In September 1946 the Screen Writers Guild, which had yet to be purged of the left, requested renegotiation of the accord between the United States and France on movies; among other things, this accord had restricted the showing of French films in the United States to Hollywood’s advantage.141 The Guild was concerned about democracy and intellectual exchange, while the moguls were concerned with market share. If the moguls could oust those who stood in their way—like the guild—they could better reach their goal.

The problem was that CSU proceeded as if it were merrily unaware of the larger context of movie production and assumed that militancy alone was sufficient to bring gains. At times the federation seemed not to recognize Hollywood’s importance to the nation’s overall export earnings, balance of trade—and ideological arsenal. Johnston’s trip to London, despite the anti-American feeling he encountered, was a step toward the Cold War, because binding the United States and its erstwhile allies against a common foe—Moscow—would necessarily lead to diminished tensions among Washington, London, and other important capitals. Likewise, targeting and isolating Communists would allow anti-American sentiment to seem the sole province of this increasingly scorned force of Reds, thus sapping the venom from anti-Americanism. Hollywood inevitably became a major force in preparing the way for both the Cold War and the Red Scare. Hollywood helped to produce leaders like Ronald Reagan who were essential in constructing the Red Scare and propelling the Cold War—while CSU often seemed cheerfully oblivious to these larger historical forces that were shaping the terrain on which it fought.

Though “detailed studies of long-term trends of strike activity are surprisingly rare,” it is evident that in the United States “the rate of strike activity has always been high compared with that in other countries”: “strikes [here] have at times involved massive, bitter, and violent struggles between workers and employers.” U.S. strikes often have involved struggles for control of the workplace, while in “other countries the struggle has been politicized or brought under institutional control”—e.g., powerful political parties that avowed to represent the interests of unions and the working class. In Europe during the 1930s “Social Democratic governments in several countries began to take over many functions which had previously been left to market forces. Many key battles were thus moved from the economic to the political arena, and the nature of strike activity changed as a result.” Paradoxically, despite the high rate and bitterness of strikes, the labor movement in the United States has been “among the least radical in political terms.”

The CSU strike was a prototype of this pattern. A “Social Democratic” government in Sacramento or, especially, Washington could have sought to resolve the jurisdictional issue that drove CSU to the picket lines, rather than to collaborate with moguls to drive CSU from the industry. Sorrell alluded to this point when he was asked by a congressman why he seemed to rely more on strikes than law. He responded simply, “[Y]ou can’t do that … [P]eople who tried to go to the law for relief … are eliminated. It is impossible. I can give you one example after another.”2

image An estimated 10,500 CSU workers went on strike in March 1945—and the conflict lasted until October.34 The painter Hans Burkhardt—who once studied with Arshile Gorky and created a painting, Protest, depicting the conflict—recalled it as a “bloody fight, it was terrible.”35 Cecil B. DeMille spoke sadly of “men who had worked for me 25 or more years, walked off the studio lot when the strike was called—tears streaming down their faces. These men were friends of mine since they worked … [on] the production of The Ten Commandments and The King of Kings. One day I walked in the picket line with these men, carrying a banner—not that I was in sympathy with the strike but I was in sympathy with the men.”

This episode left DeMille with a lingering anger. Preparing later to testify before Congress, he noted in reference to CSU leaders—whom he contemptuously referred to as “labor czars”—that a “decision made by 8 or 10 more men could do more damage to this country than 8 or 10 atomic bombs dropped at the same moment.” Vowing to curb this power by dint of legislation, he grumbled that labor “may want the right to strike. That I don’t know. But I do know they want the right to work.” DeMille then pledged to push for a bill that would restrain the power of unions—a bill that came to be known as the Taft-Hartley legislation.37

Seeking to slow the flow of revenue to the studios, CSU also picketed theaters, which the studios had acknowledged more than once as their ne plus ultra. These pickets at theaters became a favored CSU tactic—they were described as the “‘atom bomb’ of the present struggle”; this strategy allowed CSU to harm the box office, while involving whole communities across the nation in its crusade.44 One group picketing the thriller Lady on a Train told potential customers: “Save your money. We’ll tell you all about it. Don’t be fooled by Dan Duryea—Ralph Bellamy did it. He’s the killer. And David Bruce gets the girl!”45 Soon two L.A. theaters agreed to drop any movies made at “unfair” studios until the strike was settled. When “pioneer movie producer D. W. Griffith refused to pass the Paramount theater picket line,” CSU knew that it had devised a sound tactic that could potentially drain the all-important box office receipts.46 CSU began to develop its own blacklist of stars who crossed its picket lines, a growing roster that came to include Rosalind Russell, Robert Montgomery, John Wayne, Leo Carrillo, Humphrey Bogart, Susan Hayward—and many more.47

Selznick’s company also complained about IATSE and collected literature about the alliance’s gangster connections and its attempts to cover them up.58 Yet Selznick had other problems similar to those of the majors. He worried about the “odd chance that one of the girls in [the] stenographic has an Uncle or an Aunt on the picket line.” Fearful, the executives started typing their own documents, which—given their lack of practice—slowed the work process considerably.

