University of Southern California Dissertations and Theses

What looked like cruelty: animal welfare in Hollywood, 1916-1950

(USC Thesis Other)

What looked like cruelty: animal welfare in Hollywood, 1916-1950

PDF

Download a page range

Download transcript

Copy asset link

Request this asset

Transcript (if available)

Content WHAT LOOKED LIKE CRUELTY: ANIMAL WELFARE IN HOLLYWOOD, 1916—1950 by Courtney E. White A Dissertation Presented to the FACULTY OF THE USC GRADUATE SCHOOL UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA In Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY (CINEMATIC ARTS: CRITICAL STUDIES) May 2015 Copyright 2015 Courtney E. White Dedication For Andy, who lived with this as long as I did, and Leslie, who taught me about animals TABLE OF CONTENTS Introduction Animal Imagery and the Filmed Animal Body … 1 Chapter One “The Motion Picture Industry and Its Attendant Cruelties”: Humane Societies, Censorship, and the American Film Industry, 1915-1925 … 24 Chapter Two Lions, Tigers, Bears, and Bullfights: The Transitional Period, 1926-1935 … 87 Chapter Three “It Must Have Been Tough on the Horses and Extras”: From The Charge of the Light Brigade to Jesse James, 1936-1939 … 131 Chapter Four Richard C. Craven and the Western Regional Office, 1940-1947 … 187 Conclusion Protecting Your Ass: 1950 and Beyond … 240 Bibliography … 250 1 Introduction: Animal Imagery and the Filmed Animal Body Animals need an advocate. They need somebody saying, “No, it’s too much.” “They’re too tired. “It’s too scary for them.” “Something could happen” …You can actually do amazing, eye-popping things. You just need the time to train the animals and get them ready so they don’t get hurt. —Quentin Tarantino 1 From its inception, motion picture technology has been linked to the animal body. Eadweard Muybridge’s studies of equine locomotion and the birds captured by Etienne-Jules Marey’s photographic gun; Thomas Edison’s Electrocuting an Elephant and the horses of Edwin S. Porter’s The Great Train Robbery and Life of an American Fireman (all 1903); Cecil Hepworth’s Rescued by Rover (1905): these are merely some of the best-known examples of early cinematic depictions of animals. Animals have never been entirely absent from the screen. And yet, the history of animals in cinema remains remarkably neglected by historians of both film and animals. This is despite the fact that, just as animals themselves have never been absent from the screen, allegations of their mistreatment by filmmakers have never been absent from discourse. Animal media scholar Claire Molloy gives the following (admittedly lengthy) summary of why this scholarly neglect has been perpetuated: First, the scale of suffering involved in experimentation, hunting and factory farming is of a different magnitude from that experienced by animal actors; second, there is the reassurance in the end credits of many films and television programmes that “No animals were harmed,” the statement being a registered trademark of the American Humane Association, which monitors the use of animals during productions; third, there is a certain glamour associated with the film and television industries that lends credence to the idea that the animals who appear onscreen enjoy the benefits that are bestowed on all those who work in “show business”; fourth, animal performances are an undeniable source of entertainment and pleasure…and there is a tacit assumption, perpetuated by publicity and promotional discourses that include “behind the scenes” glimpses, that the actors, who are especially talented, enjoy what they do. 2 2 Molloy’s summary neatly encapsulates the purposes of this dissertation. To take each of her points in turn: first, certainly, the suffering endured by animals in the production of motion pictures has always been exponentially smaller in magnitude than the suffering endured by animals in laboratories or factory farms. But this lack of scale does not make the subject unworthy of attention. As will be demonstrated, animal welfare advocates always believed that the treatment of animal actors was important, though this point has been largely overlooked by animal and film historians. Second, American Humane Association monitoring did not officially begin until December 1940; the origins of its allegiance with the Motion Pictures Producers and Distributors of America (now the Motion Picture Association of America) has never been satisfactorily explored, and nor has the half-century or so of commercial filmmaking that took place prior to the organizations’ alliance. Third and fourth, the “certain glamour” and “tacit assumption…that the actors…enjoy what they do” are concepts that have, since 1940, been perpetuated in large part by the American Humane Association. During the latter years of the studio system era, this was done in conjunction with the system itself, thanks to the AHA/MPPDA allegiance. Where the relationship between animal welfare advocates and Hollywood has been addressed at all, the analysis has been brief, superficial, and often partially or even mostly incorrect. Thus, the primary goal of this dissertation is to provide a history and analysis of these relations. In particular, it addresses the realities of animal bodies on camera and behind the scenes, how humane organizations shifted their operational strategies from roundly denouncing the industry to eventually collaborating with it, and how Hollywood responded to these shifts. In other words, how and why did the AHA transform itself from a mere motion picture pressure group to part of the industry’s self-regulatory strategy, an allegiance that lasted until the 3 Production Code Administration was dismantled in 1968? 3 Analysis is thus situated within existing discourses on motion picture censorship, and hopes to both draw from and inform these discourses. It aims to historically contextualize the numerous animal welfare debates of the times, to correct common contemporary misconceptions about where, when, and why humane activists protested against certain films or types of films as well as the results of these protests, and to assert the importance of these issues to both film studies and animal studies. 4 Literature Review Animal imagery is powerful. As Jacob Smith has noted, “Early American filmmakers turned to animal spectacle for subject matter, as can be seen in Edison Company films such as Trained Bears, Cock Fight, Rat Killing, and Sommersault Dog, all from 1894 […] Edison filmed circus performers such as…O’Brien’s Trained Horses and trained elephants from the Barnum and Bailey Circus.” 5 Cinema also partially inherited its attitudes towards animals from the Victorian attitudes towards them, expressed through art and literature, and, perhaps most importantly for this study, animal protection movements that emerged largely during the Victorian period. When animals have been critically evaluated in motion pictures, the discussion has often been framed in terms of the shift from pre-modernity to modernity, a shift that has been described by a number of authors as marked by “disappearing” animals. Stemming from John Berger’s seminal essay “Why Look at Animals?”, this line of thinking posits that Western civilization’s transition from a predominantly rural to a predominantly urban, modern, and capitalist way of life caused regular contact between humans and animals to be greatly reduced from what it was in pre-modern times. Subsequently, Western modernity marks animals by their 4 absence, or by their continual state of disappearing, rather than their presence; the animal, once marked by its own absence, becomes a metaphor. As the opening of Berger’s essay states: The nineteenth century, in Western Europe and North America, saw the beginning of a process…by which every tradition which has previously mediated between man and nature was broken. Before this rupture, animals constituted the first circle of what surrounded man. Perhaps that already suggests too great a distance. They were with man at the centre of his world. 6 For Berger, in modernity, the encounter between man and animal is resituated in the form of zoos, which “constitute the living monument to their own disappearance.” 7 Jonathan Burt has stated that the “main rupture of the nineteenth century as determined by the overall historical perspective of Berger’s thesis” is “the linguistic animal is replaced by the visual animal.” 