A few weeks ago, I watched an old movie on cable, Alfred E.
Green’s Baby Face of 1933. In it, the character played by Barbara
Stanwyck blatantly uses sex to climb her way out of poverty until she falls in
love with one of her marks, played by George Brent. There’s no disguising what Stanwyck’s
character is up to (though no sex acts or nudity are shown on screen) and her
amorality is not condemned. In fact,
she’s rewarded in a sense since she finds great wealth, happiness, and love with
Brent’s character in the end. (Ruth
Chatterton’s character in Female,
directed by Michael Curtiz that same year, engages in what we’d call today
sexual harassment, bedding her employees as the head of an automobile
manufacturer. She sends them off to
corporate Siberia if they reciprocate with signs of romance, such as flowers or
candy. Both screenplays were written by Gene
Markey and Kathryn Scola.) Some years ago,
I enjoyed a Spencer Tracy vehicle, Man’s
Castle (sometimes listed as A Man’s
Castle), directed by Frank Borzage, also in 1933. Tracy’s character is a self-satisfied bum: he
lives in a hobo camp and doesn’t work when he can steal or con for money. He helps himself get by being a gigolo and unapologetically
espouses a kind of twisted anti-capitalist philosophy. He also openly lives at the camp with women
he’s not interested in marrying and hooks up with a young woman played by
Loretta Young who becomes pregnant by him.
No one, not even Young’s character, attempts to reform him—he is who he
is and that’s fine with everyone, even when he attempts a burglary in which a
security guard is killed. He and Young’s
character hop a freight train out of town together to escape capture, and he’s
depicted as a hero of the common man. (It’s
not really relevant, but both the Stanwyck and Tracy movies are terrific
viewing, wonderfully surprising, and entertaining, even 80 years after they
were made.)
If you are even moderately discerning about old movies,
you’ll have noticed a marked difference between movies made before 1934 and
those made after that year. The
differences are clearest in melodramas and films
noirs, but there are traces of the variation in comedies and even cartoons. The cause, for those who haven’t already
guessed, was the Motion Picture Production Code, commonly known as the Hays
Code, adopted by the studios in 1930 and enforced starting in 1934. (It was abandoned in 1968, which seems
strange to me personally because it means the effects started well before I was
born but continued past my teen years.)
The topic, of course, is censorship—the censorship of
Hollywood movies and foreign films allowed to enter the United States for display
here. The history of the Hays Code
covers both the threat of official censorship by a government agency and the
consequent self-censorship in which the Hollywood producers engaged to avoid
such a fate and the burden this imposed on directors and screenwriters in the
years that the Hays Code and its administrative center, the Breen Office (both
of which became synonyms for the Production Code and industry censorship),
operated. Though by the 1960s,
especially the end of the decade, the Breen Office had so little authority that
the Code was abandoned (in favor of the MPAA ratings system which went into
effect in November 1968), the Breen Office was a powerful force in filmmaking
for decades during Hollywood’s golden age, the heyday of the studios and the legendary
film producers who ran them: Irving
G. Thalberg and David O. Selznick of MGM, Paramount’s E. H. Allen and B. P.
Schulberg, Sol Wurtzel of Fox, Darryl F. Zanuck at Warner Brothers and later Twentieth Century, Famous Players’ Adolph
Zukor.
As soon as moving pictures
began to appear, there were questions about whether the movie industry was
morally fit to determine what went into its own products. The film business was presumed to be somewhat
morally corrupt, working from questionable standards from the start. In 1909 the People’s Institute in New York
City formed the New York Board of Motion Picture Censorship which soon acquired
a lot of influence beyond the city. Most
of the big producers ultimately agreed to submit all their films to the New
York Board and not to release any unless the Board approved. As its importance grew, the Board changed its
name to the National Board of Censorship and in 1915 to the National Board of
Review. The Board’s Seal of Approval was
the first formal effort by the movie industry to ward off governmental
censorship through self-regulation.
Despite the authority of the Board, however, three Congressional bills
were introduced in 1914 that sought to establish a Federal Motion Picture
Censorship Commission. Although none of
the bills was enacted, the move was a clear indication that the public was concerned
about the quality, propriety, decency, and taste of the films being produced in
the United States. In 1921, 37 states
had nearly 100 film-censorship bills before their legislatures; by the advent
of sound films, eight states had censorship boards, though few were very
effective.
