Showing posts with label political art. Show all posts
Showing posts with label political art. Show all posts

13 December 2024

Wolterstorff—Kissing, Touching, and Crying

Nicholas Wolterstorff
"Why Philosophy of Art Cannot Handle Kissing, Touching, and Crying"
(2003)


[17]

I

From Friday, March 15 through Sunday, March 17, 2002, the Vienna Philharmonic performed four concerts in New York City, three in Carnegie Hall, and one, on Sunday evening, in St. Patrick's Cathedral. Two of the three Carnegie Hall concerts were enthusiastically reviewed inside the Arts section of the New York Times of Tuesday, March 19, by one of the Times regulars, Allan Kozinn. The heading for the review was "Fresh Power in Familiar Works." In his review, Kozinn writes that Bernard Haitink, the conductor of the Carnegie Hall concerts,

imposed order and an almost narrative sense of drama on [Anton Bruckner's Symphony No. 8] without taming it or smoothing its raw emotional edges. The Vienna players were in their element: the brass and winds produced the textured chords that are central to this orchestra's trademark sound, but it was the dusky, dynamically fluid string playing that gave the performance its soul.... The Schubert Ninth, on the Saturday program, was appealing in a similarly visceral way. Its familiar themes were writ large and driven hard, yet there was also sufficient transparency in the orchestra's sound that details of the music's inner lines sometimes shone through and altered the perspective.

The review of the concert in St. Patrick's Cathedral took up three columns on the front page of the Arts section, and then continued inside with three columns at the top of page 5, side by side with the two columns of the other review. The concert was described as a "free program to honor the victims of Sept. 11"—this being the date, in 2001, that a terrorist attack destroyed the Twin Towers in New York City. The review was headed "A Somber Memorial from the Vienna Philharmonic." The reviewer, another of the Times regulars, James R. Oestreich, wrote,

The memorial program anchored a basic sense of mourning in the Christian season of the Passion, centering on Haydn's unrelentingly somber "Seven Last Words of Christ on the Cross." The evening opened with the solemn Adagio from Bruckner's Seventh Symphony. It ended with Mozart's "Ave Verum Corpus," a simple consolatory choral work, performed without applause and with everyone in the audience holding a lighted candle.

One concertgoer was quoted as saying afterward, "After all the angst and the anger and the hassles of the last few months, the Mozart was like a benediction. It seems O.K. to let go a little, to let the dead rest in peace." Another attendee was quoted as saying, about the whole evening, "It is a warm, wonderful gesture [on the part of the Vienna Philharmonic]. It is very generous and very healing."

How unthinkably rude it is, even within the social norms of New York City, Planet Earth, ca. 2002, to subject this attendee's pronouncement to the scrutiny of analytic philosophy!

10 July 2023

Richard Maltby—Sense and Sensorship



Richard Maltby
Harmless Entertainment:
Hollywood and the Ideology of Consensus

(1983)


PART 2

THE LINE OF LEAST RESISTANCE


...


CHAPTER 4

SENSE AND SENSORSHIP




CHIEF INVESTIGATOR STRIPLING: Mr Menjou,
if a picture is produced, as for example Mission
to Moscow
, which gives a false portrayal or which
has propaganda in it, who do you hold responsible
in your own mind as a veteran actor in the motion-
picture industry?

MR. MENJOU: Well, I believe that the manufac-
turer of any product is responsible in the end for
the quality of his product.

MR. STRIPLING: In other words, the producers
should be held responsible?

MR. MENJOU: They should be.

House Committee on Un-American Activities,
October 1947.

The producers, the studio executives, never attempted to deny their public responsibility for the quality of their product, nor for its content. Their films, of necessity, existed in the public domain, and were therefore subject to the critical comment not only of their audiences, but also of the socially opinionated. As a pervasive mass entertainment, the cinema was exposed to a more intense examination of its social implications than either more conventional non-durable consumer goods or forms of expression generally seen to operate independently of commercial pressures and the responsibilities of the mass audience. The unique position of the film industry made it vulnerable to a particular kind of public threat. ...

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...

In dealing with those who took an undue interest in their merchandise, the producers invariably placed a premium on their own financial interests. The crucial threat to the majors' interests came from the raising of the anti-trust issue; compared to the maintenance of their economic hegemony, questions of the political or artistic freedom of the screen dwindled into insignificance. The only threats industry leaders took note of were financial ones. Nothing else could persuade them to act in concert, and nothing would make them acquiesce so fast as a threatened boycott. Equally, they saw no purpose in challenging a status quo which worked to their financial advantage. ... since both the most severe restriction of the cinema's freedom of expression and the greatest opportunity to expand that freedom took place at times of financial crisis in the industry, the majors' preference for their short-term economic interest was never revealed so clearly.

WILL H. HAYS AND THE PRACTICE OF BETTER BUSINESS

The constitutional position of film as a medium of expression was defined by the Supreme Court in a ruling on the case of Mutual Film Corp. vs. Ohio in 1915. ...

[96]

... The movies were entertainment, not vehicles for ideas, but because of the particularly affecting nature of the medium, they were deemed to have a peculiar capacity for evil influence. Not only, therefore, did they not qualify as constitutionally protected speech; those responsible for the maintenance of public order and morality were bound to regard them warily because of their potential for harm.

The producers had to don a cloak of respectability not as a direct result of this decision, but because of its consequences: the rapid proliferation of state and local prior censorship boards,... The studios' consciences were reached through their pockets,... The production companies' eager response to the opportunities for more permissive subject matter provided by the dawning of the Jazz Age in 1921 lent weight to the reformers' demands for a system of federal censorship in the name of public morality. The Arbuckle and Taylor scandals exacerbated the public's increasing hostility towards Hollywood's decadent extravagances in a period of economic recession. ... To maintain their business freedom the companies needed a cosmetic gloss that would make them appear as conventional businessmen.

It might be argued that the company heads, as individuals, felt a similar need. The studio moguls were almost all of extremely humble origins, and had little or no formal education. None of them were White Anglo-Saxon Protestants, the majority being immigrants or the sons of

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immigrants, and further hampered in their strivings for the trappings of social respectability by being Jewish in a period when anti-Semitism was a common business practice and a respectable belief. ...Loew, Mayer, Zukor, the Schenks and the rest may well have comprised the most socially disadvantaged group of industrial magnates in the economic history of America. By 1921 the industry was moving out of its initial phase of meteoric expansion, in which business ethics were a polite irrelevance, into a period of consolidation, stabilization, the formation of vertically integrated companies and the establishment of the film factory. But corporate respectability was not yet theirs.

Business generally looked down a sensitive nose at its new companion. The world of banking sniffed at it. The royalty of industry regarded it as something faintly unsavoury, untoward, hooliganish, though it could not be brushed aside as unimportant.

[Moley, The Hays Code]

When they founded the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America in March 1922, the industry leaders chose as their figure-head the most respectable man their money could buy. ...he became "the spokesman for the Association in all communications to the public," but he was also in a position from which he could, to a degree, impose his political outlook upon the producers. ...Hays worked to implement his maxim ["more business in government and less government in business"] with the ultimate intention of converting the film industry into a model of business self-regulation.

Initially, at least, he was considerably more successful in restraining external opposition ... than he was in controlling the internecine disputes of his employers. The evident failure of Prohibition, Republican policies of minimal government implicit in the return to "nor-

[98]

malcy," and the semantic hostility the word "censorship" aroused (particularly in Hays' persistent use of the phrase "political censorship') weakened the reform lobby. The producers, however, were reluctant to accept even self-imposed limitations on their freedom of content. Their rhetorical interest in freedom of expression failed to disguise their principal objection: the assumption that the most obviously censorable content was also the most profitable . Frequently during the 1920s they passed what amounted to good resolutions promising

to establish the highest possible moral and artistic standards of motion picture production

and

to prevent the prevalent type of book and play from becoming the prevalent type of picture ...

but they never required themselves to take more than token notice of these resolutions.

