At the San Francisco Silent Film Festival, 2015.
On the afternoon of New Years’ Eve of 2024, I was eating lunch in a cafe when I noticed that a message had come through on a Facebook group of which I am a member - a gathering of female film historians playfully called the Daughters of Naldi. Had anyone been in touch with Donna Hill? She was not answering her phone.
I had contacted Donna about a year earlier in a similar state of concern, having not seen one of her frequent and entertaining Facebook posts in some days. All was fine, she reassured me. Just taking a break from social media (“Such a time suck,” she told me). This would surely be the same. After all, it was the holidays. People go places unexpectedly during the holidays. But she had not arrived for work, either …
I tried to put it out of my mind. I would not check my phone again for half an hour. By that point, word would have come through that everything was perfectly OK.
I checked my phone after ten minutes. Everything was not OK.
There was a beautiful sunset that evening, bringing the lights down on the year. I sat on a high hill above the city, watching the fireworks, feeling utterly numb and disconnected from the revelry. Wave after wave of realisations made me sick to the stomach. She was always looking forward to something. A new book, a film festival, a recent purchase, a Kickstarter for a worthy project, her next trip to Pordenone - the latter a relatively new habit, but a very welcome one - and ultimately her retirement. So much remained that I had not yet said, and now never would.
The new year ticked over. I came home, and sat on my bed. Framed on the Art Deco vanity that she had once admired was a postcard she had given me, of Valentino and Rambova dancing the tango. On my bedside table was a book we’d discussed together. Above my bed was the rare Mae Murray lobby card that I had shown her, proud that I had something in my collection that was almost worthy of hers.
My mind swarmed, and continues to swarm, with all sorts of things - anecdotes, observations, trivia, gossip, small pieces of information - always with the thought that “I must tell Donna.” There are people who become woven into the very pattern of your thought. Donna was one such person.
We were introduced by the late and very great Joan Myers. At first, we were online friends. Then, we met in person in Hollywood, and we got on famously. This will come as no surprise, as Donna got on famously with nearly everyone. Of all her many talents, friendship was perhaps the greatest of all.
Over subsequent years, we attended festivals together, we exchanged emails, we gossiped, we fell down research rabbit holes together, on everything from Valentino (of course), to the controversy over the parentage of Marion Davies' niece Patricia Van Cleve, to our shared love of the books of Beverly Cleary. We watched Stella Dallas (1925) and sobbed at both its storyline and its greatness. Later, we exchanged projects and ideas. In 2023, I was honoured to assist her in researching her speech to the annual Valentino Memorial at Hollywood Forever. Merely attending it was a lifelong dream, but I never imagined I would find a reserved seat near the front, with my name on it. Donna saw to it.
I had contacted Donna about a year earlier in a similar state of concern, having not seen one of her frequent and entertaining Facebook posts in some days. All was fine, she reassured me. Just taking a break from social media (“Such a time suck,” she told me). This would surely be the same. After all, it was the holidays. People go places unexpectedly during the holidays. But she had not arrived for work, either …
I tried to put it out of my mind. I would not check my phone again for half an hour. By that point, word would have come through that everything was perfectly OK.
I checked my phone after ten minutes. Everything was not OK.
There was a beautiful sunset that evening, bringing the lights down on the year. I sat on a high hill above the city, watching the fireworks, feeling utterly numb and disconnected from the revelry. Wave after wave of realisations made me sick to the stomach. She was always looking forward to something. A new book, a film festival, a recent purchase, a Kickstarter for a worthy project, her next trip to Pordenone - the latter a relatively new habit, but a very welcome one - and ultimately her retirement. So much remained that I had not yet said, and now never would.
The new year ticked over. I came home, and sat on my bed. Framed on the Art Deco vanity that she had once admired was a postcard she had given me, of Valentino and Rambova dancing the tango. On my bedside table was a book we’d discussed together. Above my bed was the rare Mae Murray lobby card that I had shown her, proud that I had something in my collection that was almost worthy of hers.
My mind swarmed, and continues to swarm, with all sorts of things - anecdotes, observations, trivia, gossip, small pieces of information - always with the thought that “I must tell Donna.” There are people who become woven into the very pattern of your thought. Donna was one such person.
We were introduced by the late and very great Joan Myers. At first, we were online friends. Then, we met in person in Hollywood, and we got on famously. This will come as no surprise, as Donna got on famously with nearly everyone. Of all her many talents, friendship was perhaps the greatest of all.
Over subsequent years, we attended festivals together, we exchanged emails, we gossiped, we fell down research rabbit holes together, on everything from Valentino (of course), to the controversy over the parentage of Marion Davies' niece Patricia Van Cleve, to our shared love of the books of Beverly Cleary. We watched Stella Dallas (1925) and sobbed at both its storyline and its greatness. Later, we exchanged projects and ideas. In 2023, I was honoured to assist her in researching her speech to the annual Valentino Memorial at Hollywood Forever. Merely attending it was a lifelong dream, but I never imagined I would find a reserved seat near the front, with my name on it. Donna saw to it.
