SHOW
TRIAL: HOLLYWOOD, HUAC, AND THE BIRTH OF THE BLACKLIST
By Thomas Doherty
Columbia University Press. 406 pages. £24/$29.95. ISBN
978-0-231-18778-7
Reviewed by Jim Burns
There is a whole library of material relating to the way a blacklist
operated in the film industry in the period between roughly 1945 and
1960. The fact that so many writers were caught up in it may have
something to do with the number of books, magazine articles, and
more that can be referred to if one wants to delve into what
happened and why. Writers obviously have the skills and the need to
express their opinions in print. They also, perhaps, incline more to
political opinions and activism than many other professions. And, as
communism was centre-stage in the period concerned, it was
inevitable that some writers who may have been members of the
American Communist Party, or even just sympathetic to the struggles
of the Soviet Union in the 1930s and 1940s, would be targeted for
their supposed “un-American activities”.
This isn’t to deny that a number of actors, producers, musicians and
others, didn’t also suffer because of their political leanings. They
did. It’s also easy to forget¸ probably because they’ve attracted
little written attention, that hundreds of what might be described
as support workers in Hollywood – painters, carpenters, and other
union members – were affected by the purge of alleged communists in
the film studios. Their stories have rarely been told.
Thomas Doherty’s Show Trial
largely focuses on the 1947 House Un-American Activities
Committee (HUAC) hearings that culminated in the so-called Hollywood
Ten being sent to prison for contempt. But it’s impossible to
understand the events of 1947 without an awareness of their
background in the 1930s. This is especially relevant when the role
of writers during the anti-communist purges of the post-war years is
discussed. The Screen Writers Guild (SWG) had been born in the early
1930s in order to further the interests of writers in the film
industry. Very few of them had any sort of status in terms of being
accorded respect for what they did. But it wasn’t an easy birth.
“Schmucks with Underwoods” was the term coined by one Hollywood
mogul, and it’s a fair description of how most writers were looked
on. Often lacking proper contracts, they could be hired and fired at
will, their work could be altered by actors, directors, producers,
and other writers, on a whim, and they were often not properly
credited for any screenplays that did go into production. They were
paid reasonably well when they were employed, certainly in
comparison to the earnings of many Americans during the dark days of
the Depression. But they were, with a few exceptions, poorly paid in
relation to what many actors could earn.
When the struggle to establish and gain recognition for the SWG got
under way, management attempted to divide the writers by backing the
rival Screen Playwrights (SP), a more-conservative body that was
looked on by SWG activists as a “sweetheart union”. There were
bitter fights between the two unions until, under the terms of
legislation brought in during the New Deal, the SWG won enough votes
for it to be recognised as the union authorised to negotiate on
behalf of organised writers in Hollywood. Neither the SP nor the
studio bosses were happy with this arrangement, a situation that
remained simmering until the post-war years. It has to be
acknowledged that there were Communist Party activists in the SWG.
John Howard Lawson was a notable example. But most members were
probably best described as liberals if they were political, and
there was always a struggle to restrain the radical elements from
using the SWG to promote communist interests. Bread-and-butter
issues were what concerned most SWG members.
Matters like these tended to fade into the background during the war
years as energies were diverted into turning out propaganda material
along with the entertainment that Hollywood thrived on, and which
was considered to be of value in terms of morale-boosting. Russia
became an ally and a handful of films were produced that reflected
this fact. Song of Russia,
North Star, and Mission
to Moscow are largely of historical interest now, but the
picture they presented of life in the Soviet Union tended to
disguise the true facts about what really went on there. A benign
Stalin and scenes of happy workers on collective farms were hardly
the reality. But the American government was keen to encourage the
studios to come up with at least a few films of this type as signs
of wartime solidarity. Membership of the Communist Party increased
generally around the country, but it still amounted to only a small
portion of the electorate. In Hollywood quite a few writers, and
some directors and actors, signed application forms to join the
party, supported petitions, attended meetings, fund-raising parties,
lectures, and study groups, and engaged in related activities.
What they didn’t realise was that the FBI, along with various
private organisations, were carefully making notes about who had
done and said what, and when, and where. Anti-communism hadn’t
disappeared simply because Russia was on “our side” between 1941 and
1945. John Howard Lawson’s screenplay for
Action in the North Atlantic
had a scene where a group of merchant seamen on an American ship
taking supplies to Russia nervously watch an approaching aircraft.
