"The Woman Behind Sylvia Rockwell"

Maryna Williams squints toward the horizon as she turns onto the suburban street. The rising sun shone over the red and brown oaks, a few green pines, and the roofs of colonial homes. The early Saturday morning drive from Western Massachusetts to Northern Vermont started getting to her. She let out a massive yawn and took a final sip of her gas-station coffee.

Though Maryna probably didn’t need it. She was already jittery as if she had ten shots of espresso.

Maryna was always like this when researching something about her favorite subject: Old Hollywood. More specifically, Sylvia Rockwell, her all-time favorite actress.

Sylvia Rockwell was the definition of a mythologized, Old Hollywood starlet. Everything about her became commodified. Her famous quotes and black-and-white headshots were plastered on t-shirts and posters worn by Maryna and thousands of others. Her story has been told by biographers and fabricated by documentarians. Film buffs were in one of two camps: she was a misunderstood genius who saw “too much” in Hollywood and left on top or she was a talentless actress who slept her way to the top.

And naturally, there were the rumors…

“Sylvia Rockwell was murdered by a studio head she rejected!”

“Sylvia Rockwell was a secret spy for Communist Russia!”

“Sylvia Rockwell ran away from Hollywood with a lesbian lover and illegitimate child!”

Maryna knew none of these were true. She was, as she put it, “a healthily obsessed fan.” Maryna practically memorized the lines of Sylvia’s entire filmography and read numerous articles, columns, and essays about the famed star. Heck, she even dressed as Sylvia’s characters for more than one Halloween.

As her fascination with Old Hollywood grew in her late teens to her now-senior year of college, Maryna knew almost every starlet was a studio fabrication. And Sylvia Rockwell was no different. Her thesis wasn’t tearing down the studio that made her. No, it was to uncover who Sylvia Rockwell was. The woman behind the stage name, Margaret Hale.

She got in touch with the actress’ only son, David Hale Jr., after visiting a Sylvia Rockwell website run by other lovers of Old Hollywood and its starlets. She of course thought it was fake at first, but to her surprise, it wasn’t. When it came to her request for an interview his response was simple: one-on-one in his home in Burlington, Vermont.

Maryna couldn’t have replied “Yes” to his email any faster.

Before she knew it, Maryna arrived at a modest sized, but well-kept, two story house. It perfectly blended into the neighborhood.

“Okay, you can do this,” Maryna said to herself as she grabbed her things and went to knock on the front door.

A large older man entered the door frame. Maryna thought he couldn’t have been older than sixty-five. His hair had vanished from the top of his head but remained full at the sides.

“Hello, David,” she said with a nervous smile. “It’s Maryna, Maryna Williams? We’re supposed to have our one-on-one chat in a few minutes… but I got here a little early.”

David Hale stared at her, not to intimidate her, though his large frame and frown made it look like that way. He was trying to recall who this young, bespectacled woman is. He had done numerous interviews about his mother, so his mind was like a Rolodex flipping through names.

“I do apologize, Miss Williams,” the older man said. “Which news outlet did you say you were with?”

“I’m the college student… at UMass Amherst. We met online?”

“Ah, yes,” David replied, nodding. “I do apologize, Miss Williams. Please, please, come in.”

David’s house was modern-looking on the outside, but old-fashioned on the inside. He gestured to two chairs sitting parallel to each other, and Maryna sat down on one. She took note of the faint smell of freshly brewed black tea and a cigar from the previous night. After they made the usual small talk (“How are you?” “How was the drive?”), Maryna was all too eager to start the interview.

“Before we start, do I have permission to-"

“Yes,” David said with a tired smile, quickly answering a question he got asked constantly by New England-based interviewers. “I know, you need to ask before you record a conversation.”

Maryna smiled and hit record on her smartphone. She answered the standard opening questions; what David’s name is, how to spell it and how to spell Margaret’s name. Then she launched into her first question: “What was it like being the only son of Sylvia Rockwell?”

“She hated that name,” David said, ignoring the question. “She hated how… pretentious it sounded.”

“Really?”

“It wasn’t even her choice either. She wanted to see ‘Margaret Hale’ on the marquee, not ‘Sylvia Rockwell,’” David informed her. “Mom felt like she wasn’t herself even before her first line read.”

In her head, Maryna began to pictured a young Margaret Hale sitting in a studio office, eager to sign a film contract… only to be asked to change her name and entire identity. Margaret Hale, the young brunette from Vermont would have to become Sylvia Rockwell, a fiery-haired vixen who allegedly studied theater in London.

“Yes, she said it made her sound like a fake person,” David said, bringing Maryna out of her imagination and back to the interview.

“Sylvia,” Maryna started and corrects herself, “I mean, Margaret’s first role was when she was 19.”

David nods.

“She eventually got over the name change,” he said, “but what she couldn’t stand was being paraded around for her looks.”

Maryna’s imagination created another scene: she pictured this young Plain Jane, plucked right out of her high school graduation, and thrust into a studio to be dressed up like a child’s doll. She winced, imagining Margaret’s discomfort as her brown hair was dyed an unfamiliar strawberry blonde, makeup artists slathered her face and stylists squeezed her body into too-tight costumes and gowns. Maryna shuddered at the thought of everyone staring at her if she were glammed up like that too.

