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Learn how Errol Flynn made an early and lasting impression on Olivia de Havilland on the set of Captain Blood.   more »

Hello all.  I just finished this book by Earl Conrad.  I get that Crane Eden is Errol Flynn and Tishey is Woodsie.  A lot of what is in this book was mentioned in Conrad's Memoirs and MWWW (booze, sex, drugs, parties, ex-wife and lovers, the hotel, the island setting, raw hamburger, diving, producers, debt, etc.).  What I didn't quite get was the mention of incest.  Was this added to notch it up a bit because EC explored this subject with EF or because Earl Conrad was so upset about the cockroaches in his food and pranks played on him while staying with EF in Jamaica???   If you've read this book, can you please give me your thoughts?

I have finally realized that part of my enjoyment of watching Errol Flynn was the music in his films.  Now I'm off on a tangent looking for CD's.  My first stop was Amazon where I found numerous choices.  I also did a bit of research on Erich Wolfgang Korngold, the composer of  many Flynn movies:  Captain Blood, Adventures of Robin Hood, The Sea Hawk, Prince and the Pauper to name a few.  He was born on May 29, 1897 in Brunn, Moravia and grew up in Vienna.  While he was composing film scores in Hollywood under his contract with Warner Bros., he also was trying to maintain his concert and opera presence in Europe.  It was in 1946 that he attempted to return to the concert stage.  He had less than favorable results and found himself forgotten and essentially unappreciated in Austria and returned to America.  Korngold died on November 29, 1957 at the age of 60 in Hollywood believing himself virtually forgotten.  I find it interesting that EF thought his acting was not good enough, that he did not want to make swashbuckler movies; yet these, to me, are my very favorites.  Korngold also thought along those lines as he did not particularly want to be in America composing musical scores for movies, and here we are  enjoying them both 50+ years after their deaths and the next generation will do the same.  I wonder if they are amused and thinking "Who knew?"

I was looking for Errol Flynn books yesterday and came across Charles Higham's the Untold Story.  I thought about buying it for target practice (I read someone else did this and received immense satisfaction from blowing holes in it!), but I left it on the shelf.  Alas, this was the only book the shop had regarding EF.

This is a book that contains information on EF's final visit at the Vancouver morgue.  The chapter is entitled Captain Blood's Last Hurrah.  Maybe I am being a bit morbid, but I am reading all that I can find about him.  Can anyone tell me if the accounting of the events by Judge McDonald are accurate? 

 "We didn't find much in the way of personal effects . . .There was a ring.  It was on, I believe, his left hand but it wasn't particularly noticeable . . . it looked pretty cheap to me, in fact, like a trinket from a five-and-dime store. . . ."

Could this have been a keepsake of some sort?

What follows is a manuscript excerpt from my mock-epic poem Errol Flynn: A Life in Doggerel, for which - if anyone's interested - I'm presently seeking a publisher.

 

 I've completed "Book I," consisting of 6 "cantos," some 600 stanzas total, and am now at work on "Book II," which will consist of a like number of cantos and stanzas.  Book I ends exactly midway through Flynn's life, in late 1934, as he is crossing the Atlantic to Hollywood, and Book II picks up with Flynn recently installed in the film capital.

 

As my book's working title implies, this is not to be taken seriously as "poetry" - although I'm using a great poem as my template: Byron's Don Juan.  Being one of the twentieth century's consummate Don Juans, while having played the role to ironic perfection in a Hollywood film, Flynn and Byron's rollicking Don Juan stanza seemed like a natural pairing.  I also chose the verse form because:

 

Flynn was about romance and poetry -

He wasn't prosaic by any stretch;

And those biographies and other would-be

Accounts of the man (I don't wish to kvetch,

But it has to be said) miss his esprit,

Of which I'm at very great pains to etch

Into your psyche through the studied use

Of what's referred to as the "lighter muse."

 

Of course, without the "prosaic" biographies, I could never have written my work - but I did want to try and sing Flynn's life, as it were.  And every hero, celluloid or otherwise, deserves an epic poem to propagate his myth. 