8 For Steve Baker, following Berger and also writing about art, “there was no modern animal,” or rather, “The modern animal is thus the nineteenth-century animal…which has been made to disappear.” 9 Berger’s framework has proven particularly influential in film scholarship about animals. Akira Mizuta Lippit has called the “perpetual vanishing” of the animal a “cliché of modernity,” 10 arguing that “Modernity can be defined by the disappearance of wildlife from humanity’s habitat and by the reappearance of the same in humanity’s reflections on itself: in philosophy, psychoanalysis, and technological media such as the telephone, film, and radio.” 11 Jonathan Burt has complicated these perspectives, arguing that “These themes of emptiness and the disappearance of the animal not only describe a sense of loss in modernity but reinforce this loss by the very terms of the analysis […] The disengagement from the animal…reinforces at a conceptual level the effacement of the animal that is perceived to have taken place in reality even whilst criticizing that process.” 12 Berger and others have generally used “the animal” as a nonspecific animal, a conceptual category distinguishing humans from other living beings. The argument that certain species of 5 animals, in particular wildlife, disappeared from many everyday lives during the transition to modernity seems incontestable. But the assessment should be complicated. Of course, not all animals disappeared from even the most urban of environments. In addition to species most people likely wished would disappear, such as mice and rats, domesticated species remained in cities both as companions and working animals. For instance, urban historians Clay McShane and Joel A. Tarr have demonstrated that horses remained in regular use on city streets, performing delivery functions, until “well after World War II.” 13 The extent to which humans continued to interact with animals, particularly domesticated animals, has perhaps been underexamined, not only in art history and film but across the humanities. As literature scholar Jennifer Mason has compellingly stated: In American literary and cultural studies, the second half of the nineteenth century is universally understood to be a period of intense interest in animals and their relationship to people. Explanations of why this is so, however, have been subordinated to a particularly resilient critical narrative about the importance of the nation’s wild nature—a narrative that links the importance of such nature to its absence from most people’s daily lives. 14 According to Mason, “the problem…lies in the perversely durable notions of American exceptionalism that pervade discussions of America’s…relation to the nonhuman.” 15 She points to “myriad critiques and revisions” of the “centrality of the wilderness romance,” arguing that these critiques have “sustained and even extended several assumptions fundamental to the original articulation of this thesis. Among these is the notion that animals became important to the American literary imagination precisely at the point they became absent from most people’s everyday lives.” 16 For Mason, “domesticated animals have remained a critical blind spot in American studies, even in the work of those most committed to rejecting the dichotomized view of nature and culture, in which humans exist ‘outside’ of nature and contact between human and 6 nonhuman renders the nonhuman ‘unnatural.’” 17 Mason writes specifically about American literature (and is particularly interested in challenging the centrality of Thoreau in writings about Americans, modernity, and animals), but her case for considering the presence of domesticated animals in modern urban life is particularly useful for helping to reposition our thinking about animals in film. The disappearing animal in modernity is a compelling paradigm, but to the extent that it tends to configure animals as metaphors, things that have already disappeared, or markers of absence, it undercuts the historical specificity of real (often quotidian) animals and how people interacted with them. Pete Porter has interpreted the disappearance of animals as the disappearance of livestock: No longer would most humans experience the raising of chickens for eggs or cows for milk. No longer would most humans experience the lives and deaths of cows, pigs, chickens or lambs. As industrialization collected human labor to build and operate its machines, it collected animal bodies that it dissected, packaged, and distributed as commodity forms that efface their origins. 18 Porter’s point with regards to the industrialization of meat production is particularly well taken in light of the fact that certain animal welfare groups, the American Humane Association among them, frequently organized around cattle transportation and slaughterhouse reform. As Burt has argued, the transition to modernity was perhaps less about the disappearance of animal life than it was the disappearance of animal death; furthermore, Burt links this transition to the nineteenth century’s rise in animal welfare movements: Animals needed to be seen to be treated correctly which was an important and measureable criterion of welfare and an index of what it was to be a visibly civilized society. It was also increasingly the case that those practices involving animal death, most notably slaughter and scientific experiment, became less and less visible in the public domain. The loss in human-animal relations in the nineteenth century is primarily the marginalisation of animal death rather than animal disappearance per se. 19 7 Animal advocates in the early 20 th century were not thinking about animals as beings that had disappeared. Rather, they were thinking about the animals that visibly suffered most at the hands of humans, and how best to prevent that suffering. This requires a slightly different, though certainly not incompatible, framework for thinking about how to write human/animal histories. The task of writing animal histories has always been, and remains, a difficult one. Erica Fudge has outlined some of the primary complications. First, she argues that humans learn about and write histories via documents, which animals are incapable of producing. Second, humans organize the past into periods, though animals almost certainly do not have a sense of periodization. As Fudge points out, “If our only access to animals in the past is through documents written by humans, then we are never looking at the animals, only the representation of the animals by humans.” 20 Though this gives us documents—“we read humans writing about animals”—it brings a potential problem to the forefront: “the real animal can disappear.” 21 Thus, she argues, “it is in use—in the material relation with the animal—that representations must be grounded…if we ignore the very real impact of human dominion…we are ignoring the fundamental role animals have played in the past.” 22 This is particularly true for writing about animals in Hollywood-style narrative fiction films, which are doubly grounded in human dominion. The animal onscreen today (and throughout most fictional narrative films, historically) is typically trained to work on film or, at the very least, has been arranged in front of a camera by humans. The animal characters in films are written by humans and thus based on various human discourses about and conceptions of animals, grounded in previous representations of animals. In considering works of art and representations, we do have to deal with the image/text split, the animal as metaphor. But in films using real animal bodies, the question of death must 8 also be dealt with, because animals did (and still sometimes do) die making films—though their deaths were not always displayed on the screen. Horses, to this day indispensable in Westerns and many historical pictures, and therefore always narrative cinema’s most filmed animals, were at the core of the most important of the studio system’s animal abuse scandals. This does not mean that other species, including non-domesticated ones, were not of concern to animal activists. They were. The point is that in writing a history of animals and cinema, more attention needs to be paid to these real, non-metaphorical animals, and how humans interacted with them. Finally, it is useful to consider Jonathan Burt’s Animals in Film, which engages with both history and theory in an attempt to develop an understanding of the “screen power” carried by images of animals. Why, Burt asks, does “the relationship between visual imagery and ethics play such a significant part in its history?” 