James Wilson recalls the trials of Fatty Arbuckle
One common playground insult when I was at primary school was “Fatty Arbuckle”. I doubt any of us knew the origin of the name. A little over 60 years earlier, however, Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle (he despised the nickname) had undergone three criminal trials as famous—or infamous—in their day as any that have followed. As a case which involved a famous person, wild press speculation, and a politically motivated prosecutor, and yet whose fame vanished in short order, it was one of Hollywood’s most striking early portents.
Nickname
The nickname Arbuckle detested derived from his size—he weighed about 300 pounds as an adult—yet he remained strikingly agile, as any of his silent films (extracts of which are easily found on the internet) attest.
At the start of his career, acting was not a reputable profession: the local equivalent to B&Bs were known to have signs proclaiming “no dogs or actors allowed”. If anything, screen actors were seen as an even lower form than their stage brethren. Arbuckle nevertheless aimed in that direction by joining the famous Keystone studios, and regularly appeared as one of the eponymous cops. He became the master of the staple silent comedy device of throwing pies (and, given the maintenance of his physique, presumably eating them as well). He mentored both Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin and for that reason alone deserves cinematic immortality.
Million dollar baby
In 1918 Arbuckle made history by being awarded the first million dollar film contract. Of course, there was a Faustian element—the studio demanded a formidable schedule of film-making in return. In September 1921, exhausted by the workload, Arbuckle went on a short holiday. With two friends he checked into a hotel in San Francisco. They invited a few guests for a party, two of whom would prove to be about the least suitable attendees imaginable.
One was Virginia Rappé, a 26-year-old would-be actress. Another was one Bambina Maude Delmont. Delmont had a number of criminal convictions, most relevantly for fraud and extortion.
The undisputed facts were that Rappé collapsed during the evening and was discovered by Arbuckle. The disputed facts were many. Rappé was seen by the hotel doctor but not admitted to hospital until two days later; within a further 24 hours she died of peritonitis caused by a ruptured bladder.
Rappé’s medical history
Her medical history suggested an obvious cause for abdominal problems—she had had several abortions; a risky procedure at the time which was often undertaken by less than reputable surgeons. Moreover, no suggestion of rape had been made by any of the doctors who examined her before death. Nevertheless, the accusation was made by Delmont and Arbuckle found himself charged with rape and manslaughter.
At this point the pitfalls of fame coupled with the ubiquitous human fault of greed came into play. Rappé’s manager publicly accused Arbuckle of having committed rape with a piece of ice. The tabloid press picked up the story and ran with it. Chief villain among them was William Randolph Hearst, who controlled a national newspaper chain and knew a saleable story when he saw one. Lurid story after lurid story appeared suggesting rape with various implements, and any other accusations the press considered outré. (Hollywood would later have its revenge of sorts on Hearst, with the film à clef of Citizen Kane clearly directed at him, much to his fury.)
Trial hat-trick
Medical evidence gave no suggestion of external force against Rappé. Nor was there any direct witness to any assault by Arbuckle (least of all Delmont, who wasn’t called by the prosecution, who had realised how easily she would have been discredited). But the jury could not agree, being split 10-2 (in Arbuckle’s favour), and so a retrial was ordered.
The second trial ended with a second hung jury, this time 9-3 favouring conviction, following what seems to have been a more lackluster defence, Arbuckle not taking the stand for example.
In the third trial the jury had no doubt, returning a not-guilty verdict within minutes. Most of their deliberations were spent composing a note expressing in ringing tones their belief in Arbuckle’s innocence and their great regret for what he had been through.
Morality clauses
That should have been that, but, of course, things were not so simple. Arbuckle had been devastated financially and now found himself virtually unemployable. Then, as now, strong moralistic pressure groups were active in American politics, and they saw their chance to clamp down on Hollywood. Their efforts led to the introduction of “morality clauses” in actors’ contracts.
Arbuckle managed a few jobbing directing roles for the rest of the decade, but redemption finally followed in 1933 when he signed with Warner Bros to make a feature film. With some considerable pathos he died the same day.
The weight of modern opinion is overwhelmingly in favour of his innocence. The case might have been the first true Hollywood scandal but it was, needless to say, far from the last.
The subsequent saga that perhaps comes closest to Arbuckle’s for mistrial by media is the OJ Simpson trial of 1994. One wonders if his case will vanish from general public knowledge within the same sort of time frame as Arbuckle’s did. If it does, we can be sure a replacement will soon follow.
James Wilson, managing editor, All England Law Reporter & contributor to Cases that Changed Our Lives.