It was this failure on Hays' part that led the reform groups to link the questions of censorship and antitrust legislation in the proposals they brought before Congress. [e.g.] In 1928 the Brookhart Bill... The Hudson Bill, first introduced in 1930 (and re-introduced several times thereafter),... The Neely-Pettingill Bill of 1936 (revived as the Neely Bill of 1938, and introduced for a third time by Senator Harvey M. Kilgore in 1943)...

The legislative relation of antitrust and censorship questions, however, provided Hays with evidence to support the strategy he was attempting to impose on the M. P. P. D. A. It involved accepting the validity of public concern over content, but avoiding interference by the adoption of a code of

[99]

self-regulation as stringent as that which the moral conservatives in the vanguard of the reformers would themselves wish to implement. ...if the M. P. P. D. A. companies could be seen to be enforcing a respectable code of conduct in their choice of content, they could claim not only that they were providing adequate evidence of self-regulation; they could also argue that block booking helped to keep films of dubious moral quality, made by non-affiliates of the M. P. P. D. A., out of the theatres . The loss of creative freedom was a small price to pay for the enormous advantages of monopoly profit.

Hays' strategy received its first articulation in the list of "Don'ts and Be Carefuls" adopted in June 1927 by the Association of Motion Picture Producers.* ...the list was based on material about which objections had been received by the M. P. P. D. A. Department of Public Relations, or which had been cut by local censors. The determining principle behind the inclusion of each item was not a consideration of morality or public taste, but the practical application of Hays' argument. ...

The working abstract of the 1930 Production Code made the rationale behind Hays' actions even more apparent. As originally written by Martin Quigley and Father Daniel Lord, S.J.,** the Code was an argument in Catholic moral philosophy which contained no specific catalog of material deemed unsuitable for the screen. When the Code was adopted as binding by the M.P.P.D.A. in 1934, what Quigley and Lord had written was designated as "The Reasons

__________
*A West Coast organization of the major producers, established in 1924, the A. M. P. P. was a separate body from the M. P. P.D. A., but in practice had much the same member ship. Policy seldom varied between the two Associations.

**Martin Quigley was the staunchly Catholic editor and publisher of the Motion Picture Herald. Father Lord was Professor of Dramatics at the University of St. Louis.

[100]

Supporting the Preamble of the Code," and was, for all practical purposes, ignored. The Code itself was Hays' compilation of the prohibitions in Quigley/Lord together with those of the A. M. P. P. "Don'ts and Be Carefuls" that they had omitted. It was dominated less by a specifically Catholic moral stance than by Hays' requirement that it should preclude the necessity of any further censorial controls.*

It was not an easy strategy to sell to a group of men who had made their fortunes in exploitation. Neither their own good resolutions nor the threat of legislation gave it the force to become more than a paper policy. ... M. P. P. D. A. members successfully resisted attempts to have the Production Code included in the 1933 National Recovery Administration Code of Fair Competition for the Motion Picture Industry, which would have made violation of the Code subject to the punitive clauses of the N.R.A. code.** Their reluctance to accept self-regulation gave support to charges that the industry would not and could not control itself in the public interest, and to Senator Brookhart's allegations that

Mr. Hays has done nothing towards improving the

__________
*For example, nothing in Quigley/Lord required a prohibiion on the depiction of miscegenation, which was carried over from the "Don'ts and Be Carefuls," since it would obviously be excised by local censors in the Southern States.

**The NRA Code merely acknowledged the existence of the Production Code in terms reminiscent of the industry's prevous pledges of good behavior:

The industry pledges its combined strength to maintain right moral standards in the production of motion pictures as a form of entertainment. The industry pledges itself to adhere to the regulations made within the industry to attain this purpose.

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moral tone of the movies.... The truth is that Hays was employed primarily as a "fixer" to protect the industry against any sort of regulation through public action.

The companies' refusal to adopt the Code in the early 1930s was based on economic circumstance. While the post-sound expansion had carried the industry over the first years of the Depression, it had involved them in expensive conversion of facilities, and had doubled production costs. The industry's slump came in 1932-1933, when both Universal and R. K. O. were in receivership and Paramount was near bankruptcy as annual audience attendance figures declined for the first time in the industry's history. ... Hays recognized their financial problems and relaxed his internal campaign for self-censorship for the duration of the crisis. But if he was forced to accept this situation, others, less concerned with the economic well-being of the movies, were not.

In particular, the Catholic Church reacted strongly to the industry's failure to observe the Catholic-composed Code. During 1933 there were a number of moves by Catholic clergy threatening boycotts of films and theatres,... ...the formation, in April 1934, of the Legion of Decency, whose members were pledged "to remain away from all motion pictures except those which do not offend decency and Christian morality." The threat of mass boycott, which gained additional support from Protesant, Jewish and other voluntary organizations, was astutely timed. It came at a period of economic insecurity, when movie stocks were at their lowest, and it reached its peak of activity... while plans for the new production season were being made. The producers capitulated immediately. ... On July 1 [1933] the Studio Relations Committee was replaced by the Production Code Administration, which would vet all script drafts and

[102]

release prints of every film produced, distributed or exhibited by the member companies of the M. P . P. D. A., who contracted not to distribute or exhibit any film not bearing the P. C. A. Seal of Approval. ...

KINDER CUTS

...the M. P. P. D. A. members ...took to the Code not because they believed, as Hays claimed to, that audiences had been gradually educated to accept higher moral standards in their entertainment, but because of the threatened boycott. And in giving in to a threat, they also accepted the principle by which Hays had constructed the Code's working abstract. The strength of the entire system of prior censorship was that it operated on the basis of a series of undefined relationships, rooted in the producers' acknowledgment that the P. C. A. was a necessary intermediary to give them protection from the undesirable assaults of organizations more morally scrupulous than they themselves might care to be. The P.C.A. in practice operated as a mechanism for the maintenance of a necessary predictability in the subject matter of movies and the manner of its handling, in much the same way that the formulae of genre pictures did. ... Concern about the movies went well beyond the merely censorable, and Hays frequently had to deal with protests from trade associations over a film's representation of their business. The industry's response to such complaints was strongly related to the amount of economic pressure the complainant might exert, either directly or through influence in Washington. ...

[103]

... Above all the industry wished to manufacture an acceptable product: since its audience was undifferentiated, and since the product had to achieve mass consumption before it became profitable, it seemed to make economic sense to pitch film content fairly consistently at the lowest common denominator of its audience, and equally, to adopt the line of least resistance in dealing with protests about content, insofar as these were compatible with successful corporate economics.

In such circumstances , it would have been naive to expect the M. P. P. D. A. to challenge governmental prior censorship institutions. The Production Code was one element of a diffuse censorship system... To challenge the legitimacy of one element in that system was to challenge the whole construct. Since that construct came to serve the economic interests of the majors, challenging it would serve neither their short- nor their long-term interests. ...they wanted to appear both responsible and responsive to pressure,... This attitude reaped its rewards in the form of a greater reciprocal co-operation from the censors in their dealings with the major distributors. The preferential treatment afforded to the majors made up for the occasional inconvenience brought on by erratic censorship decisions. Equally, the Legion had at least a tacit interest in the preservation of oligopoly. In his 1945 thesis on the Legion, Paul Facey observed,

The Department of Justice has tried to break up the monopoly of the film industry. Should it carry its attack to the point where it would force the dissolution of the Hays Office, the Legion of Decency would face a situation fraught with real problems. Instead of a single focus for its pressure, the Hays Office, it would have as many as there are producers.

