9/11 Ninety Years Ago: Fatty Arbuckle Should’ve Nursed His Ass at Home

Today is September 11, 2011, ten years after the terrorist attacks on America. As a result, hundreds of stories will fill the airwaves, blogosphere, and other social media outlets as reporters, bloggers, and otherwise (still) try to make sense of it all. First, they’ll ask interviewees, “Where were you on that beautiful clear morning?” Next, we’ll see those horrific images of the planes hitting the World Trade Center, of the Pentagon smoking, and of that jet-shaped indention in a grassy Pennsylvania field. Third, families and friends will read aloud the names of the victims, their co-workers, husbands, wives, sons, and daughters. And ultimately, the words we’ll never forget will scroll across television screens. At least that’s roughly how it’s been for the past 10 years…

There are, however, several Americans choosing not to commemorate 9/11. See, for example, this NY Times piece published yesterday in which native New Yorkers explain why they refuse to attend the services downtown, or read this story from a wounded Iraq war vet who advises his countrymen and -women to “stop dwelling and move on.” Likewise, columnist Paul Krugman labels this past decade “The Years of Shame.” Finally, even the new 9/11 Memorial grounds, which have been featured in separate documentaries on the Discovery Channel, has not received the most positive of reviews. Take this one from Slate magazine, for instance, which describes the two black pools/fountains where the twin towers once stood as hopeless:

The pits, 192 feet by 192 feet and 30 feet deep, are lined in black granite—black as death. Water cascades down the four walls and disappears into a square hole in the center of the pool. The effect is quite beautiful—and the sound of the cataracts effectively masks the noise of the surrounding city. But more than beauty is required of a memorial; one searches for meaning. [...] But there is nothing comforting about gazing into the vast pit—or, rather, two pits—of the 9/11 memorial, the water endlessly falling and disappearing into a bottomless black hole. The strongest sense I came away with was of hopelessness.

I did not get up this morning with the intent to write about the 9/11 attacks; in fact, I intended to avoid the media altogether. But sometimes that’s how writing goes: other things come out. Rather, I wanted to devote today’s “Pop-Culture Pic of the Day” to an event that happened on September 11, 1921: when silent film star Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle was arrested for the rape and murder of Virginia Rappe. So now, that’s what I’ll do.

The Scandal of Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle: 09/11/1921

For those unaware of Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle: he was one of the highest paid film stars of the early silent period, earning roughly $1 million a year plus a portion of his films’ profits. In other words, dude was at the top of his game, and audiences loved him. But after one fateful weekend in San Fran with some booze and women, his career and name were flushed quickly down the toilet. His is the first and one of the biggest scandals in cinema history.

At this point, Fatty Arbuckle had made the move from Keystone Comedy shorts (two-reel movies) to feature-length films, and as a result, he worked furiously for his new boss, Adolph Zukor, sometimes shooting three pictures at once. After one especially grueling week, the comedian decided to take a brief vacation to San Francisco with his friend, director Fred Fischbach. However, right before they left, Arbuckle had an accident: he badly burned his buttocks by either accidentally sitting on a mechanic’s acid-soaked rag or inadvertently backing into a hot stove (accounts vary). Either way, Arbuckle was injured, uncomfortable, and reneged on his Labor Day weekend getaway. His friend balked at the idea and after some fighting between the two, the film star eventually gave in.

The guys arrived in San Francisco, checked into the St. Francis Hotel, and began carousing with women and booze. Never a good mix, right? In Arbuckle’s/Fischbach’s hotel suite, a 26-year-old aspiring actress named Virginia Rappe fell ill. Arbuckle found her lying on the floor and assumed she had fainted or was drunk. Using a trick he’d learned from his silent-comedy colleague Buster Keaton, the sizable comedian found some ice and held it next to Rappe’s thigh; if she reacted, the fainting or hysterical fit was fake (later, witnesses would say that Arbuckle placed the ice on Rappe’s vulva). Rappe proceeded to scream and tear at her clothes. A doctor was called. Rappe was given a cold bath and morphine to calm her hysterics. The party continued.

Two days later, Virginia Rappe checked into a local hospital, and on Friday, September 9, the aspiring actress died of peritonitis, an infection caused by a ruptured bladder. At this point, Maude Delmont, Rappe’s companion at the party, informed doctors Arbuckle raped Rappe (rumors would eventually swirl that the star sexually assaulted Rappe with a Coca-Cola bottle and that piece of ice mentioned above). Doctors assured Delmont there was no evidence of rape. Still, on September 11, 1921, Arbuckle was arrested for manslaughter, the prosecution arguing that his sexual attack on Virginia Rappe along with his weight (300+ pounds) ruptured her bladder and thus caused her death. After a lengthy trial, he was acquitted by a jury.

The comedian’s career would never recover. Arbuckle’s films were banned, newspapers portrayed him as an overweight deviant who preyed on young actresses, and Maude Delmont toured the country warning audiences of the evils of the movie industry and all of those involved. Since politicians and religious leaders already despised Hollywood, this only added fuel to the fire. In fact, the Arbuckle scandal along with two others in the early 1920s — Olive Thomas‘s overdose on syphilis medication (yes, for realz) and William Desmond Taylor‘s (still-unsolved) murder — as well as an outpouring of violent and salacious movies prompted the creation of the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America (MPPDA), which would regulate movie content and hopefully reorient the industry’s image.

Further Reading

For more details on Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle’s scandal and Virginia Rappe’s backstory — she suffered from cystitis, was prone to over-drinking at parties, and had undergone several (probably shoddy) abortions that may have precipitated her death — please see

• The Day the Laughter Stopped
• “Censorship and Self-Regulation” in The Oxford History of World Cinema (235-47)
• Frame-up!: The Untold Story of Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle
• TruTV and Wikipedia‘s “The Scandal“
• “Scandal, Social Conditions, and the Creation of Public Attention: Fatty Arbuckle and the Problem of Hollywood”
• Finally, I’d be remiss if I didn’t direct my readers to Anne Helen Peterson‘s excellent and often hilarious “Scandals of Classical Hollywood” over at The Hairpin.

PS. I mentioned in my post yesterday that this “Pic of the Day” series is supposed to be short, no more than a few paragraphs. Obviously, this entry goes against that promise. I’ll try to be back on track with the next one…

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