23 The question should be kept in mind. As Burt notes: At one level the regulation of animal imagery is determined by the institutions of censorship, animal law, and animal-related organizations of all kinds, as well as by the film companies themselves. In addition there are other factors that also have a significant input, such as popular protest, amateur naturalism, public interest in pet-keeping, conservation and education. 24 These are precisely the issues which will resonate throughout the subsequent chapters of this dissertation, and they are perhaps more closely related than Burt makes them out to be. Members of humane organizations (who included amateur naturalists, conservationists, education reformers, and pet-lovers) became united in popular protests against film companies. Executives of the American Humane Association became keenly aware of how the film industry functioned long before they established a representative in Hollywood; they were also aware of changing censorship laws, and used this knowledge in the organization of protests against Hollywood film companies. There were two closely related ethical issues to consider (though the humanitarians generally framed them as moral issues, which they also were). First was the question of whether 9 it was acceptable to harm animals—or to put them in situations that were likely to cause harm or emotional distress—for the purposes of making a picture. For the humanitarians, obviously, the answer was no, but the question was complicated by the fact that it was impossible to agree on precise definitions of harm, suffering, or emotional distress. Second, for many years, humanitarians believed that animals should not be shown suffering even if the suffering was entirely fictional and created through movie magic. In his discussion of animal acts in live stage shows, Michael Peterson has argued that one way to approach these acts is to consider them “as constructions of social relations between humans and animals,” considering analysis of both how animals are used in human performances and “of the content produced by this relationship” in what he terms the “animal apparatus.” 25 The animal apparatus is a useful concept because it both poses and helps to answer a key question posed by Peterson: “How are animals made to perform? […] At its simplest level…most animal acting involves framing trained behaviors.” 26 Collars, reins, bits, whips, and so forth help to frame animal behaviors in both theater and film, and are thus part of both cinematic and theatrical animal apparatuses. Drawing on Peterson, Molloy has pointed to the organization of the film industry and to film’s established representational codes as essential parts of the cinematic apparatus. 27 In particular, cinema has the ability to use techniques such as special photographic effects and editing to alter performances. The animal apparatus, thus adapted, provides a tool for analyzing nonhuman actors that acknowledges the doubly constructed nature of the filmed animal performance. It allows for evaluation of what might be called, for lack of a better term, the animal actor’s talent. More importantly, the question of how animals were and are made to perform through the cinematic animal apparatus is never really absent from any part of this dissertation. What looked like cruelty onscreen was not always so, but animal welfare advocates often argued that the appearance of cruelty—regardless of whether the cruelty had actually been inflicted upon the animal, or was constructed through cinema’s representational codes—was almost as 10 troublesome as actual cruelty. Implied cruelty was believed to be devastating because the general public would not understand that it had been faked, and because it had the potential to inspire mimetic behavior which would either cause audiences to harm animals themselves or, at the very least, become inured to real-life animal suffering. When film historians have addressed the history of animal welfare in film, they have typically related the story in similar ways, with similar misconceptions. The first typical misconception about humane activism in Hollywood is that there was none of any significance until (depending on the source) either The Charge of the Light Brigade (Warner Bros., dir. Michael Curtiz, 1936), or Jesse James (Twentieth Century-Fox, dir. Henry King, 1939). It is then reported that after one, the other, or both of these films, the American Humane Association moved in and fixed things. It is true that these films were particular catalysts, but the humane welfare furor over them did not emerge from a vacuum, as most accounts would make it seem. The lack of scholarship on this topic seems surprising, given the fact that the AHA allied itself with the Production Code Administration and that scholarship on motion picture censorship has been otherwise comprehensive. For instance, Richard Maltby’s excellent and thorough chapter on the PCA in Tino Balio’s Grand Design discusses the influence of political censorship in general and British censorship laws in particular, but mentions Light Brigade only in passing, and as part of a cycle of “comparatively high-budget historical pieces” that were “aimed at convincing middle-class America of the bourgeois respectability of the cinema,” rather than in relation to political censorship. 28 Thomas Doherty’s biography of Joseph Breen, Hollywood’s Censor, devotes a single paragraph to the Light Brigade case. This makes it one of the best- developed scholarly accounts of the film’s significance. According to Doherty: Breen’s guidance on foreign affairs was especially valued for dealings with Hollywood’s most important overseas market, the British Empire 11 […] Spurred to action by the equestrian carnage in Warner Bros.’s The Charge of the Light Brigade (1937), the British parliament empowered the British Board of Film Censors to ban any film implying cruelty to animals, a hard blow to the stampedes and rodeos in Hollywood westerns. To placate British sensitivities, the studios kept a more solicitous eye on horses than stuntmen, employing on-set observers and obtaining affidavits from humane societies. 29 It is true that British law did not place an outright ban on animal cruelty in films until the passing of 1937’s Cinematograph Act, and that the passing of the act may have been inspired in part by Light Brigade. However, as will be demonstrated, Light Brigade was only the most recent and visible example of a longstanding de facto policy; the BBFC had been operating on a principle of rejecting films that depicted cruelty to animals since its inception in 1913. 30 And, of course, the Production Code Administration was well aware of what foreign censor boards were likely to cut. Jonathan Burt touches upon both Light Brigade and Jesse James but does not examine either film in depth. Peter Lev’s studio history Twentieth Century-Fox: The Zanuck-Skouras Years, 1935-1965 also mentions Light Brigade in passing, as part of an industry-wide 1930s cycle of films about British imperialism. 31 More importantly, Lev provides a brief case study of Jesse James, positioning the film as an example of the studio’s house style, which he roughly defines as “nostalgic stories from the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, often set in the Midwest or West”—Americana, with an emphasis on biopics. 32 The offending and deadly stunt is noted only as an example of the film’s high production values: color film, location shooting in Missouri, and “impressive landscapes and one remarkable stunt scene where Frank James (Henry Fonda) and younger brother Jesse (Tyrone Power) evade pursuers by riding their horses over a high cliff and landing in a river.” 33 Claire Molloy correctly notes the changes to the Production Code following Jesse James, the affiliation between the AHA and MPPDA, and the fact that “studios became increasingly aware of the commercial implications of having their industry 12 branded as ‘cruel’,” but does not acknowledge Light Brigade, or that studios had become aware of these commercial implications as far back as 1923. 34 The popular press has also touched on the history of animal welfare in Hollywood. One of the most notable accounts is Petrine Day Mitchum’s 2005 book Hollywood Hoofbeats: Trails Blazed Across the Silver Screen. 