Then in the early
1920s, three major scandals rocked Hollywood: actor and comedian Fatty
Arbuckle’s murder trial (1921-22), which included allegations of rape; the
murder of actor and director William Desmond Taylor (2 February 1922),
sensationalized by the press in part because of Taylor’s reportedly bizarre
behavior in the days before his death; and the drug-related death of actor
Wallace Reid (18 January 1923). The uproar
surrounding these shocking stories, covered in lurid detail by the nation’s
press, led the film studios to form the Motion Picture Producers and
Distributors of America in 1922.
Intended as a public relations organization to oppose government
censorship and foster a more favorable image for the motion picture
industry, the MPPDA was originally
headed by Will H. Hays
(1879-1954), former Postmaster General in Warren G. Harding's cabinet, one-time head of the Republican National
Committee, and a Presbyterian elder. Promising
to impose strict standards of morality and decency on the studios, Hays’s name became
synonymous with censorship, but Hays was actually a mild-mannered fellow who
was easily persuaded and manipulated. He established the Studio Relations
Committee and instituted plans to avert government intrusion into the
film business and in 1927, the SRC
produced a list of “Don'ts and Be Carefuls” to regulate production. MPPDA members agreed to avoid 11 specific objectionable
topics and to handle 26 more with good judgment and appropriate sensitivity. There were, however, no means of enforcement
so studio compliance was erratic and frequently minimal.
Furthermore, there was an element of Hollywood and American society in
general that found the MPPDA censorship narrow-minded. The 1920s weren’t called The Roaring Twenties
without a reason: the free-wheeling social mores of the Jazz Age was a reaction
to the repressive Victorian era, sometimes ridiculed as naïve and backward by
the sophisticates of the ’20s and early ’30s.
When the Hays Code was published, liberal periodicals like The Nation
assailed it. The Outlook, a monthly magazine published in New York,
agreed and the Hollywood Reporter and Variety, two respected industry journals,
both mocked the Code.
After talkies came
in (the
first feature film originally presented as a “talking picture” was The Jazz
Singer, released in October 1927) until the enforcement of the Production
Code in 1934, the era known as pre-Code Hollywood, movie content was restricted
mostly by local laws and agencies like the New York Board. Consequently, films in the late ’20s and
early ’30s contained sexual suggestiveness, miscegenation, profanity, illicit
drug use, promiscuity, prostitution, infidelity, abortion, intense violence,
and homosexuality. Strong female characters
dominated such movies as Female, Baby Face, and Red-Headed
Woman (1932, starring Jean Harlow).
Such strong women appeared in films that
examined female subject matters that would not be seen again in American films
until around the middle ’60s. In
addition, the gangster leads in films like The Public Enemy (1931, starring James Cagney), Little
Caesar (1931, starring Edward G.
Robinson), and Scarface (1931, starring Paul Muni) were viewed by
many moviegoers as heroes rather than villains and these disreputable figures are
often seen to benefit from their nefarious actions, which includes extreme violence
and, in some cases, drug use, often with impunity.
By 1929, it was
obvious that the MPPDA needed a much broader code imposing guidelines for movie
action and language. A group of
Catholic clergy and laymen from Chicago, led by Martin Quigley, editor of the
prominent trade paper Motion Picture Herald, and Jesuit Father Daniel A. Lord, feared that movies were
undermining the morality of the country and that children were especially
vulnerable. The Catholic Church had
always wielded considerable influence over the film industry from its unified threats
to declare certain movies forbidden to observant Catholics. (Protestant churches, which also had
objections, weren’t as effective because of the looser social organization
among their worshipers.) MPPDA members
met with Quigley and Lord and negotiated a uniform standard of decency. Overseen by Hays, this agreement
became known as the Motion Picture Production Code, or more colloquially, the
Hays Code, a regime requiring the review of all film scripts to ensure the
absence of “offensive” material. (In 1915, the Supreme Court, laying the
legal basis for official censorship of films, had decided unanimously in Mutual Film Corporation v. Industrial
Commission of Ohio that freedom of speech did not apply to motion pictures.) The
Production Code was a system
of self-censorship which the
MPPDA imposed on the major Hollywood studios and after 31 March 1930, the Code represented
a set of rules to which all motion pictures shown in the United States had to
adhere for about thirty years.
The Hays Code was
not a government effort, though the actions of the Hollywood studios to censor
their own product were intended to forestall government censorship. As we’ve seen, before the Production Code was
introduced, movies were deemed by many in the clergy and politics to be immoral, endorsing
vice and exalting violence. A number of
films portraying lascivious and violent behavior coming out of Hollywood in
these years had offended conservatives, the most famous of which was 1933’s Ecstasy
starring Hedy Lamarr, the first non-pornographic movie with a simulated
sex-scene, which includes erotic close-ups of Lamarr's face in the throes of
passion. Many cities had established boards of censors
but the definition of acceptable community standards used by these local
committees differed so much from locality to locality that it was hard for
movies to be shown in many areas without being subjected to local cuts and
editing. The Code, however, opened with
the universal statement: “No picture shall be produced which will lower the
moral standards of those who see it.”
