by
Elia Kazan
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Months before, Julie Garfield had testified as I intended to, not offering names, defying the committee. Immediately well-wishers, whose number included his agents and others who had a financial stake in his well-being, were at his side to advise him that if he maintained the position he’d taken, his career in films was over. The studio heads already were afraid to employ him, and a star was becoming an unemployed actor. When I saw Julie, the impression I had was that he’d begun to look seedy and to wonder what was most important in his life. He turned to a lawyer, Louis Nizer, for advice, and I suspected that Julie’s feelings were shifting to a more “reasonable” position. His wife, Roberta, had hints of Julie’s evolving change of heart and disapproved of it. Julie told me that he was now uncomfortable in his own home, that his living room was always full of people who were scornful of him—friends of his wife. He said that when he came home he didn’t feel welcomed. He hadn’t done anything overt, but the left was alert and quick to condemn.
ahh the justifications begin
AT TEN-THIRTY on the morning of January 14, 1952, I arrived a half hour early in the chambers of the House Committee on Un-American Activities in Washington. I’d made up my mind what I was going to say: that I’d been a member for a year and a half, that I’d quit in disgust, that the plan of the Party to take over the Group Theatre had failed, that we’d never really influenced the course of our theatre. I knew they’d ask me to name the others in our “cell” and I’d refuse.
I described what happened in Washington, told him that I was sure from a reaction on Kearney’s face that I’d soon be called back for a public session. What did I intend to do then? Bela asked. When I told him, he said, “Wouldn’t that make you unacceptable to the film industry?” “Probably,” I said. “Wouldn’t that be a terrible loss for you?” I said I’d thought it over carefully and decided I could get along okay without film work. I had the theatre and even a play to do immediately. And some money saved. “I can take the loss,” I said. He seemed dubious. “I’m wondering,” he said, “if your fellow members would do the same for you if they were called upon to protect you by endangering their careers.” It was obvious what he thought. I recalled that Bela was a refugee from … I’d never asked him exactly from where, but to judge from his accent, it was east of Vienna. “That’s not the point,” I said, and changed the subject.
prisoner's dilemma :/
At the same time, when I thought about it, I agreed with Molly. I believed it was the duty of the government to investigate the Communist movement in our country. I couldn’t behave as if my old “comrades” didn’t exist and didn’t have an active political program. There was no way I could go along with their crap that the CP was nothing but another political party, like the Republicans and the Democrats. I knew very well what it was, a thoroughly organized, worldwide conspiracy. This conviction separated me from many of my old friends.
So I was in the clutch of a dilemma, between two emotions, swaying one way, then the other, and the squeeze was just beginning. I didn’t want to cooperate with this committee. On the other hand, I didn’t want to defend the Party by a silence on critical points of their inquiry.
is it?????
She was getting into bed, and that woke me. All excited and very happy, she announced her engagement. “I’m going to get married,” she said. “I made up my mind tonight.” “A hell of a time to tell me,” I said. “It’s three-thirty in the morning.” “I wanted to tell you first,” she said, “because now I’m not going to see you again.” “Sounds real this time,” I said. “He comes all the way down from San Francisco just to have dinner with me,” she said, “and we haven’t even done it yet!” She sounded astonished. “Who?” I said. “Who are you talking about?” “Joe,” she said. “He wants to marry me, and I really like him. He’s not like these movie people. He’s dignified.” Then she went on about Joe DiMaggio, and I could tell she really did like him. It was nice to see someone so happy and so hopeful. We made love; congratulations and farewell.
crazy lol
Was I really a leftist? Had I ever been? Did I really want to change the social system I was living under? Apparently that was what I’d stood for at one time. But what shit! Everything I had of value I’d gained under that system. After seventeen years of watching the Soviet Union turn into an imperialist power, was that truly what I wanted here? Hadn’t I been clinging to once-held loyalties that were no longer valid?
Wasn’t what I’d been defending up until now by my silence a conspiracy working for another country? Hadn’t I watched my “comrades” staggering through political switch after political switch by instructions not written in this country?
this allegiance to 'country' feels so parochial and im sure he knows it
Reader, I don’t seek your favor. I’ve been telling you only some of the things I was asking myself on the way “down.” But if you expect an apology now because I would later name names to the House Committee, you’ve misjudged my character. The “horrible, immoral thing” I would do, I did out of my true self. Everything before was seventeen years of posturing. The people who owe you an explanation (no apology expected) are those who, year after year, held the Soviets blameless for all their crimes.
I WAS drifting. So I decided to consult some friends who I was certain were “on the side of the angels” and would want to talk me out of wrongdoing.
