John Wayne: Born In Iowa, Built For America

John Wayne had a problem growing up. He lived in Winterset, Iowa, and his name was Marion. Marion Michael Morrison.

He grew up poor. His father struggled with health problems. Money was nonexistent, and nothing came easy. He worked odd jobs, and learned not to complain when things didn’t go his way.

That mindset stuck.

When the family moved west, Marion grew into a big kid—tall, strong, athletic. Played football. Earned a scholarship to USC. And for a while, it looked like his future might be on the field.

Then fate intervened. A football injury ended his athletic dreams. The scholarship money dried up, and he found a Hollywood job. Nothing glamorous.

Before Hollywood Had Rules: Iowa Actress Rita Bell's Wild Moment in Film

Rita Bell was born Marguerite Hughes Bell in 1893, back when the Midwest still believed it could raise children who would never leave. Iowa City was orderly and calm, a place that expected people to fit. Bell didn’t.

She sang her first part in an amateur performance in Iowa City while she was still a little girl, dressed in pinafores and wearing pigtails, standing on a small local stage and learning what it felt like to be seen.

 

She changed her name to Rita Bell because the old name belonged to classrooms and expectations. The new one fit on a program and was easy to remember.

 

This wasn’t a movie story. Despite later guesswork, Rita Bell never worked in silent films. Her career lived where voices mattered and mistakes were public—stages and music halls, where you either held the room or you didn’t.

 

By the early 1920s, she was working professionally. In 1922, she played the ingenue role in The Spice of Life, produced by John Murray Anderson. The role demanded charm without softness and confidence without arrogance.

How Davenport Iowa Actress Patricia Barry Beat the Hollywood Trap

Patricia Barry was born Patricia White on November 16, 1922, in Davenport, Iowa. She learned early that talent wasn’t enough. You had to show up ready. Those lessons followed her east to Northwestern University, where she studied drama with the seriousness of someone planning a career, not a fantasy. By the time she headed west, she wasn’t chasing fame. She was chasing work.

Hollywood in the 1940s was crowded with hopefuls and ruled by contracts. Barry signed with Warner Bros. She played intelligent women, professionals, wives, secretaries with spine. An early reviewer described her as “cool, composed, and believable in every frame,” a compliment that followed her for decades.

Her early films came one after another, never flashy, always solid. She appeared in thrillers, dramas, war pictures. In The Window, she helped anchor a tense story without pulling focus. In O.S.S., she brought calm authority to a wartime world built on suspicion. Then came The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms, a film that leaned into spectacle while Barry did what she always did—grounded the chaos. Critics noted she gave the film “a human center amid the destruction,” a reminder that even genre pictures needed actors who could sell reality.

Will Higgie Dances the Charleston Atop the Des Moines Register & Tribune Building

(from the Des Moines Register.
 August 26, 1925)

In August 1925, Des Moines got a rooftop performance no one forgot. Will Higgie—one of the original creators of the Charleston—strutted onto the roof of the Des Moines Register and Tribune building alongside his partner, Dorothy Ryan, and turned the city skyline into a dance floor. Below them, crowds looked up as the pair showed off the fast-kicking, rule-breaking dance that was sweeping the nation.

Later, Higgie let everyone in on a little secret. That famous “naughty wiggle” everyone loved? It wasn’t part of the original dance at all. It didn’t show up until after the Charleston was already loose in the world—proving that even America’s wildest dance craze was still evolving, one rooftop at a time.

Laughed Off Stage, Written Into History: The Cherry Sisters

A colorized image of The Cherry Sisters

The Cherry Sisters didn’t arrive on the American stage—so much as detonate on it, like some godforsaken cyclone stuffed with tin pans, bad hymns, and the righteous confidence you normally only see in evangelists or heavily medicated congressmen. Five of them—Effie, Addie, Ella, Lizzie, Jessie—marching into the 1890s like a militia of homemade virtue, certain the world was ready for their greatness.

The world, of course, had other ideas.

 

Their traveling revue, a fever dream called “Something Good, Something Sad,” wasn’t a show so much as a moral crusade welded to accidental slapstick. They sang with the reckless abandon of people who did not know what singing required. They recited poetry like hostile witnesses in their own trial. They dispensed moral lectures with the zeal of frontier prosecutors. And they performed dramatic sketches stitched together like ransom notes.

 

The Clown Who Outsold Charlie Chaplin: Iowa's Harry Langdon

Harry Langdon was born in Council Bluffs, Iowa, in 1884—small, pale, blinking like the sun was too bright and the world too loud. He wasn’t built for noise, so he made his own. Soft noise. Strange noise. The kind that made people lean in.

 He grew up watching more than talking, a quiet kid who turned confusion into comedy. Vaudeville grabbed him early. He drifted into tent shows that smelled like dust and popcorn, where comics fought for dimes and dignity. His act was a man-child stumbling through life like someone had swapped the instruction manual for a blank sheet of paper. “I never knew much,” he said. “That seemed to help.”

