Just another tick of time in a city built on marble and memory, one of Hollywood Forever's most understated memorials arrived on Memorial Day, 1930. Located just outside of the Corridor Mausoleums and rising from a pair of Mediterranean Revival arches, the Edward J. Connelly Tower Clock makes no showy entrance. It simply reminds visitors, in measured restraint, that every road eventually leads past the same time.
By Allan R. Ellenberger
This early view of the Edward J. Connelly Tower Clock, taken soon after its construction, looks east into the cemetery grounds, a once-hidden perspective only revealed again with the opening of the new Gower Mausoleum. (Photo Credit: LAPL)
The clock was dedicated in honor of Edward J. Connelly, probably the best known and certainly one of the most liked character actors of the early screen. Born in 1859, he came to motion pictures after decades on the stage, earning a weathered solidity that made him the default judge, father, priest, businessman, patriarch—the flesh and blood armature upon which leading men and leading ladies might weave their theatrical tapestry. He was rarely a headline attraction, but he was necessary: that rarity, a professional's professional whose very presence lent productions legitimacy and credibility. When Connelly died of influenza on November 21, 1928, Hollywood suffered not the death of a star but the loss of a workhorse.
Two years later, his widow, Annie Virginia Connelly, wanted something more reflective of his nature -- and her own view on remembrance. "It has been in my mind for some time to erect a monument to the man whom so many loved and revered," she said upon the announcement of plans. "I have searched for something that would be a living memorial, a thing of use and benefit to other people." Rather than a traditional headstone, she envisioned something active—something that would serve the living while honoring the dead.
That vision shaped every aspect of the Tower Clock. Designed by architect Lloyd Rally in a restrained Mediterranean Revival style, the structure was integrated directly into the arched passage connecting Corridor Mausoleum Buildings C and D. It was never meant to stand alone. From the beginning, it functioned as a threshold—linking corridors, linking spaces, linking lives.
The clock itself was designed with technical aspirations uncommon at the time. The original blueprints reveal plans for a dual-faced clock suspended in a wrought iron frame designed to fill a six-by-four-foot opening in the upper arched entryway. Porcelain clock faces were almost four feet in diameter and highly legible from afar. Both faces were illuminated at night so that the hour could be read from anywhere on the grounds, increasing functionality after dusk and emphasizing the clock as a civic tool as opposed to decoration.
Inside the structure, two electric motors powered the mechanism, sealed within an oil-filled chamber designed to operate for fifty years without further attention—an extraordinary promise of permanence at a moment when even Hollywood itself still felt provisional. A secondary time-clock attachment was installed in a side pillar, accessible behind a small swinging door, allowing caretakers to regulate the mechanism discreetly.
Behind that door, Annie Connelly placed one of the memorial’s most intimate elements: a bronze plate approximately twenty inches square, shaped like an open book. Inscribed upon it were the names of both donor and honoree, Connelly’s affiliations—including the Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks—and the simple accounting of his life, 1859–1928. Surrounding hedges were deliberately trimmed to frame the plate, ensuring visibility without ostentation.
The entire project totaled $1,500, a considerable amount of money for 1930, and Mrs. Connelly covered the entire cost. She enlisted the help of Mr. and Mrs. A. L. Eacrett, jewelers at 6810 Hollywood Boulevard, to aid her in design and furnishing, and brought her dream to fruition. Connelly created a memorial that was at once artistic, engineering-driven, and civic-minded—useful without being mundane and symbolic without being saccharine.
The dedication ceremony took place on Memorial Day, May 30, 1930. The occasion unfolded with the formality of a final curtain call. Glen MacWilliams served as master of ceremonies. Los Angeles Mayor John Clinton Porter addressed the gathering. Gustav Briegleb offered the invocation. Musical selections, including “Sunrise and You,” were performed by Topsy Sackett and the Hollywood Trio. Representatives of the Masquers and the Elks Club spoke. Finally, Annie Connelly unveiled the clock.
Stage, film actor and Tower Clock namesake Edward J. Connelly
There was no applause. Instead, a quartet sang “Tick-Tick-Toc,” an inspired and faintly uncanny gesture that made time itself the memorial.
What gives the Connelly Tower Clock its lasting power is not size or grandeur, but detail. Etched into the clockwork door is a dense knot of symbols: an hourglass, a cross, a clock face, and a sword-wielding angel. Beneath them, an inscription states its purpose with calm restraint: “Tower Clock. Dedicated May 30, 1930. In Memory of Edward J. Connelly 1859–1928 By His Wife Annie Virginia Connelly.” It is grief expressed in civic form—private loss translated into public service.
The clockwork door dedication
Connelly is interred nearby. His crypt, as well as Annie's, is located in Corridor Mausoleum Building C, just a few yards from the arch. The clock wasn't built for visitors to admire. It is owned by the cemetery's departed. Every day, mourners walk underneath, oblivious to the actor who shares his own private vigil with time just on the other side of the wall.
Photographed later in the century, the Tower Clock stands fully abandoned, its once-visible face overtaken and obscured by ivy. (Photo Credit: LAPL)
As the cemetery declined halfway through the century—renamed Hollywood Memorial Park—the clock stopped keeping time for many years. Neglected amongst grassy lots and decaying buildings, it kept watch. When the grounds were revitalized in 1998 as Hollywood Forever, the clock resumed its duty—not as a timepiece depended on for the time, but as an icon and place of congregation reclaimed. Ivy embraced its form. Photographers found it once again. It became graphic symbolism for the cemetery itself.
Today, the Connelly Tower Clock serves as a ceremonial portal to the new five-story Gower Mausoleum. Pass beneath its arch and you step quite literally into the future of the cemetery. No single historic event defines the clock after its dedication—and that may be its greatest strength. It does not demand attention; it accumulates it. It tracks time without insisting on meaning, allowing each visitor to supply their own.
In the end, the Edward J. Connelly Tower Clock is not really about loss. It is about persistence. It is about how Hollywood—even in death—understands staging, symbolism, and permanence.
Time marches on. The clock endures.
The view from the west side looking into the cemetery grounds.
As seen from the second floor of the Courtyard Mausoleum with the Gower Mausoleum looming in the background.
The door to the right leads directly to the crypt of Edward J. Connelly.
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