everywhere and anywhere there was a story. Police roundups, murder scenes, catastrophic fires, smoky backroom political deals … if there was a story, Howey was there, and what’s more, he was the first to get there. And when he committed his tale to paper, readers were enthralled.
His writing and editorial skills were so sharp that when he had a falling-out with the publisher of the Chicago Tribune , where he earned an annual salary of $8,000 as city editor, he stormed out of the office, slammed the door behind him, walked across the street to see William Randolph Hearst, and within half an hour scored a job as managing editor of Hearst’s Herald-Examiner— the Tribune ’s chief competitor for the morning news market. His new salary was $35,000 per year.
Howey’s hard-driving style was media made, so much so that in 1928 Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur wrote a satirical play about the newspaper business, The Front Page. Anyone who knew anything about Chicago journalism knew that the lead character, “Walter Burns,” was patterned after Howey. The Front Page charmed audiences on and off Broadway for several years. In 1940, Hollywood asked Hecht and MacArthur to offer a new twist on their script for a second screen adaptation.
The result was His Girl Friday , featuring Cary Grant as a fast-talking, unrelenting big-city newspaperman. It immortalized Walter Howey for all time. Though they might not have known his name, millions of Americans came to know his type.
Lucky for Kathleen Morrison, the famous Walter Howey was also Uncle Walter. 4 His wife, Lib, was the younger sister of Kathleen’s mother. Lucky also for Kathleen that David Wark Griffith owed Uncle Walter a big favor.
Back in 1915, after he had sunk every penny of his savings into The Birth of a Nation , Griffith faced the dreadful prospect that his three-hour masterpiece might never see the light of day. Under pressure from the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, whose members objected to Griffith’s crudely racist treatment of black characters, local censors threatened to ban the film. Griffith, in turn, agreed to remove a few of the most objectionable scenes.
Not that this helped a great deal; the final print was still patently offensive. It even rankled the good citizens of tiny Lancaster, Pennsylvania, who objected to Griffith’s scathing treatment of Thaddeus Stevens, the antislavery politician who had represented the county in Congress during the Civil War and had championed the cause of emancipation and equal citizenship for black Americans. In Lancaster, as in many places, Griffith’s picture was non grata.
Fearing that any controversy was bad for his picture, Griffith asked a few prominent members of the press to lend him aid and comfort in the pages of the newspapers and magazines. Uncle Walter was one such supporter. When The Birth of a Nation emerged as the industry’s first real blockbuster, Griffith made it clear to Uncle Walter that he was eager to repay the favor. It wasn’t long before the Howeys cashed in.
At a dinner party one night, they made their move.
Lib Howey began, “We have a niece—”
“Not a niece!” Griffith moaned.
Walter smiled back. “I’m afraid so.”
Why not? Griffith thought. Such was the cost of doing business. His studio was already top-heavy with the daughters and nieces of big financial backers. What harm would one more “payoff” do? He’d put the Howeys’ niece on a six-month contract for $50 per week, and if she was any good, he’d keep her; if she couldn’t act—and they rarely could—then everyone would move on and there’d be no hard feelings. A handshake sealed the agreement.
Only one hitch remained: Kathleen’s father. The year was 1916, and Mr. Morrison was decidedly cool to the notion that his sixteen-year-old daughter, an innocent, long-haired lass who had attended Catholic convent schools all her life, should venture off to the wilds of California,
His writing and editorial skills were so sharp that when he had a falling-out with the publisher of the Chicago Tribune , where he earned an annual salary of $8,000 as city editor, he stormed out of the office, slammed the door behind him, walked across the street to see William Randolph Hearst, and within half an hour scored a job as managing editor of Hearst’s Herald-Examiner— the Tribune ’s chief competitor for the morning news market. His new salary was $35,000 per year.
Howey’s hard-driving style was media made, so much so that in 1928 Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur wrote a satirical play about the newspaper business, The Front Page. Anyone who knew anything about Chicago journalism knew that the lead character, “Walter Burns,” was patterned after Howey. The Front Page charmed audiences on and off Broadway for several years. In 1940, Hollywood asked Hecht and MacArthur to offer a new twist on their script for a second screen adaptation.
The result was His Girl Friday , featuring Cary Grant as a fast-talking, unrelenting big-city newspaperman. It immortalized Walter Howey for all time. Though they might not have known his name, millions of Americans came to know his type.
Lucky for Kathleen Morrison, the famous Walter Howey was also Uncle Walter. 4 His wife, Lib, was the younger sister of Kathleen’s mother. Lucky also for Kathleen that David Wark Griffith owed Uncle Walter a big favor.
Back in 1915, after he had sunk every penny of his savings into The Birth of a Nation , Griffith faced the dreadful prospect that his three-hour masterpiece might never see the light of day. Under pressure from the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, whose members objected to Griffith’s crudely racist treatment of black characters, local censors threatened to ban the film. Griffith, in turn, agreed to remove a few of the most objectionable scenes.
Not that this helped a great deal; the final print was still patently offensive. It even rankled the good citizens of tiny Lancaster, Pennsylvania, who objected to Griffith’s scathing treatment of Thaddeus Stevens, the antislavery politician who had represented the county in Congress during the Civil War and had championed the cause of emancipation and equal citizenship for black Americans. In Lancaster, as in many places, Griffith’s picture was non grata.
Fearing that any controversy was bad for his picture, Griffith asked a few prominent members of the press to lend him aid and comfort in the pages of the newspapers and magazines. Uncle Walter was one such supporter. When The Birth of a Nation emerged as the industry’s first real blockbuster, Griffith made it clear to Uncle Walter that he was eager to repay the favor. It wasn’t long before the Howeys cashed in.
At a dinner party one night, they made their move.
Lib Howey began, “We have a niece—”
“Not a niece!” Griffith moaned.
Walter smiled back. “I’m afraid so.”
Why not? Griffith thought. Such was the cost of doing business. His studio was already top-heavy with the daughters and nieces of big financial backers. What harm would one more “payoff” do? He’d put the Howeys’ niece on a six-month contract for $50 per week, and if she was any good, he’d keep her; if she couldn’t act—and they rarely could—then everyone would move on and there’d be no hard feelings. A handshake sealed the agreement.
Only one hitch remained: Kathleen’s father. The year was 1916, and Mr. Morrison was decidedly cool to the notion that his sixteen-year-old daughter, an innocent, long-haired lass who had attended Catholic convent schools all her life, should venture off to the wilds of California,
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