pictorial! We are so excited to be participating in this event to celebrate the centenary of one of the most gorgeous, talented, and truly funny actresses to ever come out of Hollywood.

Harlow’s birthday is Thursday, March 3rd, and we will be posting our tribute the day before. Brandie will be taking a look at 1937′s seminal screwball classic Libeled Lady–one of Harlow’s best comedic performances.

If you’ll be in the Los Angeles area, you can join in the festivities at the Hollywood Museum, which will be hosting a special exhibition of Harlow memorabilia from March 3rd through September 5th. You can even see her beloved 1932 Packard!

Also, just a reminder: the new book Harlow in Hollywood: The Blonde Bombshell in the Glamour Capital, 1928-1937, by Darrell Rooney and Mark A. Vieira, is being released on Tuesday, March 1st. You can win a copy–check out Kitty’s blog for details!

Some great bloggers are already lined up to write posts for the blogathon–make sure you get in on the fun and join us!

Blogathon bashes.

Posted on by under blogathon, noir

We here at True Classics are very excited about two upcoming blogathons in which we will be participating!

First up, starting on Sunday, Ferdy on Films and the Self-Styled Siren are joining forces to host For the Love of Film (Noir). Brandie will be contributing a post on the 1947 noir Lured, starring Lucille Ball (yes, that Lucy), George Sanders, and Charles Coburn.

The blogathon is being held in support of the Film Noir Foundation, and all of the funds collected will be dedicated to the restoration of 1950′s The Sound of Fury, starring Lloyd Bridges. I cannot urge you strongly enough to donate to this cause. Don’t underestimate the importance of preserving classic films!

For more information about the For the Love of Film (Noir) blogathon, check out the call for posts over at the Self-Styled Siren.

 

And at the end of this month, the Kitty Packard Pictorial will be hosting a blogathon to honor the centenary of the Blonde Bombshell herself, Jean Harlow, beginning on February 28th (Harlow’s birthday is March 3rd). Kitty has some great events planned, including giveaways of the new TCM Harlow film collection and the new book Harlow in Hollywood.

For more details, check out Kitty’s post about the celebration!

Both of these blogathons will be great fun, so make sure to participate if you can! And if you are participating in either one, tell us–what films are you going to be writing about?

Harlow’s Hollywood.

Posted on by under interview, joyeux anniversaire

The Kitty Packard Pictorial has posted a great interview with Darrell Rooney and Mark A. Vieira, the authors of the new Jean Harlow biography Harlow in Hollywood: The Blonde Bombshell in the Glamour Capital, 1928-1937. The book is set for release on March 1st, and is currently available for pre-order.

Cover image courtesy of Angel City Press

The book is set to be released two days before Harlow’s 100th birthday and is just one part of a series of releases and events that will be going on in upcoming weeks to celebrate the actress’ centenary. Among those events: a first-ever exhibition of Harlow memorabilia at the Hollywood Museum, which will run from March until September!

Here’s an excerpt from Kitty’s fascinating discussion with the authors:

KP:  In order to tell a story with images you have to make tough decisions. For someone with a collection like yours, it must have been murder.

Rooney: It was absolutely that. Once we got the book deal we spent six weeks going through the distillation of photographs to tell Harlow’s story visually. I’d come out with 60 photographs for one chapter and Mark, who’s done this a million times, would say ‘Okay. Now we’re going to choose only 12 from those 60.’ So you pull the superfluous ones first. Then you pull the ones you like and absolutely want to keep. Then you start to really edit. Like Mark says, you have to have a reason for every photograph you keep, and you can’t repeat. If you repeat something you bore the audience. We would cull it down to about 20 or so and I’d begin to see the narrative thread. It was quite a learning process. Painful but necessary.

Vieira: The art of telling a story is so much in the editing, distilling down process.

Rooney: For me, it was like Christmas every day– but you had to give half the presents back. That’s how it felt: exciting but crushing at the same time.

KP: How many photos in the book are previously unpublished?

Rooney: I would say 80 to 90 percent.

KP: Amazing.

Rooney: I think the glamour portraits might have printed other places before– like in fan magazines during the 30s, but that George Hurrell image on the cover has never been published in a book before.

[...]

KP: So tell us: why this book? Why now?

Rooney: It’s a case of awareness. We want to see Harlow embraced by a new generation. We were looking for ‘the angle’ years ago, and I have to hand this to Mark: he’d say, ‘What landmark is coming, you know, some kind of a milestone event?’ Eventually, we realized 2011 was going to be Harlow’s hundredth birthday. Her centenary. That was very significant and we felt this was the milestone that needed to be commemorated; there had to be a book. And with Mark’s experience he knew it couldn’t just be a book, there had to be a series of events tied into it, like a public Exhibition that the press could cover and people could go to.

One thing we wanted to do to make the book unique and different from other bios was to tell Harlow’s story in her own words as much as possible. We used never-before-seen private correspondence and interviews to achieve this. However, it got very tricky concerning the Paul Bern period of her life. There is so much written about it, and so much of it is conjecture. How do you sort it out? Mark kept saying: Whenever you’re confused, ask yourself ‘what is Harlow’s story from her own point of view? Don’t tell events from someone else’s point of view – what was her experience?’ And at times that meant a lot of rewriting. And that’s what’s makes the difference with our book, Harlow In Hollywood. That is one of the key things that sets this book apart: this is Harlow’s story told in her own words and from her own experiences.

For the full interview, and some seriously interesting reading, check out The Kitty Packard Pictorial! And keep checking in with Kitty for more information about the Jean Harlow blogathon coming up at the end of this month!