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Simmons discusses the Production Code and the Profanity Amendment of 1954 and their impact on motion pictures. The Production Code, adopted in 1930 and created to quiet a mounting public protest over violent and suggestive movies, worked well for a while, but by the early 1960s writers and directors became more defiant, and by 1966 the Production Code was abandoned and the era of ratings began.

Hollywood's Production Code was a remarkably durable document. Adopted in 1930 by the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America (MPPDA), the Code was created to quiet a mounting public protest over violent and suggestive movies. Its endorsement by the corporations controlling the industry constituted a tacit promise to improve the moral quality of American film. To effectuate that promise, the Code contained a set of rigid guidelines and specific taboos designed to eliminate controversial content from motion pictures. Four years later those guidelines were incorporated into an effective system of industrial censorship enforced by the Production Code Administration (PCA). Under that system, no studio would produce and no theater affiliated with the MPPDA would exhibit any motion picture not bearing the PCA's seal of approval. Because the studio corporations that composed the MPPDA owned the nation's most lucrative theaters, the financial success of a film depended on its receiving the coveted PCA seal. In this way the MPPDA, working through its Code office in Hollywood, controlled the access to the American film market, and the PCA became Hollywood's censor.'

Under the dynamic and often autocratic direction of Joseph I. Breen, the PCA enforced the Production Code with vigor, and public protest over film content quickly subsided. Over the next two decades, that agency became an integral part of the production process in Hollywood. Studios routinely submitted scripts and story treatments for PCA approval, and Breen and his staff ordered the elimination of potentially controversial material. Although a producer could appeal Breen's rulings to the MPPDA's board of directors in New York, such challenges were rare and almost always futile. Rarer still were efforts to change the Code. Breen's success in quieting public criticism convinced the corporate leaders on the MPPDA board that the Code was vital to the industry's health, and they were reluctant to tamper with its provisions.2

But public standards and industry needs changed. By early 1954, when Breen announced his intention to resign, the Code seemed hopelessly dated. Many in Hollywood and beyond were calling for its liberalization and modernization. Few of the critics took issue with the document's general principles. Most agreed that no motion picture should "lower the moral standards of those who see it" or direct audience sympathy "to the side of crime, wrong-doing, evil or sin." They did, however, find fault with the Code's extensive list of taboos that excluded from the screen such subjects as prostitution, abortion, miscegenation, homosexuality, and narcotics addiction. Nudity, "undue exposure," and "indecent movements" were forbidden, and "excessive and lustful kissing, lustful embraces, suggestive postures and gestures" were never to appear on screen.3

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Such proscriptions may have seemed appropriate in 1930, when Hollywood geared its product toward the tastes and sensibilities of a family audience. But by 1954, the industry and its audience had changed. With the growth of television, the future of motion pictures depended on their ability to provide an experience unavailable in front of the "electronic hearth." To many, that meant big-budget blockbusters done in wide-screen and stereophonic sound. The Robe, released by Twentieth Century Fox in September 1953, grossed over $20 million in its initial run setting off a race toward large-screen production that revitalized the industry. In the 17 months following the appearance of The Robe, nearly 30 pictures topped the previously magic $5 million mark. After eight years of dwindling revenues and studio cutbacks, Hollywood seemed to be in the midst of "a major boom" (Lincoln 371).

Most observers attributed the new prosperity to audience fascination with Cinemascope, VistaVision, and ToddAO, but there was a second important trend in the figures. A number of small-screen, relatively inexpensive features aimed at the adult trade had generated an equal, and in many cases better, return on studio investments. Columbia's From Here to Eternity (1953) grossed $12.5 million and reawakened Hollywood to the vast potential of the nonfamily film. Moulin Rouge, The Caine Mutiny, On the Waterfront, The Barefoot Contessa, and The Country Girl quickly followed, confirming the profitability of adult cinema. Americans in evergreater numbers were turning out for movies with mature themes, and the audience seemed to be echoing the call of one New York Times reader who dared the industry to "drop the shackles of nice-nellyism, puritanism, prudery, and give us some adult fare" (19 July 1953: 2.3).