 

The excerpt below comprises the concluding stanzas of canto 4, where we find Flynn having recently returned from his second New Guinea sojourn (or third, depending on how you count) and having just acted in his first movie, In the Wake of the Bounty.  But no other acting jobs are forthcoming.  It's late 1933 and Flynn is at loose ends:       

 

 

Errol was anxious about his future—

New Guinea, he feared, was just a dead end.

He’d gone there partly seeking adventure

(Which he had found) but to mainly ascend

In the world and that brass ring to capture;

And though Wake of the Bounty might portend

Greater things to come, he had seen his share

Of portents emerge as castles in the air.

 

He also harbored ambitions to rise

In society, and to that end had

Gained a fianceé—did I not apprise

You of this turn of events?  Well, the sad

Fact is that Flynn had been very unwise

And something of an insensitive lad

In swearing his love to Naomi Dibbs,

This one of his more unfortunate fibs.

 

Flynn rightly perceived Miss Dibbs as high class,

Being as she was from the upper crust,

And he handled her like fragile cut glass,

Somehow containing his powerful lust,

Never once unsheathing his stalwart cutlass,

Never once betraying Naomi’s trust

That theirs was a love “on a higher plane”—

But leaving his lower parts in acute pain.

 

They’d now been “engaged” for almost three years,

But what in fact would it mean to marry?

Love, joy and laughter or blood, sweat and tears?

His parents’ union had made him wary

Of marriage, confirming all his worst fears,

And his own existence was presently very

Unsettled and riddled with question marks . . .

And then he met a certain “Madge Parkes.”

 

That likely wasn’t the lady’s true name,

Flynn changed it in Wicked—you’ll see why—

And did I say “lady?”  Try one gorgeous dame!

The kind of woman that’d make a rabbi

Drop-kick his Talmud and loudly declaim

The Kama Sutra, or a tough Samurai

Bust both of his swords right over his knee

And go off on a saki-drinking spree.

 

Statuesque she was, sporting auburn hair,

And we can safely resort to “bombshell”

In describing her figure.  She bore an air

Of artless glamour and in a nutshell

Was charming, clever and had savoir faire—

Along with a touch of the Jezebel;

A wanton woman, as it were, for you see

Our siren was married—and pushing forty.

 

Urbane, well-traveled, spirited and gay,

She enjoyed swimming, also liked to dance,

And was stylish without being recherché,

The kind of woman who perforce enchants;

And what I guess I’m trying to convey

Is that Flynn’s first hot and heavy romance,

His first “real woman,” was no other

Than the doppelgänger of his mother.

 

And she was rich.  In their nights dining out,

And for drinks thereafter at a dance place,

There was never the semblance of a doubt

Who’d treat; and she did it with faultless grace,

Not in the business of trying to flout

The unspoken rules, leaving not a trace

Of just how the bill had been settled—they’d

Walk out of somewhere and it’d just be paid.

 

And she loved sex.  Madge Parkes loved it so,

That Flynn was a quick convert to the school

Of thought which holds that a woman’s libido

Emerges more active, and does not cool,

As might be expected, when the big 4-0

Looms up.  (However, in later life—you’ll

No doubt smile wryly—Flynn’s special delight

Was girls decades shy of their sexual height.)

 

Yes, sex was her thing and she Flynn’s training ground,

But her needs so great that the constitution

Of our phallic hero, later so renowned,

Was undergoing a dissolution;

And one night after another hard round,

Feeling like he could use a transfusion,

Errol arose and lurched from the mattress,

Relieved to escape Madge's scorching caress.

 

She lay there sleeping, a vision, a dream,

Her arms outspread and her beautiful hair

Spread over the pillow, and a thing supreme

Was her form, with thighs designed to ensnare,

Fulsome hips (yet not too broad in the beam),

Slim waist, and her breasts—oh man, what a pair!

Flynn took all this in, and then his gaze

Began another vision to appraise.