Suddenly, there’s a shout, “It’s one of ours,” and the camera pans
up to show the plane’s Russian markings. It wasn’t a sentiment that
lasted much beyond 1945 in the United States generally.
Hollywood left-wingers had been “persons of interest” to the FBI
since the 1930s, but the situation became much more intense as the
Cold War got under way. There were some nasty incidents outside the
studio gates when a supposedly left-wing craft union, the Conference
of Studio Unions (CSU)
fought the management and a rival right-wing union, the
International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees (IATSE), over
who should represent certain groups of workers. Management and local
police clearly favoured IATSE, and a number of SWG writers threw in
their lot with the CSU. Their involvement was again noted by the
appropriate authorities.
By 1947 a decision had been made to investigate alleged communist
infiltration of the film industry, and HUAC proceeded to subpoena
forty-three witnesses to testify about their awareness of communist
subterfuge in Hollywood. The hearings would be held in Washington,
and nineteen of those summoned were described as “unfriendly
witnesses”. It was, perhaps, not surprising that they included a
number of writers who were known to be members of the Communist
Party. It may also have been significant that many of them were
Jewish. An element of anti-semitism in the various HUAC probes into
Hollywood shouldn’t be ruled out.
It might be asked at this point why HUAC had chosen Hollywood for an
investigation? There were other areas of American life – education,
unions, the civil service – that according to anti-communists were
deserving of inspection in order to root out subversives. The cinema
was, in the 1940s, a key factor in American society, its influence
being widespread and its leading lights, the actors, being household
names. It’s hard not to think that the publicity likely to arise
from hearings which would hear testimony from the likes of Gary
Cooper and Robert Taylor was a factor that the politicians linked to
HUAC clearly had in mind.
The “friendly” witnesses performed as required, Robert Taylor smooth
and assured, Gary Cooper more hesitant and inclined to the laconic
(communism wasn’t “on the level”, in his view). In other words, they
acted rather like their screen personas. Their general view seemed
to be that they didn’t know a great deal about communism, but they
didn’t like it all the same. Another actor, Adolphe Menjou, claimed
to be more of an authority on communism and spent time explaining
its aims and evils. There were others, like the studio bosses
anxious to stress that they never knowingly promoted communist ideas
in their films. Along the way, a few names were mentioned, among
them the director John Cromwell, producer Herbert Biberman, John
Howard Lawson, writer Lester Cole, and actors Karen Morley and
Howard Da Silva. It would soon become obvious that naming names was
to be part of the performance.
In the meantime, in Hollywood there were various reactions to what
had happened. Liberal-minded actors and writers formed the Committee
for the First Amendment (CFA), determined to protest against HUAC’s
accusations of rampant communism among film folk. The Committee,
with star names like Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, Danny Kaye,
Audie Murphy, Edward G. Robinson, Judy Garland, and Burt Lancaster,
on its roster, mounted a highly-publicised campaign to highlight
what they were doing, and some of them chartered a plane and flew to
Washington to be present as spectators, not witnesses. It all added
to the near-carnival atmosphere that occasionally pervaded the
hearings, with starry-eyed film fans more interested in the
celebrities than what was at stake. Eric A. Johnston, president of
the Motion Picture Association of America, which represented “the
moneyed Hollywood establishment”, said that “never would the motion
picture industry preside over anything as un-American as a
blacklist”.
When the time came for the “unfriendly” witnesses to be called the
mood changed. The questioning by the HUAC members became more
aggressive, and so did the responses from those being questioned. It
would appear that the witnesses had agreed on a policy of outright
defiance rather than any polite form of non-cooperation. It may have
been a mistake, and the newsreel film that exists of John Howard
Lawson, Dalton Trumbo, and others, shouting and arguing with
J.Parnell Thomas, and refusing to say whether or not they were
members of the Screen Writers Guild and the Communist Party, does
not look impressive today. In some cases they had to be manhandled
away from the microphones as they made heated comments about
democracy and the onset of fascism in America.
It certainly doesn’t appear to have made a good impression at the
time. A less-confrontational approach to the Committee may have come
across better, though I suspect that the refusal to co-operate may
have still worked against the witnesses. But Ring Lardner’s
relatively mild response to the question about whether or not he was
a member of the Communist Party – “I could answer, but if I did, I’d
hate myself in the morning”. – had a degree of dignity about it.
