Sunday, April 2nd | 6 Movies
It’s no coincidence that the pre-Code Hollywood period aligned with some of the darkest years of the Great Depression. Among other factors, studios pushed the violence, sin and sex onscreen in a desperate attempt to lure cash-strapped viewers into theaters. This, in turn, fueled the fire for moral-minded groups calling for federal censorship.
Each studio, dangling on varying precipices of financial ruin, possessed their own style. Of the five majors, Warner Brothers “manufactured the more dependably durable and interesting material” during this time, Thomas Doherty observed in his book “Pre-Code Hollywood.” Known for their propensity to engage with socially conscious plots, many of Warners’ pre-Code entries possess a rough edge and comment upon contemporary issues in frank and relatable ways. The legendary hasty pace at which the studio cranked pictures out also “allowed the historical moment to leave a fresh imprint, unmediated and unpremeditated,” Doherty concluded.
This month, TCM celebrates Warner Brothers’ 100th anniversary. Tonight, the spotlight shines on five diverse WB pre-Codes and one documentary about the man who helped craft them.
Ripped from the gangster-ridden headlines, The Public Enemy (1931) follows the rise of childhood friends Tom Powers (James Cagney) and Matt Doyle (Edward Woods) as they graduate from petty theft to the world of organized crime, collecting wealth and girlfriends along the way. As the fearless Tom climbs the ladder, he finds himself engaging in an audacious gang war with deadly consequences.
The Public Enemy was based upon exploits of Chicago gangster “Hymie” Weiss, which Oscar-nominated writers Kubec Glasmon and John Bright’s chronicled in their book “Beer and Blood.” Director William Wellman knew a thing or two about problematic kids; he was one himself. Cagney, who switched intended roles with Woods, also brought some truth to the screen: the Irish-American actor grew up on city streets. The actor’s gritty, feverish portrayal of Tom helped The Public Enemy surpass some of Little Caesar (1931)’s box office records and propelled him to stardom.
On set, producer Darryl F. Zanuck pressed the violence and sex. “People are going to say the characters are immoral, but they’re not because they don’t have any morals,” an assistant recalled Zanuck repeating. But in correspondence with the Studio Relations Committee (SRC), the industry’s internal censor watchdog office, Zanuck expounded the moral angle hard: “If there is PLEASURE and PROFIT in CRIME, or the violation of the 18th Amendment, THAT pleasure and THAT profit can only be momentary, as the basic foundation of law violation, ultimately ends in disaster to the participants.” To this end, a prologue and epilogue assured viewers that the picture honestly represented the environment that breeds criminals and wasn’t glorifying them, but even real-life law breakers didn’t buy it. “These gang pictures—that’s terrible stuff,” Al Capone commented. “They’re doing nothing but harm to the younger element of the country. I don’t blame the censors for trying to bar them.”
Indeed, select states began railing against gangster movies as a genre, and others excised different sections of the film, including excessively violent displays of machine guns and the seductive line, “I want to do things for you, Tommy.” The Public Enemy was denied re-release in 1936 solely because it was a gangster movie, and it wasn’t until 1953 that it won a Code certificate—though edits were required before doing so.
Same last name, different game: Lily Powers (Barbara Stanwyck) has been fending off men since she was 14 in Baby Face (1933). After her pimp/father dies, cobbler Cragg (Alphonse Ethier) urges her to “use men to get the things you want,” so she makes her way to the big city with Chico (Theresa Harris). There, Lily works her way up the ladder at a large bank, discarding men along the way until she finds herself at the center of a scandal. Given the chance by bank owner Courtland Trenholm (George Brent) to start over abroad, Lily makes a go of it—with surprising results.
Warner Brothers saw MGM’s outrageous Red-Headed Woman (1932) and one-upped them with Baby Face; in fact, the main characters even share the same first name. Stanwyck’s commanding depiction of a woman who uses her body and power to take control of her life still astounds audiences today, as does the unique, deep friendship Lily and Chico share.
Baby Face didn’t waste time making trouble for the SRC. In an early outline, writers Gene Markey and Kathryn Scola remarked that the director should push a certain scene as far “as the censors will allow.” Ads for the picture exploited sex, depicting Lily next to a ladder with a man’s name on each rung. Zanuck was asked to tone it down and instill some sense of morality and indeed, in the movie fans saw in 1933, Lily landed back in a steel town. That’s because the New York State Censor Board rejected the movie as “‘IMMORAL’ & ‘WILL TEND TO CORRUPT MORALS,’” prompting Warners to make clear that Lily pays for her sins.
Fortuitously, viewers today can witness the effects of censorship in action, as a pre-release version of Baby Face was uncovered at the Library of Congress in 2004; Cragg’s monologue, one of Lily’s early seductions and the ending represent the major differences between the two films. Joseph Breen, future head of the Production Code Administration, re-wrote Cragg’s dialogue, turning his passionate instruction to wield her power over men into a warning that “there is a right way and a wrong way; remember, the price of the wrong way is too great.” Reviews were mixed, but regardless of the final verdict, many critics highlighted how racy Baby Face was, with Variety insisting: "Anything hotter than this for public showing would call for an asbestos audience blanket."
