The Murder of Ramon Novarro
by J. J. Maloney
Ramon Novarro & Norma Shearer
In 1926, after having already squandered several million dollars on the fabled
''Ben Hur,'' executives at MGM studio decided to start from scratch. The lead in
Ben Hur was of the most coveted parts in Hollywood history.
The part was given to Ramon Novarro, and remains the film for which he is best
remembered.
It had been a long and tough road for the 27-year-old actor, who was born Ramon
Samaniegos in Durango, Mexico, in 1899. He came from a cultivated family (his father was a
successful dentist), but the 1910 Mexican Revolution caused the family to flee to the
U.S., where they lived in poverty for the following decade.
Ramon worked at a number of menial jobs to help his family, and to support himself. He
moved to New York, working as a singing waiter, and as an usher in a movie house. He was
''spotted'' by an agent and offered a short-term contract.
There seems to be some dispute as to when he began appearing in movies, because many
silent motion pictures of that time no longer exist, and bit players were a dime a dozen.
But some film historians believe his ''debut'' was in The Little American in 1918,
with Wallace Beery and Mary Pickford.
His breakthrough film, however, was The Prisoner of Zenda, co-starring with Alice
Terry, the wife of Rex Ingram, the director. Ingram suggested that Ramon change his last
name to Novarro. Ingram then directed Novarro in a series of films, including 1922's
''Scaramouche,'' also featuring Alice Terry.
There are some who refer to Novarro as a new Valentino, because of the latin lover
phase Hollywood went through, but Novarro was more than that. He had a fine singing voice,
which made him one of the few stars of the silent film era to seamlessly make the
transition to sound. However, Valentino was one of Novarro's closest friends.
At MGM, Novarro's salary reached $10,000 a week – a fabulous sum in the 1920s
– which allowed him to invest in real estate. His first ''talking'' picture
was MGM's ''Devil May Care'' in 1929.
In later years Novarro had little good to say about the talking pictures he starred in.
When he was interviewed by DeWitt Bodeen, for Films in Review, in the late 1960s, he said:
''With the exception of ''The Pagan,'' in which I only sing . . . and
some of Song of India, and a good part of Feyder's ''Daybreak'' –
certainly not the ending however – I didn't like any of the talkies in which I
starred.''
He didn't even mention 1932's ''Mata Hari,'' in which he co-starred
with Greta Garbo.
Novarro seemed to be refreshingly free of the egotism that is so rampant in the film
industry.
In 1923, Louella Parsons, the most powerful gossip columnist in Hollywood, wrote of
Novarro, in the New York Morning Telegraph:
"And come to think of it, why shouldn't Ramon be an optimist. At 23
he is earning a salary of $1,250 a week, with the possibility of increasing to $4,000 and
$5,000 next year. Coming from Durango, Mexico, he entered a stock company in San Francisco
and played small parts. Among other things he did the Italian doctor in Enter
Madame. He learned every part in every play with an avidity that
brought him the admiration of his teacher and fellow pupils. Betty Blythe tells of
studying in the same class with the young Novarro and of seeing him in one day play three
different parts in the same production, doing each one with equal skill.
Rex Ingram came upon Novarro and cast him as "Rupert of
Hentzau" in The Prisoner of Zenda. The boy
before he met Mr. Ingram had been struggling under the handicap of a name like Samanegas
[sic]. Mr. Ingram rechristened him, helped him and gave him the chance that was later
going to get him many offers from film companies.
And young Novarro isn't going to bite the hand that fed him. Not Ramon;
if Mr. Ingram wanted his last cent he could have it.
"Rex Ingram is a wonderful director," said Ramon in a voice
that should be worth his fortune if Spanish accents are being used this year. And it's
real, too. If any one doesn't think Rex Ingram is a great man, Ramon is ready to fight
with him. We agreed with Ramon on the Ingram question, and so we were rewarded with a
smile.
Another hero to young Novarro is Marcus Loew.
''You had many offers,'' we asked him, ''to make
pictures?''
''Yes, many, but I would not leave Mr. Loew. Do you think I would be
so ungrateful?''
