The Reel World of Warner Bros. Studios

“That’s Warren Beatty’s favorite memo.”

Our guide is Leith Adams, archivist for Warner Bros. Studios. The memo is under glass, displayed as part of an exhibit celebrating crime movies. It was dated Sept. 19, 1966, from studio boss Jack Warner to Walter MacEwen, head of production.

Dear Walter:

I finished reading BONNIE AND CLYDE and can’t understand where the entertainment value is in this story. Who wants to see the rise and fall of a couple of rats. Am sorry I did not read the script before I said yes. . .

I don’t understand the whole thinking of Warren Beatty and Penn. We will lose back whatever we happen to make on KALEIDOSCOPE. These are very distasteful people. What is the shooting schedule. I know the budget is 1,600,000 including overhead.

This era went out with Cagney. . .

A memory flickers in Leith Adams’ mind. Nearly three decades before he helped assemble the new Warner Bros. Museum, he was a college student in Champaign, Ill., waiting to see “Bonnie and Clyde” at the Rialto Theater. An earlier audience was leaving with a stunned expression, a look that made it clear they’d never seen a film like this before.

“Kaleidoscope,” another Beatty film, is largely forgotten. “Bonnie and Clyde,” produced by Beatty and directed by Arthur Penn, would go on to be a box-office and critical success--arguably the beginning of a new era. As Warner’s memo makes clear, another drama was being played out behind the scenes.

“It was the younger generation running into the older generation. This was the passing of the torch right here,” Adams says, pointing to the memo. “This just illustrates a pivotal point in American film.”

The cinema is a visual and aural medium, and so too is the new museum at the Warner Bros.’ Burbank lot, which will open July 1. In the crime film exhibit, for example, the Maltese Falcon is on display along with overcoats worn by Edward G. Robinson and George Raft, plus a parking meter that was beheaded by Paul Newman in “Cool Hand Luke.” A video monitor allows visitors to watch and listen to classic moments from classic films. There goes James Cagney smashing that grapefruit in that poor woman’s face.

But it’s the private documents--the contracts, the memos, the telegrams--that stop Warner Bros. employees and other visitors given previews.

Here is an exhibit devoted to “Casablanca.” Viewers are stunned by the size of Sam’s piano. Just 4 feet wide, it was of a style commonly used in nightclubs of the era, easily wheeled from table to table. Here’s a suit worn by Humphrey Bogart, a dress worn by Ingrid Bergman, another suit worn by Paul Henreid. Victor Laszlo’s letters of transit, so key to the plot, are also on display.

But what isn’t so familiar is this May 26, 1944 telegram, from Bogart to Jack Warner, complaining about negotiations for another film: “. . . I am tired of the studio’s attitude that I am a half-witted child. Don’t like to be threatened and should like the same consideration as shown to Davis and Flynn. . . “

As in Bette Davis and Errol Flynn. Other correspondence, Adams says, shows that those stars would kvetch about not being treated like Bogart.

Here’s a display devoted to the shooting-star career of James Dean, soon to be the subject of a commemorative U.S. postal stamp to be unveiled in a ceremony Monday at the Warner lot. Here’s Dean’s Triumph motorcycle, plus displays of his three major films--”Rebel Without a Cause,” “East of Eden” and “Giant.”

Look closely and you’ll find this prophecy from a letter that “Giant” producer Henry Ginsberg wrote to his son on Oct. 6, 1956, shortly after Dean’s death in a car wreck: “. . . The consensus of opinion--and I share this view--is that this boy was a rather unique personality and may develop into something of a legend.”

The museum takes visitors farther back. Here’s a display of “lobby cards”--miniature posters--devoted to the film career of Ronald Reagan. Here’s a payroll document from 1936 noting the hiring of Alan Ladd--as a grip. Here’s the letter canceling the contract of Rin Tin Tin, dumped because the talkies had arrived and German shepherds don’t talk. Here’s a display devoted to “The Jazz Singer,” including one of Al Jolson’s $150,000 contracts.

If visitors are disappointed by the lack of more recent memorabilia and memos, this is by design. The inaugural display on the bottom floor is devoted to Warner Bros.’ first 50 years, with another exhibit devoted to animation upstairs. Displays will change with some frequency, Adams says, both to spruce up the museum and help protect the aging wardrobe. Several items are on loan from collectors, as well as the families of Dean and John Wayne, and will ultimately be returned.

Hollywood likes what it sees. “WB STRUTS ITS STUFF” shouted the Daily Variety headline heralding the museum’s opening. The reviews, so far, have been universally boffo. Nary a negative word has been heard, say Warner Bros. publicists.

This critic has one. It’s a shame that the only way John Q. Filmbuff can get inside the Warner Bros. Museum is to pay $29 for the studio tour. Yes, it’s a fine tour, and the museum makes it much better. But if Warner Bros., say, wanted to open a museum gift shop to defray the costs, people wouldn’t complain.

It’s some consolation that Warner Bros. plans to offer tours to schoolchildren. The kids should really like the animation displays, but some of the finer points will be lost on young visitors. They are less likely to appreciate the fact that Jack Warner, who died in 1978 at the age of 86, had scripts of his favorite movies bound in hardcover.

“Bonnie and Clyde” is in hardcover. As Adams explains it, Warner had a change of heart, because he had a simple philosophy:

“A good movie is one that makes money.”

Scott Harris’ column appears Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays. Readers may write to Harris at the Times Valley Edition, 20000 Prairie St., Chatsworth, CA 91311. Please include a phone number.