Valda Valkyrien: The Last of the Vikings

Although she wasn’t born with it, during the height of her fame, the woman once dubbed the most beautiful woman in Denmark was known by just one name: Valkyrien. Her beauty and nobility made her desirable to film companies across the world, but her star fell faster and sooner than many of her contemporaries. What happened to the last of the vikings?

Born September 30, 1895 in Iceland as Adele Eleonore Freed, Valkyrien was always known by the filmgoing public as simply Valkyrien (later, Valda Valkyrien). She, like Theda Bara, had a history that was greatly fabricated and exaggerated. She claimed royal viking lineage and said she entered The Royal Danish Ballet at the age of 13 as a sole source of income for her mother. It was said that within 3 years she had advanced to being a solo danseuse and took a 6-month leave of absence to tour on her own. Film historian John T. Soister has refuted her personal history, saying, “Reports of her participation -- let alone stardom -- in the Royal Danish Ballet were, to quote Mark Twain, ‘greatly exaggerated.’”

A credit she could truly claim, though, was the title Valkyrien. In a nationwide beauty contest, young women competed for the chance to be proclaimed the ideal Dane by the king himself. Valkyrien entered the contest and was dubbed the most beautiful girl of her race -- the Valkyrien Star of 1914. Though the name “Valkyrien” came from the title, she would later claim it as her baptismal maiden name. She had done a number of short films with the European pioneer film company Nordisk in 1912 under the name Adele Frederiksen, but this sudden fame and title brought filmmakers running to her door. It was also around this time that she would become a true member of the nobility, marrying Baron Hrolf von Dewitz, a lieutenant in the Royal Danish Navy.

Valkyrien made the journey to the U.S. where she was picked up by Centaur films and Vitagraph before settling down with Thanhouser. Her title was certainly a draw, but studios were also quick to snap her up because she offered a different kind of appeal than other actresses. She wasn’t really an ingenue like Mae Marsh or Lillian Gish, and she wasn't really exotic like Theda Bara or Pola Negri. She looked like a Nordic goddess transplanted from the days of Eric the Red into modern times, and savvy filmmakers used her to that end. Thanhouser cast her in two such roles, first in “The Valkyrie” in 1915 and then later in 1916’s “Hidden Valley” where she played the role of the White Goddess and had the chance to dance on film.

When Valkyrien left Thanhouser and signed a contract with Fox Film in 1916, it seemed to be a match made in heaven. William Fox and his film/publicity machine were responsible for the discovery of Theodosia Goodman and her meteoric rise under the new moniker Theda Bara. Under him, Bara was transformed into an exotic vamp, born under the shadow of the Sphinx and destined to play Salome and Cleopatra. With Fox’s tutelage, the sky seemed to be the limit for Valkyrien.

What looked fantastic on paper, however, didn’t translate to real life. By September, the relationship had soured. The only film she would make under Fox was called “The Unwelcome Mother,” and Valkyrien was very vocal about her distaste for stunts which she was required to do (stunt work was something that most stars were expected to do at least some of the time). Motography quoted her as saying, “If you succeed at it, you do not get any credit for it. If producers want acrobatic effects, they should have acrobats for the scenes requiring them. A veritable actress, who has earned her reputation on histrionic merit, should not be required to do acrobatics, for even if she is successful at it the audiences will gradually drift into the habit of expecting ‘stunts’ from her in place of real acting.”

The film was released at about the same time, and by late October/early November, she announced that she was taking Fox to court for breach of contract. She accused him of failing to live up to their contract, saying she was supposed to be billed above her co-star Walter Law, and hinted that she may organize her own production company. Though some sources claim that the result of the case has been lost, others assert that Valkyrien simply lost. Even if she did win (as Charlotte Burton did with her suit against Essanay), it didn’t benefit her in the long run.