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The profitability of adult cinema boded ill for Joe Breen's Production Code. A document written to protect 12-year-olds could hardly be expected to function smoothly in the new atmosphere. In addition, the 1934 agreement that bound studios and theaters to honor the PCA seal had been undermined: first by the Supreme Court, whose 1948 decree in Paramount v. U.S. forced the studios to sell their theaters, and then by United Artists, which in 1953 released Otto Preminger's The Moon is Blue without the PCA seal. When three of the newly independent theater chains booked Preminger's picture, the industry's solid front was broken and the Code system was severely shaken. At the end of that year, Howard Hughes followed suit by releasing The French Line without a seal, setting off speculation that the PCA might not survive to celebrate its twentieth anniversary.4

Although predictions of its demise proved premature, by 1954 it was clear that Hollywood and its Code stood at the brink of a new era, one in which movies targeted at adult tastes would increasingly supplant the family film and in which theaters were no longer bound to select only PCA-approved features. For those charged with enforcing the Code, that transformation contained one obvious meaning: The document needed to be modernized. The Code office staff knew that much of the Code was outdated, that many of its provisions no longer reflected contemporary values, and most of all, that its extensive list of absolute taboos not only irritated serious filmmakers but also drew ridicule from a growing number of critics and screen patrons. Yet sensing the need for change was one thing, convincing the Motion Picture Association's ever-conservative board of directors in New York to alter the Code was another. In the months preceding Breen's retirement, his chief assistant and eventual successor Geoffrey Shurlock received a taste of the difficulties involved in Code reform.5

Early in 1954, Shurlock and his colleagues drafted a package of minor amendments designed to remove several of the Code's more archaic and embarrassing elements. They sought elimination of the bans on miscegenation and smuggling; the removal of "alley cat," "bat," "broad," "slut," "tom cat," and "nerts" from the list of forbidden expressions; and an end to the restriction on traveling salesman and farmer's daughter jokes. Although none of the changes was controversial, the board proved reluctant to act on the proposals. With The Moon Is Blue still drawing crowds and other prominent Hollywood producers threatening to ignore the Code, the board of directors did not want to give any appearance of succumbing to pressure. They also knew that the powerful Legion of Decency opposed Code liberalization and that many conservatives and moralists were bound to protest any action that suggested a loosening of standards in Hollywood. With corporate profits rebounding, the board wanted no new controversy, so it delayed action on the amendments.6 What finally prompted approval was Hollywood's mounting frustration over two words: "damn" and "hell."

In September 1953, producer Hal Wallis submitted the script of a gritty 75-minute war picture for Code review. Set in Korea during the final hours before the armistice, Cease Fire followed the actions of an American company assigned to determine the extent of enemy occupation of a position called "Red Top." For realism, Wallis shot the film in Korea using 3-D photography and used ordinary GIs as the principal actors; to enhance the effect, he added three "hells" and one "damn" to the shooting script.

The original Code banned "pointed profanity and every other profane or vulgar expression" and specifically prohibited any screen use of "God, Lord, Jesus, Christ-unless used reverentlyhell, S.O.B., damn [and] Gawd" (Thorp 198). In 1939, David 0. Selznick successfully challenged the restriction on "damn" to preserve Rhett's famous farewell to Scarlett in Gone with the Wind.7 In the wake of that concession, the MPPDA board adopted an awkward and legalistic amendment allowing "damn" and "hell":

when their use shall be essential and required for portrayal in proper historical context of any scene or dialogue based upon historical fact or folklore or for the presentation in proper literary context of a biblical or other religious quotation or a quotation from a literary work, provided that no such use shall be permitted which is intrinsically objectionable or offends good taste. (Sargent 10849)

The Code office interpreted this provision to mean that "damn" and "hell" could only be used when drawn from a direct historical or religious quotation or a literary classic. Because Cease Fire did not qualify under this amendment, Wallis was told to remove the profanity. Paramount, the film's distributor, promptly appealed the ruling to the board of directors in New York.