35 Mitchum devotes a chapter to the sometimes humane (but often not) stunt work performed by equine actors, spanning the silent to contemporary periods. Overall, this is probably the longest and most thorough text available on the history of horses in cinema, and it does a good job addressing certain aspects of animal cruelty in films—for instance, Mitchum provides a particularly clear explanation of the horse tripping device known as the “Running W.” In the course of researching this dissertation, Hollywood Hoofbeats was recommended numerous times by librarians and archivists, as well as by a representative of the American Humane Association’s Film and Television Unit. However, there are numerous problems with this account. Because the book’s subject is the history of horses in Hollywood, Mitchum’s discussion of animal welfare fails to acknowledge other species. Light Brigade gets only two short paragraphs, while Jesse James is limited to a single paragraph and a photo caption. In addition, there are many historical inaccuracies, such as the estimation that 25 horses were killed during Light Brigade’s charge sequence, though records indicate only six perished. Avoiding most details of the films’ production histories, she provides only the briefest of explanations for how these films led to AHA oversight, and it is problematic at best: Errol Flynn was furious and went public with his outrage. It took a star of Flynn’s magnitude to focus producers’ attention on the treatment of performing animals, but it would still be several years before the public joined his cry and Running Ws were banned […] As a result of the public outcry [over Jesse James and a Cecil B. DeMille/Gary Cooper western, North West Mounted Police], the American Humane Association’s head, Richard C. Craven, worked with the Motion Picture Producer’s 13 Association’s Hays Office (created in 1927 to establish moral codes for the film industry) to set guidelines for protecting performing animals. 36 The passage seems correct, but it is not. The Hays Office, of course, was founded in 1922, not 1927, and it was not created solely to establish moral codes for the film industry. Richard C. Craven was never the head of the American Humane Association; he was the first director of the Western Regional Unit, which was established late in 1939 partially to liaise with Hollywood and partially to give the AHA a greater presence on the West Coast; after assuming the post, Craven continued to perform humane work that had nothing to do with the film industry. Sydney H. Coleman, who was the AHA’s president at the time (and had been since 1924), was responsible for most of the initial contact with the Hays Office immediately following Light Brigade. Errol Flynn may well have been upset, but there is no direct evidence to support this claim; both an original source for the quote as well as the quote itself remain unknown. As will be discussed, while animal abuse likely occurred throughout the production, the worst of the equine carnage happened with the second unit (to be fair, Mitchum does correctly note that second unit director B. Reeves “Breezy” Eason was responsible for the worst of it); at the time it took place, Flynn was hundreds of miles away, shooting with Curtiz. Light Brigade was one of Flynn’s first major roles. He was not, at the time, a star of particularly great magnitude, and as he was signed to a long-term contract with Warner Bros., it is difficult to believe that the tightly controlled studio publicity machine of the time would have let one of its rising leading men criticize a film in which he starred so openly. Flynn subsequently made other films, most notably Virginia City, that employed Running Ws. And, in fact, the public was well aware that horses had died during Light Brigade, thanks to joint efforts from the AHA and the San Francisco Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, among other organizations. There was no 14 extensive humane uproar over North West Mounted Police (though understandably, Cecil B. DeMille was occasionally on the receiving end of humane society ire, and it is entirely possible that two horses died as a result of Running Ws, as Mitchum claims). Finally, a recent AHA book, Animal Stars (2014) includes the following account which, though certainly more correct than Mitchum’s, nevertheless contains a number of inaccuracies: After the 1939 movie Jesse James, AHA opened its western regional office in Hollywood, California to fight cruelty to animals in film and television. During the filming of Jesse James, in a horrific act of blatant disregard for animal safety, a terrified, blindfolded horse was forced to carry a cowboy while jumping off a cliff into a lake. The cowboy lived. The defenseless horse broke his back and died. In 1940, AHA picketed the movie industry for using wires to trip horses so they would fall for the camera. The Motion Picture Production Code (known as the Hays Code at the time) condemned the practice of horse tripping. AHA and the Motion Pictures Producers and Distributors of America (which became the Motion Picture Association of America) stated that AHA safety representatives should be consulted on all films requiring animals and be on set to supervise animal action. 37 It would perhaps be nitpicking to note that in 1939, the AHA was not at all concerned with television, still very much in its infancy. More to the point: two horses were thrown over the cliff for Jesse James, ridden not by “a cowboy” but by Cliff Lyons, who was one of Hollywood’s leading stunt men. Only one of the horses died, and according to eyewitness accounts, this was from drowning, not a broken back. The AHA did picket the movie industry to stop using Running Ws in 1940; in fact, it had been continuously picketing on this matter since 1936, and intermittently before then. Neither of these popular press accounts acknowledge the legal implications of foreign censor boards as an impetus for reform. There are many cultural and theoretical implications beyond the ones addressed in this dissertation. The events described took place during times of tremendous social and political upheaval: the continuing emergence of women in the public sphere, ongoing discussions about 15 race, Prohibition, the Great Depression, and both the First and Second World Wars were all crucial to the strategies and aims humane organizations. Though the importance of these broader implications cannot be denied, this dissertation is written largely from the perspective of film history. Existing work on the studio system—and in particular, motion picture censorship— provided a model for analysis. But because the history of animals in motion pictures has been so understudied, the vast majority of research in this dissertation comes from primary sources. I draw in particular on the AHA’s national magazine, The National Humane Review, as well as the MPPDA Digital Archives (hosted by Flinders University in Adelaide, Australia), the Production Code Administration files and MGM production files from the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences’ Margaret Herrick Library in Los Angeles, California and the Warner Bros. Archives at the University of Southern California, also in Los Angeles. Whenever possible, I have included information from trade press as well as daily newspapers and other popular publications. Additional sources and research assistance were provided by the Autry Library in Los Angeles. I am also indebted to the Carlo M. De Ferrari Archive in Sonora, California, which was kind enough to scan official court records and local newspaper clippings regarding The Charge of the Light Brigade, and to the Mary Baker Eddy Library, which provided information about The Christian Science Monitor. Chapter overview While it is probable that many, if not a majority, of animals were treated kindly on set (at least by the standards of the day) prior to 1940, many others were not. In addition to all the horses that were thrown to the ground, or over cliffs, undomesticated species that would either avoid confrontation in the wild or would never naturally encounter each other in the wild were 16 put in close quarters and provoked to fight in front of cameras; smaller animals had wires affixed to their bodies, that they might be posed in certain positions; animals were given drugs to make them irritated and thus appear more lively. These instances occurred in both “A” and “B” productions as well as studio-made shorts and independently produced features. On at least one occasion, animal welfare advocates complained about a newsreel. There was significant, meaningful interaction between the American Humane Association and various film industry representatives (in particular exhibitors and state and local censor boards) throughout the silent period. Chapter 1, “The Motion Picture Industry and Its Attendant Cruelties: Humane Societies, Censorship, and the American Film Industry, 1915- 1925” explores this initial contact between humane societies and Hollywood. 