In August 1938, shooting began on an MGM soundstage for a film that would become the gold standard of Hollywood magic—and simultaneously a textbook case of industrial poisoning. Buddy Ebsen, a 44-year-old dancer and comedian, worked nine days in Tin Man makeup before his lungs started filling with metal.
Buddy Ebsen was originally cast as the Scarecrow—a character in a baggy costume and straw hat. Ray Bolger, by contrast, was supposed to play the creaky tin man. But Bolger wanted the Scarecrow—the role allowed him to dance and clown around, which was his specialty. The actors negotiated a swap, and MGM approved the exchange. Ebsen didn't object: the Tin Man seemed like a technically interesting role, with mechanical movements and complex makeup. No one knew that this makeup would turn the soundstage into a toxicology lab.
To create the metallic effect, MGM makeup artists developed a two-layer system: a white base (to cover the skin) and on top—pure aluminum powder, applied with a puff and brush. Metal particles a few microns in size created a mirror shine under studio lights. The technology was simple, cheap, and effective. The only problem: every stroke of the brush raised a cloud of metallic dust into the air, which Ebsen inhaled for eight hours a day. Aluminum is not an inert material. In powder form it behaves like an abrasive: it settles in the alveoli, scratches the bronchial lining, triggers an inflammatory response. Imagine inhaling microscopic sandpaper—that's roughly what was happening to Ebsen's lungs.
After nine days of shooting, the actor began to suffocate. First a light cough, then spasms in his chest and extremities, finally—acute respiratory failure. Ebsen was rushed to Cedars of Lebanon Hospital. He spent two weeks in an oxygen tent—a sealed chamber with elevated oxygen pressure that allowed his lungs to function at all. Then a month of recovery in San Diego. Shooting came to a halt. MGM classified the incident as a "workplace accident," paid compensation, and began looking for a replacement.
In 1938, Hollywood had no regulatory agencies for workplace safety on film sets. OSHA (the Occupational Safety and Health Administration) wouldn't appear until 1970. Studios tested makeup on skin—checked for allergic reactions, irritation—but it occurred to no one to simulate eight hours of inhaling metallic dust. Aluminum was considered relatively safe: it was used in food processing (leavening agents), in cosmetics (antiperspirant deodorants), in medicine (antacids). But in those cases we're talking about bound compounds or large particles. Powder is a completely different matter.
When aluminum particles are smaller than 10 microns, they pass through the upper respiratory tract and settle deep in the lungs. There they behave like a foreign body: the organism tries to isolate them, triggering inflammation. In Ebsen's case, he developed chemical pneumonitis—inflammation of lung tissue without infection, simply from mechanical and chemical irritation. Symptoms resemble severe pneumonia: shortness of breath, chest pain, coughing up blood. Only antibiotics are useless here. Treatment—oxygen, rest, and hope that the body will handle the inflammation on its own.
MGM conducted no animal testing, consulted no toxicologists. The makeup artists proceeded from simple logic: if aluminum is safe on skin, it must be safe in the air. A crude mistake. Skin is a barrier, lungs are a sponge. What doesn't penetrate the epidermis is easily absorbed through the alveolar membrane. The studio learned this when Ebsen was already in the hospital.
Jack Haley, an actor with Broadway musical experience, got the role on an emergency basis—shooting couldn't be delayed. MGM chemists reworked the makeup in a few days: instead of powder—an aluminum-based paste. Metal particles were mixed with a fatty base, producing a thick silvery ointment. It was applied with a spatula and brush, like regular theatrical makeup. There was no more dust—meaning nothing to inhale.
Haley worked through the entire role without respiratory problems. But he developed an eye infection—the paste got on his eyelids, clogged tear ducts, created a breeding ground for bacteria. The actor complained of burning and photophobia, but shooting continued. MGM figured that as long as the lungs were intact, the problem was solved. Eyes are a minor issue, you can tough it out.
The paradox: Ebsen's voice remained in the film. He'd managed to record the song "We're Off to See the Wizard" before hospitalization, and his vocal part made it into the final soundtrack in the group number scene. Audiences, unaware, heard a man whose lungs had been damaged for a role he never finished.
If Ebsen was a victim of chemistry, Margaret Hamilton (the Wicked Witch of the West) was a victim of pyrotechnics. In the disappearing scene in Munchkinland, her character was supposed to dissolve in a cloud of fire and smoke. Technically it worked like this: the actress stood on a trapdoor under which a pyrotechnic mixture exploded (magnesium powder + oxidizers). Simultaneously she was supposed to descend on an elevator, while a double appeared above, creating the illusion of teleportation.