Valkyrien had, in fact, announced plans to begin her own production company (Valkyrien Films Inc.) as few months earlier. Like Helen Gardner before her, she held herself to a very high standard and had a very strict view of what kind of films she was going to make. The company was to focus on classic feature plays originating from Greek, Roman and Scandinavian mythology. They were to be of epic quality, measuring as much as 7 reels in length, and were to be filmed without the use of a studio. She claimed that a lack of a studio would mean they could be produced with the least amount of expense and with the greatest amount of artistry. The Baron himself got very involved in the endeavor, taking on production roles left and right. He was praised as being “an expert of the first calibre in the finer points of photoplay construction” and had even taken on the role of consulting technical director for an earlier effort. Although the project was ambitious, it wasn’t achievable. Valkyrien soon found herself back with Thanhouser and other smaller independent production companies with her fame in steady decline.

Scene from "The Image Maker"

One of the films she did during this time was hailed by some contemporary critics as her best. “The Image Maker,” released in early 1917, features Valkyrien in dual roles. First as an Egyptian girl of low degree who wins the love of a great noble, then as an incarnation of the girl in modern America. Some critics hailed it as the best of her career, while others shrugged it off saying it was fair but not a draw for audiences.

Her career ended with her being cast in supporting roles. One of her final films was “Huns Within Our Gates.” Produced by the Arrow Film Corporation, the film was almost doomed from the start. It was completed while WWI was still in full swing, but when distributors began selling rights to it, the armistice was signed and theater owners began to shy away. It had to be re-edited and retitled “The Hearts of Men” in an effort to improve American/German relations. Her last film hurrah came in the form of “Bolshevism on Trial,” based on the novel “Comrades” written by the infamous Thomas Dixon (author of “The Clansman” which D.W. Griffith would adapt as “The Birth of a Nation”). As her career came to an end, so did her marriage.

She retired from the screen and joined up with the Ziegfeld Follies, but only lasted with them for one season. She attempted a comeback in the late ‘20s, but her time in the sun had long since passed. She married for a second time, and retired from public life for good. The last of the vikings, as the fan magazines had proclaimed her 40 years prior, died on October 22, 1956 in L.A.

The Mystery of Helen Gardner

Helen Gardner was a pioneer in a lot of ways. Not only was she the first American film actress to form her own production company, she was also the among the first filmmakers to embrace making features, and was the first vamp on screen. Yet, she has been forgotten and overlooked. Perhaps her relatively short career in the earliest days of the studio system is to blame, but the strides she made as an actress and producer should have given her a more prominent place in film history.

John Bunny with Helen Gardner in "Vanity Fair"

Gardner got her start in film in 1910 when she was signed to New York’s Vitagraph Company-- one of the preeminent studios in the early days of film. Not only did it have the likes of Maurice Costello (father to Dolores Costello) in its ranks, it also helped silent legends like the Talmadge sisters get their start. It didn’t take long for Gardner to start getting noticed by critics and fans alike. In 1911, she starred in Vitagraph’s adaptation of “Vanity Fair” along with America’s preeminent comedian at the time, John Bunny (the first in a long line of lovable, chubby male comedians), and garnered praise for her portrayal of Becky. Her forceful and expressive style helped her stand out from the rest of the cast and caused many moviegoers to ask fan magazine writers about her.



This admiration and critical praise could have been the spark to push Gardner to form her own production company. By 1912, she had formed the Helen Gardner Picture Players (later the Helgar Corporation), with Charles Gaskill directing, and Gardner having final say over most aspects of her films. Not only was she the producer, she was also the scenarist, editor and costumer designer. The Gardner Picture Players remained in New York (Fort Lee, New Jersey was Hollywood before Hollywood), moving the company to a new residence at Tappan on the Hudson. The company came out of the gate strong -- their first production was “Cleopatra” and it helped cement Gardner as a powerful actress who excelled at playing exotic, vamp characters.



Gardner followed up “Cleopatra” with films like “A Daughter of Pan,” “The Wife of Cain,” “A Sister to Carmen” and “A Princess of Bagdad.” Although the films generally got good reviews, and the Gardner Picture Players marketing team promoted them throughout the pages of trade magazines, money seems to have been an issue. The company very publicly split from Warner’s Features distribution, with the major point of contention being money owed to the production company from Warner’s, and found a new distributor, but the company folded in 1914. Gardner returned to Vitagraph shortly thereafter, but had retired from the screen by 1916, returning to film only a few times in the 1920s. She died in Orlando, Florida in 1968.