At the appeal hearing, Paramount argued that Cease Fire's war setting and quasi-documentary nature justified the use of authentic dialogue and asked for a special exemption from the Code rules. The PCA representative countered that the profanity was unnecessary, added little of the realism Wallis sought (soldiers normally used much rougher language), and if approved, could open the floodgates for a torrent of "hells" and "damns" in future scripts. The board was particularly conscious of the last point. Its members knew that a special exemption granted to Paramount would invite filmmakers at other studios to demand the same treatment for their pictures. Rather than open those gates, the board denied Paramount's appeal.8 Wallis referred privately to the action as "the most unbridled form of censorship," but knowing that Paramount, unlike United Artists, would not consider handling an unapproved feature, he cut the offending words and the picture was released without profanity.9

The incident might have passed without notice had not Martin Quigley and his son selected Cease Fire to frame a major statement on what they perceived to be a flaw in the Code. As publisher of the Motion Picture Herald, Quigley had helped create the Code in 1930 and had been outspoken in its defense ever since. His son, now editor of the Herald, expressed his father's long-held resentment concerning the extensive list of specific taboos tacked on to the document by MPPDA officials after it was written. To the Quigleys, the broad philosophic sections that Father Daniel Lord had authored and the senior Quigley had promoted contained the essence of the Code. In contrast, the MPPDA's additions expressed only "certain regulations of policy and expediency," some of which, the junior Quigley observed in references to the Cease Fire appeal, "have created a hell of a mess and have become a damned nuisance." The Quigleys, like other Hollywood conservatives, feared for the future of the Code. They suspected that the controversy over "hell" and "damn" might provide "grist for the mill of those who, resenting the moral discipline which the Code stands for, would like to have it laughed out of existence." Hence they called on the board of directors to set aside "this absurd regulation.10

With the Quigleys joining the ranks of agency critics, the Code office staff knew it was time for a change. Five months later, when Elia Kazan submitted On the Waterfront with a pointed "go to hell," Shurlock reversed his position and pressed the board for a special exemption. Uttered during a confrontation between Terry Malloy (Marlon Brando) and Father Barry (Karl Malden), the phrase had "the effect of a physical blow in the face.11 Seeking to convince Terry not to revenge his brother's murder, the priest demands that he turn over his gun. Terry snarls, "You go to Hell!" Clearly startled, Father Barry asks, "What did you say?" Terry responds with an even louder: "Go to Hell!" The priest then slaps him, dislodging the gun. Without the line, Father Barry's action was inexplicable and much of the scene's impact would have been lost. Shurlock hated to see this "outstanding picture" diminished and told the board of directors that because the phrase was "used seriously and with intrinsic validity," it ought to be retained.12 Over the objections of the Paramount representatives, the board quickly heeded the Code office request and granted a special exemption. That very week, though, Shurlock was confronted by a second, equally intrinsic "hell," this time in the script of Otto Preminger's Carmen Jones.

In contrast to his attitude toward The Moon Is Blue, Preminger showed no inclination to defy the Code with Carmen Jones. The former had been an independent production that freed Preminger from studio restraints. The latter was a Twentieth Century Fox production that he had agreed to deliver with a Code office seal. Thus, when Shurlock asked him to trim Carmen's "lustfulness" and add a "voice for morality" to the script, Preminger quickly obliged.3 But he and Oscar Hammerstein stopped short at cutting the line "fight like hell." Both felt ending Bizet's famous and powerful aria with the refrain "stand up and fight like heck" would not only destroy the moment, but would likely bring laughter and jeers from the audience.

Shurlock agreed that "fight like hell" should stay, but having only days before asked the board for a special exemption for On the Waterfront, he was reluctant to press for another. He knew the board's distaste for granting waivers for specific films; inevitably, waivers smacked of favoritism and bred resentment within the industry. Wallis was already miffed by the Waterfront waiver. Seeing no difference between the profanity in Cease Fire and the "hell" in Waterfront, he told Shurlock that his justification of the latter was "fantastic mumbo jumbo."14 Equally distressed, Paramount's president, Y. Frank Freeman, chastised the board for its inconsistency.

Rather than ask for an embarrassing second waiver, Shurlock decided to use the occasion to convince the board of directors to adopt the entire package of Code amendments proposed in January, along with a liberalization of the clauses pertaining to "hell" and "damn." Instead of going directly to the board, however, he sought the aid of Twentieth Century Fox. Acting through Fox's Code representative, Frank McCarthy, he asked company president Spyros Skouras for "help in getting the board to act" on the amendments.15 A week later, with Preminger already filming, Fox production chief Darryl Zanuck conveyed the same request, this time labeling the matter "urgent."16 But Skouras knew the board's fear of adopting amendments and its equal reluctance to offend Paramount with a second profanity waiver. Rather than raise the issue, he contacted the Motion Picture Association's New York office in the hope of finding a quick alternative.