The document was
long and wordy, but the rules boiled down to fairly straightforward provisions:
there couldn’t be any nudity, suggestive dancing, depiction of sex acts,
sexual perversion, rape or seduction, miscegenation, “actual” childbirth,
mockery of religion, disrespect for law enforcement, sympathy for criminals, drug
abuse, or offensive language. Brutal violence couldn’t be portrayed in
detail and murders had to be filmed in a way that wouldn’t encourage real-life
imitators. Movies had to uphold the “sanctity”
of marriage and the home. Adultery or extra-marital sex, although
recognized as sometimes necessary to the plot, could only be depicted if it
were shown to be bad and the participants were punished in the end; the same was
true for crime or other bad behavior: the naughty characters had to get a
comeuppance or be reformed. The
religious reformers believed they’d won their fight, but the movie moguls had
no intention of abiding by the agreement.
The Great Depression led many studios in the ’30s to make profits any
way they could and movies with racy and violent content put viewers in theater
seats. It seemed logical (and rewarding),
therefore, to keep making such films. In
1930, the German film The Blue Angel
(made simultaneously in German and English) was released, becoming the first
film the SRC reviewed. The Committee
passed the film without revisions, but a California censor found several scenes
offensive and ordered them removed. Even
though the SRC demanded cuts and revisions to many screenplays, the Hays Office
had no authority to require them and the final decisions were in the hands of
the studio bosses. For much of the first
half of the ’30s, a lot of sensational material made it to America’s movie
screens.
Hays had spent
eight years attempting to enforce a moral authority over Hollywood films, but
it was during the Great Depression that the Hays Office gained a sound influence
over Hollywood. In 1933, the Catholic
Church in the U.S. formed the Catholic
Legion of Decency which in 1934 became the National Legion of Decency to
protest the “immoral” content of Hollywood films. Backed by many American rabbis, along with dozens of other religious and
educational groups, the Legion
denounced Hollywood and the predominantly Jewish movie moguls. Public outcry over immorality in motion pictures reached a peak, and in
1934, Hays appointed Joseph Breen (1888–1965), a prominent Catholic layman, as
head of the Production Code Administration (PCA), successor to the SRC, henceforth
called the Breen Office, and sent him to Hollywood to bring the studio heads
under control.
Under Breen, implementation
of the Production Code was stricter and more unbending than it had been under
Hays. The studios owned 70% of first-run
movie theaters and the Breen Office used this near-monopoly to enforce compliance by denying distribution to
any movie that didn't meet Code standards and bear the MPPDA’s
certification. Breen's own conservative
views influenced his administration of the Code as the PCA took an
active role in revising screenplays and fined studios that didn’t adhere to the
rules. Breen’s standards exasperated the Hollywood
moguls, but the studios were threatened with financial ruin if they didn’t
comply. The first important case of
censorship under the Production Code occurred in 1934 with Tarzan and His Mate,
in which short nude scenes involving actress Maureen O’Sullivan (replaced by a
body double) were cut from the master print.
Even so, Hollywood still developed ways to get around some of the
restrictions, even though the Production Code specified restrictions on
language and behavior, particularly obscenity, sex, and crime. The language provisions, for example, banned
dozens of “offensive” words and phrases, leading to heated objections from many
moviegoers when in 1939, Rhett Butler (Clark Gable) in Gone with the Wind utters the
word “damn” on screen. Although the Breen
Office vigorously enforced its authority, leading to the disbanding of many of
the local censorship boards, and some considered Breen's
authority oppressive, many film historians have seen the Breen era as
Hollywood's golden age.
There was also a
political aspect to the Hays Code, which Breen wielded with the same zeal as
his sexual and moral restrictions. A
provision of the Code prohibited the “picturizing [sic] in an unfavorable light another country's religion, history,
institutions, prominent people, and citizenry.”
This applied equally to such friendly and respected nations as Britain
and France as it did, surprisingly, to Fascist Italy and Germany’s Third
Reich. (There was a powerful element in congress and society that believed the
U.S. should leave European problems to Europe and stay out of the conflict altogether. These conservatives pressured the stage and
film producers to avoid projects that took an assertive anti-Nazi stance.) Despite
an anti-fascist sentiment that
was strong in the entertainment business on both coasts, the Breen Office forbade studios to make movies
that depicted Nazi atrocities under the threat of bringing in the federal
government; the rationale was that since the U.S. was officially neutral, our
film industry couldn’t take hostile stands (until, eventually, the U.S. entered
the war on the side of the Allies after Pearl Harbor and the Fascists, Nazis,
and Japanese imperialists became our enemies).