38 What did humane activists think about the film industry during these years, and how did they encourage members to engage or participate with movies and motion picture culture? The answer is not a straightforward one, in part because welfare organizations sometimes disagreed as to whether animals were being mistreated at all and, if they were, what ought to be done about it. Though attention is focused on the American Humane Association, other groups—including the Los Angeles Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals and the Los Angeles-based American Animal Defense League—played important roles. Frequently, during this time, the relationship between humane societies and Hollywood was downright antagonistic. In the eyes of most humane reformers, children’s moral development and animal welfare were issues that could not be completely disentangled. A humanely educated child would be taught to respect other people, the law, and animals equally; groups such as the AADL followed this logic though they did not include the protection of children in their mission statements, as the AHA did. Throughout the teens and twenties, the AHA’s primary publication, The National Humane Review, called for 17 federal censorship of motion pictures, mainly on the grounds that “dirty” pictures, crime films, and the like were endangering the youth of America. Of course, the Legion of Decency and other moral reform groups ultimately proved more effective at convincing Hollywood to bring about a “cleaner” classical cinema. 39 Even before 1934, when the Production Code began to be stringently enforced, the AHA and other reform groups had begun to shift their film-related focus from protecting the minds and morals of America’s youth to preventing filmmakers from inflicting deliberate cruelties on animals—though, to a certain extent, these foci were never entirely separated. Admittedly, throughout the very early years of the studio system, the relationship between humane groups and Hollywood was rather uneven, with studios holding most of the power. This was due to a combination of factors. Animals were seen largely as property, and relatively inexpensive property at that; this meant that injuring or killing an animal during the process of filming typically carried very little moral or financial consequence. Filmmakers were rarely caught or convicted of animal cruelty, and even if they were, the penalties for cruelty were insignificant. In addition, the very definition of what constituted cruelty was up for debate. Certainly chaining and beating an elephant was easily identifiable cruelty, and so was keeping animals in substandard living conditions. But was it cruelty if wild buffalo, already intended to be slaughtered for herd management, had their deaths captured by cameras to lend realism to a production? Was it cruelty if oxen or horses were accidentally swept away while fording a raging river for a pioneer epic? Was it cruel to dress a monkey in human clothing and coerce it to perform comedic tricks such as riding on the back of a goat? And on whom should blame be placed when things went wrong—the executives and producers who controlled studios, or the directors and assistants who actually handled the animals? 18 Chapter 2, “Lions, Tigers, Bears, and Bullfights: The Transitional Period, 1926-1935,” discusses a period that was at first relatively free of incident. During this time, the AHA successfully prevented Universal from making a film that they feared would glorify bullfighting. Simultaneously, The National Humane Review became somewhat enamored of animal-loving movie stars, filling its pages with pictures of Mary Pickford, Deanna Durbin, Shirley Temple, and many other actors enjoying the company of their pets. This sense of goodwill ran counter to outrage over a cycle of films, known to humane reformers as jungle pictures or jungle films, which became popular with audiences at the beginning of the sound period. Jungle films varied in genre (some were documentary, or at least purported to be; others were entirely fictional but claimed photographic authenticity). The cycle was united through an obsession with animal combat, often between species that would either ignore each other in the wild or never encounter each other in the first place. Understandably, humane reformers were revolted by the staging of animal fights—which were occasionally to the death—for motion picture cameras, and protested against them. A case study of one of the most successful jungle films, MGM’s Trader Horn (dir. W.S. Van Dyke, 1930) concludes the chapter. The third chapter, “‘It Must Have Been Tough on the Horses and Extras’: From The Charge of the Light Brigade to Jesse James, 1936-1939,” provides a fuller and more accurate account of the controversies surrounding The Charge of the Light Brigade and Jesse James than has previously been given. It includes a production history of Light Brigade, including analysis of a little-mentioned animal cruelty trial, the public fallout following said trial, and Warner Bros. and the MPPDA’s concern over the British Cinematograph Act of 1937. This bill, which was going through Parliament at the time of Light Brigade’s British release, prohibited the exhibition of films that had been determined to be cruel to animals, whether that cruelty was actual or 19 apparent. Because the bill applied to the production as a whole, and not just what was projected in theaters, a film could be rejected in whole if evidence suggested that animals had been harmed during photography—even if that harm was not shown. After Light Brigade, the AHA and MPPDA came to an agreement that the AHA would supervise the use of animals in motion pictures; however, this plan was not put into effect due to budgetary constraints. The next two years were relatively untroubled. But at the beginning of 1939, it became known that two horses had been thrown over a cliff (estimated to be around 70 feet high) during the production of Jesse James. One horse died; the offending shot was left in the film. Darryl Zanuck refused to admit that the stunt had been cruel; he claimed the horse’s death was accidental. By and large, the public (as well as the AHA) disagreed with this claim, and in the subsequent public outrage, the AHA decided it was time to permanently install a representative in Hollywood. Chapter 4, “Richard C. Craven and the Western Regional Office, 1940-1947,” discusses the tenure of the AHA’s first Hollywood liaison. A man of many years’ humane experience, Craven established himself in Hollywood before the AHA had become officially affiliated with the MPPDA. After Light Brigade and the Cinematograph Act, some studios had begun inviting humane society representatives on set to supervise the taking of scenes that involved animals. Humane officers were issuing certificates to studios, confirming that no cruelty had been used, but two factors made the system particularly unsatisfactory. First, it was extremely easy to charter a humane society and become a licensed humane officer in California; second, studios were paying for humane officers’ services, making them studio employees and therefore partial to seeing things the studios’ way. One of Craven’s jobs as Western Regional Director was to get the AHA enshrined as the only animal welfare organization authorized to issue anticruelty certifications. He accomplished this by the end of 1940, at which point the Production Code was 20 amended to prohibit cruelty to animals. Case studies of Virginia City (Warner Bros., dir. Michael Curtiz, 1940) and the very similar They Died with Their Boots On (Warner Bros., dir. Raoul Walsh, 1941) illustrate the differences in the treatment of horses before and after AHA oversight was codified. Finally, a marked shift in how The National Humane