The Tragic Death of Ramón Novarro: Silent Film Star, Hidden Life, and a Hollywood Murder
In the early morning hours of Halloween, 1968, just off the winding roads of Los Angeles’ storied Laurel Canyon, a housekeeper entered a familiar Spanish-style villa perched discreetly behind well-manicured hedges. It was a quiet, affluent neighbourhood favoured by actors, musicians, and creatives. But inside 3110 Laurel Canyon Boulevard, something was terribly wrong.
The furniture was overturned, blood stained the floor in multiple rooms, and upstairs — in the master bedroom — lay the naked battered and bound body of silent film legend Ramón Novarro. His feet and hands were tied together with an electrical cord. The autopsy report revealed that he suffered injuries to his nose, face, chest, arm, knees, and genitals.
The cause of death was asphyxiation, as the 69-year-old had suffocated on his own blood.
His murder shocked the entertainment world but quickly faded from newspaper headlines. At a time when celebrity crime had yet to become tabloid obsession, Novarro’s brutal death received only fleeting coverage. Yet behind the lurid crime scene was a deeper story — of fame, repression, vulnerability, and a life lived partly in the shadows.
Ramón Novarro: From Durango to Hollywood’s Leading Man
Born José Ramón Gil Samaniego on 6 February 1899 in Durango, Mexico, Novarro came from a prominent, cultured family that fled the Mexican Revolution for safety in the United States. Settling in California, he initially pursued music — his first love — studying voice and performing in churches and small venues.
But Hollywood came calling. In the early 1920s, MGM was in need of its own answer to Rudolph Valentino, the Italian-born “Great Lover” of the silent screen. Novarro, with his striking features, musical elegance, and magnetic screen presence, fit the bill. His early roles ranged widely — he played exotic islanders, dashing swordsmen, and romantic heroes — but it was his casting as Judah Ben-Hur in Ben-Hur: A Tale of the Christ (1925) that sealed his place in cinematic history.
Initially, George Walsh had been cast in the role. But when MGM’s filming in Italy stalled, producer Irving Thalberg and director Fred Niblo stepped in to salvage the project — and insisted that Novarro replace Walsh. The resulting epic, known for its grand chariot race and religious overtones, became one of the most expensive and successful silent films of the era. Novarro’s fame exploded, and he signed a $10,000-a-week contract with Louis B. Mayer.
Despite the public adoration, Novarro always felt conflicted. He disliked the “Latin Lover” label, resented the typecasting, and grew increasingly wary of the machinery of fame. His performances remained critically admired throughout the 1930s and 1940s, but by the 1950s, he had transitioned to character roles in television, radio, and minor film projects. He had never truly loved acting — it was music that remained closest to his heart.
A Life in Conflict: Catholicism, Identity, and Alcoholism
Behind the handsome screen persona was a deeply conflicted man. As a devout Roman Catholic, Novarro struggled profoundly with his homosexuality — a part of his identity he kept hidden from the public. Hollywood in the 1920s through the 1960s was unkind, if not hostile, to openly gay figures. Studio systems controlled not only actors’ images but their lives, and the threat of scandal could end a career overnight.
His romantic relationships — including composer Harry Partch in the early 1920s, journalist-publicist Herbert Howe in the late 1920s, and San Francisco arts patron Noël Sullivan — were well known within certain circles but never acknowledged in public. Discretion was essential. So too, unfortunately, was emotional compromise.
This internal conflict, exacerbated by the religious guilt he carried from childhood, led Novarro into a lifelong battle with alcoholism. Arrested for drink driving in the 1940s, he quietly deteriorated behind the gates of his Laurel Canyon estate. Neighbours reported dozens of empty liquor bottles discarded weekly — the signs of someone trying, and failing, to numb emotional pain.
Architectural Grandeur and Hidden Wealth
Novarro had a keen mind for real estate, and his homes were as remarkable as his films. In 1925, he bought a home in Los Angeles’ exclusive West Adams district for $12,000 — a grand sum at the time — and spent another $100,000 on renovations, including a home recording studio and imported tiles from Spain.
Even more impressive was the Los Feliz property Novarro acquired in 1928. Originally built by his business manager Louis Samuel using embezzled funds from Novarro’s own earnings, the estate was reclaimed when Novarro uncovered the fraud. Rather than sell the home, he hired architect Lloyd Wright (son of Frank Lloyd Wright) to redesign and expand it. The result was an architectural gem that later passed through the hands of celebrities including Diane Keaton and Christina Ricci.
