Reading #3: THE "EUROPEAN" MODEL: HOLLYWOOD CINEMA
Reading #3A: THE POLITICS OF COMPROMISE IN HOLLYWOOD
Reading #4: The Cinema of Ernst Lubitsch
Reading #5: The Cinema of Frank Capra
Reading #6: The Cinema of John Ford
Reading #7: The Cinema of Howard Hawks
Reading #8: The Cinema of Elia Kazan
Reading #9: The Cinema of Fred Zinnemann
Reading #10: The Cinema of Robert Altman
Reading #11: The Cinema of Stanley Kubrick
Reading #12: The Cinema of William Wyler
Reading #13: “Raising Kane” by Pauline Kael
Reading #14: “The Kane Mutiny” by Peter Bogdanovich
Appendix [#15]: Research Paper Assignment: Budd Schulberg, The Disenchanted CTVA 310. History of American Cinema: Readings Reading #1A. Protagonists in American Culture & Cinema OUTLAW HERO OFFICIAL HERO Adventurer, explorer, gunfighter, Teacher, lawyer, politician, farmer,
Anxiety about civilized life; Settled life, respectability;
romanticizing of the dispossessed, proper dress, manners, behavior
the unemployed, the unattached
Anti-intellectualism, disavowal of ideology, LAW & THE COLLECTIVE
hostility toward political solutions, POLITICAL PROCESS
ambivalence about collective law,
and pessimism about an individual's access
to the legal system; natural law is discovered
intuitively by each person; POPULISM FEDERALISM
Improvisation, individualism, ad hoc solutions
for problems depicted as crises
“OUTLAW” CHARACTERS AND INDIVIDUALS: “OFFICIAL” CHARACTERS AND INDIVIDUALS:
Davy Crockett, Jesse James, Huck Finn, Bartleby George Washington,
the Scrivener, Holden Caulfield, Jake Barnes, Thoreau, Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln,
Billy the Kid, Hester Prynne, Robert E. Lee Prewitt, Horatio Alger, Jefferson Smith,
Bonnie and Clyde, Howard Roark, Thelma and Louise, George Bailey
Scarlet O’Hara, Charles Foster Kane, The Joker
Reading #1B. HISTORICAL OVERVIEW: ART, INDUSTRY, AUDIENCE BOX OFFICE CINEMA IS THE MOST EXPENSIVE ARTISTIC MEDIUM IN HISTORY, and its development has been largely determined by those who paid the bills. Fiction filmmakers need cameras, actors, film stock, sound and editing equipment, costumes, lights, and so on. Like all artists, they've got to earn a living, and they do so by providing a product which has a cash value to its consumers. In most European countries the cinema in its early stages of development fell into the hands of artists who shared most of the values and tastes of the educated elite. European movie houses before World War I were usually located in fashionable districts and catered to the cultivated classes––the same patrons who attended the legitimate theatre and the opera. In the Soviet Union and other Communist countries, film production has been carefully regulated by the government, and the movies produced in these countries reflect most of the values of the political elite.
In the United States, which quickly became the leading film-producing nation in the world, motion pictures developed as a popular art within a capitalistic system of production. The industry catered primarily to patrons of the lower social echelons, who likewise wanted to see their values, tastes, and aspirations sympathetically portrayed. Before 1900, when movies were in their infancy, 90 percent of the American population had never been exposed to any form of enacted drama. Within a decade, as historian Benjamin Hampton noted, the small coins of the masses had created a business larger in volume than the live theatre, vaudeville, museums, lecture bureaus, concert halls, circuses, and carnivals combined.
Movies were a boom industry in the United States primarily because audiences were getting what they really wanted. The American cinema was the most democratic art in history, reflecting most of the strengths and failings of the society that nurtured it. In order to guarantee their continued employment in this expensive medium, fiction filmmakers had to be sensitive to the demands of the box office, to the tastes of those anonymous millions who cared little for "culture," "edification," and other such lofty abstractions. Above all, audiences wanted to be entertained, and only at his own peril would a Hollywood film artist ignore this fundamental commandment of the box office. The best as well as the worst American movies have been produced within this commercial framework of a mass audience and a competitive marketplace.