At the 96th Valentino Memorial Service, 2023.
I always understood and accepted that Joan was the senior partner in our friendship, and that she and Donna shared a particular closeness. Donna deeply admired Joan’s mental acuity, her tenacity, her sharp wit, and most of all, her wonderful conversation. Joan in turn admired Donna's loyalty, her lively intellect and her good humour. They made a great double act.
When Joan suddenly fell ill at the beginning of the pandemic, our friendship found a new dimension. Little more than a year earlier, Joan had left her beloved Los Angeles and become my neighbor. Now, it was up to me to facilitate communication between Joan’s extended family in Oregon, and her equally worried friends in Los Angeles and beyond. Donna was the very first person I called with the devastating news of Joan’s diagnosis with an extremely rare and incurable disease. In a period that was in some ways all too short, and in others dreadfully long, it robbed us of one of the finest minds either of us had ever known.
In our shared devastation, Donna’s natural compassion came to the fore. She wrote to Joan, she phoned her. Once Joan moved into palliative care, she drove many hours to visit her. She continued to do all of this until she was certain it was no longer doing any good. It was very rare to see Donna angry, but perhaps the angriest I ever saw her was when she asked why others had not done something similar.
Joan’s passing, when it came, was shocking to both of us despite its inevitability. There had been no goodbye, no finality. To induce some sense of closure, Donna organised a wake of sorts, held at Joan’s old favourite watering hole, the HMS Bounty in Hollywood. Good food and drinks were had, but neither of us found what we were seeking that night. “I just missed her voice,” Donna said. “She wasn’t part of the conversation,” I don’t believe she ever got over Joan’s passing. It was the rare time when her empathy was, instead of a blessing, something of a curse.
This empathy might be one reason why those who only knew Donna online felt her to be no less close a friend than if they had met her in real life. Her instinct was always to extend the hand of friendship and expect it to be taken. Her support and enthusiasm, always given freely and without expectation, made friends of us all. Her joie de vivre was unrestrained, and irresistible. Those who did not meet her in person were unlucky to miss a wonderful smile that sparkled with shrewd wit, good nature, and interest in all around her - but fortunate to enjoy a friendship that was no less genuine by being conducted by distance.
When Joan suddenly fell ill at the beginning of the pandemic, our friendship found a new dimension. Little more than a year earlier, Joan had left her beloved Los Angeles and become my neighbor. Now, it was up to me to facilitate communication between Joan’s extended family in Oregon, and her equally worried friends in Los Angeles and beyond. Donna was the very first person I called with the devastating news of Joan’s diagnosis with an extremely rare and incurable disease. In a period that was in some ways all too short, and in others dreadfully long, it robbed us of one of the finest minds either of us had ever known.
In our shared devastation, Donna’s natural compassion came to the fore. She wrote to Joan, she phoned her. Once Joan moved into palliative care, she drove many hours to visit her. She continued to do all of this until she was certain it was no longer doing any good. It was very rare to see Donna angry, but perhaps the angriest I ever saw her was when she asked why others had not done something similar.
Joan’s passing, when it came, was shocking to both of us despite its inevitability. There had been no goodbye, no finality. To induce some sense of closure, Donna organised a wake of sorts, held at Joan’s old favourite watering hole, the HMS Bounty in Hollywood. Good food and drinks were had, but neither of us found what we were seeking that night. “I just missed her voice,” Donna said. “She wasn’t part of the conversation,” I don’t believe she ever got over Joan’s passing. It was the rare time when her empathy was, instead of a blessing, something of a curse.
This empathy might be one reason why those who only knew Donna online felt her to be no less close a friend than if they had met her in real life. Her instinct was always to extend the hand of friendship and expect it to be taken. Her support and enthusiasm, always given freely and without expectation, made friends of us all. Her joie de vivre was unrestrained, and irresistible. Those who did not meet her in person were unlucky to miss a wonderful smile that sparkled with shrewd wit, good nature, and interest in all around her - but fortunate to enjoy a friendship that was no less genuine by being conducted by distance.
With mutual friend and fellow film historian Mary Mallory, at the 2015 San Francisco Silent Film Festival.
We have become accustomed - and not without reason - to regard social media as toxic. If everyone on it was the model digital citizen that Donna was, we might feel otherwise. She used the internet as we all once hoped it might be used: to unite instead of divide, to seek enrichment and new knowledge rather than confirmation of our existing biases, to visit corners of life and experience that might otherwise be out of reach, and more than anything, to connect.
She navigated the more poisonous elements of the internet - and in particular, the famously bellicose fandoms of her favourite stars - with immaculate grace and humour. Instead of anger, scorn or irritation, she invariably met ill-informed or stupid comments with a light touch. When she could not, very occasionally, she simply walked away, with a lot more dignity and a lot less rancour than I could have mustered.