Moving from office trysts to love on the high seas, One Way Passage (1932), the last of six films William Powell and Kay Francis made together, finds the pair falling for each other on a transatlantic ocean liner. There’s a catch, though: Joan (Francis) faces a terminal illness, while Dan (Powell) escaped death row only to get caught by police sergeant Steve (Warren Hymer) just prior to sailing. Neither know the other’s secret—at first. The lovers make plans to meet a month after the boat docks in Mexico, but will fate intervene first?
Director Tay Garnett initially intended to turn this tragic tale, based on Robert Lord’s original idea, into a comedy. (Garnett passed up a writing credit, which he regretted when Lord won an Oscar for Best Writing, Original Story.) In line with Warners’ pursuit of realism, Garnett filmed part of the picture aboard a ship. “Warners engaged a broken-down iron boat for location shooting and sent the cast offshore,” co-star Aline MacMahon recalled. “It was an uncomfortable assignment, and we were all pretty miserable. It was boiling hot. The food was terrible… Finally, the studio lost patience and brought us back to the lot to finish it.” Despite the rocky experience, the chemistry, sincerity and passion Powell and Francis displayed onscreen, mixed with the humorous antics of MacMahon and Frank McHugh, proved a recipe for success both critically and financially.
If there was one way to undermine the censors it was through charm, which served as a distraction from potentially problematic material. One Way Passage took this route, and while some minor elements, like detailed views of pickpocketing and a necktie left on a lady’s bed, were frequently edited out by state boards, the SRC commended Warners for not “complicating matters, censorwise, by having an officer of the law deliberately permit a murderer to escape.”
It’s clear the murderer doesn’t escape in Two Seconds (1932); the picture opens with John Allen (Edward G. Robinson) reliving the events that led him to the electric chair. Previously, John worked as a riveter along with his roommate Bud (Preston Foster). John meets Shirley (Vivienne Osborne) at a dance hall, and she instantly latches on when she finds out he makes good money. Bud warns John of her ill intentions, but before long, Shirley drags John down the aisle and onto a relentless path of destruction leading to tragic deaths, nervous breakdowns, revenge and ultimately death row.
Based upon Elliott Lester’s 1931 play, Two Seconds falls in line with Warners’ hard-hitting urban fare. Audiences related to the movie’s working-class elements, from John’s desire to better himself to characters indulging in popular entertainment like speakeasies and dance halls. Robinson’s intense performance—commencing from a thoughtful, hopeful place before he snaps and plunges into despair and anxiety—imparts a disillusioning warning for the average working man. Director Mervyn LeRoy, who collaborated with Robinson on Little Caesar and Five Star Final (1931), was lauded by The New York Times: “His handling of the subject is imaginative and lifelike... it calls for admiration, for it never falters." Indeed, while Two Seconds impressed many critics, they also acknowledged its profound darkness, with Film Weekly pondering: “Whether it can be classed as ‘entertainment’ in the ordinary sense is bound to be a matter of opinion.”
Two Seconds is chock full of pre-Code moments. Right off the bat, the SRC warned Warners that boards would likely cut electrocution details. They also generally cautioned against words like “tramp” and “bimbo,” both used to describe Shirley. Additionally, Robinson’s dizzying monologue at the end, in which he defends his murderous actions, would not be permitted after the enforcement of the Code.
Murder raps come easily in WB’s tough milieu; Loretta Young has one hanging over her in Life Begins (1932). Set in a maternity ward with Aline MacMahon as the empathetic Nurse Bowers, the picture presents a handful of diverse journeys to parenthood. From the stories of transferred convict Grace (Young) to indifferent single showgirl Florette (Glenda Farrell) and everything in between, Life Begins celebrates all the beauty and tragedy life is capable of delivering.
Based upon Mary M. Axelson’s play, Life Begins’ premise caused quite a stir. The SRC warned Zanuck of potential censor trouble, and indeed, consensus was split during production and after release. The film found a fervent supporter in the SRC’s Lamar Trotti, who called it a tribute to motherhood. However, censor boards, many consulted on the subject’s viability before release, weren’t so sure. For instance, the Motion Picture Distributors and Exhibitors of Canada “simply refused to accept the theme as being reasonable or advisable.” A letter from a representative of the Church Peace Union was equally dismissive, absurdly claiming, among many other things, that “no hospital today would permit such a group of abnormal people to be brought together as are found in the ward where the principle action takes place.”
Life Begins did not shy away from the reality of how dangerous childbirth is, even if Warners was forced to scrap details that more accurately captured the experience. For instance, the SRC recommended deleting the word “deliver” because it suggested “the actual fact of childbirth” and excising any sounds of suffering to avoid scaring off potential mothers in the audience.
Though an ensemble piece, select performances stand out in Life Begins. Young, only 19 during filming, turned in a sympathetic performance; to physically and mentally prepare for the role, she spent a week surveying a maternity ward. And Farrell, an apathetic showgirl changed by motherhood, so moved studio head Jack Warner that he offered her a five-year contract.
Speaking of the studio head, Jack L. Warner: The Last Mogul (1993), directed by his grandson Gregory Orr, recounts Warner’s climb from humble beginnings to become one of the most powerful men in Hollywood. Born to Jewish immigrants from Poland, Warner joined three of his older brothers in the motion picture business, founding Warner Brothers in 1923 and entering the big leagues with The Jazz Singer (1927). Among other things, the documentary examines the studio’s “fast-talking, flashy underdog” style, mirrored after the studio chief’s personality. That authenticity, grit and dynamism sums up the heart of pre-Code Warner Brothers quite well.