[104]

... The system of control was enhanced by the practical operation of the Code, which was frequently accused by independent producers and distributors of showing a greater leniency in its decisions over the content of films produced or distributed by the major companies than in cases involving independent productions. Since provisional P. C. A. approval was a vital factor in obtaining the outside financing necessary for independent production, this alleged bias helped ensure that the independents were unable to compete on equal terms with the studios.

The majors also found the P.C.A. Seal of Approval a useful additional tool in maintaining their effective exhibition monopoly.** It was, for example, helpful in restricting the

__________
*The coincidence of the Production Code's implementation shortly after most of the major companies were taken over by Wall Street interests has not yet been examined in any detail. Although evidence to establish a direct causal relationship would be almost impossible to obtain, the Code's standardization and neutralization of film content would be likely to appeal on both economic and ideological grounds to Morgan and Rockefeller interests. It is also the case that, in the later stages of their negotiations with the M. P. P.D. A., the Legion of Decency abandoned their dealings with the producers and concentrated their attention on the executives in New York. On June 15, 1934, Variety reported,

Switch of all moral problems from the West to the East is revealed to have been motivated by an understanding that the crusaders have lost patience with the studio heads, but still believe in the judgment and good intentions of the Eastern executives.

**Prior to 1948, films distributed by M. P.P.D.A. companies, all of which had to have a P. C. A. Seal, accounted for 97 per cent of films obtaining releases in the United States.

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import of foreign films. The distribution companies, reluctant to handle product that was partially outside their economic control (and hence less profitable), used the Code as a weapon with which to question their suitability for American audiences. Though not originally responsible for associating European films with dubious subject matter, they were content to allow the relationship to permeate the public consciousness. Raymond Moley, in his laudatory account of the Hays Office, published in 1945, concluded his final chapter by emphasizing Hays', and the M. P. P. D. A. 's, intention of adhering to the standards laid down in the Code:

There will, of course, be critical questions of enforcement to meet, since the present standards prescribed by the Code are the highest in the world. These high standards are now so completely taken for granted by American public opinion, in fact, that little or no public pressure is any longer exerted to support them.... Of course there will be demands from some countries for more piquant entertainment than the Code allows, but as far as present prospects indicate, these countries will have to supply their own spice.

...


A LIMITED EXPRESSION

"It is therefore evident, gentle-
men, that there never was a
real issue in this controversy."

Government mediator at the
end of Black Fury.

The Code enshrined in its prohibitions the common

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wisdom of Justice McKenna's 1915 ruling that film had a special capacity for evil. It stated, in "General Principles. 1.":

No picture shall be produced which will lower the moral standards of those who see it. Hence the sympathy of the audience shall never be thrown to the side of crime, wrong-doing, evil, or sin.

That regulation, more than any other, controlled the nature of the subject matter, plot and characterization available to the filmmakers. In practice, Breen and his staff would analyze stories primarily in relation to their theme.

For such evaluative purposes , the theme of a picture can be determined by asking what problem confronts the leading characters and stating how the problem is solved . If the characters find their answers in moral ways, the theme of the picture is usually acceptable. If the characters find it necessary to steal or commit adultery or break some other social taboo or law, the story is unacceptable unless proper and compensating moral values and element of punishment are present.

"Compensating moral values" were defined by Breen in a letter to Hays in March, 1936:

Time and again there occur in the decisions of the P. C. A. the words: "Compensating moral values." The Code demands "that in the end the audience feels that evil is wrong and good is right." To satisfy this requirement of the Code, stories must contain, at least, sufficient good to compensate for any evil they relate. The compensating moral values are: good characters, the voice of morality, a lesson, regeneration of the transgressor, suffering and punishment.

The bulk of the P.C.A's activities was concerned with the detailed administration of the Code, which operated on the principal of judicial precedent, cases being filed by subject, from "abdomen" to "zipper." But since none of the correspondence or decisions of the P. C.A were published, the Code was open to re-interpretation, and special dispensations might always be granted, as in the case of Clark Gable's last line in Gone with the Wind, which specifically contradicted Part V of the Code, as amended November 1, 1939.

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There was, further, a large peripheral area of the P.C.A.'s work which involved making suggestions about material not specifically forbidden by the Code itself, but liable to incur the displeasure of either local or foreign censors (such as the British Censor's persistent practice of deleting the Lord's Prayer from any film), or of interest groups. It was in this context that comment about the overtly political content of films might occur. Such advice was not infrequent among the potentially socially controversial films of the 1930s, at least. Colin Shindler cites the case of the drastic altering of the story line of Black Fury (1935, Warner Bros.; dir. Michael Curtiz), from an indictment of working conditions among Pennsylvania coal miners to a gangster melodrama about an innocent's exploitation by racketeering union leaders. Walter Wanger, producer of Blockade (1938; dir. William Dieterle) was advised that it might be as well not to identify his characters with either side in the Spanish Civil War, and that even to identify the locale as Spain was dangerous. ...

Ruth Inglis quotes from a letter from Breen to Samuel Goldwyn regarding Dead End (1937; dir. William Wyler):

We would like to recommend, in passing, that you be less emphatic, throughout, in the photographing of this script, in showing the contrast between the conditions of the poor in tenements and those of the rich in apartment houses. Specifically, we recommend you do not show, at any time, or at least that you do not emphasize, the presence of filth, or smelly garbage cans, or garbage floating in the river, into which the boys jump for a swim. This recommendation is made under the general heading of good and welfare, because our reaction is that such scenes are likely to give offense.

Inglis' conclusion, borne out by Shindler, "that, upon occasion, the Production Code Administration does try to exert a conservative influence,"* would almost certainly not

__________
*"The tribulations of Black Fury, Gabriel Over     (continued)

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have been contested by Breen. Moley quotes him as saying:

Without going into the philosophical discussion of whether or not revolution or violence are ever desirable, and without raising the question of the role which the arts may or may not have played in the dissemination of political ideas, the Code Administration maintains that it is unwise for any producer to expose the industry to the charge of fomenting political and social unrest. It emphasises the point that when this is done by a book, the reader who takes violent exception to the content is merely outraged at the author, not at the publisher or at the entire art of the printed word. But the motion picture spectator, when he is annoyed, is annoyed at "the damned movies," and, likely as not, at the theatre where he saw the offending picture.

He defended the P. C. A. against charges that its moral, social or political conservatism interfered with the artistic potential and social responsibilities of the American film by claiming that it was protecting the industry and its workers as a community because it prevented them damaging their own public esteem. Its rigid standards were necessary because large forces of articulate and powerful opinion threatened economic sanction if they were not adhered to. Because the industry was particularly vulnerable, it had to take particular care. The Code Administration was merely the industry's mechanism for establishing the exigencies, restrictions, and conventions within which the medium's artists might legitimately operate. If the limitations on narrative development imposed by the system of "compensating moral values" prevented the forceful articulation of explicit social criticism, it merely reflected the public will of Justice McKenna and the Legion of Decency that the cinema should ensure that its mass entertainment was "harmless."

Despite its predominantly conservative effects, the Code was a rich source of contradictions. Its impact on the crime film was immediate. Gangster films, which had

__________
the White House, of Dead End and Blockade, are clear indicators of the political bias and crucial deployment of the power of the Hays Office."