Selznick had good reason to be suspicious. CSU joked about its intelligence-gathering capabilities within studio suites: “Take the case of Producer ‘A’: He raves and rants and hatches a move against us and dictates it to his sec, Miss ‘B’… ‘A’ leaves, convinced we’re cooked … ‘B’ grabs the phone and dials us and … well, it works as smooth as that! Sister of Exec ‘F’ is a strong union minded gal… but he doesn’t know! Exec ‘J’ wines his Sec at Mocambo, dines her at LaRue’s and reveals all in his ap’t! … Sort of a very direct wire service.”59

By mid-March 1945 the studios had a weekly payroll of $2.5 million and 130 films on the shelves—a nine-month supply. This was not necessarily the most fortuitous moment for a studio strike.

Still, shortly after the strike was launched, “business offices were in a snarl” and “without electricians to operate generators, no current was available to shoot scenes on prepared sets.” Disney, Monogram, and some independents were unaffected by the strike because they had bargained with Local 1421.72 Columbia, RKO, Universal, Warner Bros., and Fox were affected most severely, with MGM and Paramount right behind.

The Communists were no less displeased with the strike. Sorrell and CSU had “fallen into a trap” they contended. Hutcheson, the “reactionary Republican labor boss of the Carpenters Union and close ally of John L. Lewis,” was a culprit, along with the moguls, they argued; Sorrell’s actions were deemed “highly individualistic and irresponsible.” The Communists claimed that “production” was “virtually unimpaired” by the strike.73 The strike was antidemocratic, they claimed, since CSU as a whole never voted. It simply had backed the “unilateral action” of six hundred Local 1421 members who walked out: “that is the total number of workers in the movie industry who have officially voted to strike.”74

Weeks after this contretemps involving redwood workers, “three masked men broke into the strike headquarters of the printing trade unions…. Don Steep, the lone occupant at the time was said to have been beaten into a state of unconsciousness and securely tied.” The office was wrecked. After that an oil workers’ strike reached “violent heights.” World War II veterans—an increasingly conservative force—formed the “Yardbird Veterans’ Political Association” and offered to recruit scabs. A GI trucking company was formed to cross picket lines that Teamsters would not violate. In turn, when the CIO Brewers Union went on strike, “truckloads of scabs, herded by Los Angeles police and by the Teamsters, daily rushed the… workers’ picket line.” Teamsters clashed with electrical workers; machinists crossed swords with carpenters; the Brotherhood of Railway Trainmen fought the Amalgamated Association of Street, Electrical Railway, and Motor Coach Employees; the welders battled the machinists. The war’s end ushered in a disordered, often violent scene in labor—frequently involving the kind of jurisdictional disputes that had become de rigueur in Hollywood; this pandemonium was not conducive to trade union unity.48

Ralph Peckham, a CSU member, expressed the sentiments of many when he exclaimed, “I’m tired of dealing with lawyers. I want to go back to painting.”163 Happily, it was reported, the “first break in the solidarity of the defendants” came as five decided to plead guilty and were fined a meager $25 each. This ruling was an invitation to break ranks with CSU—and the invitation was accepted. For those not interested, the city offered another disincentive: all defendants had to attend all court sessions, including the picking of a jury. This decision effectively demobilized CSU, which had to shift from picketing to sitting in uncomfortable, makeshift courtrooms jammed with hundreds.164

But a month later he had retreated swiftly. In late November 1947 the moguls, through Johnston’s trade association, announced that they would suspend the screenwriters and directors who came to be called the Hollywood Ten until they declared “under oath” that they were not Reds; the industry, it was reported, would “not knowingly employ a Communist.”185 There was dissent at first. John Huston, George Stevens, John Ford, William Wyler, and other leading directors told Speaker of the House Joseph Martin and the HUAC chairman that they were “opposed to communism” but wanted “guarantees of the Constitution,” too.186 But with the decimation of CSU and its progressive voice, picking off writers, directors, and actors became easier. The blacklist had begun.

The practice was endorsed quickly by IATSE, the Teamsters, and most of the Hollywood unions. It was enforced, too. This exclusionary practice, contrary to popular opinion, did not affect writers, directors and actors alone.187