We looked about for smelling salts after this noble declaration; it was
so unusual. The average motion picture male star who has reached the top in a few bounds
usually spends his time telling the interviewer what a bum his director is and how little
he knows and what a raw deal he got with his company, but Ramon isn't following the usual
prescribed path. He is grateful and he doesn't care who knows it.''
After starring in a number of musicals for MGM (a staple of that studio), and being
badly miscast in a series of films, Novarro decided to get out. Over the following years
he appeared on the stage, sang, directed several films – and tended to his
investments.
He made a brief return to movies – unsuccessfully, and appeared on television a
number of times.
He told Dewitt Bodeen he was writing an autobiography, but that it might not be
possible to publish it until after his death. He said in that interview that, in the
1920s, many stars were allowed their privacy – that the details of their personal
lives were not published unless they sought it.
There were many in 1920s Hollywood who knew Novarro was homosexual, but he was widely
considered a gentleman, a class act that kept his private life private – until
October 30, 1968.
On that date the 69-year-old Novarro took two street hustlers, brothers Paul and Tom
Ferguson, to his Laurel Canyon home. Apparently he'd been seeing 22-year-old Paul for
several weeks, and 17-year-old Tom had shown up in town.
The gentle Novarro would undergo terrible tortures in the next few hours, because Paul
Ferguson believed the aging actor had thousands of dollars hidden away in his house.
As the torture was underway, young Tom used a telephone in a different room to call a
girlfriend in Chicago. He told her they were at Navarro's home, and that Paul was
trying to find out where some money was. That phone conversation went on for more than 40
minutes. At one point Tom put the phone down, saying he'd better check on Paul to
make sure he wasn't hurting Ramon, and the girl on the other end could hear screams
in the background.
When Novarro's body was found the next morning, hundreds of pictures had been
ripped from the walls, in a desperate search by the Fergusons to find the fabled money
– which didn't exist.
On a hunch, the L.A.P.D. checked the phone logs for Novarro's home phone, and
discovered a call to Chicago the previous evening. When they called that number, they
talked to the young girl and she told them everything.
After their arrest, Paul Ferguson convinced his younger brother to confess to the
crime, on the theory that, as a juvenile, Tom would only face a year or so in jail,
whereas Paul would be facing the gas chamber.
So Tom Ferguson confessed to the murder. Then the prosecutor moved to have Tom Ferguson
tried as an adult – rather than as a juvenile. When the court granted that motion,
Tom Ferguson immediately recanted his confession.
During their joint trial, each Ferguson maintained that the other had tortured and
killed Ramon Novarro.
Each Ferguson was sentenced to life imprisonment – even though the authorities had
discounted young Tom's confession.
Not much is known of what became of Tom Ferguson. He appears to have gotten out of
prison and blended into the American woodwork. If he was, as he claimed, innocent of the
murder of Novarro, then he didn't have to change all that much in order to go
straight when he got out.
Paul Ferguson eventually moved to Missouri – in the Doniphan, Missouri, area, near
the Arkansas border. He was prone to swagger around, bragging what a ''solid
con'' he'd been in San Quentin -- forgetting to mention precisely why he'd been sent
there, or that he'd caused his younger brother to get a life sentence.
Paul Ferguson had several business ventures going – a business that involved
construction, and promoting rodeos. He made a good deal of money.
Around 1989 he got drunk one night at a local bar. He was known as a loud mouth –
but at 6-foot-plus and nearly 250, he usually got away with it.
This night he ran his car into a ditch a walked to a nearby house to use the phone. The
woman was alone. She later testified that Paul Ferguson raped her – with vile details
we won't go into. Although the prosecutor mentioned there had been an earlier murder
charge, he didn't know the details – so the court never learned that Paul
Ferguson had killed Ramon Novarro.
Ferguson was sentenced to 60 years in prison, and appealed. While out on appeal, he was
accused of a second rape in another state.
On appeal, his Missouri sentence was reduced to 30 years, and he is serving that
sentence today.
Paul Ferguson is about 52 years old, and has seven years served on that 30 year
sentence.
