The Great George Remus: Bootleggers Go Hollywood

The general public, it seems, didn’t think much of Prohibition. During the years between 1920 and 1933, when the Eighteenth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution made the manufacture, sale, and consumption of most alcoholic beverages illegal throughout the land, many Americans had a strong hankering for a stiff drink. The unintended consequences of Prohibition, which was introduced as a way to improve American social norms, have been chronicled by Ken Burns and Lynn Novick in a lively video documentary that first appeared in 2011. In trademark Burns fashion, the three segments combine historic footage, commentary from experts, major actors (including John Lithgow, Samuel L. Jackson, and Tom Hanks) taking on the voices of essential Prohibition figures, and dramatic narration (by Peter Coyote). Music also plays a key role: both period recordings and an evocative jazz score by Wynton Marsalis. The first episode, A Nation of Drunkards, explains the evolution of the temperance movement in the U.S., with Patricia Clarkson featured as the indomitable Carrie Nation.  The second, A Nation of Scofflaws, focuses on the criminal element that thrived in the new “dry” environment. Finally, A Nation of Hypocrites charts the move toward repeal.

 Naturally it’s that second episode, with its cast of bootleggers and other gangster types, that proves the most exciting. Even back in the day, while thugs and federal agents were shooting it out in the streets of many American cities, moviegoers flocked to see flicks in which audacious law-breakers occupied the leading roles. First came 1931’s Little Caesar, with Edward G. Robinson as gangland boss Caesar “Rico” Bandello. Such was the film’s popularity that it was quickly followed by James Cagney in The Public Enemy (1931) and then Paul Muni trying on the persona of Al Capone in Scarface (1932). None of these guys could be considered admirable—and the public loved them.

 In Burns and Novick’s series, Paul Giamatti lends his voice to the portrayal of millionaire bootlegger George Remus, known as the Bourbon King for his success in transporting Kentucky’s finest to thirsty patrons all over the U.S. I had never heard of Remus before watching this show, but he proved to be unforgettable. Starting as a pharmacist, Remus evolved into an attorney whose skill at getting off clients faced with murder raps was nothing short of remarkable. Once Remus had segued into bootlegging on a grand scale, he found himself rolling in riches. On December 31, 1921, he staged a spectacular -- and of course liquor-fueled -- New Year’s Eve party at his Cincinnati mansion. All the male guests received diamond stickpins as party favors, while women were given keys to new luxury sedans parked outside. But the star attraction was his spectacular marble swimming pool, into which his beautiful second wife Imogene swan-dived at the height of the festivities.  

 About six years later, Remus’ legal talents again came in handy. Discovering that while he’d been cooped up in prison, Imogene had squandered his hard-earned dough on a lover who was a federal prohibition agent, he gunned her down in cold blood. On trial for his life, he somehow got off scot-free. Bob Batchelor’s The Bourbon King: The Life and Crimes of George Remus, Prohibition’s Evil Genius tells the whole sordid story in much detail. Batchelor, a colleague of mine in the Biographers International Organization, ends his book with some fascinating theories. Remus, he feels, may have been F. Scott Fitzgerald’s model for the enigmatic central character in The Great Gatsby. I’m not wholly convinced, but Remus will always remain for me a Jazz Age figure of exhilarating complexity.

 

 

 

Edward Herrmann Responds to a Casting Call

On the most recent documentary produced by Ken Burns, the mellifluous voice of Edward Herrmann is very much in evidence. He serves as narrator of Cancer: The Emperor of All Maladies, a six-hour PBS special based on Siddhartha Mukherjee’s book. This was hardly Herrmann’s first gig for Ken Burns: he had previously voiced the words of FDR on Burns’ The Roosevelts: An Intimate History. Sadly, Cancer: The Emperor of All Maladies was Edward Herrmann’s last opportunity to speak into a microphone. He recorded his narration while suffering from brain cancer, to which he succumbed, at the age of 71, on the last day of 2014.

Edward Herrmann will always be linked to FDR in my mind. I first became aware of him back in 1976, when he starred with Jane Alexander on a much-admired TV miniseries, Eleanor and Franklin. Since that time, he’s played such historic figures as Lou Gehrig, George Bernard Shaw, Max Eastman (in Reds), Andrew Carnegie, Nelson Rockefeller (in Nixon) and William Randolph Hearst (The Cat’s Meow). There’s something about Herrmann’s patrician style that seems to link him to the history books. But he’s also appeared on TV as Herman Munster, and from 2000 to 2007 won fans as Lorelai’s amusingly pompous dad on Gilmore Girls.

 Yet there was a time when Edward Herrmann, future portrayer of presidents and potentates, was a struggling actor trying to make inroads in Hollywood. While he was performing with the Dallas Theater Center, he submitted his credentials and headshot to an L.A. production company in hopes of being considered for the young male lead in an upcoming film. Its title? The Graduate. Needless to say, he didn’t get the part. Nor did Harvey Keitel, nor John Glover, nor Richard Egan,  nor Frederic Forrest, all of whom were nobodies in 1967, but went on to have substantial Hollywood careers. Nor did lots of eager young amateurs who responded to newspaper items about a nationwide talent search.

A casting maven like The Graduate’s Lynn Stalmaster has one of the world’s most heartbreaking jobs. He or she must see many, many actors—all desperate for work—and choose only one. Of course, the producer and director weigh in too, and (in television) sometimes the writer as well. Richard Hatem captures the agony of the casting process from a writer’s perspective. To start with, “There is nothing—nothing—like the first day of auditions. It’s a day you will remember for the rest of your life. Real live actors, several of whom you recognize from other shows you love and hate, are walking into this small, poorly lit room. And they nervously introduce themselves to you, and they compliment you and tell you how much they love your script, and they begin speaking the lines that you wrote. It is infatuating and intoxicating. You have never felt more honored.  Or important.”

Then “by the third day, the fun is over. You have heard your lines read one hundred times, and by now, they all sound terrible and dull and unfunny. . . .  You thought sitting in judgment of others would finally allow you the opportunity to assess others fairly and generously, in the way you always wished others would assess you and your work. And now, you realize what a fool you were, because there is no way to judge these actors fairly. It is physically impossible for you to hear your lines with the same degree of enthusiasm and bigheartedness on day three as you did on day one.”

Somehow Edward Herrmann made it through this onerous process. May he rest in peace.