[109]

been one of the principal objects of the reformers' criticism, had been closely modeled on the genre's first success, Little Caesar. They depicted the flamboyant rise and abrupt fall of a figure usually modeled on Al Capone, usually of Italian or Irish extraction, usually deriving his income from bootlegging, and always limited in his area of operation to a city, usually a thinly disguised studio version of Chicago or New York.* Despite their inevitable morally compensating violent death in the streets, the films' protagonists were presented as heroic in their assertiveness and determination to get to the top, offering an attractive if left-handed version of the myth of Success. By its stipulation that

Crimes against the law ... shall never be presented in such a way as to throw sympathy with the crime as against law and justice, or to inspire others with a desire for imitation.

the Code obliged the studios to convert their individualist outlaw heroes into equally heroic embodiments of benevolent federal authority, but it failed to remove the moral ambiguities of the genre. Warners remodeled Public Enemy James Cagney as a G-Man, but left his behavior unmodified: despite a specific prohibition in the Code against the law resorting to unlawful means to gain the ends of justice, Cagney's previous violence against the law was simply replaced by an equal violence in the name of the law. A 1935 amendment to the Code, that

Crime stories are not to be approved when they portray the activities of American gangsters, armed and in violent conflict with the law or law- enforcing officers,**

__________
*It is, however, worth noting Capone's personal hostility to gangster movies. "They ought to take them and throw them in the lake," he declared. "They're doing nothing but harm to the younger element of this country. I don't blame the censors for trying to ban them. These gang movies are making a lot of kids want to be tough boys and they don't serve any useful purpose."

**In large part this Amendment was designed to prohibit films about Dillinger, Bonnie and Clyde, and the Public Enemies of J. Edgar Hoover.

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directed against G-Men and its sequels, appears to have been less than strictly enforced as the cycle continued into 1937, to both praise for its responsible presentation of governmental power and condemnation for its devious circumnavigation of the spirit of the Code.

The contradictions inherent in the studios' solution to the prohibition on gangster films were most concisely indicated in a title change by which Warners' second G-Man film, Public Enemy's Wife, was renamed G-Man's Wife for its British release. The depths of the contradictions, however, emerged with their next film, Bullets or Ballots, in which "Edward G. (Little Caesar) Robinson moves in on the modern mobs." The Robinson character, Johnny Blake, is a New York detective who joins a crime syndicate in order to discover who its secret bosses are. The film manages to follow closely the established plot structure of the gangster film, depicting Robinson's rise in the criminal hierarchy and his battle with Humphrey Bogart for control of the rackets. It even provides him with the archetypal gangster's ending: fatally wounded by Bogart, he staggers out of his last meeting with the bosses to die in the street. At a plot level, the contradictions are apparent. As a cop, Robinson denounces racketeers and declares, "I don't like to see decent people pushed around." As a gangster, he introduces the numbers racket to New York. There is, too, a contradiction between the moral fervor with which the film denounces the rackets and the corruption that permits them and its generic impulse to provide an individualistic , heroic solution to the problem it poses . On the one hand, Robinson is depicted as a thoroughly honest man, made very uncomfortable by the duplicity of his role as undercover agent where he has to "double cross" criminals rather than give them the "even break" he has always done in the past. His moral qualms are made a central issue by the presence of Joan Blondell, who loses faith in him when he takes the numbers game away from her. In tension with the film's foregrounding of Robinson's conscience is the strident attack on the racketeers contained in the imitation March of Time documentary with which the film opens, and expressed with particular clarity in an early script treatment:

The purpose of the picture is to arouse public indignation and to stop public support of every racket chronicled herein, for without public support, the rackets will die!... Besides presenting entertainment the picture's mission will be to

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leave a flaming question mark in the minds of American audiences. What can be done to stamp out rackets and racketeers as effectively as Repeal stamped out bootleggers and rum-runners?

In its advertising the film avowed the educative purpose which came with its acquisition of a documentary mode of expression. One ad declared,

Watch the cops crack down on the Secret Friends of the Public Enemies ... the higher-up Dictatorship of Modern Gangdom that's still sticking up America to the tune of $15,000,000,000 a year!

But having proposed a factual basis behind the story, both the advertising and the film itself abandoned documentary for the individualist moral concerns of its plot. The same ad asked,

Will "Little Caesar" rat on this secret Syndicate of Crime? ... can he save his own skin by turning in the Big Bosses?

Although the individualist narrative was Hollywood's conventional mode of expression it was rarely placed in such direct tension with an explicit use of the documentary form, even in "social consciousness films."

Bullets or Ballots is clearly a fissured film, in the category that Comolli and Narboni argue should be examined because their cracks expose the ideology they express. What is noteworthy about it is that the film's internal tension is directly attributable to the operation of the Hays Code: from the visual details by which a man firing a gun and the man he shoots are not presented in the same shot, to the underlying stress between the objective of entertainment and the claim to social consciousness, the film's contradictions are products of its obligation to abide by the Code rather than arising from any creative tension in its production . Its presentation of its principal villains is particularly revealing.

The film's Secret Syndicate of Crime is actually run by a Wall Street banker, an ex-Senator, and a third man unidentified in the film but described in the script as young millionaire, socialite and clubman. This elite triumvirate appears in evening dress, and there is a clearly

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generic convention, community responsibility and individual direct action, social consciousness and entertainment, that permeate Bullets or Ballots and leave it open in detail to a wide range of ideological interpretations are largely present because of its conformity to the Production Code. [sic] The ambiguity of Robinson's status, in particular, was revealed by the ending. He dies, as a gangster must, in the street, but in doing so he contravenes a Code regulation that "law-enforcing officers should not be shown dying at the hands of criminals."* The Code provided a restrictive framework for film narrative that was not only in tension with the generic impulses of much of Hollywood's product but itself contradicted its conservative purposes. The conflicting elements within individual narratives can in retrospect be used to point up the films' implicit ideologies, while the Code itself can be seen as the source of Hollywood's confused solutions to such problematic areas of content as crime, sexuality and ethnicity. In having to avoid offending any group and compensate for immorality, Hollywood perpetrated stereotypes and made a fetish of "glamor" that corresponded only obliquely to the world outside itself.



Richard Maltby—in order to create a political cinema, you have to create a non-political cinema



Richard Maltby
Harmless Entertainment:
Hollywood and the Ideology of Consensus

(1983)


CHAPTER 5

DOUBLE MEANINGS


...

[129] The definition of "controversial" grew broader as blacklisting procedures became more institutionalized.* The appearance of one's name in a list published by the Legion's Firing Line, Counterattack, the publications of AWARE, Inc., or any of the even more obscure Red-baiter groups was all that was needed. Figures without studio protection who had past "controversial" allegiances found it increasingly difficult, and finally impossible, to obtain work. The studios were careful to avoid providing grounds for any possible charges of conspiracy, so that there was never an industry-wide "blacklist" as such. There were almost certainly minor variations in policy between studios, with less pressure on independent producers. These inconsistencies as well as the lack of written evidence on the subject, the general pattern of declining employment in the industry, and the reluctance of any but the victims to discuss the issue, make it almost impossible to determine accurately how many people were affected by blacklisting, or the resulting impact on film production.

The studios' adoption of blacklisting practices can, however, be explained, and largely in non-political terms. The economic crisis provoked by falling audiences and the



__________
*By 1952 the "controversial" category covered not only the 324 names cited by cooperative witnesses at the H.U.A.C. "mass hearings, " but also brief membership of the 194 organizations deemed "subversive" by Counterattack, or a listing in the notorious Appendix IX of the 1945 H.U.A.C. report, which even the Committee had ordered destroyed on the grounds of its inaccuracy.

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Paramount decrees left the majors anxious to avoid any further criticism that might have repercussions on their financial position. They conceded to the anti-Communist lobby for the same reasons that they had conceded to the Legion of Decency in 1934, and if the influence of the anti-Communists was disproportionate to their numerical strength, the financial crisis facing the industry was more severe. Moreover, the increase in relative authority that the crisis had given distribution executives in New York encouraged the timid solution. After 1947 the position of the studio production heads was seriously and permanently weakened. Louis B. Mayer was forced out of M. G. M., Darryl Zanuck was pressured into resigning from Twentieth Century-Fox, and two of the Warner Brothers sold their interest in the company. Hughes' sale of R. K. O. to a branch of the General Tire and Rubber Co. in 1955 may have predated by ten years the submergence of other film companies in disparate conglomerates, but it did indicate in dramatic terms that the era of the all-powerful production head was over, and that the dominant voice in studio policy would from now on belong to those in charge of distribution and finance.