 

On the dressing-room table, sparkling bold,

Were scattered some jewels, in sizes assorted,

Some of them rings, and others with gold

Or silver chains; he'd often escorted

Madge out with these gemstones, but to behold

All those rocks here now together hoarded

Reminded him just how much she was worth

As well as of his own financial dearth.

 

And it seemed to him that in their affair

Madge was getting the far better deal;

She took him to places with long stemware,

Places that had a strong snob-appeal,

But you could eat just so much Camembert,

And even for bed he had lost his zeal,

For far from being paradisiacal,

Her demands had grown nymphomaniacal.

 

His gaze drifted from the dressing-room table,

Away from the lustrous and dazzling jewels,

And back to those legs to rival Grable

And bust to incite Pavlovian drools

And shapely hips that were willing and able

And face over which men once fought duels—

On Madge his eyes lingered for a short while,

Wrestling with his conscience—her or the pile?

 

It was clear there were no prospects for Flynn

In Parkes; Errol still had big albeit

Somewhat vague plans for his future, which in

So far as he was able to see it,

Wasn’t in Australia—though he’d miss the women,

He felt that he had small choice but to flee it;

And as Madge had been getting constantly laid,

Then Errol ought to be consonantly paid.

 

In other words, it didn’t take long

For Flynn to decide on his course of action:

He knew emphatically that it was wrong,

By far the “most dastardly” malefaction

He’d ever committed, but the urge was strong,

So in his state of near stupefaction

He got himself dressed, very stealthily,

Then grabbed the loot as his rightful stud fee.

 

He raced down the stairs like the place was on fire,

Then hurried through the streets, but didn’t run

Since running was a thief-identifier;

And back at his lodgings he took his hard-won

Yet ill-gotten gains and placed them entire

—He'd scooped up plenty, but hardly a ton—

In the cavity of a shaving-brush,

Pretty darn crafty in view of his rush.

 

Several inches in length was the shaving

Brush’s handle and at the end a crown

That unscrewed to reveal a lifesaving

(Hopefully, at least, in case of shakedown)

Hollow interior made for a thing

To constrict blood vessels and thus shut down

The bleeding if you contracted a nick,

Namely an old-fashioned “shaving stick.”

 

Flynn placed the jewels in the hollow section,

Then put a small end of the stick on top

And screwed the crown back on—a deception

That would likely outsmart your basic cop,

From whom any potential inspection

Of Errol’s belongings would surely stop

Short of reducing his toiletry articles

To their sundry component particles.

 

Flynn had to get out of town right away

And soon caught a boat that was leaving Sydney.

He’d safely boarded, they were all set to weigh

Anchor and sail from the harbor, when he

Saw bulking large in his stateroom doorway

Two plainclothes cops who’d come round to see

What they might be able to uncover

In the bags of Madge’s light-fingered lover.

 

First place they looked were the heels of his shoes,

Thinking they might be hollow, then they checked

His shoulder padding, another old ruse,

And the whole time Errol sought to affect

A derisive mien, putting to good use

His inborn and nurtured lack of respect

For authority types—but his fat sneer

Was also intended to mask his fear.

 

If they discovered the jewels he was sunk.

Prison was not the least of his worries,

But to be exposed as a dirty skunk,

And Father’s displeasure to incur—please,

That was too much; so he showed the same spunk

As Leonidas in reply to Xerxes

When he demanded that the Spartans lay

Down all their weapons at Thermopylae.[1]

 

“Are you shitheels finished?  Why don’t you take

One leg and you take the other and shake me,

I might just have them up my arse”—thus spake

Errol, they responding: “That would not be

A bad idea.”  No, a grave mistake

It would be, countered Flynn, and promised that he

Would shove through a porthole the first of them

Who attempted this foolhardy stratagem.