I wrote down what follows early in the spring of 1952, before I’d testified “cooperatively.” It is from a diary.
A conversation with Art Miller, in the woods back of my home. I mentioned that Skouras had implied I couldn’t work in pictures anymore if I didn’t name the other lefties in the Group, then told Art I’d prepared myself for a period of no movie work or money, that I was prepared to face this if it was worthwhile. But that I didn’t feel altogether good about such a decision. That I’d say (to myself) what the hell am I giving all this up for? To defend a secrecy I didn’t think right and to defend people who’d already been named or soon would be by someone else? I said I’d hated the Communists for many years and didn’t feel right about giving up my career to defend them. That I would give up my film career if it was in the interests of defending something I believed in but not this.
Art said that it would be a personal disaster for him if I was “run out of pictures.” He hoped that would not happen. He could see that it would concern me deeply. After all, he could write in jail, whereas I couldn’t make movies except with financing and an organization of some kind. I said I wasn’t contemplating doing it to save my job. But since this was going to happen, I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t. I only had to consider this: was I sacrificing for something I believed in? I didn’t believe in the secret membership of the Communists, had fought it when I was a member. I then told Art how I’d been pushed to resign from the Party.
Art and I had never been frank about the Communist business. This was as much my fault as his and as much his as mine. But mainly it was that no one asked if his friend was a Communist in these days. Art never offered to tell me. He knew I was anti-Communist, but I’d always refrained from what I considered to be “red-baiting.” Art went on about the political situation. He was against the Marshall Plan [which I was for; it rescued Greece] and against what we were doing in Korea. He said I was naive. We talked for three-quarters of an hour. He looked terribly worried. Walking back to the house, just before we came into the view of the other people, he stopped and put his arm around me in his awkward way—the side of his body against mine—and said, “Don’t worry about what I’ll think. Whatever you do will be okay with me. Because I know your heart is in the right place.” I was surprised by the phrase and, as soon as I could, wrote it down. “Your heart is in the right place.” It was like the truth in a pop song title. There was no doubt that Art meant it and that he was anxious to say this to me before we separated. We parted on affectionate terms.
[after he testifies cooperatively, arthur miller snubs him, so he says, a few months later, tho they do work together again ten years later]
I STILL hadn’t made up my mind what to do. I was edging toward cooperating with the committee, but of all the people I might name, the one for whom I felt the most concern and affection was Clifford. I certainly couldn’t name him—if I chose that way—without his permission. I made up my mind, as I asked him to have dinner with me, that if I found him in accord with my old “loyal leftist” position, which is what I expected, I’d not name him, not name anyone.
We ate at Clifford’s favorite restaurant, The Lobster, just off Broadway, where the environment was down to earth, the seafood fresh, and the waiters familiar. Then we walked slowly uptown, and I told him that I was of two minds, but seemed to be veering toward telling the committee everything I knew about the Party in the Group. Yes, I’d name the others in the cell with us, all seven of them, and name him too. Then I told him that if he did not agree to my naming him, I’d do as others had done, refuse to cooperate with the committee. I’d give up filmmaking and work in the theatre; I was prepared for that. “But,” I said, “both you and I know what the Party is. I remember you explaining the Stalin-Hitler pact to Frances Farmer sympathetically, but those days are long gone, aren’t they? You wouldn’t do that now, would you? Not sympathetically. I don’t have any respect for the Party’s secrecy and won’t mind breaking it, and I don’t have any respect for their program. I do have respect for the truth and the effect that it would have if it was spoken. I believe we should all of us name all of us, establish the truth of what went on. That would make clear how small the scale was, and this thing would be off our backs. But you are one of my best friends, and I won’t even consider that without your permission.”
He was silent. Naturally he’d given the issue a great deal of thought. To my surprise, I found that what he needed from me was what I’d needed from him, permission to name the other. We were, it turned out, in agreement, and when his time came he did the same thing I did, he named names.
The sad fact is that what was possible for me hurt Clifford mortally. He was never the same after he testified. He gave away his identity when he did that; he was no longer the hero-rebel, the fearless prophet of a new world. It choked off the voice he’d had. The ringing tone, the burst of passion, were no longer there. What in the end gave me strength drained him of his. I realize now that my action in the matter had influenced him strongly. I wish it had not. I believe he should have remained defiant, maintained his treasured identity, and survived as his best self. He was to die before he died.
CONCERNED friends have asked why I didn’t take the “decent alternative,” tell everything about myself and not name the others in the Group. But in the end that was not what I wanted. Perhaps ex-Communists are particularly unrelenting against the Party. I believed that this committee, which everyone scorned—I had plenty against them too—had a proper duty. I wanted to help break open the secrecy.