Review covered the film industry after Craven went to Hollywood (particularly in regards to Westerns) reveals that only part of his job was to protect animals from abuse by studios. Equally, he was responsible for protecting studios from accusations of abuse, a task he handled with aplomb. A 1940s cycle of high-budget, color adaptations of novels with animal narratives—coming-of-age stories in which the child or adolescent protagonist achieves emotional maturity after an extended relationship with a particular animal—finally provided animal welfare advocates with the types of films they had spent years lobbying for. Craven’s frequent reports in the National Humane Review assured readers that Lassie, Flicka, The Pie, Flag and others had been treated well throughout the filmmaking process. The filming of the Grand National steeplechase in National Velvet provides a useful example of how the new system could fail. The conclusion to this dissertation, “Protecting Your Ass: 1950 and Beyond,” summarizes the state of affairs upon, and immediately following, Craven’s retirement in 1947. It also briefly outlines some of the issues that have arisen regarding the welfare of performing animals since that time, and suggests directions for further study. This project was inspired by a document in the Production Code Administration files for National Velvet (MGM, dir. Clarence Brown, 1944), a letter from Richard C. Craven to Joseph Breen in which Craven reported his fear that the Grand National steeplechase sequence would result in equine casualties. Breen subsequently ordered MGM to do something about the situation. Intrigued as to who this Richard C. Craven fellow might be, I began to look at PCA 21 files for other films, and soon discovered that Breen was regularly advising the studios to consult Craven prior to shooting animal scenes. Finding additional published information on Craven proved more or less fruitless, though I could not understand why this should be so. It soon became clear that, since film history had neglected Craven, I would have to examine animal histories. But these too lacked discussion of Craven and his work in Hollywood. When I finally sat down to read The National Humane Review, I decided to begin at the beginning (1913), though based on what I had read in secondary sources, I did not expect there to be many mentions of motion pictures prior to 1936. This expectation was quickly shattered. I was astonished to find just how long the American Humane Association and other animal welfare groups had been concerned with the motion picture industry—from the 1910s onward— and how intensely they had scrutinized it at times. Though the organization was always imperfect (and remains so), its attempts to rid the screen of unnecessary cruelties to animals should be more widely known. From an animal studies perspective, the project aims to increase understanding of human-animal relationships, especially as related to the moving image, in the first half of the twentieth century. From a media studies perspective, the project aims to illustrate the extent to which the influence of animal welfare advocates affected Hollywood. We now take it for granted that powerful directors such as Quentin Tarantino (as demonstrated by the epigraph at the beginning of this introduction) and Steven Spielberg want to ensure the safety of the horses they film. This is in large part due to the long-term achievements of the AHA and other animal welfare organizations. The dissertation also aims to explain and understand how real animals “fit in,” as it were, to the jigsaw of the studio system. In summary: the AHA was far more influential than the majority of motion picture pressure groups; humanitarians were concerned with the moving pictures long before The Charge of the Light Brigade; and Richard C. Craven was far 22 more than a man whom Joseph Breen thought ought to be asked about horses. It is my hope, then, that the following chapters contribute to a greater overall understanding of the importance of animals in motion pictures. 1 Robin Ganzert, PhD, and Allen & Linda Anderson. Animal Stars: Behind the Scenes with Your Favorite Animal Actors (Novato, CA: New World Library, 2014), 12. 2 Claire Molloy, Popular Media and Animals (New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2011), 41. 3 Tino Balio, Grand Design: Hollywood as a Modern Business Enterprise, 1930-39 (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1993), 4. Balio identifies three sources of control to which motion pictures were subject in the 1930s: state and municipal censor boards, pressure groups, and self-regulation. The Production Code was not adopted until 1930; however, state and municipal censor boards and pressure groups were extant in the teens and twenties. Lee Grieveson’s Policing Cinema: Movies and Censorship in Early Twentieth-Century America (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2004) is an excellent discussion of the years 1905-1915. 4 Portions of this introduction and of Chapter 1 are to be published in Courtney E. White, “Tony the Wonder Horse: A Star Study,” in The Historical Animal, ed. Susan Nance (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, forthcoming, Fall 2015). 5 Jacob Smith, The Thrill Makers: Celebrity, Masculinity, and Stunt Performance (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2012), 107-8. 6 John Berger, “Why Look at Animals?” in The Animals Reader: The Essential Classic and Contemporary Writings, ed. Linda Kalof and Amy Fitzgerald (Oxford and New York: Berg, 2007), 252. 7 Berger, 261. 8 Jonathan Burt, “John Berger’s ‘Why Look at Animals?’: A Close Reading,” Worldviews: Global Religions, Cultures, and Ecology (Vol. 9 No. 2, 2005): 203-218. 9 Steve Baker, The Postmodern Animal (London: Reaktion Books, 2000), 20-22. 10 Akira Mizuta Lippit, Electric Animal: Towards a Rhetoric of Wildlife (Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press, 2000), 1. 11 Lippit, Electric Animal, 2-3. 12 Jonathan Burt, Animals in Film (London: Reaktion Books, 2002), 29. 13 Clay McShane and Joel A. Tarr. The Horse in the City: Living Machines in the Nineteenth Century (Baltimore and London: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2007), 176. 14 Jennifer Mason, Civilized Creatures: Urban Animals, Sentimental Culture, and American Literature, 1850-1900 (Baltimore and London: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2005), 1. 15 Mason, Civilized Creatures, 3. 16 Ibid. 17 Mason, Civilized Creatures, 7. 18 Pete Porter, “Engaging the Animal in the Moving Image,” Society & Animals 14:4 (2006): 399-400. 19 Burt, “John Berger’s ‘Why Look at Animals?’: A Close Reading,” 213. 20 Erica Fudge, “A Left-Handed Blow: Writing the History of Animals,” in Representing Animals, ed. Nigel Rothfels (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2002), 5-6. 21 Fudge, “A Left-Handed Blow,” 7. 22 Ibid. 23 Jonathan Burt, Animals in Film (London: Reaktion Press, 2002), 12-13. 24 Burt, 13. 25 Michael Peterson, “The Animal Apparatus: From a Theory of Animal Acting to an Ethics of Animal Acts.” TDR: The Drama Review 51.1 (Spring 2007): 34. 26 Ibid. 27 Molloy, 41-2. 28 Richard Maltby, “The Production Code and the Hays Office.” In Tino Balio, Grand Design: Hollywood as a Modern Business Enterprise, 1930-1939 (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1993), 42, 63. 29 Thomas Doherty, Hollywood’s Censor: Joseph I. Breen & The Production Code Administration (New York: Columbia University Press, 2007), 119. 23 30 James C. Robertson, The Hidden Cinema: British Film Censorship in Action, 1913-1972 (Florence, KY: Routledge, 1993), 7. 31 Peter Lev, Twentieth Century-Fox: The Zanuck-Skouras Years, 1935-1965 (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2013), 38. Given that his book is about Twentieth Century-Fox, I certainly do not mean to insinuate that Lev should have paid more attention to Light Brigade, a Warner Bros. film. 32 Lev, Twentieth Century-Fox, 26-31. 33 Lev, Twentieth Century-Fox, 31. 34 Molloy, Popular Media and Animals, 43. 35 Petrine Day Mitchum with Audrey Pavia, Hollywood Hoofbeats: Trails Blazed Across the Silver Screen (Irvine, CA: Bow Tie Press, 2005), esp. pp. 60-79. 36 Mitchum with Pavia, 64. 37 Ganzert, Anderson, and Anderson, Animal Stars, 11. 