“But, her hairstyle was extremely popular at the time,” Maryna said trying to shake those images out of her head. “Plus, didn’t she love it?”

She ran a hand through her hair, finally back to its natural brown after her “Sylvia‑blonde phase,” a choice she still cringed at whenever she saw old photos.

“Well, of course she did,” David said. “Who wouldn’t love a trend they started?”

The conversation continued, but on a lighter subject: Sylvia’s filmography.

“Don’t get it twisted, my mother loved acting,” David said, “My aunt once told me that she’d find my mom recreating various scenes from The Wizard of Oz where she’d play ALL the characters. And if you’re a fan, you know how she got her start in film.”

“Yep! She snuck on set one day during a family vacation to Los Angeles!” Maryna said, dropping her student persona and instead living-up to her self-confessed Sylvia Rockwell fangirl moniker. She then clears her throat and mimics Sylvia’s voice almost too-well: “‘I couldn’t get over the energy and power the soundstage gave me.’”

David noticed how much Maryna’s face lit up as she recited one of his mother’s most famous quotes. She wasn’t lying when she said she was a fan.

Maryna, meanwhile, noticed the awkward silence between them. Oh, great, he probably thinks you’re way too into his mother, she scolds herself.

“She adored attending premiers,” David said breaking the awkward silence. as he got up from his chair. “Mom once told me she felt like a princess when she walked the red carpet the first time.”

He grabbed a series of photo albums on a nearby mahogany shelf. Maryna observed how frantic, yet determined, he looked flipping through the albums. His expression changed to wide-eyed surprise as he turned the album around to the interviewer.

David pointed to a photo of Sylvia Rockwell next to a woman at a premier. The two were laughing side-by-side. But compared to the conservatively dressed, yet still glamorous, Sylvia Rockwell, the woman in the photo next to her was like a parody of a film-noir femme fatale. Sylvia posed naturally, showing off her pearly whites. Whereas the other woman angled her leg through a high slit and was looking boastful and overconfident.

“That’s Mom at the premier of Fragile Like Silk.”

“Wow… and who is the woman next to her? She looks like she’s trying out for a movie that hasn’t started production yet.”

“Oh, that’s Katarina Valdez,” David said. “She was… a character. But she was one of the only rumor-mongers in Hollywood that defended Mom. They actually became pen pals after Mom left Hollywood.”

Maryna imagined the two women embracing on the red carpet like old friends. She could almost hear Katarina’s fast-talking, know-it-all voice, as if she was the type of columnist who knew everyone’s deepest secrets, but only shared the ones that mattered. Someone who knew Margaret Hale just as well as she knew the persona of Sylvia Rockwell.

Maryna’s imagination faded as she transitioned to a timely question.

“Speaking of that film, Fragile Like Silk is seen as a classic in the romantic genre,” Maryna started, “Did she ever talk about her other films?”

“It’s funny, because I haven’t seen that movie in… ten years? But, I always enjoyed her comedy roles, like Corner Store. My mom was always trying to make me laugh at home. But knowing that other people got to experience that same joy she brought me always made me happy.”

“That’s one of my favorites of hers too!” Maryna beams. “She was funnier than any other woman back then.”

“Between you and me,” David says with a smirk. “I think she could get more laughs than Lucille Ball on Lucille’s BEST day.”

“But, I know it’s her roles in film noir classics like City of Smoke and The Right Kind of Fall Guy that people really remember.”

David’s face twisted. He always loathed being asked about Margaret’s roles where she was more “sexy” and less “herself.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable…” Maryna says. Her own internal monologue screaming, ‘Awesome! You made a son think about his mom in the worst way possible!’

“No, it’s alright,” David replies. “Mom was just… more than those characters.”

Their interview continued, but Maryna had to prepare herself to answer her most provocative question so far.

“Look, as much as I’d love to keep this light,” Maryna said, her right leg shaking with anxiety. “I’d like to know…. why did she leave Hollywood at the height of her career?”

She noticed the sudden change in the room as David sighed through his nose. He begins to tell the story, the real story, not the one peddled out by an unauthorized documentary.

“Mom learned how quickly the studio system chewed up actors and spit them out,” he said in a somber tone.

He tells Maryna that his mother saw an older actor, who made the studio big bucks in the silent era, forced to grovel and get humiliated for small, less-than-a-dollar and ultimately cut, role. David talks about how Sylvia Rockwell was asked to say bizarre pro-war statements that went against everything Margaret Hale stood for off camera.

As he continued, David mentioned the countless stories of directors and producers getting all-too-handsy with actresses, including one who used to put Margaret in compromising positions.

Maryna’s expressions became an uncomfortable combination of shock and disgust.

But, it was the final story that changed everything. The room, which, at one point felt warm and welcoming, started to feel cold and miserable. The interviewee started struggling with how to say the next part. He hesitated, but Maryna kept reassuring him that it’s okay to take as much time as he needs to tell this story.