At the time of his death, Novarro’s wealth was estimated between $500,000 and $1 million — equivalent to roughly $8 million today. Yet despite this, he lived simply in his later years and kept little cash in the house — a fact that would cost him his life.
Murder in Laurel Canyon: The Ferguson Brothers
On the night of 30 October 1968, Novarro received a phone call from 22-year-old Paul Ferguson, who posed as a friend of an acquaintance named “Larry.” Paul and his 17-year-old brother Thomas had come to Los Angeles from Chicago in search of opportunity — or perhaps, more accurately, a quick payday.
Novarro had occasionally paid for male companionship through agencies. The Ferguson brothers exploited this vulnerability. They offered sexual services and arranged to visit that evening.
What followed was a grotesque ordeal. After dinner and drinks, the brothers demanded money, believing — mistakenly — that Novarro had $5,000 hidden behind a painting. When he denied any such stash, the situation escalated.
Novarro was tied up with an electrical cord, beaten severely, and interrogated over several hours. A cane — reportedly a prop from one of his films — was used in the attack. At one point, they dragged him into a shower to revive him, only to continue the beating. The final blow: a slur scrawled on the mirror in brown eyebrow pencil — “US GIRLS ARE BETTER THAN FAGITS (sic).”
They fled with just $20 — taken from his bathrobe pocket.
Discovery and Police Investigation
At 8:30 a.m. the next morning, Edward Weber let himself into the home. He found the actor dead on his bed — naked, bound, his face and chest bloodied. LAPD Lieutenant Jerry Lauritzen told reporters there was “no sign of forced entry,” and that Novarro likely knew his killers.
Evidence emerged quickly: blood-stained clothes were discovered discarded nearby. A name — “Larry” — was written in ink on the bed linen. Fingerprints were found. Investigators began assembling a timeline.
It was a phone call that proved most damning. During the attack, Thomas Ferguson had called his girlfriend in Chicago, Brenda Lee Metcalf. She heard screams in the background and later testified that Thomas said, “He (Paul) was just probably trying to scare him or hit him with something.” They were searching for money — a belief that cost Novarro his life.
Within days, police arrested the brothers at a location in Bell Gardens. They were found with fresh clothes but no stolen goods. What motive could justify the violence? The answer, tragically, was a mix of ignorance, cruelty, and bigotry.
Trial and Conviction: Blame and Betrayal
In August 1969, the Ferguson brothers went on trial, just days before the infamous Tate-LaBianca murders committed by the Manson Family. The trial revealed horrifying details. Prosecutor James Ideman told the court that Novarro was tortured for hours and left to choke on his own blood.
The brothers turned on one another. Paul claimed he was drunk and asleep. Thomas said Paul did the killing. Evidence — fingerprints, telephone records, and witness testimony — told a clearer story.
One particularly poignant revelation was that the murder weapon — the cane — was a souvenir from Novarro’s past films, making the violence feel heartbreakingly personal.
On 17 September 1969, both Paul and Thomas were convicted of first-degree murder and sentenced to life in prison. Paul narrowly avoided the gas chamber. Thomas, as a minor, could not be sentenced to death.
Post-Prison: Two Paths to Ruin
Prison suited Paul. He thrived in a structured environment, hosting a prison radio show and writing short stories. In 1975, he won a P.E.N. award for his story Dream No Dreams. He was paroled in 1976 but struggled to adjust. By 2012, he was back in prison for rape and died there in 2018 — beaten to death by another inmate in Missouri.
Thomas fared worse. Constantly in trouble, he spent long stints in solitary confinement, addicted to drugs, and was arrested again in 1987 for rape. In 2005, he died by slashing his own throat in a Motel 6. No note was left.
They never saw or spoke to each other again after their release.
Remembering Ramón Novarro
Today, Ramón Novarro is largely remembered by film historians, LGBTQ+ scholars, and those who study old Hollywood. His films — particularly Ben-Hur — endure. His homes have been restored. Yet his death continues to cast a shadow over his legacy.
In death, as in life, Novarro represented the complexity of fame in a world intolerant of difference. He was a trailblazer, but also a man forced into secrecy by societal norms. His murder reflects not just personal tragedy, but a broader commentary on a time when being different could cost you everything — including your life.
Sources:
• “The Ben-Hur Murders” by Patrick Gallivan
• Los Angeles Times archives, 1968–1970
• LAPD and Van Nuys Court records
• Biographies of Ramón Novarro and early Hollywood history
• P.E.N. America records on incarcerated writers
• Architectural studies of Novarro’s Los Feliz home
• “Celluloid Closet” by Vito Russo (Harper & Row, 1981)