38 Richard Koszarski has noted that “Hollywood” did not become a metonym for the American commercial film industry until the 1920s, though Los Angeles had become “the major American production center” by 1915. Koszarski, An Evening’s Entertainment: The Age of the Single Feature Picture, 1915-1928 (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1990), 99-100. 39 Among other texts, see Lee Grieveson, Policing Cinema; Francis G. Couvares, “Hollywood, Main Street, and the Church: Trying to Censor the Movies before the Production Code,” in Movie Censorship and American Culture, 2 nd Edition, ed. Francis G. Couvares (Amherst and Boston: University of Massachusetts Press, 2006), 129-158; Thomas Doherty, Hollywood’s Censor: Joseph I. Breen and the Production Code Administration (New York: Columbia University Press, 2007), especially pp. 77-120; Douglas Gomery, The Hollywood Studio System: A History (London: BFI, 2005), 175-184; Jewell, The Golden Age of Cinema, 113-150; Richard Maltby, “The Production Code and the Hays Office,” in Tino Balio, Grand Design, 37-72. 24 Chapter One “The Motion Picture Industry and its Attendant Cruelties”: Humane Societies, Censorship, and the American Film Industry, 1915-1925 The great affection that exists between Tom Mix, the William Fox cowboy star, and his celebrated horse, Tony, is one of the best known traditions of the motion picture business. It is plain enough to everyone who watches a Mix western thriller that a bond of understanding and love is present between man and rider [sic], else the stunts they perform, in which each has to depend so implicitly upon the other for his life, would be impossible. Mix admits that they really have a language of their own and that he can convey most any sort of message to the pony by touches of the hand or fingers on Tony’s neck. Tom calls this the “patograph” system. —Lancaster (PA) Telegraph, 1923 1 Tony, the legendary cowboy actor Tom Mix’s most famous mount and most frequent co- star, must have been one of the luckiest animals to ever grace the silver screen. His career lasted more than a decade, from the late 1910s to his official retirement from entertainment in 1932—a stretch that would make many human actors jealous. 2 Frequently, Tony received near-equal billing with Mix in publicity materials. He appeared on film posters, his name was included in a number of film titles (including the film to which the above passage refers, 1923’s Oh, You Tony!), he was immortalized in numerous dime novels and comic books, and when he was euthanized in 1942 at the advanced age of 40—two years after Mix died in an automobile accident—his imminent passing was noted in The New York Times. 3 Tony was, perhaps, the consummate movie horse. In fact, this was a claim he made “himself” in the 1934 children’s book Tony and his Pals: “I am a movie horse first, last, and all the time,” Mix wrote on Tony’s behalf. “That is what I have been brought up to be.” 4 Tony’s longevity as a movie horse was and remains remarkable, not just because horses rarely survived to such advanced ages in the days before veterinary care such as internal parasite 25 control and colic surgeries became commonplace, but because—as a movie horse—he was frequently required to perform difficult and dangerous tasks in the service of making Mix’s action-oriented Westerns. Mix, who has been described as a “preeminent stunt star,” 5 often asserted that he and Tony performed all their own stunts. While this claim is almost certainly untrue, both horse and rider are visibly doing quite a bit of their own stunt work in the Mix films still extant. For example, in 1922’s Just Tony, Tony is entangled in ropes, jumps over several high fences, and tramples an evil ranch hand. In 1926’s The Great K & A Train Robbery, Mix jumps Tony through a glass window into a building and rides him alongside a speeding train. Mix’s “patograph” system was a complete fantasy, but it is clear from watching Tony’s films that the animal was generally well treated, trained to do most of his stunts rather than forced or coerced; this is the main reason Tony remained healthy and sound for so many years. Such treatment would have been primarily Mix’s doing, as the use of animals on set was unregulated and unsupervised through the silent, early sound, and a considerable portion of the classical Hollywood periods. Many anonymous “animal actors” were not as lucky as Tony, another famous silent movie horse, William S. Hart’s mount Fritz, or canine stars such as Rin Tin Tin. These animals had a certain degree of star power as well as (in the case of Tony and Fritz) owner/actors who cared for their well-being, which protected them from the worst of the indignities subjected on other filmed animals. (Hart was in fact a noted humanitarian, and will become a recurring character in this dissertation.) Humane organizations, like so many other social welfare groups, were at first equally or even more concerned with the movies’ moral influence than their treatment of animals. By and large, though, they did not consider these to be separate issues. Believing deeply in the medium’s capacity to inspire mimetic behavior, humanitarians insisted that films depicting cruelty to 26 animals, whether that cruelty was actual or merely apparent, would lead viewers to perform cruelties on living animals. From the teens through the mid-1920s, the American Humane Association believed that federal censorship was both necessary and desirable. This belief stemmed in large part from the organization’s president, Dr. William O. Stillman. Stillman died in 1924; the change in AHA leadership, combined with the establishment of the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America in 1922, resulted in a gradual change in the humane agenda. By the time the Production Code was written in 1930, humane organizations had realized that shaping public opinion and putting economic pressure on the film industry was likely a more effective strategy for enacting change than was federal or state censorship. The first half of this chapter covers the mid-teens to approximately 1922, and discusses the AHA’s push for federal censorship; what was likely the first successful prosecution for animal cruelty in the making of a motion picture; and a series of Pathé short films released in the early twenties around which humanitarians attempted to organize. The chapter’s second half analyzes a full-scale confrontation between an upstart Los Angeles humane society and the MPPDA that took place between 1923 and 1925, providing an early test of Will Hays’ mettle. William O. Stillman and the American Humane Association According to animal historian Diane L. Beers, the AHA had long been seen as a “moderate” animal protection group, willing to work within existing social structures and legal systems rather than trying for a more radical restructuring of human/animal relations. The AHA did not advocate for vegetarianism, for instance, but rather for humane treatment of food animals prior to slaughter. In fact, the organization was founded in 1877 by the combination of smaller state organizations in response to the poor condition of cattle shipped via interstate railroad. 27 Collaborating first with railroads and later with meatpacking firms, the AHA designed more humane transport cars and provided humane education to workers, developing what Beers calls “a safe, noncontroversial balance between profits and protection.” 6 These tactics were frequently criticized by other, more radical humane groups as too pro-industry. According to Beers, “The AHA defended its cooperative strategies as a pragmatic response to the political and economic environment of the laissez-faire era […] Association leaders contended that radical sermonizing about fanciful abolitionist goals such as vegetarianism…alienated the public and harmed the cause by making it susceptible to charges of fanaticism.” 7 The AHA continued to take a moderate stance on animal protection: rather than giving up our reliance on animals for food and labor, it argued, we should treat our “dumb” companions with kindness and respect. Despite the occasional friction between organizations, the AHA did also interact and collaborate with other humane organizations, particularly various SPCAs. (Many humane-minded citizens belonged to multiple welfare organizations.) Considering its relatively conservative politics and its historical willingness to collaborate with industries to provide humane education, rather than calling for complete reform or abolition and vegetarianism, it is not difficult to see why the AHA, instead of a more radical organization, positioned itself to become the Hollywood watchdog when it became clear that one was needed. 