 

“Come and touch me, one of you yellow-livered

Sons-of-bitches!”  It was not as if these

Hardened Australian plainclothesmen shivered

In their boots at his words and got knock-knees,

But Flynn seemed like the sort who delivered

Fully on his threats, not a boy to sneeze

At by any means, so they let it ride

And by way of answer intensified

 

Their search of his bags; and then Errol, for

His part, did sneeze at them—simulating

An ACHOO that was summoned with a roar

When one of them started investigating

The shaving brush—which you might well deplore

As a sophomoric trick, effectuating

The exact opposite of its design,

But the cop was clearly no Albert Einstein,

 

So he failed to see through Errol’s schoolboy

Attempts to distract him from the very

Thing he was holding.  (The transparent ploy

Can also derail an adversary

Who anticipates that you will employ

Cunning—just witness that cautionary

Tale where doing the overt is better,

Edgar Allan Poe’s The Purloined Letter.)[2]

 

Whether or not Flynn’s sneezing and bating

Tactics really served to draw attention

Away from the search, thus extricating

Him from this fix, they show a dimension

Of his character, so fluctuating,

That was a constant, and hence bears mention:

Equipped with a heart unusually stout,

Flynn was an ace at brazening things out.

 

With the policemen having left empty-

Handed and the boat now full underway,

Errol unscrews the shaving brush and he

Prises the gemstones, one by one, away

From their settings and throws these into the sea,

Through the very convenient porthole, the day

Having yielded to night of deepest black—

All hail our prudent kleptomaniac!

 

Flynn returns the jewels to their hiding place

And walks out on deck and breathes the fresh air,

And he gets the wind and spray in his face

As he leans out over the railing; a rare

Sense of elation has come to replace

That of impending doom, the rude scare

He’d suffered now giving way to a feeling

Akin to pride in his double-dealing.

 

He’d gotten away with it!  Guilt he had,

But that just made it more delectable;

He’d done a thing unquestionably bad,

Not to mention quite disrespectable,

Something that branded him a first-rate cad,

But now that it was indetectable

And he himself pretty much off the hook,

He felt just swell about being a crook.

 

But Errol’s present exhilaration

Was not exclusively owing to his

Narrow escape from incarceration

But from his sexually exhausting miss

And that other form of ruination

Which went by the misnomer “wedded bliss,”

With his prim fiancée Naomi Dibbs,

Entailing both in-laws and baby cribs.

 

Also, as mentioned, Flynn felt that to make

His fortune he’d have to leave Down Under

And head Up Top, and icing on the cake

Was that with his newly acquired plunder

He now had a very healthy grubstake

Which might buy him time to work a wonder

In this or that project or endeavor,

In China, India or wherever.

 

But not in Australia—that much Flynn knew.

In stealing the jewels he hadn’t planned

To bid a definitive farewell to

His mistress, intended, and native land,

But through his thievery, out of the blue,

Errol had managed to force his own hand,

His subconscious impulses, as a group,

Now being realized in one fell swoop.

 

And I’ll venture there was yet another

Unconscious urge behind his larceny:

Because Madge was so like Errol’s mother,

The quite real if latent misogyny,

Spawned by Marelle, found in his rich lover

An apt target, hence the sheer villainy

Of Errol's transgression, which victimized

A generous woman he otherwise prized.

 

But let’s leave Flynn now, leaning on the rail,

Looking out over the expanse of sea,

Trying to make out whatever detail

He can on the distant shore, because he

Will not be returning again; but braille

Is needed to pierce the obscurity,

The mainland now completely out of sight

As Flynn sails blindly into the night.

 

 

---

by Steve Hayes

Thanks for this tip from Jack Marino...



From the website:
Ever wonder what it was like back in the forties and fifties, mingling with famous movie stars on the Sunset Strip; to ride beside James Dean in his Porsche Speedster, zipping around the curves of Mulholland Drive; to stay at Errol Flynn's house and sleep in the bedroom with the infamous hole in the mirrored ceiling; share a secret with Marilyn Monroe; act in a movie with Alan Ladd or Lana Turner; race motorcycles with Clark Gable on Ventura Boulevard; paint Rita Hayworth's house; be invited to tea by James Mason; go to the Hollywood Bowl with Jayne Mansfield and Louella Parsons; hang out with Flynn and countless other stars at the sordid Garden of Allah?

