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The gossip industry underwent a fundamental transition after the war, from the gawking clatter of the classical era fan magazines to the gossip columns of Hedda Hopper and Louella Parsons and scandal sheets that so successfully harried the Hollywood community after the war. Movie stars were lucky and pretty, rich and famous. But they were as well political neophytes and their everyday lives were, thanks to the columnists after the war, lumbered with undue consequence. It was one thing for the columnists to bemoan the unearned privileges of celebrity, and then to cut folks so lucky and full of themselves down to size. But it was quite another to cast the private and personal lives of these celebrities as fundamentally anti-social and un-American, to subject the lives and loves of movie stars to a narrow and frankly unrelated notion of patriotism, one that asked movie stars to behave, or at least pretend to behave, like the rest of us.

When Cary Grant coaxed Betsy Drake to join him in Hollywood in 1948, he did everything he could to kickstart her career as a film star. He used his own leverage with the powerful gossip columnists Hedda Hopper and Louella Parsons to win favourable coverage for Drake, and he agreed to co-star with Drake in her first film, Every Girl Should Be Married (1948). He turned down several other promising films, including Alfred Hitchcock’s Rope (1948), to make this feeble comedy. His next film was Howard Hawks’ screwball comedy I Was a Male War Bride (1949). Filming began on location in Europe, but Grant developed hepatitis and nearly died. It was several months before he could complete filming in Hollywood. The film turned out to be a huge box-office success, but the grim political drama Crisis (1950), was a box-office disaster that marked the beginning of a downturn in his career fortunes. By this time, however, he had married Betsy Drake, in a ceremony arranged by Howard Hughes, and he was looking forward to his new life with her.

Transition-era Hollywood began with the dead body of Elizabeth Short and ended with two more discarded young women, Barbara Payton and Marilyn Monroe, two more casualties found at the crossroads between a dreamed-of life in the sunny city of angels and the reality lived by so many naïve arrivals after the Second World War. Payton and Monroe were glamorous movie stars who began their careers at the very moment Short ended hers. The Black Dahlia murder maybe did not register much with them. Or maybe it did and they figured a shot at movie celebrity was worth the risk. Payton and Monroe believed they were going to be different. They believed in what men had for years been whispering in their ears: “you’re so pretty you should be in pictures.” They were (pretty that is)… and they did (appear in pictures). But movie-land success was for them a mixed blessing at best, their dreamed-of Hollywood celebrity hopelessly complicated by a new breed of industry middlemen, gangsters, and gossip, their lives cut short before their fortieth birthdays.

Bette Davis crafted her career in opposition to conventional images of femininity, battling for equal treatment and pay, and by the end of the 1930s, the media, her fans, and the Hollywood industry itself paid tribute to “Queen Bette.” While Harry, Sam, and Jack Warner concealed their repressive studio practices behind the mask of a family brand, as “the fourth Warner Brother” Davis shrewdly promoted filmmaking’s capacity for transparency, realism, and equality, from her public contract dispute in 1936 to her unconventional roles and off-screen persona. While a number of actresses kept their distance from long-term studio contracts, Davis put her “team player” capital to good use. As president of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, president of the Hollywood Canteen, and public Democrat, she built networks of working women inside Hollywood and inspired her female fans to develop their independent political voice and faith in equal rights.