He took a deep breath, and said with a trembling voice, “One day, one of the extras on some movie Mom was making, who was maybe 20 or 21, had jumped out of a hotel… ending her life.”

Maryna’s pencil dropped out of her fingers. And her hands glued to her mouth as she gasped.

“Mom pleaded with the studio to send the girl’s family some flowers. Or at least let other people grieve,” David said. “But, the studio heads ignored her. This poor young girl, who was ready to take on show business, was dead. And my mom, all she wanted was for this girl to get some kind of memorial. And it never happened.”

“She always felt guilty about it,” David continued, followed by a nervous gulp. “She told us one of her last words to her agent was, ‘I didn’t sign up for this.’ And Mom left Hollywood for good after that. The following morning, the producers checked her trailer… and it was cleaned out. They called the hotel she was staying at… she was nowhere to be found.”

The conversation turned lighter, much to the relief of both David and Maryna.

“Not too long after, Mom and Dad both met and got married at age 30, which I know is more common for your generation. But back in 1960, they were considered odd,” David said. “Dad told me years later that he loved Margaret Hale, long before she became 'Sylvia Rockwell.’”

Maryna smiled and asked, “Did she have any real romantic relationships in Hollywood?”

“Oh, no,” David says. “And by the tone of your voice right there, I can tell you don’t believe the headlines about her various trysts either.”

“I don’t believe any rumors about her. I’m too much of a fangirl to think less of her.”

David smiled at Maryna’s self-deprecating comment.

Finally, at least something made him laugh, she thinks to herself.

“Was she a good mom?”

David smiled. Not the kind of smile you give to be polite to the grocery store clerk or the one you give when waving to a stranger. No, it was a real smile. The kind of smile that naturally grows on your face when you remember someone special. And David’s now-softening face showed that. His internal happiness began to light up the room, at least to Maryna.

“Mom was the best,” David said. “She was always there for me. I remember every birthday, she went out of her way to make me feel special. And if there was someone in the neighborhood who wasn’t celebrating their birthday, she’d bake them a cake. No matter who you were, my mom showed you that you mattered.”

David sniffled a bit like any son would reminisce about their mother. And the touching stories continued… so much so Maryna couldn’t keep up with the words pouring out of David’s mouth, like the time Margaret directed a local production of A Christmas Carol.

“I think all the adults in the play knew who she was, but the kid who played Tiny Tim that year thought my mom was the ‘best lady actor ever!’ Which was something she took more pride in than any Best Actress nomination.”

He beamed with pride telling Maryna about the small businesses she helped with generous loans.

“There’s a little coffee shop on Battery Street called the Burlington Roast that’s been around for nearly 30 years because of her,” David tells Maryna, whose eyes dart downward at her constantly-filling notepad. “She never once asked for credit for helping them either. But, she never said ‘no’ to a free cranberry scone every Tuesday.”

Maryna laughed at that little quip. She could picture an older Margaret smiling at the coffee shop clerk.

David then started tearing up how he once saw his mother and father, David Sr., slow dancing in the kitchen on their anniversary.

“God, Dad loved her more than anything,” David says, his voice cracking. Tears began to well up in Maryna’s eyes. “You mentioned how Fragile Like Silk was a classic romance story? Well, her final lines in that movie don’t come close to her telling Dad how much she loved him. Even in her final days, her saying ‘I’ll always love you, Davey’ makes me-“

David stopped as he couldn’t hold back his emotions anymore. And neither could Maryna’s. The older man’s voice trembled and he immediately reached for the tissues.

“I’m sorry, Miss Williams,” David said before blowing his nose. “I didn’t mean to make you cry either.”

The student ended up staying longer than her allotted time, long enough to meet David’s wife, Evangeline Hale.

“Honey, this is Maryna Williams,” David said. “She’s writing about Mom.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Williams,” Evangeline says with a big hug that reminded Maryna of her own grandmother. “Will you be staying for dinner?”

“No, I won’t be. I’ve got some writing to do for my thesis,” Maryna said, packing up her things into her purse. “I’d love to continue the conversation tomorrow if that’s okay?”

“Absolutely,” David said. “I’m so glad someone is finally telling the true story about my mom.”

Maryna left David and Evangeline’s home with a big smile.

Maryna checked into her hotel, threw her backpack on the floor and collapsed onto the bed as if she was falling backwards into a pool. She thought about what she had learned about Sylvia Rockwell, or more accurately the person behind her. The student let out a sigh.

“She was just a kind woman,” she whispered. “A woman who wanted to be treated the same way she treated everyone else.”

The following morning, Maryna stopped by a particular coffee shop on Battery Street and ordered a vanilla latte… and a cranberry scone. It felt like the perfect place to start her thesis. She typed on her laptop:

“Sylvia Rockwell is an icon. Over the course of her ten-year acting career, her roles ensured her place in Hollywood history. But who was the woman behind the name Sylvia Rockwell?”

Maryna stared at the words she’d written. Then she hit ‘Enter’ to start a new, declarative sentence:

“That woman’s name was Margaret Hale.”