There is irony in the fact that the Committee were fully aware that
each of the witnesses was or had been a Party member. The
investigators had copies of their applications for membership, with
their names and party numbers on them. But openly acknowledging
membership was what was required of individuals, and had they done
so they would have been expected to have named names of other
members.
Lardner, Lawson, Trumbo, Lester Cole, and six others were all cited
for contempt of Congress because of their refusal to co-operate. An
eleventh witness was called and managed to talk his way out of being
held in contempt. He was Bertolt Brecht, and he left the USA within
hours of testifying.
It was shortly after the hearings that opposition to HUAC started to
crumble. A meeting of “some fifty top motion picture executives,
producers, and legal advisers” convened at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel
in New York, and announced that they wouldn’t hire known-communists,
and that they would fire anyone in the existing workforce who
refused to sign an oath stating that he or she wasn’t a Party
member. Present at the meeting was Eric Johnston, the man who said
that Hollywood would never operate a blacklist. The existence of one
was now official. There does appear to be some evidence that pointed
to pressure to come down hard on communists being applied by the
bankers who financed film production. Money was always a major
factor when decisions were made in Hollywood. And it was, of course,
useful for the studio bosses to have the SWG put on the defensive,
so that its bargaining powers were reduced.
The hearings in Washington had been suspended after the Ten had been
cited for contempt, but their impact on Hollywood was noticeable.
The Committee for the First Amendment began to crumble as actors
were advised to distance themselves from it. Despite what had been
said about its only allegiance being to principles of free speech
and association, the result had been to identify CFA members as
somehow in Washington to support the unfriendly witnesses.
Right-wing columnists dropped hints about possible Party membership,
forcing some stars to issue statements about their loyalty to the
values of the United States. Edward G. Robinson made his patriotism
plain for everyone to see, and John Garfield, who had embarrassed
other CFA members by his noisy activities in support of the
unfriendly witnesses, was said to be about to cry mea culpa and
publish an article entitled “I was a sucker for a left-hook”.
The Hollywood Ten went to prison, eight of them for twelve months, a
couple who came up before a more-lenient judge, for six months. One
of the latter pair was Edward Dmytryk, who served his time and when
he came out agreed to testify and name names. He managed to resume
his career as a director in Hollywood, whereas most of the others
had to write under assumed names or through “fronts” who agreed to
market their scripts. Dalton Trumbo was probably the most successful
at surviving out of the limelight, and by the early 1960s was able
to work under his own name. Ring Lardner moved to England for a time
and wrote material for the TV series,
Adventures of Robin Hood,
before getting back into films in the 1960s. John Howard Lawson
never worked in Hollywood again, and wrote books about the craft of
screenwriting. Alvah Bessie, who had fought in the Spanish Civil
War, as well as being employed writing for films, was another one
who made a living elsewhere after he left prison. He worked in a
nightclub in San Francisco for a time, and wrote novels and memoirs
of his Spanish experiences and the brush with HUAC.
The general effect on the Hollywood community was to make most
people wary of what they said and did. The mood in America by 1950
was one of suspicion and fear as real spies were discovered, Russia
developed the atom bomb, and the Korean War broke out. It was not a
good time to be a communist, or even a concerned liberal.
When HUAC started to probe
into Hollywood again in 1951 and more writers and actors were
summoned to admit, or otherwise, to their past indiscretions, the
list of those blacklisted was extended. To refuse to name names, or
to take refuge behind the Fifth Amendment, were good enough reasons
for firing people, and for ensuring that they would have problems
obtaining alternative employment.
Show Trial
offers a thorough, well-researched survey of a subject that never
fails to be of interest. You don’t have to be sympathetic to
communism to think that investigating and hounding and imprisoning
people because of their political opinions was a sad way for a
country claiming a devotion to freedom and democracy to behave. None
of the Hollywood Ten, or any others on the blacklists, had stolen
secrets or plotted violent overthrow of the government. And there
was little or no evidence that they’d even managed to put communist
propaganda into the scripts they wrote. Lela Rogers, mother of
Ginger Rogers, claimed to have identified some in Dalton Trumbo’s
screenplay for a film called
Tender Comrades. When asked to say what it was, she quoted the
line spoken by one of the characters in the film: “Share and share
alike, that’s democracy”. Not
even the most dedicated anti-communist was inclined to give that
assertion by Rogers too much attention.
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