One of the more famous anecdotes about Norma Shearer and Irving Thalberg's life together, both as a married couple and MGM professionals, concerns the making of The Divorcée (dir. Leonard, 1930). Shearer was convinced that she could star in this adaptation of the provocative 1929 Ursula Parrott novel Ex-Wife; Thalberg was equally certain that his wife was not right for the part of Jerry, a sexually liberated woman. As Shearer remarked, “Irving won't give me the part because he thinks I’m not glamorous enough” (qtd. in Lambert 1990: 130). But Shearer was single-minded in her pursuit of the role: she asked soon-to-be legendary photographer George Hurrell to take a series of sensual photographs which, when showed to Thalberg, convinced him that she could play the part (Lambert 1990: 129–130). As Hurrell recalled,

This anecdote introduces several defining threads in Shearer and Thalberg’s working relationship, which would in itself be considered one of his “greatest production[s]” (Marx 1975: 69). There are the negotiations over their shared vision for her career; the evidence of Shearer's characteristic “tenacity” which, in time, would be instrumental in cementing the Thalberg legend; and a tacit acknowledgment of the perception that Shearer received preferential treatment, and parts, from her husband. Indeed, Thalberg remained mindful of the need to maintain objectivity when considering his wife's roles. It was a sentiment he would later share with associate producer and trusted friend Paul Bern, who pursued the leading role in another controversial adaptation, Red-Headed Woman (dir. Conway, 1932), for future wife Jean Harlow. “You’re behaving like I did with Norma […] It's a kind of romantic astigmatism that attacks producers when they fall for an actress” (qtd. in Vieira 2010: 201), Thalberg mused.

These questions of “romantic” perspectives and coveted roles are, to return to Hurrell's comments, also indicative of the industry's broader reevaluation of how female stars “express[ed] sexuality.” How could a single character—and, by extension, a single film—convey the evolution of cultural and cinematic mores?