It’s an example we could and should learn from. Often, when encountering such comments now - and goodness knows, there are plenty of them - I now find myself asking “How would Donna have responded to this?” Instead of irritation, I try to find light; empathy instead of anger, understanding instead of scorn. She made the internet, as well as the wider world, a nicer place.
Like any person of taste, Donna knew what she did and didn’t like. A presentation we attended together did not meet her favour, and we grumbled as we left the theatre. A friend of hers emerged from the crowd. “Did you like that?” he asked. “No!” she exploded bluntly. The friend in question was Kevin Brownlow. Whether it was one of the world’s greatest film historians, or John Doe off the street, I doubt she’d have answered any differently.
She navigated the more poisonous elements of the internet - and in particular, the famously bellicose fandoms of her favourite stars - with immaculate grace and humour. Instead of anger, scorn or irritation, she invariably met ill-informed or stupid comments with a light touch. When she could not, very occasionally, she simply walked away, with a lot more dignity and a lot less rancour than I could have mustered.
It’s an example we could and should learn from. Often, when encountering such comments now - and goodness knows, there are plenty of them - I now find myself asking “How would Donna have responded to this?” Instead of irritation, I try to find light; empathy instead of anger, understanding instead of scorn. She made the internet, as well as the wider world, a nicer place.
Like any person of taste, Donna knew what she did and didn’t like. A presentation we attended together did not meet her favour, and we grumbled as we left the theatre. A friend of hers emerged from the crowd. “Did you like that?” he asked. “No!” she exploded bluntly. The friend in question was Kevin Brownlow. Whether it was one of the world’s greatest film historians, or John Doe off the street, I doubt she’d have answered any differently.
Equally, she was clear-eyed about her favourites, and did not blind herself to their faults. She knew there were better actors than Nelson Eddy, and she admitted it. She considered Valentino a poor businessman and occasionally a hothead, and she said so. For all the time she spent investigating his life, I do not believe that she idolised Valentino. She did not worship him. Instead, she understood him. Valentino spent his entire life seeking to be understood. Far above blind adulation, understanding him is the most precious gift she could have ever given him.
And now she rests, only footsteps away from him.
Like Valentino, her passing was sudden, shocking, premature. It set off a bomb in our small, close-knit world of film historians and enthusiasts. It rippled through the internet and through the lives of everyone from her closest friends to those who had known her only slightly and had been shown some random act of kindness. All of us expressed the same shock, the same crushing sadness, the same disbelief.
As with Valentino, we celebrate the things she did, and mourn the things she left undone. This year, she was planning to travel to Castellaneta, to Valentino’s birthplace. She was planning to read the new biography of June Mathis. She was continuing her research on Dorothy Gish and still hoped to publish a biography of her. She probably knew, but did not let on, that 4 Horsemen of the Apocalypse - her favourite of all Valentino’s films - was to receive a wonderful new release in the new year. She was always planning, always looking forward. This relentless trajectory was suddenly arrested.
But Donna did not dwell on misfortune. She always celebrated what she had. In one of her very last Facebook posts, she was elated by a Christmas gift she had received, a stunning poster of Dorothy Gish. “I could not be more blessed.” she wrote. “I want for nothing and just am so blessed.”
To paraphrase our friend and fellow historian Frank Thompson: who among us does not wish, on our final day, to simply thank the world, to want for nothing, to feel that we are blessed.
Donna, we were blessed too.
And now she rests, only footsteps away from him.
Like Valentino, her passing was sudden, shocking, premature. It set off a bomb in our small, close-knit world of film historians and enthusiasts. It rippled through the internet and through the lives of everyone from her closest friends to those who had known her only slightly and had been shown some random act of kindness. All of us expressed the same shock, the same crushing sadness, the same disbelief.
As with Valentino, we celebrate the things she did, and mourn the things she left undone. This year, she was planning to travel to Castellaneta, to Valentino’s birthplace. She was planning to read the new biography of June Mathis. She was continuing her research on Dorothy Gish and still hoped to publish a biography of her. She probably knew, but did not let on, that 4 Horsemen of the Apocalypse - her favourite of all Valentino’s films - was to receive a wonderful new release in the new year. She was always planning, always looking forward. This relentless trajectory was suddenly arrested.
But Donna did not dwell on misfortune. She always celebrated what she had. In one of her very last Facebook posts, she was elated by a Christmas gift she had received, a stunning poster of Dorothy Gish. “I could not be more blessed.” she wrote. “I want for nothing and just am so blessed.”
To paraphrase our friend and fellow historian Frank Thompson: who among us does not wish, on our final day, to simply thank the world, to want for nothing, to feel that we are blessed.
Donna, we were blessed too.