Of course Hollywood films are hardly unique in this respect. Shakespeare, Dickens, and Mark Twain, to name only a few, also appealed primarily to "vulgar" audiences, and like the earliest American moviemakers, they were harshly criticized by the cultural establishments of their day for pandering to the low tastes of the mob. In fact, the Renaissance scholar Mario Praz has pointed out that the unruly patrons who thronged to Shakespeare's plays were very much like American movie audiences, especially in their fondness for the spectacular and the sensational. The staples of the American cinema––violence, sex, comedy, fantasy, and "heart interest" (sentimental melodramas)––were also the staples of the Elizabethan drama. Sex and violence have always headed the list.
Particularly before World War II, most American intellectuals lamented the state of the Hollywood cinema. Movies were routinely dismissed as "cheap shows for cheap people" and "the flimsy amusement of the mob." With dubious logic, cultural commentators insisted that art had nothing to do with commerce, with "show business." Whatever their individual merits or failings, American pictures were automatically suspect because even the most serious artists were required to work within commercially viable formats––as though this weren't true for all artists in all mediums. (In our own time, television is often condemned with these same objections.)
The reasons for this hostility are understandable, for out of the five hundred or so pictures produced yearly in Hollywood between the two world wars, only a relative handful were of enduring aesthetic value. Because of this sheer volume, the best movies were often overshadowed by the worst, or at least by the merely routine. Conversely, only the most prestigious foreign movies were exported to the United States, amounting roughly to 2 percent of the pictures exhibited in this country. For the most part these dealt with subjects that rarely attracted American filmmakers, particularly that virtually taboo theme, honest failure. Popular audiences regarded foreign movies as arty, downbeat, and very slow––at least when contrasted with American pictures, which were usually unpretentious, optimistic, and fast-moving. Only box office hits were widely imitated in Hollywood, and since foreign films seldom attracted large audiences, American producers were content to leave "highbrow" subjects to European and Japanese filmmakers.
These cinematic differences were based on totally different social conditions. After World War I, the major film-producing nations of Europe were spiritually exhausted, their economies in shambles. Disillusionment and pessimism were in the air, traditional standards of morality were collapsing, and absolute values were viewed as naive. While Europe was plunged in chaos and despair, the United States was thriving, immersed in the gaudiest spree of its history, to use Scott Fitzgerald's famous phrase. Millions of destitute immigrants were pouring into the country, eager to make it in the Land of Opportunity. In greater numbers than ever before, rural Americans streamed to the cities in search of excitement and wider options. These were the major patrons of the movies during this formative stage, and what they wanted to see above all were success stories. It wasn't for nothing that the American film industry was sometimes called the Hollywood dream factory.
Because the best European movies during this era generally dealt with pessimistic themes, they were regarded by naive intellectuals as innately more "artistic" than American pictures. (Only after the late 1960s did such themes become popular in the United States, thanks to America's tragic Vietnam adventure and the jarring Watergate revelations of the early 1970s.) Furthermore, unlike the foremost European filmmakers, who considered themselves serious artists, almost all Hollywood artists preferred to think of themselves as professional entertainers, though in fact a good number of them were well educated and cultivated people, especially those who had emigrated from Germany and Austria. Nonetheless, the stereotype persisted. ''The people who make films don't do it to ennoble man," wrote the novelist André Malraux; "they are there to make money. Consequently, inevitably, they work upon man's lower instincts." Perhaps what was most galling––though it was seldom openly acknowledged––was that the best American movies often did both: they made money and ennobled man.
This hostility was economically motivated as well, for between the two world wars, American movies dominated over 80 percent of the world's screens and were more popular with foreign mass audiences than all but a few natively produced movies. As much as 40 percent of the grosses of American pictures were earned abroad, especially in Great Britain, which accounted for nearly half the total foreign revenue of American films. Thus, foreign producers and directors complained bitterly that they were being closed out of their own markets, that they were being oppressed by a form of "cultural colonization." Various theories were offered concerning the "mystery" of American movies, but film historian Hampton claimed that the explanation was perfectly obvious: "The mystery is nothing but a willingness to give the public what it is willing to pay for instead of a desire to ‘educate’ the public against its will."
