Bette Davis vs. Hollywood: An Uncompromising Star

March 19, 2025

I. The Relentless Rebel

On Oct. 14, 1936, Bette Davis entered the High Court of Justice in London—not for a scene, not in costume, but to wage a real-life battle against one of the most powerful studios in Hollywood. Reporters crowded the entrance as Davis passed by the cameras with the same poise she brought to the screen.

At 28, with an Oscar already to her name, she was Warner Brothers’ brightest star—and their biggest problem. She had crossed the Atlantic to break free from a contract she described as “akin to slavery,” and now she was challenging it in a British court, thousands of miles from Hollywood.

This wasn’t a tantrum from a temperamental actress, as some in the press insisted. This was an early, bold stand against a studio system that owned its actors outright, dictating what they wore, whom they dated, and what parts they played. Bette Davis wasn’t just demanding better scripts; she was demanding the right to choose.

“Any actor who doesn’t dare to make an enemy should get out of the business,” Davis wrote in “The Lonely Life,” her 1962 autobiography. “I worked for my career and I’ll protect it as I would my children.”

To understand how she got here, one must rewind—not to Hollywood, but to Massachusetts.

As a teenager in Lowell, Davis didn’t have ordinary daydreams. Her Newton High School notebooks were filled with sketches of the Ziegfeld Theatre, her name glowing in lights on the marquee. In one doodle, she pictured herself in a chauffeured car, captioning it: A certain new Broadway star and her new Rolls-Royce.

Her journey from Massachusetts to Hollywood was anything but conventional. In an industry where beauty and charm were often the currency of success, Bette Davis was an anomaly–sharp-featured, fiercely independent, and unwilling to be anything but herself.

By 1930, she made her way to Hollywood, armed with New England grit and stage training. The film world wasn’t sure of what to make of her.

Her first screen test at Universal Studios was a disaster. Executives claimed she “lacked screen personality,” and Davis later admitted she was quietly fired. Things weren’t much better at Warner Bros., as rumors had floated around Hollywood calling her “colorless” and difficult to market. She didn’t fit the industry’s favored image of bubbly blonde femininity.

Around this time, Davis was introduced to Wilson Mizner, a sharp-tongued playwright known for his brutal honesty. An unpublished manuscript found in the Bette Davis Collection at the Howard Gotlieb Archival Research Center recounts a dinner party with Mizner. “Nature, with her usual lack of precision, has erred in your case, Bette,” he remarked. “Your dark hair fights with your blue eyes and too-light complexion.” His advice was blunt: dye your hair honey blonde.

She took it. Not long after, she was sitting alone in the Warner Bros. Cafe when filmmaker and actor George Arliss spotted her and asked to be introduced. That meeting landed her the lead role in “The Man Who Played God.” Later, when she called Mizner to thank him, he responded, “Thank the hairdresser.”

Davis had officially signed a five-year contract with Warner Bros by 1932. Almost immediately, she began turning heads—not with a traditional Hollywood glamour, but with a presence that broke through the studio’s glossy and predictable mold.

Then came “Dangerous.” Released in 1935, the film starred Davis as Joyce Heath, a once-celebrated stage actress whose career and personal life had unraveled under the weight of alcoholism and scandal. At a time when most leading women clung to likeability, Davis ran towards roles that risked making her look cruel, broken, or bitter. She wasn’t chasing shock value—she was proving she had the emotional depth and courage of a true dramatic actress.

Her performance was intense, unglamorous, emotionally raw, and strikingly modern. It earned her the Academy Award for Best Actress. For some, the win was a surprise; for others, it was overdue recognition after her turn in “Of Human Bondage” the year before. Audiences were riveted by her refusal to soften the jagged edges of her characters.

“Dangerous” didn’t just make Davis a star—it marked her as a performer unwilling to play by the rules. Warner Bros. suddenly had a sensation on its hands, but not the kind content to smile for the cameras and say her lines. Davis craved something rare in the studio era: autonomy.

By 1936, she expected her Oscar to unlock a new tier of complex and demanding roles, but instead, the scripts got worse. When Warner Bros. handed her “Satan Met a Lady”—a flimsy, comedic remake of “The Maltese Falcon”—she was furious. Jack Warner promised better projects if she played along, stating, “Just be a good girl and everything will work out.”

After her next script proved to be another uninspired melodrama, Davis refused to film. Warner cut her salary and put her on suspension while she escaped the film set for a long and defiant stay in Laguna Beach. For Davis, the priority was never the paycheck, it was the work. She wanted roles that challenged her, not just filled studio quotas.

