authentically great deeds and thoughts of a few truly eminent men, whereas modern society’s worship of ersatz celebrities reflects our descent into mindless consumerism. A few have strayed from this interpretative path, exploring how famous personalities in modern times continue to reflect the public’s interest in changing views of the self and individual achievement. But such works either fail to gender their analysis or reduce the personas of female stars to agents or victims of consumption. Thus women’s role in the development of our celebrity-saturated culture remains poorly explained, even as feminist scholarship on how mass culture and female entertainers expressed and cultivated new ideas about sex piles up in the libraries.3
Yet one can trace the seeds of a new interpretation of modern fame to another midcentury text, much more infamous than Pickford’s or Boorstin’s: Simone de Beauvoir’s The Second Sex (1949). In her ex post facto feminist manifesto, Beauvoir argued that only the actress materialized a worldly, ineffable feminine authority that contradicted the equation of public renown with masculine identity. For this reason, the book’s concluding chapter, “The independent Woman,” declared the actress to be the “one category” of woman who pointed the way “toward liberation” of the sex. Born in movie-crazed France in 1908, the year before Pickford made her teenage transition from stage to screen, Beauvoir was a child during the time the “divine” Sarah Bernhardt shone indisputably as the era’s brightest star.4 Several factors accounted for the singular role of actresses, according to Beauvoir, including religious censure, relative financial independence, “a taste for adventure” that equaled men’s, and a unique status derived from working with men on equal footing while still attracting recognition for their attractiveness as women. Together these forces explained the actress’s identity as “the virile woman,” a protagonist liberated from many of the conventions that tethered the Victorians’ ideal “true woman” to the home. Above all, the actress’s freedom lay in how her work in the wider world, like that of men, produced an independence that supported other pleasures. “Their professional success—like those of men—contribute to their sexual valuation.” But by “making their own living and finding the meaning of their lives in their work, [actresses] escape the yoke of men,” allowing them “to transcend their given characteristics” as the unessential second sex.5
As Beauvoir suggested, the ability of actresses to perform new representations of women’s individuality originated in the nineteenth century, as industrialization, the explosion of print media, and the democratic revolutions made room for a few women, and many more men, to make their way, and to make themselves known, beyond the limitations imposed by traditional social hierarchies. In short, the “Pickford Revolution”—as one producer called the transformation from an industry with no stars to one defined by them—was a century in the making. Many of the early American film industry’s most notable actresses translated, with the distinct accent of their age, the customs and conventions handed down by their theatrical foremothers on the antebellum stage. To stress the importance of theatrical aesthetics and practices on the democratization of fame, this chapter begins by historicizing and gendering the celebrity of Pickford’s most important foremother: Charlotte Cushman, the first American female star. Cushman’s fame developed in the 1840s—precisely the moment when both the words “celebrity” and “personality” appeared to denote individuals often of ordinary birth whose idiosyncrasies, accomplishments, and glamour made them such a topic of speculation and appeal that the public sought the kind of knowledge, provided through modern media, that made such people into “intimate strangers.” For Cushman to achieve this status, it was necessary to reinvent the actress as a figure of professional influence, artistic triumph, and personal virtue rather than of moral corruption, the latter a particularly acute association in Anglo-American culture.6
Charlotte Cushman’s embodiment of “Success and her sister Fortune” in the 1850s revealed how the celebrity culture that supported her rise restaged gender as performance rather than essence, thereby aiding the breakdown of the belief that a woman’s moral character was immutably encoded in her appearance and distance from the tumult of public life. Put differently, celebrity culture’s development reveals how advertising an actress as a model worthy of emulation demanded different strategies of representation than those used to publicize great men. As used by film scholars, the term “persona,” which views the star as a text whose complications create ambiguities that can appeal to diverse fans, provides insight into the different dynamics that publicized famous women.7 Promoting female stars like Cushman required modern publicity to convey information about their private lives that could confound the flouting of respectability that their public performances entailed. New rituals of celebrity, like autobiographical writing in women’s magazines, explained this hidden self, offering access to truths that complicated how the actress appeared on stage. Such descriptions stressed how often women’s natures might accommodate qualities and characteristics of both sexes. Indeed, Cushman cut such an original figure in her milieu that her 1876 obituary still attributed her acclaim to her merging of seemingly irreconcilable traits. Her persona “manifested to the last the two leading peculiarities of her nature, the tenderness of a woman and the firmness of a Spartan man.” In this way, the fame of actresses was not a seamless expression of inner virtues—as had long been the case with men—but a multilayered performance that signaled the crumbling of sexual difference’s ability to define individual achievement and desire.8
Picturing the actress this way begins to explain what made Hollywood’s social imaginary so provocative when it first emerged after the Great War. Like no other industry of its day, the early American film industry publicized the accomplishments of its many successful women workers, including actresses, screenwriters, directors, producers, journalists, and publicists. But without question, the most celebrated of these figures were the first movie stars, women like Pickford, Florence Lawrence, and Pearl White. As with Cushman in the century before, these women’s fame dramatized their ability to exercise qualities long reserved for heroic men. But unlike Cushman, these “girls,” to use the parlance of the day, also displayed qualities that marketed them as romantic, desiring young women who were emblematic of the new sexual freedoms their sex sought to explore. The fame such actresses incarnated explains why so many girls, as well as their elders, came to consider the actress a personage of serious consequence around the world.
I
When viewed through the lens of gender, the nineteenth-century stage appears as a kind of bellwether for women’s entrance into territories that once spelled ruin for the respectable. With the sexual integration of leisure spaces that began with women’s participation as audience members of the so-called legitimate stage, women began to stake out new public spaces for socialization. At this theater, women tested old limits as to what they might show and tell in public, including how much the female star could project the type of authority and appetites long reserved for men. By midcentury, Charlotte Cushman’s fame displayed how a celebrity culture once sharply segmented by sex and respectability had become mostly ordered by gender and class. This development made room for the celebration of an actress who could act like both a respectable lady and a heroic man.9
Before Charlotte Cushman’s rise in the 1840s signaled the reconfiguration of the theater, women’s appearance “in the play or at the playhouse” took place “under a moral cloud.” Through the 1820s the theater was a part social, part political event controlled by elite white men. Men occupied the vast majority of seats in the nation’s few stock company theaters, and social class explained where they sat in the typical theater’s tripartite seating arrangement: the ground-floor pit for the “middling” sorts, the boxes above for the elite, and the third tier for those with the fewest financial resources, including the prostitutes who paraded their wares along its balcony. Local gentry enjoyed the same repertoire time and again: versions of Shakespeare that made the tragedies less tragic and “fairy tale” melodramas predominated. These plays often turned on the threat posed to a helpless heroine’s virtue and her eventual restoration “to the bosom of her home, her father, and her God,” offering women little to do but hope for rescue from their travails. All players in this era, male and female, were a morally suspect caste with no social standing.