THE STUDIO SYSTEM During their primitive phase (roughly from 1896 to 1905), American movies were aesthetically crude, devoid of serious artists, and immensely popular. Exhibitors clamored for more "product," and still the demand swallowed up the supply. New production and distribution companies sprang up, until by 1915 there were over two hundred of them in the United States. As the industry and the art grew more complex, the production of movies became more specialized. The earliest filmmakers were former actors, mechanics, and cameramen who improvised as they went along. The most successful of these eventually became directors, supervising the actual making of a movie from the creation of the story line to the coaching of the actors to the placement of the camera to the final assembly of shots into a coherent continuity.
Eventually producers developed a factory system of production. With the rise of the star system in the early teens, movies soon centered on a popular player, with stories especially tailored by studio scenarists to enhance a star's box office appeal. Set designers, cinematographers, and specialized technicians relieved the director of many of his former responsibilities, allowing him to concentrate on the players and the placement of the camera. With the exception of the most prestigious directors and stars, who insisted upon greater artistic autonomy or simply went into independent production, movies by committee become the general rule.
Under the factory system, the key figure was usually the producer, who by controlling the financing of a film also exercised significant control over how it would be made, although the director generally still commanded the camera, and hence, the mise-en-scène (that is, the photographed images). By the mid-1920s, movies were big business, with a total capital investment of over two billion dollars and an annual commerce of about one and one-quarter billion. The film industry was one of the top ten in America, a prominence it maintained for twenty-five years, a period which industry regulars refer to wistfully as the golden age of the studio system.
Greed (1924) was written and directed by Erich von Stroheim, based on the novel McTeague, by Frank Norris. Stroheim was one of the first casualties of the studio system. He began Greed in 1923 for the Goldwyn Company just before it merged with Metro Pictures, with Louis B. Mayer as chief executive. Stroheim was determined to preserve every word of Norris's pessimistic novel, a classic document of American literary naturalism. The director shot forty-two reels (approximately nine hours), which even the impractical Stroheim realized was excessive, so he cut the movie to twenty-four reels. Mayer and his production chief Irving Thalberg loathed the film because it had no stars, no glossy production values, no glamour, no sentimental affirmations, and no happy ending––all MGM trademarks. Fiercely opposed to a director-oriented cinema and determined to humble the haughty Stroheim, Mayer and Thalberg had the movie cut to ten reels, its present form. All the discarded footage was burned and lost forever. Though the two-hour version of Greed is still regarded as a masterpiece, Stroheim disowned the work, referring to it as his "mutilated child."
The three main branches of the industry––production, distribution, and exhibition––were controlled by different interests in the earliest years. "Movies were sold outright by the linear foot, regardless of quality. The original distributors were called exchanges and were set up in key cities where, for a fee, exhibitors could swap their used prints for those of other theatre owners. This system eventually proved too crude for the burgeoning industry, and by the late teens, the most aggressive exhibitors and producers had begun to integrate all three phases of the business under one directorship––a method of consolidation known as vertical integration. This movement was spearheaded by such daring and cunning businessmen as Adolph Zukor of Paramount Pictures, William Fox of the Fox Film Corporation, and Marcus Loew of Loew's Inc., the parent firm of what eventually became Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer.
Under Zukor's shrewd leadership, Paramount became the leading film company of the teens and twenties, with most of the biggest stars of the period under contract. As early as 1921, the company owned over four hundred theatres, most of them first-run city houses, which commanded the highest ticket prices and the largest audiences. Zukor also introduced such concepts as blind and block booking, whereby even independent exhibitors were required to rent Paramount films––sight unseen––as a package rather than individually. The studio thus reduced its risk on any single production and also guaranteed a constant supply of product for exhibitors. (It wasn't until the late 1940s that the U.S. Supreme Court declared this system a monopoly and in restraint of trade. The court ordered the studios to divest themselves of their theatre chains and to cease the practices of blind and block booking.)