In a letter to Jack Warner written in June 1936, Bette states, “I would be willing to take less money, if in consideration of this, you would give me my 'rights.’...I am more than anxious to work for you again, but not as things stand. I really would be unable to do justice to my work at all—as I would feel I was coming back—not entitled to the things I sincerely believe I deserve.”

That’s when the smear campaign began. Warner-fed gossip columns painted her as greedy and temperamental—an ungrateful diva rather than an artist demanding better working conditions. Davis proposed a new contract with higher pay, fewer films, and more creative control, but Warner ignored it.

If Hollywood wouldn’t give her freedom, maybe England would.

II. The Trial Heard Across the Ocean

Her lifeline came in the form of Ludovico Toeplitz, a European producer with a bold offer: a two-film deal, full creative control, and generous pay. Toeplitz Productions, based in London, planned to shoot one film in Italy and another in France. For Davis, this wasn’t just a job, it was a rebellion.

She finalized the contract while honeymooning in Europe, where the Scottish press mockingly labeled her an “unemployed movie star.” As she prepared to begin filming, news of her defection reached Jack Warner, who promptly sailed to Venice for an unpleasant conversation with Toeplitz. No agreement was reached. Warner returned to London, furious. His wife, Ann, urged him to let the matter go, warning that it wasn’t worth the trouble, but Warner refused. 

On Sept. 9, 1936, Davis was served with an ex parte injunction from Warner Bros., barring her from working with any other studio. She had crossed an ocean for artistic freedom—now she’d have to fight for it in a British courtroom.

Davis remained defiant. “The refreshed thought that I could be forced into putting on a grass skirt and doing a hula if it so pleased my masters…so enraged me that when I heard Warner was serious enough to bring this to the English courts, I still refused to turn back.”

Intent on making an example of her, Warner enlisted Sir Patrick Hastings, one of Britain’s most renowned barristers. Toeplitz countered by recommending Sir William Jowitt, future Legal Chancellor, to represent Davis.

She wasn’t just battling Warner Bros.; she was challenging an entire industry that viewed her as a threat. Davis rejected material, defied authority, and demanded to be treated as more than a contract. Hollywood executives watched from afar, cheering for Warner to crush her rebellion.

The trial took place in a dark-wood-paneled courtroom at the Royal Courts of Justice, its vaulted ceilings and musty corridors echoing with the weight of tradition. Over three grueling days in October 1936, reporters filled the space, as Davis sat poised and tense beside her counsel. Davis later called it one of the most painful episodes of her life.

Davis watched as Sir Patrick Hastings expressed his disinterest and Jack Warner shifted uneasily beside him. When Warner finally took the stand, he looked pale and uncomfortable. “By the time Sir Patrick got through with my boss,” Davis later quipped, “it sounded as if I had been found in an ash heap and he and his brother Harry had breathed life into me.”

The trial’s most surreal moment came when Hastings, livid that Davis would not be cross-examined, reportedly ripped off his wig and flung it across the room. He’d wanted to interrogate her directly, to tear her credibility apart. Instead, he resorted to theatrics, sneering that Davis was simply a “naughty young lady.”

Sir William Jowitt delivered a powerful defense, arguing that Davis’s contract amounted to professional servitude. Under its terms, she couldn’t appear in a stage play, attend a charity gala, or even be photographed without Warner Bros. consent. Warner, Jowitt claimed, didn’t just own her career—he owned her.

In his closing argument, Jowitt pivoted to a more piercing point. If Davis were to sit idle, refusing to work for any other studio until her contract expired in 1942, Warner could extend it indefinitely by docking her for months she didn’t work. “I then suggest,” Jowitt continued, “that it is therefore not a legal contract, but a life sentence.”

His eloquence failed to sway the bench. The court ruled in favor of Warner Bros., declaring that Davis had indeed breached her contract. She was ordered to pay $80,000 in legal fees, equivalent to over $1.8 million today. The ruling left her financially drained, having been out of work for months. Back in Hollywood, the studio system celebrated her defeat. 

News of the decision reached Davis as she walked alone along the windswept Sussex coast. She later wrote, “I lost with a vengeance. I looked out to sea grimly and then wrote Mother. I never needed her so much in my life. Everyone has warned me not to fight. Well, I paid for it.”

She had little interest in returning to Hollywood in defeat. In that moment of doubt, she received an unexpected visit from George Arliss. “Go back, my dear Bette,” he told her gently. “You haven’t lost as much as you think…If in time you feel you’re being treated unjustly, put up another fight.” She would later credit him as the voice of reason she needed to hear.

In November, she waited at the Southampton docks for her voyage back to America aboard the Antiquata, bundled in a long dark trench coat as reporters lingered nearby. The gray sky and cold wind were a fitting backdrop for what she later called a reminder that she’s “never a good loser.”