The changed nature of the right-wing attack on liberalism in the early 1950s also encouraged the institutionalization of blacklisting. Earlier attempts to rescind hated pieces of New Deal legislation through Congress or the courts had failed, and the enormous success of the Alger Hiss case had shown the reactionaries that the most effective way to destroy Rooseveltian influence was through victimization of individuals. This policy was applied to Hollywood in the "mass hearings" of 1951 and 1952. The Committee's new line of attack permitted the industry the face-saving rationalization that they were not abandoning the freedom of the screen, which had been the primary issue during the 1947 hearings. The situation in the early 1950s, it was argued, was that certain specific individuals were no longer acceptable to sections of public opinion because of their private politics. The more stringent policies adopted by radio and television companies and their sponsors in the name of the political purity of their consumer products forcibly affected the employment policies of the majors. A studio employing an actor too "disloyal" for television would be bound to come under heavy fire from the anti-Communists who had secured his original unemployment. And, as ever, but particularly as in any period of financial crisis, the industry executives were unwilling to alienate any section of the public who might decide to boycott, picket, or refuse to show their product .



Note to p. 130:
Hate to say it, but the account here does indeed invite comparisons with what has happened in the wake of Me Too. Leaving aside the actual principles at stake in Communism, Sexism, etc., the unique kind of public scrutiny invited by the very existence of an Entertainment Industry is comparable to few other sectors, perhaps only to Politics itself. On an industry-wide level this is apt comeuppance for much which is toxic and unethical in The Biz...but of course RM's thesis throughout is well-taken: it is isolated individuals who, rightly or wrongly, become scapegoats, which is all about maintaining the status quo as much as possible.



...

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...

In spite of the commercial triumph of innocuous entertainment signaled by The Sound of Music in 1966, the M. P. A. A. in that year conceded that the existing Production Code was unworkable, and abandoned it for a much shorter and less specific formulation that could be adapted to changing circumstances, in the legal definition of obscenity, for example. In itself, the redrafting of the Code was more significant symbolically than materially: it evidenced the industry's final and reluctant acceptance that it could no longer profitably purvey a specified form of harmless entertainment to an undifferentiated mass audience. In one particular, however, the 1966 revision made that acceptance concrete. It specified that some films should be labeled as "suitable for mature audiences," and thereby introduced a system of classification which the majors had consistently resisted much more vehemently than they had opposed censorship. Film classification had been the main issue of dispute between the M. P. A. A. and censorship boards since 1952. Boards had taken more and more to restricting certain films, including some of the majors', as unsuitable for children. Their right to do so had been upheld by the Supreme Court, and some boards were operating exclusively on this practice, rather than attempting to enforce bans. The industry had fought any attempt to restrict audiences, particularly in the light of its knowledge that a large and growing proportion of movie audiences were under

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17. As before, the producers accepted classification only in the face of a growing censorship lobby, pressure from exhibitors who were concerned that they might again fall prey to community protest, and the forceful arguments of M. P. A. A President Jack Valenti that such a system was in their long-term self-interest. Even so, the system introduced in 1966 was, at best, half-hearted. It went no further than requiring that some films carry the label "Suggested for Mature Audiences" (abbreviated to S. M. A.) on their first- run advertising. This minimalist system did not quell the censorship lobby either inside or outside the industry, and was replaced in 1968 by a four-category classification sys- tem that finally abandoned the Code altogether.

The revisions of the Code during the 1960s amounted to a belated and reluctant acknowledgment by the member companies of the M.P.A. A. that a significant change had taken place in the composition and tastes of the movie audience. The classification system represented the institutional abandonment of the myth of the undifferentiated mass audience. But the tardiness and hesitancy with which these changes were implemented indicated even more clearly the extent to which distributors and major producers clung to a conservative economic definition of their product. The P. C. A. was replaced by the Code and Rating Administration (C.A.R.A.), but the philosophy with which the new organization operated did not differ from that of its predecessor. Instead of excising material by declaring it prohibited, the new administration achieved the same result by threatening producers with an X rating, which the major companies were not prepared to have attached to their product. Although some independent producers consciously pursued the publicity value of an X rating, the majors, committed as they were to blockbuster economics, continued to ensure that with very few exceptions their films were accessible to audienes under eighteen. Despite the increasing evidence to the contrary, they persisted in practicing the restrictive and conservative attitude to their product that the classification system appeared to have breached. That attitude continued to predominate because neither the political nor the economic events of the post-war period, disturbing as they were for the industry, caused the majors to alter their fundamental assumptions about the nature of film as a commercial commodity.



Note to pp. 135-136:
Pair with S.Ewen's observations about children being more susceptible to marketing. Also Zukin and others on teen purchasing power. The irony being that it's tough to crack down on the targeting of youth without flirting with censorship of a different kind. A crazier irony, also, is that the legal case for overturning censorship and granting film status as speech rests on what might be called a strong theory of media effects; in one sense a contravention of McLuhan's dictum.



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INTERLUDE

I WAS A COMMUNARD FOR THE F. B. I.:
GENRE AND POLITICS--ANTHONY MANN


"There's a revolution going on.
Don't stay out late."
Arnold Moss (Fouché) in Reign
of Terror


What constitutes a political cinema? A dissenting film within the commercial cinema may choose to make statements about politics as a force outside the institution in which it operates (plot politics), or it may expose the mechanisms of manipulation and exploitation within its economically determined forms (political narrative). In Hollywood these possibilities have consistently functioned as alternatives, obliging a conventionality in one discourse in order to permit opportunistic subversion in another. The limitations of a superficial radicalism in content are apparent: Jack Warner and Louis B. Mayer were quite justified in their claim that no Communist propaganda had ever sullied their studios' output, although it is perhaps debatable whether that was entirely due to their unceasing vigilance. The possibilities of formal subversion are more ambiguous, since such a strategy involves a side-step into areas not normally recognized as political. A challenge to conventional modes of representation is, however, a prerequisite for a politically subversive cinema, particularly in Hollywood where highly developed narrative codes circumscribed and recuperated the radical elements of a film's subject matter. To succeed in either political or aesthetic terms a dissenting film was obliged voluntarily to subjugate itself to the immediate demands of its status as a commercial product. By, for example, accepting the conventions of genre and plot development, a subversive film might create a free space for itself through its overt

[141]

conformity. Working below the surface level of plot percepton is exactly what makes such films subversive; they genrate a tension between plot event and its performance, which offers the audience a choice as to the level on which it wishes to read the film. Manny Farber's description of these movies as "Underground Films" captures their essential quality precisely.

The generic puritanism of Budd Boetticher's Westerns, for example, so emphasizes the ritual in the patterning of plot events that the conventional moral lessons of those events, so evident in Ford, cannot be drawn except by an unreflective reading of the plot as sole text. Rather, this rigid, ruthless adherence to generic conventions uses irony to turn the usual implications of the plot on their heads. The sympathetic villain is hardly unique to Boetticher's miniaturist approach, but rarely has evil been more personably personified than by Claude Akins in Comanche Station, nor has righteousness, the central tenet of Randolph Scott's performance, seemed more absurd.

