Fatty Arbuckle: The Scandal That Shook Hollywood

A Century ago, Roscoe Arbuckle, popularly known as Fatty, embarked on a fateful trip to San Francisco in his luxurious Pierce-Arrow car.

Weighing 266 pounds, Arbuckle was a beloved figure in the silent film industry, renowned for his comedic falls and talent for throwing custard pies.

By September 1921, he had already appeared in over 150 films, earning a staggering one million dollars per year at Paramount Studios.

In Los Angeles, he resided in a lavish twenty-room mansion, complete with servants, exquisite rugs, gold-leaf bathtubs, and a cellar filled with liquor for his lively parties.

His fleet of luxury cars, including the prestigious Pierce-Arrow, attracted attention wherever he went.

Fatty Arbuckle was a household name, and even his pit bull terrier, Luke, gained fame as his co-star in “Fatty's Faithful Fido.”

Upon arriving in San Francisco, Arbuckle checked into the prestigious St. Francis Hotel, known for its European-style grandeur and amenities such as an in-house orchestra and Turkish baths.

Accompanied by his entourage, he occupied three adjoining rooms on the top floor.

Despite Prohibition being in effect for nearly twenty months, alcohol was readily available, especially for someone like Fatty Arbuckle.

On that fateful Monday morning of September 5, 1921, a salesman named Ira Fortlouis, who sold gowns, observed a group of people from Los Angeles in the Palace Hotel lobby.

Curious about a chic young woman with dark hair among them, he inquired about her identity with a bellboy.

The bellboy informed him that she was Virginia Rappe, a movie actress.

Since Rappe was acquainted with Arbuckle's group, they extended an invitation for her to join them for drinks that afternoon.

Rappe arrived at approximately noon, dressed in a fashionable jade skirt and blouse, complemented by a panama hat adorned with a matching ribbon.

She shared with her companions, film publicist Alfred Semnacher and his friend Maude Delmont, that she would return within twenty minutes if the party proved to be uninteresting.

In Room 1220, Arbuckle, donning pajamas and a purple bathrobe, held court among a small gathering of showgirls and friends.

They ordered a Victrola and danced to the tune of “Ain't We Got Fun?”

More alcohol was delivered from Gobey's Grill.

Rappe joined the festivities, engaging in conversation with Arbuckle and enjoying Orange Blossom cocktails.

At some point, she attempted to use the bathroom in Room 1221, but it was occupied by Delmont and Arbuckle's actor friend, Lowell Sherman.

Consequently, she ventured into Arbuckle's room, 1219.

Shortly before three o'clock, Arbuckle followed her inside, locking the door behind them.

The events that unfolded next became the subject of intense scrutiny by three separate juries, a sensation-hungry public, and a century's worth of armchair detectives.

One version of the story alleges that Arbuckle threw Rappe onto the bed, inadvertently causing fatal injuries due to his weight.

Another account portrays Arbuckle as a gentleman who cared for Rappe when she fell ill.

Depending on the source, they were alone together for either ten minutes or an hour.

Delmont claimed to have grown concerned about Rappe's well-being, prompting her to kick the door and call out her name.

Arbuckle, however, asserted that he voluntarily opened the door.

Regardless, when the other party attendees entered Room 1219, they discovered Rappe barely conscious, tormented by excruciating pain in her abdomen and tearing at her clothes.

They immediately placed her in a cold bath and later moved her to a different room down the hall.

It was there that a hotel doctor determined her suffering stemmed from excessive alcohol consumption.

Astonishingly, the party continued, and Rappe remained in the hotel room for three days, medicated with morphine, before finally being transferred to a sanatorium.

The baffling mystery surrounding why she was not moved sooner persists.

Tragically, Rappe passed away on Friday, September 9th, and Arbuckle was subsequently arrested for murder the following day.

The Arbuckle scandal became the most infamous among a series of Hollywood controversies that threatened to cripple the burgeoning movie industry.

This scandal, predating the advent of platforms like Twitter and TMZ, established the framework for modern-day celebrity scandals.

It captivated the public's attention and showcased our inclination to revel in the downfall of high-profile individuals, regardless of the veracity of the claims.

Arbuckle's ill-fated pajama party epitomized the loosening morals that emerged after World War I, sparking a cultural battle between traditionalists and proponents of modernity.

As Greg Merritt explores in his investigative book, “Room 1219,” the scandal symbolized a clash between the Victorian era and the Jazz Age.

Remarkably, its relevance extends beyond old Hollywood, echoing current incidents involving famous actors facing allegations of s**ual assault, a media machinery eager to exploit every salacious twist, and an industry grappling with how to handle a once-profitable star turned pariah.

Ultimately, Hollywood responded to its first major public relations catastrophe by establishing self-regulatory measures to prevent similar disasters, transforming the Arbuckle scandal into an improbable tale of corporate self-preservation.

Arbuckle's downfall was particularly groundbreaking because it represented a new kind of fame.

Born in 1887 on a Kansas farm, Roscoe Arbuckle endured childhood taunts that led to his lifelong nickname, Fatty.

Even after embracing this moniker and achieving success with films like “Fatty's Day Off” and “Fatty's Magic Pants,” Arbuckle remained reluctant to exploit his weight for comedic purposes.

In 1917, he stated, “I refuse to try to make people laugh at my bulk.

Personally, I cannot believe that a battleship is a bit funnier than a canoe, but some people do not feel that way about it.”

His journey in show business began at the age of eight when a travelling theater troupe required a replacement child actor while passing through Santa Ana, California, where Arbuckle's family had relocated.

To fit the role, young Roscoe performed in blackface and even darkened his feet since he was barefoot.

Tragically, his mother passed away when he was twelve, leaving him to join his father in the town of Watsonville, who had abandoned the family and supposedly owned a hotel there.

However, upon his arrival, Roscoe discovered that his father had already sold the hotel and left town.

Left alone, he found solace when kind-hearted locals took him in, allowing him to earn his keep by performing household chores and entertaining hotel guests with his melodious voice.

Eventually, his father resurfaced but subjected Roscoe to violent outbursts fueled by alcohol.

His stepmother once recounted how she had saved him from his father's abuse, describing an incident where his father had choked him and repeatedly slammed his head against a tree.

Possessing a bell-like singing voice, Roscoe embarked on a career in vaudeville, performing “illustrated songs,” which involved accompanying popular tunes with slide shows—an early precursor to music videos.

As a teenager, he escaped his father's clutches by touring with the Pantages theatre circuit.

It was during this time that he crossed paths with Minta Durfee, a fellow performer, in Long Beach.

Their relationship quickly blossomed, culminating in a spontaneous marriage on the stage of the Byde-A-Wyle Theatre.

In 1913, Arbuckle made his way to Keystone Studios, fondly referred to as the Fun Factory and home to the Keystone Kops.

The studio's impresario, Mack Sennett, offered him a three-dollar-per-day contract.

During his first year, Arbuckle appeared in an impressive thirty-six short films, frequently starring alongside Mabel Normand, Keystone's leading lady and Sennett's romantic partner.

The following year, Charlie Chaplin, still developing his iconic Little Tramp persona, joined the studio, and he and Arbuckle collaborated on seven films.

Alongside Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks, they formed part of the inaugural wave of movie stars who