Other producers and exhibitors followed Zukor's example by merging their considerable resources. By 1929 only five companies, known in the trade as the Big Five or the majors, had a virtual monopoly on the industry, producing over 90 percent of the fiction films in America. Paramount was responsible for about 25 percent of this output, a percentage matched by Warner Brothers, which had forged into prominence in 1927 with the introduction of talkies. Fox and MGM produced about 40 percent of the movies that year. Radio-Keith-Orpheum, commonly known as RKO, was established in 1928 as a subsidiary of RCA, but despite this late start, it was capitalized at $80 million, boasted four production facilities, and like the other majors, was fully integrated, with a chain of over 300 theatres. These five companies controlled over 50 percent of the seating capacity in America, mostly in urban first-run houses, where the big money was earned. Of the remaining 10 percent of the movies made in 1929, most were produced by the so-called Little Three: Universal, Columbia, and United Artists.
United Artists was established in 1919 by D. W. Griffith, Mary Pickford, Charles Chaplin, and Douglas Fairbanks. Strictly speaking, UA was not a production company but a distributor of the independently produced movies of its four principal stockholders, who were the top box office personalities of the American cinema of that era. "So the lunatics have taken charge of the asylum," one wag quipped at the founding of the company. UA sold and promoted its films individually, not in blocks. It had no contract players or directors, no company-owned studio. Eventually other important independent producers––like Sam Goldwyn, Walt Disney, and David O. Selznick––also distributed their product through UA. Although the output of this company was small in its earliest years, the quality of its movies was generally high.
The Hollywood studio system was modeled along the lines of "the American system of manufacture," introduced by Eli Whitney in the mass production of rifles. Henry Ford's concept of the assembly line in the manufacturing of autos was clearly derived from Whitney's ideas, and today, of course, these techniques are commonplace in virtually all forms of industrial mass production. The main features of this system are as follows: A product can be manufactured with greater efficiency and in far greater numbers if it's broken down into standardized interchangeable parts. These parts are assembled not by a single skilled craftsman but by ordinary workers who are responsible only for adding a simple component to the product, which is then passed along for ultimate completion by other workers in the assembly line. Except for an overseer of some sort, no one handles the product from beginning to end.
As a number of critics have pointed out, this system works admirably in the production of rifles and autos, where uniformity and predictability are desirable. In the production of movies, however, standardization is inimical to artistic excellence, and often even to commercial success. Assembly-line methods worked most efficiently in the production of the so-called program films. Over half the movies of the majors consisted of these routine formula pictures, which were also known as B movies. Program films were seldom box office hits, but they were considered safe investments by the studios. Some interesting movies were produced in this form, but in general they were regarded even by the industry as its filler product.
Though all the studios attempted to standardize production as much as possible even for their important A films, intelligent producers realized that the key ingredients of box office hits were usually style, boldness, and originality––hardly the qualities encouraged by the assembly-line method of production. In general, studio executives tried to steer a middle course, allowing their most prestigious (that is, commercially successful) employees greater artistic autonomy, whereas their less accomplished colleagues were expected to do what they were told. Realizing that the studio system was the only ballgame in town, most ambitious artists resigned themselves to this situation in the hopes that eventually they too would be successful enough to demand more creative independence.
Studio chiefs were often under fire from two flanks. Serious artists complained they were being forced to make cheap compromises in their work, and company officers in New York (where most of the studios had their financial headquarters) lamented the reckless extravagance of their West Coast executives, the flamboyant "moguls." The moguls responded to these accusations by pointing out that box office hits were produced by instinctive gamblers rather than cautious businessmen. Conservatives almost invariably disappeared from the industry, for the public was notoriously fickle, subject to radical shifts in taste from year to year. For example, in 1930, mighty Paramount was sinking into insolvency, but by the middle of the decade, the studio's net earnings were up 820 percent, thanks largely to the films of Mae West. Similarly, in 1929, Warner Brothers was the top studio in Hollywood, with a net profit of over $17 million. Two years later it showed a deficit of almost $8 million. Little wonder, anthropologist Hortense Powdermaker observed, that Hollywood movies were produced in an atmosphere of constant crisis.
Each of the majors during the era of studio dominance was a virtual city-state, with vast holdings in land and buildings, standing back lots, and sound stages. Technical staffs and creative personnel were under long-term contract, and in such tightly organized studios as Warners and Columbia, employees often ran rather than walked to their next assignments, so "efficiently" were they scheduled. Each studio had an array of specialized departments, such as publicity, costumes, art design, story, and so on. Most of the decision-making power rested with the front office, which consisted of the studio head, the production chief, the producers, and their assistants.