Thus the paradox: in order to create a political cinema, you have to create a non-political cinema . Which is to say, you have to create a cinema which expresses its politics in terms other than those already labeled political. The divisions within Hollywood over H.U.A.C. in a way defined this contradiction. Those people who took positions on either side of the issue were accepting the terms of the debate, even if they denied the existence of common ground between them and their opponents. Both groups were, in a sense, more fundamentally in opposition to those individuals attempting to define the political in a new manner than they were to each other. An alternative politics was not to be defined through positions on issues as such; rather, it was bound into films by their makers' attitude towards the act of filmmaking itself. For those who wished to practice an existential politics, specific issues were irrelevant. Their films contained an implicit acknowledgment that narrative cinema could not democratically present a political content before it had redefined the political implications of its style. The first task for filmmakers of Dissent was to reorganize their attitudes towards the narrative conventions within which they were obliged to work.

To make an overtly political film--a film which took politics as its subject matter--in 1949, two options were open. Either choose a contemporary subject matter in which good and evil could be readily identified, and didactically

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bludgeon the audience with the dramatic logic of the central character's corruption (All the King's Men) or redemption (I Married a Communist). Or eschew message cinema through the use of generic and stylistic conventions to create a political cinema. Reign of Terror practices what it preaches: in describing the unstable realpolitik of the French Revolution Anthony Mann employs a barrage of film noir techniques and gangster movie conventions to present his audience with a cinematic world they can comprehend. Reign of Terror is a conscious exercise in displacement: gangster archetypes in eighteenth-century dress--Robespierre the grotesque homosexual city boss making a show of opulence ("I didn't know such prosperity went with the Revolution," says DuVivier to him on their first meeting); St. Just the brutal dandy whose spiritual corruption is measured by his physical beauty; Fouché the deformed sardonic intellectual who plots to kill his master; Madeleine the film noir fatal woman (kissing DuVivier, she murmurs, "I could kill you"); DuVivier himself, the hero who is a double agent--exchange the dialogue of a hundred crime movies: "Fouché, why don't you go take a walk?" "Don't tempt me, I still have a gun."

All the stylistic devices used to create the insecure urban landscape of the film noir are employed to endow eighteenth-century studio Paris with an instability of circumstance and morality: cross-lighting; the threatening use of extreme close-ups; the expressionist play with shadows (several characters talk to shadows); persistent composition against the natural balance of the subject; the definition of space as solid and three-dimensional through the use of high-or low-angle shots, but still capable of sudden distortion by a cut to an unexpected camera position. Mann carefully sculpts his space, using deliberately positioned people and objects to establish depth in detail and precisely define the space in any shot--frequently to prove to the audience how deceptive appearances are: mirrors conceal doors, a book which turns out to be hollow then turns out to be no more than a container for dog food. His use of camera movement stresses his ambiguity; violence is directed either at or from the camera, implicating the audience or threatening it. In beginning the film with an extreme high-angle long shot, which pans down to a direct overhead shot of the first scene, and cutting occasionally to similar long shots throughout the film, Mann establishes a distance between himself and the audience. He reserves the power to withdraw from the action when he wishes, but forces his audience into participation, bewilderment and suffering with the characters.

[143]

Mann' manipulation of the audience parallels Robespierre's and Barrat's manipulation of the crowds. "I created the mob ... where else would they find a leader?" declares Robespierre. This is a world of realpolitik, where the issue at stake is the control of the elements of power (here the mob, but also an object, the Black Book). What makes Reign of Terror's politics so distinctive is that it assertively defines the difference between good and evil as lying not in tactics but in purpose. The Barrat faction manipulates the mob at the Assembly to destroy Robespierre at the end of the film in precisely the same manner as Robespierre manipulated it to destroy Danton. Mann reinforces the point by the similarity with which he shoots the two scenes, in the same set with the same lighting, using the same camera setups.

Hero and villain are closely related: at one level of the plot, Barrat and Robespierre; at the other DuVivier and Fouché. At one point the latter are paired in a two-shot, facing each other in profile on either side of the frame, making a partnership by their mutual occupation of space, their mutual acceptance of each other's role and their mutual respect for each other's competence. They share the same aim, to find the Black Book and use it for their own ends. They share the same willingness to discard the other when he ceases to be useful. And they share the same duplicity: neither intends to fulfil the bargain they have just struck. By the end of the scene they are trying to kill each other. The moral distinction between them is offered to the audience only on a purely iconic level: DuVivier (Robert Cummings) is the film's ostensible hero because of his physical stature, because of his involvement in the romantic subplot, and because the plot draws us into his conspiracy--we can comprehend its motivation as well as its purpose. Fouché (Arnold Moss) is the villain because of his appearance--crooked, beak-nosed, invariably dressed in black--and because he is a natural dissembler. But almost the first thing we see DuVivier do is to murder a man with his bare hands. Significantly, Fouché has others perform all his butchery.

Mann's political methodology thus involves taking a conventional form and displacing its conventions. But in displacing them he does not violate them--unlike, for example, Abraham Polonsky in Force of Evil, where film noir criminal protagonist John Garfield turns renegade in the final scenes, reneging on his relationship with the audience and perhaps providing a model for the ex-Communist witnesses to H.U.A.C. Reign of Terror uses its generic

[144]

and stylistic borrowings to create a world which is familiar enough for its unfamiliarities to be disturbing. The sets are made familiar by their lighting, the costumes by their inhabitants. What is unfamiliar is the extent of the film's realpolitik ambivalence. By making its hero a political assassin who will, at the film's end, compromise in a balance of power with its personification of evil, it persistently denies that a fixed morality of action exists. That denial is made generically possible by the film's position, at the same time inside and outside the conventions of the film noir.

Reign of Terror's narrative fits the pattern of Mann's later Westerns. The action of the film is a neutralizing movement towards compromise and control. But it is more explicit in its discussion of power as morally ambiguous than the Westerns were to be. They assume the territory Reign of Terror travels, and employ more independent reified symbols of the ambivalence of power--the rifle in Winchester 73. They also seek resolution at a different point. By concentrating on the obsession or dilemma of a single character, they articulate the politics of an introverted individualism, and at the plot's conclusion leave the central character a good deal less interesting than he was at its beginning. Reign of Terror, because it is not so clearly focused, can abandon its characters in the middle of a balance of forces no more stable than that with which it began; the untenable joint governance of Barrat, the "honest man," and Fouché, the "disloyal, unscrupulous, deceitful, treacherous, cunning" embodiment of studied malevolence. It is an apt enough commentary on the two worlds of Hollywood politics it describes.






Richard Maltby—The Seat of Harry Cohn's Pants



Richard Maltby
Harmless Entertainment:
Hollywood and the Ideology of Consensus

(1983)


CHAPTER 2

THE BUSINESS OF FANTASY


THE CONDITION OF CRISIS

...

[51]

THE SEAT OF HARRY COHN'S PANTS

The industry as a whole needed the stability of predictable box-office earnings to guarantee the production and advertising pattern of large-scale short-term investment. This was a division of interests which corresponded to the requirements for novelty and predictability of the films themselves. Movie economics resembled those of the fashion industry in their dependence on stable consumption of a product which was constantly being modified, and in their ambiguously determining and dependent relationship with audience "taste." Many of Hollywood's moguls had worked in clothing trades early in their careers and may have acquired the particular skills which entrepreneurial success in both industries required: in particular, "the ability to suspend one's own tastes and calculate the desires of others."

The promotion of fashion as a mechanism for the superficial alteration of a fundamentally consistent product was as important to the workings of the film industry as it was to the garment business, because it attached unnatural limits to the durability of the product in question. Films, like clothes, went out of fashion before they were worn out. This imposed an attitude towards the product on the part of the producers that influenced their manner of distribution. The felt need to be fashionable reinforced the notion of the product having a short commercial life, and being worthless after expiry. Fashion had to be latched on to quickly; producers, like dress designers, had to stay one step ahead of public taste, anticipating it by at least a year in order to have product ready for the market.