III. She Did it The Hard Way

It didn’t take long for Bette to claw her way back. A Broadway play, “Jezebel,” had caught her attention. Set in antebellum New Orleans, the story followed Julie Marsden,  a fiery Southern belle whose pride, vanity, and refusal to conform lead her down a path of scandal, heartbreak, and eventual redemption. Davis saw herself in the character. Julie was proud, unpredictable, and more willing to destroy her own happiness than surrender control. For Davis, it wasn’t just another role—it was a psychological mirror.

Desperate to star in a film adaptation, she begged Warner Bros. to acquire the rights. They laughed her off. Then, she saw in the trade papers that Warner Bros. had, in fact, bought the rights—and that Miriam Hopkins, a frequent rival, had been cast as the lead.

In an unpublished interview also preserved in the Gotlieb Archive, Davis recalled her panic, stating, “I leapt to the phone at intervals of two hours and screamed: ‘You give that part to Miriam, and I’ll die!”

She fought—and this time, she won. In 1938, Davis starred in “Jezebel,” a role that earned her a second Academy Award. Her performance was electric. Davis didn’t soften Julie’s cruelty or impulsiveness—she leaned into them, daring audiences to empathize with a woman who refused to play by the rules. 

Critics were unanimous in their praise. The New York Times wrote, “Admittedly, it is a great role—rangy, full-bodied, designed for a virtuosa…but that must not detract from the eloquence, the tenderness, the heartbreaking sincerity with which she has played it.”

The role didn’t just secure her place among Hollywood’s elite, it redefined what a leading woman could be. Audiences embraced Davis not despite Julie’s flaws, but because Davis played them with such unflinching conviction. “Jezebel” was a turning point. No longer just a rebellious talent in Warner’s roster, Davis had become a creative force the studio could no longer ignore.

Davis didn’t just cement her place in Hollywood history; she opened a conversation for future legal battles against the studio system. 

“There is no doubt that the publicity attendant to my litigation paved the way for Olivia de Havilland’s eventual court victory over the immoral suspension clause,” Davis wrote. “Hollywood actors will forever be in Olivia’s debt.”

In 1944, Olivia de Havilland—frustrated by years of being suspended and given second-rate roles—sued Warner Bros. for abusing the “rollover” and “suspension” clauses in studio contracts. These clauses allowed studios to suspend an actor’s contract if they refused to work or were unavailable.

The California Court of Appeals historically ruled in Havilland’s favor, declaring that the clauses were a form of “peonage,” or illegal servitude. Superior Court Judge Charles S. Burnell’s decision became known as the De Havilland Law, a groundbreaking ruling that limited personal services contracts to seven calendar years, regardless of suspensions. Studios could no longer pause an actor’s contract and tack on additional time later.

This ruling reshaped the balance of power between actors and studios, signaling a victory not just for de Havilland and Davis but also for all actors who sought to reclaim their autonomy in a dominating studio system.

Bette Davis never stopped working. She was nominated for ten Academy Awards and starred in over 100 films across five decades, reinventing herself with every era.

In 1952, Post-“All About Eve,” Hollywood wasn’t offering the kinds of roles Davis wanted, so she returned to her East Coast roots and took the stage once again. She starred in the musical “Two’s Company,” performing eight shows a week at the Shubert Theatre in Detroit. The production traveled to Pittsburgh and Boston, and despite Davis often being bedridden and exhausted, she kept going. It was her nature.

On opening night, she received a telegram from an unknown “Chubby”: “Good little girls make personal appearances. But smart little girls give up California and try out Detroit.”

The note, saved among Davis’ papers at the Gotlieb Archival Center, was a witty nod to the very principles that defined her career: her refusal to play nice, fall in line, or be molded by the Hollywood studio system. While others stayed, taking the roles they were handed and smiling through it, Davis chose to go her own way.

More than thirty years after her death in 1989, that same defiant spirit resurfaced—this time through protest. In 2023, Hollywood came to a halt as SAG-AFTRA, the actors’ union, went on strike. The issues were modern—artificial intelligence, streaming residuals, and creative erosion—but the message echoed Davis’ 1930 battle for artistic autonomy: performers demanding to be seen not as commodities, but as collaborators.

“We are being victimized by a very greedy entity,” said Fran Drescher, SAG-AFTRA President at a rally. “If we don’t stand tall right now, we are all going to be in trouble.”

Davis’ battle, nearly 90 years earlier, rang louder than ever. She had warned of the cost of silence, modeled the risk of resistance, and demanded the right to define her own career, long before unions found their footing and strength.

She would’ve been right on the picket line in 2023—trench-coated, eyes blazing–with a sign that read what her life already proved: She did it the hard way.