 

Crowds loved him. They felt protective, then foolish for feeling protective, then they laughed harder. One reviewer said he looked “one sneeze from disaster.” Another said, “Langdon makes you hold your breath, then giggle at yourself for it.”

 

Mack Sennett signed him in 1924. Hollywood figured he’d break instantly. He didn’t break. He shuffled his feet, and underplayed everything until audiences lost their minds. Moving Picture World said, “Langdon doesn’t hit gags. He drifts into them like fog into a valley.”

Death After the Applause: Cary Grant's Final Night in Iowa

Cary Grant didn’t plan on dying in Iowa. Nobody does. Iowa isn’t a death state, not like Arizona with its heat or New York with its taxis. Iowa is a place for corn, river towns, and people who will tell you directions by pointing with two fingers and a soft “you bet.” Still, that’s where Cary Grant’s story stopped—Davenport, of all places—on a chilly Saturday night in 1986.

He’d come for a show at the Adler Theatre. Not a movie—but a conversation. Just Cary Grant on a stage, answering questions, smiling, telling stories about being Cary Grant. People in Davenport bought tickets faster than you’d expect for a Hollywood relic. The Quad-City Times noted, “The Adler has never hosted a presence quite like this one.”

 

He checked into the President Riverboat Hotel, and walked through the lobby greeting people with that soft British-American hybrid voice of his. A desk clerk later told a reporter, “He was polite. Quiet. The sort of man you hope you’ll meet again when you look better.”

When Hollywood Dreams Turned Dark: Iowa's Peg Entwhistle

Peg Entwistle came to New York chasing light. “I would rather play roles that carry conviction,” she said, “because they’re the easiest—and the hardest—for me to do.” She was seventeen when she first hit the stage in The Wild Duck. A young Bette Davis saw her that night and told a friend, “I want to be exactly like Peg Entwistle.”

Broadway came quick. Critics called her “a striking young actress with the timing of a veteran.” One paper said, “Peg Entwistle gave a performance considerably better than the play warranted.” 

 

She joined the Theatre Guild and worked the boards with the best. “To play any emotional scene,” she said, “I must work up to a certain pitch. If I reach that in my first word, the rest takes care of itself.”

 

Hollywood came calling next. 1932. The sign still said HOLLYWOODLAND. Peg moved west, signed a contract with RKO, and landed her first film—Thirteen Women. “I’m going to live in that sign,” she told a friend. “I’m going to make them see me.”

The First Hollywood Heartthrob From Iowa: Actor Tom Moore

Tom Moore hit New York young, broke, and charming—one of those Irish kids who could sell a story before he even knew how it ended. By 1908, he was in movies, when “movies” meant cardboard sets, frantic gestures, and piano music doing the heavy lifting. He wasn’t born to be a star, but he worked like one.

 In the 1910s, Moore’s face was everywhere—square jaw, slick hair, eyes that carried just enough trouble to keep audiences guessing. One paper called him “a man built for the camera—clean, capable, and just dangerous enough.” Reviewers said he had “the kind of presence that made women lean forward and men sit up straighter.” He wasn’t a great actor, but he was steady. That counted in a business where half the names disappeared before the reel ended.

 

He married actress Alice Joyce, one of the silent era’s brightest lights. Together, they were Hollywood royalty for a few years. “They don’t make noise,” one gossip columnist wrote, “they make movies.” Moore starred in dozens—The Great Accident, Heart of Humanity, The Masquerader—films that made people believe the new art form might actually stick around.

Conrad Nagel: Iowa's First Hollywood Star

Born in Keokuk, Iowa, in 1897, Conrad Nagel was one of Hollywood’s original leading men. He wasn’t the wild or brooding type. He knew where the exits were and how to use them.

Nagel got his start in silent films, where his calm confidence stood out against the flailing theatrics of the era. In The Mysterious Lady (1928), he held his own opposite Greta Garbo. Critics called him “the actor with the thoughtful eyes.” One said, “Nagel brings sincerity to roles that would collapse under a lesser man’s charm.” Another dubbed him “Hollywood’s gentleman.”

 

When sound arrived, his low, clear voice made him one of the few silent stars to easily transition into talkies. He starred in The Divorcee (1930) with Norma Shearer, a role that earned him an Academy Award nomination. MGM used him wherever they needed moral steadiness: the lawyer, husband, and suitor who  seemed too honorable for his own good.

 

In the 1930s and 1940s as movie roles disappeared, Nagel moved to radio. He hosted and acted in dozens of radio dramas. His voice became a familiar presence in living rooms across the country. He co-created and hosted The Silver Theatre, a prestige anthology that ran nearly a decade. He loved radio because “you could play any role and never worry if your hair was in place.” It was steady work, too, as younger stars crowded him out of Hollywood.