The studio heads' claim to control over production was in part based on the assertion that they had unique intuitive abilities to gauge and predict audience reaction to the individual films their companies produced. In their interventions over story development, characterization, casting or costume design, all the moguls insisted on their mediating role as arbiters of the Common Taste, though few were as terse in expressing their peculiar gift for judgment as Harry Cohn:

When I'm alone in the projection room, I have a foolproof device for judging whether a picture is good or bad. If my fanny squirms, it's bad. If

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my fanny doesn't squirm, it's good. It's as simple as that.

The claim to insight, whether exercised in Cohn's manner of demanding nineteen minutes cut from a completed print because his fanny started to squirm nineteen minutes from the film's end, or in the extensive and detailed control over productions maintained by Thalberg or Selznick, was a crucial element in the moguls' power over their employees. It provided a rationale one step short of naked authoritarianism for their intervention in creative matters, and served as a constant reminder to writers and directors that their objective was to produce profitable entertainment, not art.

The moguls' claimed abilities to predict audience taste were also central to their relationship with their financial overlords in New York. It amounted to a justification of autonomy for production, by providing a further mechanism for stability. Industry economics dictated that films should be designed to appeal to the widest possible audience as the most reliable guarantor of profitability. The mythology of Hollywood constructed by the moguls insisted that audience taste was inherently unpredictable and that, as a result, film could not be subject to simple financial expedients. Film production did not require conventional accounting abilities so much as a capacity to manage the irrational and the unpredictable, skills to which the moguls laid an exclusive claim. Rather than encouraging programs of audience research which might undermine their claims the studio heads promoted their own image as predictors of the public taste as a means of securing their independence from East Coast financial pressure. The effectiveness of this strategy, and the extent to which it was endorsed by their parent companies, was confirmed by the enormous salaries the studio executives were paid.

The moguls made themselves the men who gave the public what the public wanted. What the public wanted was in large part revealed by what they went to see, but the studio heads secured for themselves the vital position of determining what it was about any successful film that had appealed to audiences, and that could therefore be capitalized upon in later productions. The moguls' mediating role was, therefore, not only between their companies' creative employees and New York executives, but also between audience reaction and subsequent product. Their attitudes permeated everything Hollywood produced, and those attitudes

[53]

were chiefly influenced by a commitment to short-term profitability which geared production to the repetition of successful ingredients via generic formulae and the star system, and by an equal commitment to the ideal of "harmless entertainment" which structured the expression of ideology in the American cinema.

Hollywood's existence as a major industry, and its need for long-term economic stability to provide a secure base for its short-term financial adventurism encouraged its acceptance of the existing status quo. The moguls defined their activity as responding to audience tastes rather than formulating them, and hence saw their product as reactive, not innovative. This essentially conservative definition of the cinema's ideological function allowed films to reflect changes in social and political attitudes by fitting them in as topical, novel elements in basically stable patterns . A new idea introduced as a superficial variation on an established theme or plot structure no more disturbed the overall ideology of the combined studio product than a new star disturbed the mechanisms of the star system. A superficial and topical radicalism was always permissible if it could be bracketed into a stable and already comprehensible narrative structure. The attitude was neatly summarized by Darryl F. Zanuck, head of production at Twentieth Century-Fox, in a memo of May 1940 to Ernest Pascal, a writer working on the script of How Green Was My Valley:

This is a revolutionary type of story; therefore, our treatment should not be revolutionary. Now it fumbles around and I get the impression that we are trying to do an English Grapes of Wrath and prove that the mineowners were very mean and that the laborers finally won out over them. All this might be fine if it were happening today, like Grapes of Wrath, but this is years ago and who gives a damn? The smart thing to do is to try to keep all the rest in the background and focus mainly on the human story as seen through Huw's eyes.

[Gussow, Zanuck: Don't Say Yes Until I've Finished Talking]

The conservatism of this attitude blended perfectly with the entertainment ethic, to which the studio heads adhered until, at the earliest, 1940. Under the questioning of their political impartiality by the 1941 Nye-Clark Senatorial Investigating Committee, a few members of the Hollywood community, including Zanuck, proposed a defense of such

[54]

cinematic social comment as there has been by arguing that the cinema's social responsibility obliged it consciously to enter contemporarv political debates. But, among senior studio personnel, this opinion was held only by a small minority, and its influence over production was slight, even for Zanuck, who managed without difficulty to combine it with a wholehearted endorsement of the entertainment ethic:

If you have something worth while to say, dress it in the glittering robes of entertainment and you will find a ready market ... without entertainment no propaganda film is worth a dime.

Zanuck did not question the extent to which making a political statement correspond to the requirements of entertainment as understood by the studio formulae might distort its message, any more than the question bothered him during the supervision of The Grapes of Wrath and How Green Was My Valley:

In The Grapes of Wrath we had to make a very vital decision ... whether to tell the story of the Okies as a whole or the story of one isolated family. This meant the elimination of the flood ... the elimination of the fights with the police ... the dropping of certain characters very important in the book and writing an entirely new last act.... When I think what I got away with [on How Green Was My Valley] ... and won the Academy Award with the picture, it really is astonishing. Not only did we drop five or six characters but we eliminated the most controversial element in the book, which was the labor and capital battle in connection with the strike.

In both cases, Zanuck was effectively taking potentially controversial material and rendering it safe by placing it within an established context for a socially conservative Hollywood narrative. Both films endorsed the stabilizing influence of the family as a cohesive unit, and presented the tragic element of their stories as being the fragmentation of the family, without digressing into a consideration of the underlying causes of that fragmentation. While Zanuck did not strip the films completely of a political context, he nevertheless drastically altered their political implications by fitting them into a narrative that depicted "nice people involved in heartbreak," defusing their radical potential.

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This was less the deliberate imposition of a conservative viewpoint than ideological censorship by default. The Grapes of Wrath was nevertheless sufficiently "political" to earn the condemnation of Martin Quigley, the influential editor of the Motion Picture Herald and co-author of the 1930 Production Code. While Zanuck argued that the movies could educate through pleasure, Quigley firmly maintained the extreme conservative version of the entertainment ethic: "The entertainment motion picture is no place for social, political and economic argument."



Well, as so often, this insistence seems ideological and motivated rather than principled. The principled question is: are social, political and economic arguments well-served by the existing entertainment mediums?

Sure, a strong "no" evinces a conservative view: conservative as in modest. Modesty is principled, and it serves the activist better than ostentation. Alinski as quoted by Lasch:

"If the real radical finds that having long hair sets up psychological barriers to communication and organization, he cuts his hair."


The entertainment ethic provided for social and political conservatism in two ways. Firstly, it proscribed an area of human activity, going to the movies, as being detached from political significance. Movies were, according to the accepted wisdom of their manufacturers, mere "harmless entertainment," at most influencing only fashion and such inconsequentialities as whether or not men wore undershirts. They might aspire to "Art" so long as it was defined along the narrow middle-brow lines of Goldwyn's adaptations of "the classics of literature." In discussing the Production Code, Joseph Breen maintained:

Entertainment, then, is the keynote of the Code, in its practical application to the production of motion pictures. With the artistic character of pictures the Production Code Administration is not seriously concerned. But it is concerned with the attempts to justify immoral themes and indecent scenes by the sophistry of the excuse of beauty.

[quoted in Moley, The Hays Office]

Similarly, the Legion of Decency did not concern itself with "art," but with "immorality," even if its definition of that term was rather broad.