This application
worked two ways, of course. By 1941, the
United States was in the war, allied with the Soviet Union. Movies like the British Adventure for Two (AKA The
Demi-Paradise, 1943; released in the U.S. in 1945) presents a Russian naval
engineer, played by Laurence Olivier, as a fish out of water in England, naïve
about the British people but not a villain in the least as he would have been
in the Cold War ’50s and ’60s. He comes
to understand their humor, warmth, strength, and conviction and they learn to
see him as a friend rather than merely a suspicious Russian, especially once
Russia is attacked by Germany. In The North Star (1943), a propaganda film
written by playwright Lillian Hellman, simple Ukrainian peasants must suddenly
resist the German invasion in 1941. The
villagers are portrayed with great sympathy and shown to be resourceful, heroic,
and brave. (Contrast these portrayals of
our World War II Soviet allies with their depiction in 1963’s The Victors, which takes a more cynical,
bleak view of our partnership during the occupation of Berlin at the end of the
film. The difference clearly reflects
the Cold War outlook, in full force in 1963, by the time the Hays Code had
already become virtually obsolete.)
It’s interesting to note that while the Hays Code had a
pervasive influence on television production as well—commercial TV arrived in
the middle of the period during which the Code held sway over Hollywood
content—there was never a similarly powerful movement on Broadway. Obscenity laws were often used, especially in
the late 19th and early 20th centuries, to close or censor stage plays,
particularly for sexual content, and many states, including New York, had
agencies vested with the authority to oversee public morals, but no industry agency
was ever proposed to parallel the Breen Office and no formal document was ever
devised for stage plays that emulated the Motion Picture Production Code. In fact, not a few writers, prevented by the
Hays Code from presenting risky ideas or subjects in a film, turned to the
theater and several well-known film producers also produced for the stage where
they offered more challenging fare they couldn’t have made into a movie. In
the 1920s, for instance, New York theater presented performances featuring topless
women, profanity, sexually suggestive dialogue, and adult themes.
Hollywood worked under
the constraints of the Production Code, revised and amended several times over
the decades, until the collapse of the studio system in the 1950s. The Supreme Court anti-trust decision of 1948,
United States v. Paramount Pictures, Inc.,
known as the “Paramount
Decision,” that went against
the studios’ ownership of theaters, seriously diminished the power of the PCA
to enforce any restrictions. (In 1952,
in Joseph Burstyn, Inc. v. Wilson, known as the “Miracle Decision,” the Supreme Court had unanimously overturned its
1915 decision in Mutual and ruled
that motion pictures were entitled to First Amendment protections, undermining
the Hays Code’s rationale as a bulwark against government censorship.) Some films that weren’t produced by the major
studios defied the Code, such as Child Bride (1938), directed by Harry
Revier and produced by Raymond L. Friedgen, which depicted a 12-year-old child
actress in a nude scene. The Code began
to weaken in the late 1940s, when the formerly taboo treatment of rape was
allowed in Johnny Belinda (1948), directed by Jean Negulesco for Warner
Bros., and miscegenation in Pinky (1949), directed by Elia Kazan and
produced by Darryl F. Zanuck for 20th Century Fox. The Code
was revised again in 1951, but when Otto Preminger released The Moon Is Blue in 1953 (United
Artists), which came out without the Breen Office’s seal of approval (because
of its “light and gay treatment of the subject of illicit sex and seduction”) and
with the condemnation of Catholic Church, it was clear that the Legion of
Decency’s influence had eroded as well. The
authority of the Hays Office to enforce the Code weakened considerably by the
time Breen retired in 1954, and filmmakers became more daring and more risqué
in their depictions of reality on screen.
(Hays had retired in 1945, the year the MPPDA had renamed itself the Motion
Picture Association of America.) Movies
began to defy the Production Code openly a few years after World War II ended,
beginning with Vittorio De Sica's The Bicycle Thief (1948; released in the U.S., 1949) and Otto Preminger's The Moon is
Blue and The Man with the Golden Arm (United Artists, 1955). (Bicycle Thief had two objectionable
scenes, one of a boy urinating against a wall, his back to the camera, and the
other a chase through a brothel—showing only clothed women; The Man with the Golden Arm was rejected
because of its depiction of illicit drug use and addiction.)