During one of the takes, the elevator mechanism was two seconds late. Hamilton was still standing on the trapdoor when the pyrotechnics went off. Flash temperature—around 2000°C. The copper makeup on her face (green paint based on copper oxide) heated instantly, intensifying the burn. The actress received second and third degree burns on her face and right hand. Six weeks of treatment, three of them in the hospital. MGM hired a stand-in for the remaining witch scenes, but Hamilton returned to shoot close-ups—with scars under a fresh layer of makeup.
The studio didn't revise the safety protocol. Instead, engineers simply calibrated the pyrotechnic timer more precisely. The logic was simple: the accident happened because of a technical error, not because the method was dangerous. So you need to fix the equipment, not change the method. Hamilton after this refused to participate in scenes with fire, but her contract didn't allow her to leave the project.
16-year-old Judy Garland didn't get burned and didn't inhale metal. She was poisoned differently—systematically and methodically. MGM controlled her weight and productivity through amphetamines (for energy and appetite suppression) and barbiturates (for sleep after 18-hour shooting days). Studio doctors called them "vitamins." Garland took pills under supervision, not knowing their composition.
Amphetamines (Benzedrine, Dexedrine) kept her in shape: suppressed hunger, accelerated reactions, relieved fatigue. Barbiturates (phenobarbital, Seconal) dampened overstimulation and gave four to five hours of sleep. The cycle repeated daily. After a few weeks Garland developed tolerance—doses had to be increased. By the end of shooting she was taking so many stimulants that her hands shook and her heart beat at 110-120 beats per minute at rest.
The studio viewed this as a production necessity. The shooting schedule for Oz was rigid: 22 weeks for principal photography, plus reshoots. Garland appeared in nearly every scene. Letting her rest meant the entire crew sitting idle. Cheaper and faster—pump her full of pills. Nobody thought about the consequences. Or they did, but decided it was the actress's problem, not the studio's.
Garland fought addiction for the rest of her life. She died in 1969 at age 47 from a barbiturate overdose—accidental or intentional, never definitively established. The Wizard of Oz became her breakout role and simultaneously the beginning of a chemical dependency that lasted 30 years.
MGM paid Ebsen compensation as for a workplace injury—the exact amount is unknown, but by 1938 standards it was hundreds of dollars, not thousands. The studio included the incident in internal documentation but didn't comment publicly. Press releases reported that "Buddy Ebsen left the project for personal reasons." Hamilton received payment for the treatment period and a bonus for returning to the set. Garland received nothing—her contract didn't provide compensation for "medical support" that the studio itself provided.
Until the 1960s, details of the Ebsen incident remained MGM internal information. The actor himself told the story in interviews when the studio system had already collapsed and contracts stopped including non-disclosure clauses. By that time The Wizard of Oz had become a cult film, and the aluminum powder story added an aura of "cursed production."
Ebsen lived 95 years and died in 2003. Until the end of his life he suffered from chronic respiratory problems—his lungs never fully recovered. In interviews he said he didn't blame MGM: "Back then nobody knew aluminum dust was dangerous. Now they know." Perhaps it was diplomacy, perhaps the sincere position of a man who lived through an era when safety on set wasn't considered a priority at all.
The Wizard of Oz became one of the first films shot in full-color Technicolor—a three-strip system that required monstrous illumination (studio lights heated the set to 38-40°C). The tornado scene used a 35-foot fabric cone that was rotated by motors and blown by fans—an effect revolutionary for 1939. The Emerald City was built from painted plaster and wood, using perspective distortions to make it look enormous. All of it worked flawlessly on screen.
But the technological triumph was achieved at the cost of real health. Ebsen lost his lungs, Hamilton got scars, Garland—addiction. Terry (the dog playing Toto) broke her paw when one of the Emerald City guards stepped on her. The Munchkin actors worked in tight costumes in 40-degree heat without air conditioning—several people fainted. The studio didn't consider it a problem. It was just the production process.
Hollywood in the 1930s had no unions capable of protecting actors. Screen Actors Guild had existed since 1933, but its influence was limited—studios dictated contracts, and actors signed them with no right to negotiate. The "star factory" system worked like this: the studio owned the actor's career, controlled their schedule, appearance, personal life. Set safety was the actor's own concern, not the employer's. If you got injured, the studio could replace you in a day and continue shooting. No investigations, no protocol changes. Only minimal compensation and a press release about "personal circumstances."
The Wizard of Oz earned three million dollars at the box office on a budget of 2.8 million—technically broke even, but didn't bring the expected profit. Real success came later, with television broadcasts in the 1950s and 1960s. The film became a symbol of childhood for several generations. But every time the Tin Man sings "If I Only Had a Heart," on screen is not the man who nearly died for that role, but his replacement, working in reworked makeup. Ebsen's voice sounds in the chorus, but his face isn't there.