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Ultimately Shurlock and Sidney Schreiber, the association's general counsel, devised a way out of the dilemma. Shurlock would deny Carmen Jones a seal; Fox would promptly appeal; and Shurlock would then forward a letter supporting the studio's case. It was an odd maneuver. The Code office had never before advocated overturning one of its own rulings, but Shurlock felt the unusual circumstances required unprecedented tactics. Dumping the matter in the board's lap would illustrate the difficulties of enforcing the Code's archaic provisions and perhaps convince its members of the need for change. To help sway the board and offset any lingering resentments against Preminger over The Moon is Blue, Shurlock included a reference to the Austrian's cooperative attitude during the script negotiations.'7 The requisite letters were quickly issued and had the desired effect. When the board met on 9 June, the Code office ruling was set aside and "fight like hell" was approved.

The decision further angered executives at Paramount. Seeing this as another instance of "discrimination," Freeman defiantly announced that from now on he would bring an appeal to the board every time a Paramount producer wanted to use "hell" or "damn" and would demand that they be treated in the same fashion as Waterfront and Carmen. "It is my opinion," he told the board, "that the right to violate the Code in the use of words strictly prohibited by the Code, has been well established.''18The threat was apparently enough to convince the board. At its next meeting, PCA officials were instructed to prepare a list of Code alterations for board approval. In September the package of amendments that the staff had prepared early in the year was approved along with the provision that the use of "hell" and "damn" should be "governed by the discretion and prudent advice of the Code Administration" (Sargent 149).

The amendments of 1954 were far from the Code modernization hoped for in Hollywood. Several of the document's more arcane elements had been removed and a loophole in the profanity clause had been created. But the Code remained much as it had been in 1930. In 1956, after United Artists resigned from the Motion Picture Association in protest over its refusal to grant a Code seal to Preminger's The Man with the Golden Arm, the Code was revised in a more substantive way, this time eliminating the provisions preventing the screen depiction of narcotics addiction, kidnaping, childbirth, prostitution, and abortion. Profanity remained on the forbidden list, but the 1954 provision excepting "hell" and "damn" was incorporated into the revised Code.19

Shurlock, who was officially installed as PCA director in October 1954, found holding the line on profanity far from easy. Just four days after the board adopted the 1954 profanity amendment, he received a script entitled Blackboard Jungle from the normally conservative MGM. Along with nearly two dozen "damns" and "hells" it included the description of a prominent four-letter wall graffito from which "all but the large 'F' had been scrubbed away."20 Shurlock removed all but one "hell" from the dialogue of Blackboard Jungle, and over the next several months he established guidelines for handling "damn" and "hell." In general, Shurlock sought to restrict the use of the two words to situations in which they were required to establish "dramatic force"21; he removed all profanity that he considered unnecessary or casual. Such imprecise guidelines led to countless arguments. Screenwriters began to insert ever larger numbers of "damns" and "hells" in their scripts and argued with increasing fervor that each use was necessary for dramatic characterization. By 1961, both writers and directors were becoming defiant. When Shurlock ordered the removal of "son-of-a," "shove it," "bastard," and most of the "damns" and "hells" from The Hustler, director Robert Rossen simply refused:

The language which I feel is basic I will use, that which I feel is not I will delete. So certain basic expressions which come out of the deep emotional needs of the characters I will use, those which I feel do not express deep emotional needs I will not use.22 Shurlock ultimately relented and merely asked Rossen to tone down the swearing in the picture.

By the time The Hustler appeared, few noticed its profanity. In the more liberal atmosphere of the 1960s, Shurlock and his colleagues were far more concerned about holding the line in other areas like nudity and homosexuality to be bothered by a few "damns." Yet the eroding standards on profanity suggested much about the irrelevance of the Production Code in the 1960s. As filmmakers found that they could safely bypass the PCA, more adopted the attitude of Rossen. Their defiance and the willingness of theaters to book their pictures without the Code office seal meant the Code system could not long survive. As the film industry edged ever closer to a classification system late in the decade, it was the excessive and nearly grotesque profanity of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf in 1966 that brought the abandonment of the Production Code and ushered in the era of ratings.23