Claire Dodd: Iowa's Forgotten Hollywood Star

Born in Baxter, Iowa, in 1908, Claire Dodd was one of Hollywood’s coolest blondes—sharp, stylish, and unshakable. She didn’t play innocent. She played a woman who already knew the score.

 A Warner Bros. contract player in the early 1930s, Dodd became a familiar face in the fast, clever world of pre-Code Hollywood. She held her own against leading men like James Cagney and William Powell, delivering lines with a calm authority that made her unforgettable. In Footlight Parade (1933), she was the poised foil to Cagney’s fire. In The Kennel Murder Case, she matched Powell’s wit and charm line for line.

 

Critics called her “elegant,” “icy,” and “wickedly intelligent.” One reviewer said Dodd “could silence a room with a single glance.” Another called her “the best-dressed woman in the picture—and the smartest.” Her roles as secretary, socialite, and schemer gave her a reputation as the thinking man’s femme fatale.

 

When the Production Code cracked down in 1934, the daring parts that suited her best disappeared. “Too sophisticated for the new moral order,” one trade paper said. Still, Dodd kept working—appearing in over sixty films throughout the 1930s and early 1940s.

Billy McClain: Iowa's Lost Movie Star

Billy McClain

Billy McClain was born in Keokuk, Iowa, in 1866—black, broke, and stubborn. He learned fast that the world wasn’t built for him, so he built his own. By his teens, he was blowing a cornet in Indianapolis and running with minstrel shows, where the jokes were racist and the pay barely real. He played along, twisted the punchlines, and made the crowd laugh on his terms. One critic said he had “a grin that could tame a mob and a wit that could cut glass.”

 He joined the Sells Brothers Circus in the 1880s—the first Black acrobat they’d ever hired. He flew through the air while white audiences stared, waiting for him to fall. He never did. He smiled down at them and took the applause. A newspaper out of Chicago called him “the colored marvel of the season.”

 

Billy produced, wrote, danced, and hustled until he ran his own shows. In 1895 he launched Black America in Brooklyn—five hundred Black performers, choirs, brass bands, soldiers, dancers. The press called it thunder. One reporter said, “The sound rolled like a storm across Ambrose Park—pure jubilation, raw and proud.”

Lillian Russell Quote

 

Actress Louise Carver: Almost Famous In Early Hollywood

Louise Carver was born in Davenport, Iowa, in 1869. By her early twenties, she was touring vaudeville circuits, singing, acting, and making audiences laugh. Variety called her early act with Tom Murry “great,” which, in 1912 theater-speak, meant the crowd didn’t throw anything.

Louise had a presence that filled a room before she even opened her mouth. She could sing, shout, and make a joke land so hard the audience forgot who else was on the bill. When silent movies came along, she jumped in. Her first film, The Goose Girl (1915), launched a screen career that ran for decades.

 

By the 1920s, she was everywhere—IMP pictures, Vitagraph reels, and Mack Sennett comedies. Variety said she “couldn’t take a beauty prize, but she was a scream,” which is probably the most honest compliment Hollywood ever printed. She knew she wasn’t an ingenue. She was a scene-stealer, the woman with the big expression and perfect timing who made the funny parts actually funny.

 

In The Extra Girl (1923) she was the sharp-tongued wardrobe mistress, in the Lizzies of the Field shorts (1925) a chaos expert, and in The Cat and the Canary (1927), critics said she brought “real humor to the horror.” United Artists’ press book for Hallelujah, I’m a Bum (1933) listed her among “the feminine side of comedy,” proof she could still steal focus long after silent film stars had vanished.

Booby Driscoll: Iowa's Forgotten Child Star

Bobby Driscoll

He was supposed to live forever.

That was the point of Peter Pan, wasn’t it? The boy who never grew up. The one who could fly, laugh at danger, and still make it home for bedtime. For a while, Bobby Driscoll every bit of him, from the crooked grin to the sparkle in his eyes.

 

He got his start a long way from Neverland: Cedar Rapids, Iowa, 1937. His father sold insulation. His mother kept the house. Ordinary stuff. Then the family moved west, chasing clean air and a little luck. A barber thought the kid had “it” and sent him to a Hollywood agent. That’s how it worked back then. One minute you’re getting your hair cut, the next you’re under contract at Disney Studios.

 

He was nine years old when Walt Disney signed him—the first child actor the studio owned outright. “A fine, sincere boy,” Disney said. Bobby called Walt “Uncle Walt.”

 

Then came the hits. Song of the South. So Dear to My Heart. Treasure Island. Critics called him “a natural.” One said he carried the film “with warmth and genuine feeling.” By thirteen, he had a miniature Oscar, and his face was as familiar as Mickey’s ears.