The collapse of smaller independent production companies was not unusual in the early days of film. Thanks to lawsuits and patents, Thomas Edison had done a hell of a job threatening smaller production companies still located on the East Coast into submission, and spurring others to make the jump to California. It was because of this constant legal threat that companies like Essanay and, yes, Vitagraph, approached Edison and formed the Motion Picture Patents Company. Although it saved them from legal action and kept them in business, it also severely restricted the length of films they were allowed to make. Did this cramp the creativity of the companies' filmmakers? Undoubtedly. But did it help control costs and keep their work profitable? Definitely.

I suspect that Gardner's early embracing of the feature film, and her desire to create them exclusively and independently, resulted in financial troubles for the company. To put the 1912 release of "Cleopatra" in context, it took until 1914 for the MPCC to allow members to create feature releases. D.W. Griffith's first feature, "Judith of Bethulia," and Mack Sennett's first feature-length comedy, "Tillie's Punctured Romance," were both released in 1914 -- two years after "Cleopatra." Although the features were accepted and praised, Gardner's team was coming from a very different production system. Vitagraph, Gardner's former studio, was known for its prolific output, and in the early days of silent film, quantity tended to overshadow quality. Studios and production companies regularly boasted the number of films they could produce in a week in the hopes of attracting more theater owners. In 1913, Flying "A" Studios (the American Film Manufacturing Company) were promising three California-made films a week. Compare that to the dozen or so films Gardner put out between from late 1912 (the release of "Cleopatra") to 1914. She was also dealing with independent distributors, and the fact that Gardner and fellow actress Marion Leonard were so vocal about their split with Warner's suggests that there may have been some shady practices going on. Unfortunately, this isn't surprising.

Even when features became common for American filmmakers, studios couldn't afford to make them alone, nor could they make each production an artistic triumph. They had to rely on potboilers -- shorter films that were often made quickly and cheaply with the sole purpose of making money. Big stars and big production companies also used the system to help their audience satisfied while they worked on super productions that required more time and more effort. Gardner's company didn't. They had committed themselves to producing epic, artistic films starring Gardner that were of at least four reels in length. They also held themselves to a higher standard, saying that they were addressing "themselves more particularly to enlightened people -- who even now make up the larger part of all respectable picture theatre audiences, and who complain loudly at the nonsense drooled out to them by the trusts" (aka the MPCC). (It's worth noting that this release stating Gardner's new company's objective was placed directly beside a tradepaper ad for five films Vitagraph had released that week alone. Coincidence?) Did shorts and potboilers count as that "nonsense" being "drooled" out? The company's ambition was admirable, but their self-imposed restrictions gave them a major disadvantage.

The demise of the Helen Gardner Picture Players may not be much of a mystery, but again we are faced with the question of her obscurity -- why has her pioneer status been so widely forgotten? She created her own production company before Mary Pickford, but Pickford’s is the one that's remembered. With her production of “Cleopatra,” Gardner beat Theda Bara and William Fox to the punch by years, yet we’re more intrigued by Bara’s lost super production than we are by Gardner’s extant film. Both Gardner and Bara were praised for their turns as the Egyptian queen, with critics proclaiming each woman was the queen reincarnated, but it’s only Bara’s kohl-rimmed eyes and exotic presence that has managed to survive through posters and pop culture. Gardner’s acting certainly seems to be on par with the greats of the era, and her efforts behind the camera are equally respectable...so what gives?

For what it’s worth, Gardner’s daughter, Dorin Gardner Schumacher is trying to keep Gardner’s memory alive. Although she never knew Gardner (Schumacher’s mother was estranged from Gardner), Schumacher is trying to piece together details of Gardner’s life into a cohesive biography and memoir. Will this help bring Gardner back to the consciousness of film fanatics? Perhaps if Schumacher staged screenings of Gardner’s existing films, including “Cleopatra” and “A Daughter of Pan,” it might help stir up renewed interest in the screen’s first vamp.