To such rebellious artists as Warner Brothers' Bette Davis, the front office symbolized cautious mediocrity, for she had to fight to make most of her best films (often on loan-out to more adventurous producers), and she was frequently put on suspension by the equally intransigent Jack Warner for refusing to act in routine studio projects. Ironically, the movies she fought for usually made more money than the potboilers favored by the front office. At this time most film stars were under exclusive seven-year contracts which the studios could cancel after six months' notice. Suspended employees were legally barred from working for others, and their suspension time was cruelly added to their seven-year terms. Davis claimed––with some justice––that she was trapped in perpetual servitude.
The front office of each studio was determined in part by the personality and tastes of the colorful moguls who ran the studios autocratically. Virtually all of them were Jewish immigrants, or the sons of Jewish immigrants, from eastern Europe. Most of them were born in poverty and became self-made men whose tastes didn't differ radically from those of the masses who flocked to their movies. All the moguls were shrewd businessmen, even though some, like William Fox, were barely literate. Others, like MGM's Louis B. Mayer, were incredibly philistine in their taste in movies. A few––like production chief Hunt Stromberg, Thalberg's successor at MGM; RKO's Pandro S. Berman; Hal B. Wallis of Warners and later Paramount––were men of considerable intelligence and taste. Such independents as David O. Selznick and Samuel Goldwyn were also admired for the quality of their films. Darryl F. Zanuck, one of the few gentiles among the moguls, headed "the goy studio," 20th Century-Fox, which in the late 1940s and 1950s became one of the most progressive studios in Hollywood, a distinction it shared with Harry Cohn's Columbia Pictures, which also produced some excellent movies during this era of changing tastes.
The production chief was the front office executive who made most of the important decisions concerning what movies to make and how. He was sometimes given the title of vice-president in charge of production. Generally he supervised about fifty films per year and was responsible for all the main assignments, budget allocations, and the selection of key personnel for each project. He also made the important decisions concerning potential properties (that is, novels, plays, and stories which might serve as sources for movies) and the principal emphasis of scripts. Furthermore, he had the final say about how a movie ought to be reshot, edited, scored, and publicized. All these decisions were based on such considerations as the types of stars and directors under studio contract, the genres that were enjoying the greatest popularity during any given period, and the production chief’s gut instincts about the box office.
The title of producer was one of the most ambiguous of the studio era and could refer to a prestigious mogul or a glorified errand boy, depending on the individual involved. As a class, however, producers enjoyed more power within the industry than any other group. They were also among the highest paid, accounting for nearly 19 percent of the net profits of a studio, according to sociologist Leo Rosten. The rise to power of producers coincided with the rise of the studio system. In the mid-1920s, for example, there were only about 34 major producers in the industry. Ten years later, when the studio system was firmly entrenched, there were over 220 of them, even though the studios produced 40 percent fewer pictures. Nepotism was common in the front offices of many studios, and a good number of associate and assistant producers were talentless relatives of the company top brass. In order to justify their high salaries, many of them threw their weight around by obstructing the work of others, often out of envy and spite. Directors were especially loud in their complaints that they weren't able to perform their duties because of the interference of these minions.
Depending on the complexity of the studio, each front office had a number of producers, most of them specialists in a particular type of work: A productions, star vehicles, B films, musicals, short subjects, serials, newsreels, and so on. These producers usually shaped the writing and rewriting of the script, had a major say in the casting, and often selected the cameraman, composer, and art designers. The producer and his assistants oversaw the director's day-to-day problems of filming, smoothing out difficulties if they were good at their jobs, creating more if they weren't. Producers superceded directors in the final cut of a film. If a director was sufficiently prestigious, he was at least consulted on many of these decisions; if he wasn't, he was informed of them.
There were two other types of Hollywood producers, and though they were few in number, they accounted for much of the best work in the industry. The so-called creative producer was usually a powerful mogul who supervised the production of a film in such exacting detail that he was virtually its artistic creator. David O. Selznick was the most famous of these, for his Gone with the Wind (1939) was the top-grossing movie in history, a supremacy that remained unchallenged for years. "Great films, successful films, are made in their every detail according to the vision of one man," Selznick insisted, and in his own case, that man was David O. Selznick.
