The Radford Horse

Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder.

Another missive from the Wayback Machine

“The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”
Hamlet, by William Shakespeare


Hollywood has a reputation as a festering pit of institutionalized immorality, a red light district of sorts where screen stars are free to indulge in whatever forms of excess lights their fire, releases their tension, or temporarily sates the gnawing hunger of their own personal demons. A high-octane cocktail of sex, drugs, and booze is the traditional form of escape, but so long as these after-hours romps don’t include cannibalism, serial killings, or child molestation, they’re generally considered as the perks of stardom. For some stars, tales of randy off-screen behavior act as a dash of Habanero chile to spice up the stew of a career, adding a frisson of dark intrigue to be lapped up by media hounds and fans alike. Those who are skilled at this dance can hone their bad-boy/bad-girl reputations to a jagged edge while having lots of crazy-fun, but like that fiery Habanero chile, a little goes a long way. There are always some who can’t handle the heat of the spotlight or ease off the throttle — for them, it’s pedal to the metal all the way — and these are the lost souls who eventually spiral out of control. As the tide of negative publicity rises, their public relations damage-control systems start to crumble, and eventually their “brand” suffers serious damage. Once the public turns on them — thus destroying their ability to earn vast profits for the corporate overlords — it’s all over but the whimpering. A very few (Robert Downy Jr. comes to mind) summon the discipline to pull out of this death spiral, but by the time most falling stars come to their senses, it’s too late to salvage a career. From the days of Fatty Arbuckle to modern times, Hollywood rogues have paid the price for cavorting far beyond the boundaries that constrain mere mortals, learning the hard way that such boundaries are there for a reason.

That said, there’s a quieter but bizarrely prudish side to the industry that if rare, is no less outlandish, and occasionally careens deep into the outback of Absurdistan. Nearly twenty years ago, this jawdropper hit the papers when a writer’s assistant working on “Friends” sued her employers for sexual harassment due to the rough language she overheard as part of her job. The young woman didn’t seem to understand the free-wheeling, anything-goes creative process of writing comedy for a show like that, and decided to sue after she was fired for poor performance. I’m not comfortable siding against a lowly assistant, but she wasn’t just barking up the wrong tree — she was in the wrong forest altogether. There was nothing good about the way things ended, with a young woman horrendously disillusioned after losing her job, and — surprise — a few highly paid lawyers getting even richer, but it’s not only wayward stars who have to learn the hard way.

Then there’s the matter of the Radford Horse.

A few years ago, a life-sized sculpture of a horse was installed outside the main parking structure on the CBS lot in Studio City. Known throughout the industry as “Radford” (the main gate being on Radford Avenue), this was once the home of Mack Sennett and his Keystone Cops, and eventually morphed into Republic Pictures, where dozens of Westerns were filmed starring Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, and John Wayne, among others. Some of television’s legendary Westerns were made on this lot, including “Gunsmoke,” “Rawhide,” and “Bonanza.” Given the history, it seemed fitting to put the sculpture of a big horse, rearing back on its hind legs, right out there where everybody could see it on their way to and from the day’s work. In a town where tradition and history are too often ignored, the Radford Horse represented a small step in the right direction.

The sculptor chose a stallion as the model, going to great lengths to create a very lifelike form — nothing rudely explicit, but realistic enough that it was clearly a male of the species. The statue was installed facing the studio and employees, its back to the parking facility. I liked it well enough — not that a statue made my work days pass any quicker, nor did it lighten the cable I had to wrangle — but it added a touch of class to an otherwise utilitarian parking structure. After a while, the horse became part of the scenery.

I came to work one Monday morning and noticed something odd: the horse had turned around over the weekend, and now faced the parking structure, as if peering into the elevators carrying people to and from their cars. This was definitely strange, but I didn’t think much of it at the time. A few weeks later — again, after a weekend — the horse had turned around to resume its former position facing the studio.

I wasn’t particularly concerned about these mysterious equine rotations, but while walking past the parking structure with someone who’d worked at the studio for many years, I mentioned the curiously flip-flopping horse. He stopped and raised one eyebrow.

“Take a good look at it.”

I did, but shook my head.

“What am I supposed to be looking for?”

“A little something that’s missing," came the reply. “Actually, a not-so-little something.”

Ah. There it was ... or to be more accurate, wasn’t.

“An actress working on one of our shows objected to the realistic appearance of the statue,” he explained, “so the studio accommodated her wishes.”

This once-proud stallion hadn’t just been gelded, he’d been subjected to the Full Monty nightmare of every man in the world: all the parts that made him a male had been smoothly and surgically removed.

At first I wondered what modern-day actress would even have such clout, then my head began to spin pondering how any adult could be so fucked-up in the head as to take serious offense at a statue of an animal, particularly a beast that played such a big role in the history of our collective industry. In a business where the terms “horse cock” and “bull prick” have echoed across stage and location sets for the past eighty years, it seemed inconciveable that some prim-and-proper bluenose could get her knickers in a knot over a goddamned statue.*

My mind was boggled.

“Who was it?” I asked, realizing as the words left my mouth that no good could come from such knowledge. I’m not in the dirt-dishing business, but more importantly, if I did know and let the name slip — particularly in print — the result could be me standing at a freeway off-ramp holding a cardboard sign begging for money. Loose lips can still sink ships in this town. Sometimes it really is better not to know.

Besides, nobody — and I mean nobody — would admit to knowing her name.

Still, every time I walk by that horse, I can't help wondering who the actress was. Then I think about the conversations that must have taken place while the sculptor (or whoever did the quiet weekend surgery) was removing the offending bits.

I wonder how that guy explained to his kids exactly why he had to work on the weekend?


* “Horse cock” is a thick, unweildy canvas-covered cable that juicers have struggled with ever since the advent of artificial lighting for movies. I saw a lot of it during the early phases of my career, but eventually it went the way of all things. A “bull prick” is a three-foot-long steel spike that’s driven into the ground with a sledgehammer, then used to secure ropes holding a tent, big silk or griflon, or anything else the wind threatens to blow away.