Hedy Lamarr coupled the worlds of Hollywood glamor and groundbreaking technological innovation. Known primarily as a silver-screen icon of the 1930s and 1940s, Lamarr’s contributions to science—particularly in wireless communications—have re-shaped her legacy into a person far more complex than the “most beautiful woman in the world,” as she was often called. Her story is one of reinvention, resilience, and intellectual brilliance, overshadowed for decades by her cinematic persona; now, she is finally celebrated for her profound impact on modern science.

Hedwig Eva Maria Kiesler was born on November 9, 1914, in Vienna, Austria, to a wealthy Jewish family. Her father, a banker, encouraged her interest in how things worked, sparking a lifelong fascination with mechanics and invention. By her teens, she was already drawn to the arts, studying acting under the renowned director Max Reinhardt. At 18, she gained notoriety for her role in the Czech film Ecstasy, which featured a risqué and controversial scene. The movie brought her international attention—but—it also typecast her as a provocative figure, a label she would struggle to escape.

Still only 18, Lamarr married Friedrich Mandl, a wealthy Austrian arms manufacturer with ties to fascist regimes. The marriage was stifling; Mandl was controlling, reportedly forbade her to act, and kept her isolated. However, exposure to his business dealings introduced her to the world of military technology, including discussions about radio-controlled torpedoes and their limitations. That knowledge would later prove pivotal. Unhappy with Mandl, Lamarr fled to Paris in 1937, made her way to London, and met Louis B. Mayer of MGM Studios. Mayer recognized her star potential, signed her to a contract; she sailed to America, and took the stage name, Hedy Lamarr.

In Hollywood, Lamarr became an instant sensation. Her striking beauty—dark hair, luminous skin, and expressive eyes—made her natural for the screen. Her breakout role in Algiers opposite Charles Boyer solidified her status as a leading lady. Films like Boom Town, Comrade X, and Samson and Delilah highlighted her charisma, though many roles leaned heavily on her looks rather than her acting depth. The Hollywood machine often reduced her to an exotic, glamorous archetype, which frustrated her. She once remarked, “Any girl can be glamorous. All you have to do is stand still and look stupid.”

While her film career flourished, Lamarr’s intellectual pursuits developed in private. During World War II, she turned her mind to aiding the Allied effort. Inspired by her exposure to weapons technology through Mandl, and her desire to combat fascism, she focused on a problem plaguing naval warfare: radio-controlled torpedoes were vulnerable to enemy jamming. In 1940, Lamarr met avant-garde composer George Antheil at a party. The two bonded over their shared inventiveness, and Lamarr shared her idea for a secure communication system. Together, they developed a concept called “frequency hopping,” where a radio signal would jump between multiple frequencies in a prearranged pattern, making it nearly impossible for enemies to intercept or jam.

Their invention, patented in 1942, laid the groundwork for what we now call spread-spectrum technology. The system used a mechanism inspired by Antheil’s experience with synchronized player pianos by employing a perforated roll to coordinate rapid frequency changes between transmitter and receiver. Though ingenious, the U.S. Navy initially dismissed the idea, partly due to skepticism about a glamorous actress’s technical credibility. The invention was shelved until the 1960s. Eventually, their work was rediscovered, and implemented in the future military applications of Wi-Fi, Bluetooth, and GPS. Lamarr and Antheil received no financial compensation during their lifetimes, but their impact is undeniable.

Lamarr’s personal life was as tumultuous as her career was multifaceted. She married six times—always seeking stability—but always found turmoil. Her later years were dinged by financial struggles, legal issues, and a retreat from public life. The Hollywood system, which had once exalted her, moved on, and she faced challenges including shoplifting arrests and botched plastic surgeries that altered her appearance. Still, her intellectual achievements were recognized late in life. In 1997, three years before her death, she and Antheil were honored with the Electronic Frontier Foundation’s Pioneer Award, and in 2014, she was posthumously inducted into the National Inventors Hall of Fame.

Lamarr’s story is a testament to the complexity of human potential. She was a woman who resisted the constraints of her era—sexism, typecasting, and societal expectations—while leaving an unforgettable influence in the spheres of entertainment and technology. Her beauty opened doors, but it also obscured her brilliance, a paradox she had to tolerate. As she put it, “The brains of people are more interesting than the looks, I think.” Today, Lamarr is remembered not just as a Hollywood icon, but as a visionary whose ideas helped propel the digital age. She reminds us that geniuses can emerge from unexpected places—and sometimes—defy the labels society imposes.

Michael F. Bishop, a writer and historian, is the former executive director of the International Churchill Society and the Abraham Lincoln Bicentennial Commission.