But this definition of films as mere entertainment required that the range of human activities presented by the movies must be taken as devoid of any political consequence. In 1938 the Institute for Propaganda Analysis criticized common value-judgments in motion pictures:

1.   That the successful culmination of a romance will solve most of the dilemmas of the hero and heroine.
2.   Catch the criminal and you will solve the crime problem.
3.   War and preparation for war are thrilling,

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heroic and glamorous.
4.   The good life is the acquisitive life, with its emphasis on luxury, fine homes and automobiles, evening dress, swank and suavity.

What they objected to was what the industry and the majority of its critics regarded as the beneficent conventions of an escapist entertainment. Moreover, industry heads presupposed that such value-judgments accorded with the contemporary consensus. Their reactive cinema reinforced attitudes that were presumed already to exist, while also providing a mechanism by which these attitudes could be permitted to reflect upon topical issues or subjects of debate.

Secondly, the entertainment ethic, bolstered by the economic necessity the studio heads saw in appealing to the mass audience, encouraged the tendency, implicit in the idea of entertainment as it was then understood, to appeal to the lowest common denominator of public taste. This did not necessarily mean appealing to the spectator's baser instincts; rather, it proposed that the films it produced should be as inoffensive as possible in order to keep them available to the largest possible audience. Since the righteous were more vocal, if not more numerous than the prurient or the permissive, once the industry had begun to seek respectability in the early 1920s, it expressed a more or less consistent willingness to cooperate with the most morally conservative elements of society.






27 December 2022

Martin Green—New York 1913


Martin Green
New York 1913: The Armory Show and the Paterson Strike Pageant
(1990)

[4] ...I derive some terms from Susan Sontag's essay on "The Aesthetics of Silence." She there discusses modernist art primarily, but she uses a vocabulary alien to ordinary
[5]
aesthetics. Her terms belong more to religion than to anything else. She says that, "Every era has to reinvent the project of 'spirituality' for itself." She defines spirituality in various ways which converge on the idea of ultimate value, or a religious transcendence of "the world," and continues, "In the modern era, one of the most active metaphors for the spiritual project is 'art.' The activities of the painter, the musician, the poet, the dancer, once they were grouped together under that generic name (a relatively recent move) have proved a particularly adaptable site on which to stage the formal dramas besetting consciousness . . .":

Well, I loves me some Susan but based on this retelling I'm quite confused as to just how a religious transcendence of "the world" follows quite so directly from any staging of those pesky formal dramas which are always besetting consciousness and sowing general mischief about the psyche.

these are, I take it, the dramas or crises of protest which express our need to transcend the ordinary conditions of life, the limited expectations and temperate temperatures with which we ordinarily pursue even artistic and intellectual concerns.

It would be simpler to say that we create what we need, but then there would be no transcendence and no spirituality to bandy about; and there would be formal dramas prominently involved only where we have either too much or not enough of them.

Steve Golin—The Fragile Bridge


Steve Golin
The Fragile Bridge: Paterson Silk Strike, 1913
(1988)

[18] Paterson manufacturers suffered the cost of hiring experienced, skilled help, with all its attendant labor problems, because they had no good alternative. As the advertisement of a bankrupt manufacturer put it tactfully in 1913, "While this labor is more or less of an agitative character and at times unruly, yet this is due to the fact of its skilled character." ...the cost of training unskilled workers to weave even the plainer silks was very high because damage to the material was both frequent and expensive.

Lasch—Theatrical Possibilites


Christopher Lasch
The True and Only Heaven: Progress and Its Critics
(1991)

[336]
The social conditions that generated the syndicalist explosion in Europe—the imposition of industrialism on economies still dominated by small workshops, a highly combustible mixture—had their nearest American equivalent in the West, where the traditions of the mining camp, the logging camp, and the bankhouse came face to face with corporate capitalism in its most ruthless, predatory form. The IWW was the direct descendant of the Western Federation of Miners, a union that ap-
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pealed to the same sense of manly independence and the same love of combat to which syndicalism appealed in France and Italy. Here too, workers experienced industrialism and the wage system not only as a decline in their standard of living but above all as a drastic infringement of their control of the workplace, of their very status as free men. The company towns that sprang up in the mining states seemed to make "wage slavery" a literal description of the new order, not just a rhetorical analogy. The company controlled not only the workplace but housing, credit, and all the other necessaries. The worker who could remember life as a prospector or cowboy now found that he owed his soul to the company store. He felt literally sold into slavery, and he embraced the philosophy of "direct action" as the only way out.

While social conditions in the West bore some resemblance to those created by the early stages of industrialism elsewhere, the cultural tradition that workers were trying to defend obviously differed from those that underlay European syndicalism. In the American West, the ideal of independence was associated not with the small proprietor's control over his household, his land or shop, and his tools but with the wandering life of the unattached male. It was not surprising that the IWW glorified the hobo, the drifter, the "nomadic worker of the West," in the words of its newspaper, Solidarity. The West was still a "man's country," according to Charles Ashleigh, an English radical who emigrated to the Pacific Northwest and became a "hobo and a Wobbly," like the hero of his novel, Rambling Kid. Ashleigh admired the "reckless rambling boys who despised the soft security and comfort of a dull city-paced existence." Ralph Chaplin, the Wobbly poet and songwriter, was attracted to the movement by its "glamorous courage and adventure," which he too associated with the West. Those who admired the Wobblies from a distance likewise emphasized its western origins. The Lawrence strike was a "western strike in the East," Lincoln Steffens wrote; "a strike conducted in New England by western miners, who have brought here the methods and the spirit employed by them in Colorado, Idaho, and Nevada.

European syndicalism was informed by an austere ethic of thrift and self-denial. In America, the syndicalist movement came to be associated with an ethic of self-expression and defiant irresponsibility—the new "paganism" of Greenwich Village. Literary intellectuals saw the Wobblies as cultural outcasts like themselves, free spirits, rebels against re-
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spectability. They sensed the affinity between their own ideal of the emancipated individual, unburdened by the cultural baggage of the past, and the hoboes and migratory workers glorified by the IWW. Having absorbed from modern literature an image of the "beauty of the essentially homeless and childless and migratory life," as Floyd Dell put it, they recognized the Wobblies as soul mates. "Anarchism and art," said Margaret Anderson, editor of the Little Review, "are in the world for exactly the same kind of reason." Hutchins Hapgood, the personification of the bohemian intellectual, called anarchism the fine art of the proletariat. He compared the Armory Show, which brought modern art to New York in 1913, to a "great fire, an earthquake, or a political revolution."

The Wobblies did not object to this assimilation of art and revolution. They too saw themselves as artists. "I have lived like an artist, and I shall die like an artist," said Joe Hill before his execution for murder. Bill Haywood allowed himself to be lionized by Mabel Dodge and other members of her famous salon. He regarded the Paterson Strike Pageant of 1913—the fruit of his rapprochement between the IWW and Greenwich Village—as the high point of his career. Conceived by Mabel Dodge, the pageant was intended to dramatize the workers' exploitation by capitalism, but it exposed them to a more insidious kind of exploitation by turning radical politics into entertainment. "Life passed over insensibly into a certain, simple form of art," said Hapgood. ". . . That is the great thing about it, the almost unpredecented thing." Papers opposed to the IWW gave the pageant enthusiastic reviews: what was condemned as politics could be savored as theater. Both Haywood and Elizabeth Gurley Flynn, the IWW's most flamboyant orator, had earlier turned down invitations to put themselves on the lecture circuit or stage. In her case, the offer came from no less an impressario than David Belasco, who could see the theatrical possibilities of revolutionary activism as clearly as John Reed. At the pageant, Reed led the Paterson strikers in a song he had written for the occasion, "The Haywood Thrill." Haywood thus resisted the lecture agents only to fall into the clutches of the avant-garde, leaving Flynn to wonder whether the distractions of the pageant had not contributed to the defeat of the strike itself.