Most of the artistically significant works of the American cinema have been created by the top-echelon producer-directors. By controlling the financing of their movies, producer-directors control virtually every aspect of their work, without making crippling concessions and compromises. During the studio era there were about thirty producer-directors, most of them working independently in the majors. They were among the most admired artists in the industry––and also the most commercially successful, or they wouldn't have remained independent for long. In addition to controlling the staging and the placement of the camera (which was true even of most studio-employed directors), producer-directors had the final say about scripts, which they often wrote themselves, or at least closely supervised. In addition, they controlled the casting, scoring, and editing of their movies. Such autonomy was rare during the studio era, as producer-director Frank Capra pointed out in 1939 in the New York Times: "I would say that 80% of the directors today shoot scenes exactly as they are told to shoot them without any changes whatsoever, and that 90% of them have no voice in the story or in the editing."
The following are the most distinguished producer-directors of the studio era: D. W. Griffith, Charles Chaplin, Buster Keaton, Ernst Lubitsch, Frank Capra, John Ford, Howard Hawks, William Wyler, Fritz Lang, John Huston, Orson Welles, Alfred Hitchcock, Billy Wilder, Elia Kazan, Fred Zinnemann, Arthur Penn, Stanley Kubrick, Robert Altman, Leo McCarey, George Stevens, Joseph Mankiewicz, William Wellman, King Vidor, and Preston Sturges.
The studio system began its slow decline in the late 1940s, after the Supreme Court ordered the majors to divest themselves of their theatre chains. Deprived of a guaranteed outlet for their product, the majors gradually were supplanted by more aggressive producers, most of them independents. One by one the stars left the studios, some to drift into obscurity, others to free-lance successfully, a few into independent production. In the early 1950s, television supplanted movies as the country's leading mass medium, siphoning off most of the so-called family audience, which had been the mainstay of the industry during the studio era. Film attendance began to shrink precipitously. In 1946, the industry's peak year, ninety million Americans went to the movies each week––nearly 75 percent of the population. In 1955, this figure had dwindled to forty-six million. By 1973, only twenty million patrons attended weekly––about 10 percent of the population. Though still a big industry, movies have become a minority art, catering to a variety of specialized audiences, most of them young and educated.
Scholars and historians have noted other reasons for the waning of the studios. After World War II, American audiences began to develop more mature tastes in themes, but studio regulars were inclined to favor the romantic, sentimental, and escapist themes of the prewar cinema. MGM, the most prosperous studio since the early 1930s, began to lose touch with the audience's tastes, and except for its excellent musicals of the 1950s, the studio never regained its former eminence. Another factor contributing to the deterioration of the studios was the increasing tendency of filmmakers to shoot on location rather than in Hollywood. The huge back lots and sound stages thus became white elephants, too expensive for the studios to maintain, especially during a period of rapidly escalating production costs. Eventually these facilities were sold or rented out, mostly to television production companies.
By the mid-1950s, most of the old moguls had been replaced by younger men, but it became increasingly apparent that the new era belonged to the independents. They were producing not only the best movies but also the lion's share of the box office hits as well. (Of course the two are by no means incompatible and never have been: some of the greatest films of the American cinema are also its box office champions.) European movies were beginning to make sizable inroads into the American market, and the so-called art theatres catered primarily to these more sophisticated audiences. By the 1960s, the studios were producing only a few expensive "blockbuster" films, leaving the rest of the field to the independent producers, who often distributed their products through the majors. In the area of production, however, the heyday of the studios was clearly over.
Today, American movies are financed through a variety of methods. Many important stars and directors act as their own producers, assuming the financial risks in order to guarantee their artistic autonomy––somewhat in the manner of the founders of United Artists. Others employ a method favored by many important European directors, who relegate the financing and business details to professional producers. Artists can thus concentrate on artistic decisions. A number of independent producers are former agents, who secure their financing by presenting package deals to potential investors. Such packages often include the story property, the director, and one or more "bankable" stars, that is, proven box office magnets. Frequently these artists prefer a percentage of the net profits rather than a straight salary. There are also a few production companies, like AlP, that concentrate on low-budget films––the last vestige of the B tradition. Today the majors––Warner Brothers, Paramount, 20th Century-Fox, Columbia, UA, and Universal––are primarily distributing companies and film investment firms.