Aside from
foreign-film competition, like that exemplified by The Bicycle Thief, movies
faced a threat from television, growing ever more popular and available in the
1950s and offering movies and other entertainment for which viewers didn’t have
to leave home. But TV had an even
stricter code of standards than cinema, so the film studios began to offer what
TV couldn’t. 1952’s Miracle Decision (so called because it pertained to Roberto
Rossellini’s The Miracle, part of the
director’s L’Amore, a 1948 anthology
film), freed the studios to explore more and more frank treatment of life and
society under the protection of the First Amendment. By the end of the 1950s and the start of the
’60s, films such as Preminger’s Anatomy of a Murder (1959, Columbia
Pictures); Suddenly, Last Summer
(1959, Columbia), directed by Joseph L. Mankiewicz based on Tennessee
Williams’s play; and Delbert Mann’s adaptation of William Inge’s play, The
Dark at the Top of the Stairs (1960, Warner Bros.), began to appear, containing material previously
unacceptable to the PCA (respectively: rape and murder; predatory homosexuality
and cannibalism; homosexuality and anti-Semitism). The MPAA (successor in 1945 to the MPPDA) reluctantly
certified those films, but then United Artists released Billy Wilder's Some
Like It Hot (1959), with its comic treatment of cross-dressing, suggestions
of both homosexuality and promiscuous heterosexuality (not to mention Marilyn
Monroe’s general sexiness and allure, which, needless to say, was played up), without
a seal of approval and it became a box-office smash.
Then came the
film that essentially broke the back of the Hays Code: The Pawnbroker,
directed by Sidney Lumet (1964, Allied Artists Pictures and American International Pictures). It had been rejected by the PCA for nudity
and overly-suggestive sex scenes, but the producers appealed to the MPAA and
the film was passed with some minor cuts.
The Pawnbroker was the first
film that showed a woman’s naked breasts to receive the Code’s approval. Then,
in 1966, Warner Bros. released Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, Mike
Nichols’s film of Edward Albee’s stage play, the first film to be labeled
“Suggested for Mature Audiences.” (The
word “screw” was cut, but “hump the hostess” was left in.)
The Code was all
but abandoned by the 1960s as the sexual and violent content of movies became
more explicit throughout the decade. By
the time MGM released Michelangelo Antonioni’s Blow-Up in 1966, the Code had plainly descended
into irrelevance as the sexually frank film was a box-office smash even without
MPAA certification. This led to the
adoption of the voluntary, age-based MPAA film-rating system, which was
instigated on 1 November 1968.
With the studios’
unbridled power over movie content vastly diminished and the establishment of
free-speech protection for Hollywood’s output, films have become more
independent and open to both the reality of life in the real world and the
reach of human imagination. In 1969, for
instance, the Swedish film I Am Curious (Yellow), directed by Vilgot
Sjöman, initially banned in the U.S. for its frank depiction of sexuality, was cleared
by the Supreme Court and though it met with hostility from critics and some
activists, it was a huge success at the box office. In 1972, two pornographic films even made it
into the mainstream, sort of: Deep Throat
and Behind the Green Door. Even
before the Internet and the blossoming of the home-video market, censorship of
movies, either by officials of the government or agents of the industry itself,
had become essentially untenable.
Pushing the envelope at every turn has become commonplace and the
receptivity of the audiences is the only real arbiter of what’s acceptable and
what isn’t.
At the time of
the rise of the authority of the Hays Code and the Breen Office, the forces of
censorship and repression, however well-meaning they may have been, had the
field pretty much to themselves.
Starting in the 1960s, with its impulse toward openness, freedom of
expression and thought, and political and social activism, the forces of free
speech and libertarianism have become a powerful counterbalance to the bluenoses,
as willing to speak out for artworks and displays that offend some viewers as
their opponents are publicly to condemn those efforts. The struggle between the two opposing views
of public art and public morality came to a head in the late 1980s and early
’90s when the so-called culture war broke out in full force. Though film was part of the battle field
(notably Martin Scorsese’s The Last
Temptation of Christ in 1988, which was condemned for both its violence and
what some Catholics, especially, saw as blasphemy), most of the attention went
to art exhibitions, particularly those supported by public money, and the
severest attacks were aimed not at the artists or their exhibiters but at the
National Endowment for the Arts and other public-sector art-funding
agencies. Movies, since they’re almost
exclusively privately funded and made for profit—and so clearly protected today
by the First Amendment—have gotten only token criticism on grounds of morality
and public decency, even as the culture war flares up every now and again in
the 21st century. Attempts at censorship
and repression continue, mostly on a local level, but mostly they fail—so far,
at least.
No comments:
Post a Comment