Well, I did all those things and more, much more. As a fledgling actor, part-time house painter, parking attendant, "snoop" for the Fred Otash Detective Agency, and manager of Googie's, a celebrated coffee shop next to Schwab's drug store, I was in the catbird seat, privy to all the gossip, brawls and excitement that nightly took place at the Mocambo, Ciro's, The Players, Crescendo, Villa Nova and other glamorous night spots along the Strip. Known as the "playground of the stars," never a night went by on the Sunset Strip that one didn't rub elbows with the likes of Frank Sinatra, Ava Gardner, Duke Wayne, Lana Turner, Rita Hayworth and numerous other high profile celebrities.

It's a fascinating era that has disappeared forever.

And I was there in the thick of it.

And now you can be, too.

Because I've written it all down, exactly as it was...

Then Take a look at this!

Order this excellent Westerns collection right here from the Errol Flynn Blog!

Errol Flynn Westerns Collection (Montana / Rocky Mountain / San Antonio / Virginia City)

I hated this book. Hated it, hated it, hated it. It's a textbook example of how not to write a biography. The author's modus operandi appears to be as follows: do no real independent research, write at home and travel nowhere, quote only from other people's books and fan magazines, interview nobody who ever knew Errol Flynn, and, above all, make up as many salacious sexual quotes, allegedly spoken by Flynn and his associates, out of thin air as you possibly can. And do it all in the name of making money!

I thought Charles Higham's notorious treatment of Errol Flynn was the worst book I had ever read; however, this may give it some serious competition. And let's face it, at least Higham knows how to write. Bret must have been playing hooky, or was ill, the day his teachers taught basic English grammar in his school. And what's with the obsession with homosexuality? I was amazed at the sheer number of men the so-called bisexual Flynn is said to have sampled: Ross Alexander, Helmut Dantine, Bill Meade, Bruce Cabot, William Lundigan, Edmund Goulding, Tyrone Power, Truman Capote, and many others. Even poor Basil Rathbone is thrown into the mix - he was supposedly one who relished intimate oral contact with the male organ. Oh, right, Sherlock!

As many other reviewers point out, Bret provides no documentation at all for his lurid claims. Where in God's name did all this dialogue come from? As for accuracy, I started to make a list of all the factual errors in the book, but they became so many I had to give up when I ran out of room on both sides of an 8 x 10 sheet of paper. Where were the editors? Does this publisher even HAVE editors? And there are so many spelling blunders it is almost hilarious. This looks like a very hasty first draft of somebody's idea of a bad joke that nobody bothered to read. But there is nothing funny about this.

I doubt if anyone who ever actually knew or met Errol Flynn will recognize the central figure of this mess. I see from the list of Bret's other works that he has performed similar hack jobs on such celebrities as Valentino, Joan Crawford, Morrissey, and Clark Gable. This is so sad. I mean sad for everyone.

I saw David Bret interviewed on TV once, and I felt very sorry for him. From his appearance I suspect he has had a very rough life. But that's no excuse to take his hurt and anger out on Mr. Flynn and others like him. I therefore would like to issue to Mr. Bret a most fervent appeal: Please sir, write no more books! What you are doing is immoral, unworthy, and ultimately life-destroying. It sells short the unfortunate people you write about, the public who might unsuspectingly buy your books, and even you yourself. If you wish to be a biographer, then I beg you, by all means, be a biographer. But don't be what you currently are - a third-rate writer of unsubstantiated tabloid trash who is merely satisfying the evidently insatiable public thirst for titillating filth, all for the sake of a sleazy buck (or quid).

And for God's sake, why not try to find a way to make a dignified living without preying on the defenseless dead?

  Errol Flynn The Life and Career... by Thomas McNulty is available on Amazon.com. This is a collector's book if ever there was one about dear Ol' Errol... You may have other books about Flynn in your library. Without this one your Errol Flynn Library will never be complete!

 

 

Rory Flynn's new book on her father Errol Flynn is out now on Amazon! Check it out here: The Baron of Mulholland: A Daughter Remembers Errol Flynn