8 In 1913, the AHA transformed The National Humane Journal (which had been founded in 1870, prior to the AHA’s consolidation) into a new publication, The National Humane Review. Though not every issue is available, the University of California, Berkeley holds a fairly comprehensive collection, and it is from their holdings that primary research has been drawn. 9 The NHR served multiple purposes. It informed its readers of developments in the humane field—for instance, publishing reports and presidents’ addresses from the AHA annual meetings 28 and sharing news and concerns from readers. Furthermore, it reprinted articles and reports from other humane societies: foreign ones such as Britain’s Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (RSPCA), other national animal protection groups such as the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (ASPCA), and local or state organizations devoted to the protection of children and animals. The magazine also taught its readers how to educate the uninformed public, and devoted dozens of pages yearly to promoting the organization’s annual Be Kind to Animals Week, which it began in 1915. Under the slogan “Universal Justice and Infinite Compassion,” which it carried on its masthead, The National Humane Review tended to cycle through content, returning to certain topics with a fervor that approached obsession. The main influence on the journal’s content was, understandably, contemporary societal issues. Frequently covered subjects from 1913 to 1919 included slaughterhouse reform, the watering of workhorses and the prevention of an equine disease called glanders, regulations for working animals, the care of “mentally defective children,” how to spread humane education, and—as World War I became a reality—articles on war horses. Considerable attention was given to the organization’s Red Star Animal Relief group, which was essentially the Red Cross for animals in combat zones; later, Red Star would expand to aiding animals in natural disasters as well as in war, also reported on by the NHR. 10 Less savory journal topics included the favorable reviews occasionally given to books which advocated eugenics. The publication was officially edited by the organization’s president; effectively, the NHR followed the viewpoints and agenda of its president-cum-editor. Until his death in 1924, this was Dr. William O. Stillman, who had ascended to the AHA presidency in 1905 after more than a decade in charge of the Mohawk and Hudson River Humane Society, also based in Albany; it was his belief that a national humane magazine was needed. 11 Stillman 29 radically transformed the AHA, increasing the organization’s annual income from less than $1,800 in 1904 to $9,000 in 1911 and nearly $18,000 by 1922. 12 Judging by his editorials, Stillman was more concerned with the welfare of children and women than he was the welfare of animals, and most concerned of all with juvenile delinquency. 13 Though the NHR changed in form several times between the early teens and mid ‘30s, the biggest shift in tone occurred after Stillman’s death. Subsequently, Sydney H. Coleman (who had been the organization’s field secretary) became president. More concerned about animal welfare than was his predecessor, Coleman remained at the AHA’s head until 1946. There were other factors in how the publication decided to write about children and animals in film, of course. During Stillman’s presidency, the motion picture industry was still developing its business practices, its cinematic language, and its popularity. By the time Coleman took charge in 1924, the movies had been well established as a cultural institution (however in need of potential reform), and were clearly here to stay. Under Stillman, the AHA was largely antagonistic to the film industry. Under Coleman, it gradually became friendlier to the persuasive powers of movie magic. Increasingly, photos of Hollywood stars (and their pets) graced the NHR’s pages. And, after more stringent enforcement of the Production Code began in 1934, calls for moral reform and federal censorship of the movies from humane activists virtually ceased. The analysis that follows is both chronological and topical; that is, while it begins in 1913 and moves forward, it considers animal cruelty as an issue simultaneously distinct from and also intimately entangled with censorship. Therefore, incidents which played out over several years are treated as case studies. Censorship and Morality 30 The AHA was a self-proclaimed “Christian” organization, but did not affiliate with any particular denomination; religion was addressed infrequently in the NHR. 14 As Garth S. Jowett has discussed, throughout the late 19 th and continuing into the early 20 th centuries, “Christian” was virtually synonymous with “Protestant” in the American imaginary, and Protestants were at the forefront of the initial push for film censorship on moral grounds. 15 However, unlike the Protestant reformers discussed by Jowett, the AHA was largely unconcerned with the proper American socialization of recent (non-Protestant) immigrants. Rather, they focused the bulk of their attention on children. Alison M. Parker has argued that “censorship advocates have found their most common ideological ground on the subject of the vulnerability of youths,” 16 and the American Humane Association’s moral reformers certainly pointed to children as the group most affected negatively by films. While the NHR addressed animal cruelty in filmmaking during these years, it was equally if not more concerned with the moral influence of the movies. Perhaps because the organization’s mission was to protect children and animals, rather than adults, the AHA’s reformers remained fairly mum on sex in motion pictures, preferring to focus on portrayals of criminal behavior and, occasionally, alcoholism. Film, they believed, inspired mimetic behavior in audiences in general and juvenile audiences in particular. This reasoning did not merely follow familiar claims that crime films would encourage juvenile delinquency. According to AHA reformers, a film that showed cruelty to animals—even if purportedly documentary or educational in nature—would surely inspire children to perform the immoral acts of badgering, torturing, and even killing animals. 17 Richard Maltby has noted that “By its nature, political censorship was concerned with what happened at the site of exhibition, not the site of production,” 18 a claim that has since been complicated. For instance, Lee Grieveson has argued compellingly that early censorship 31 struggles in fact helped to shape the content and form of what would become the mainstream or the classical Hollywood cinema, in what he terms a “compromise formation between commercial imperatives and regulatory discourses and practices.” 19 Though moral guardians and censors were undoubtedly influential in establishing what commercial entertainment cinema should and would become, Maltby’s distinction between sites of production and exhibition remains worth thinking through in order to illustrate the complications of developing a “humane cinema.” It should be emphasized that Stillman and, by extension, the AHA (as well as other animal welfare organizations), felt cruelty to animals to be a profoundly moral issue: that is to say, while they were certainly concerned with cruelty to animals for the sake of the animals, they were also very concerned for the souls of the perpetrators of those cruelties, and especially for those children who might be upset by cruelties, or—even worse—inspired to perform cruel acts of their own. Pushes for censorship on moral grounds were intimately related to the reception of films, whereas pushes for the protection of animals from specific cruelties would have intervened at the level of production. The AHA, at least under Stillman, was never able to fully separate these two strands. As Stillman summarized the issue in 1922: It ought to be part of public policy to prevent the appearance of motion pictures depicting cruelty or brutality to animals, especially before children. In the first place, cruelty must have been practiced more or less in making the films. In the next place, films which are shown, exhibiting suffering on the part of animals, degrade those who look at them, set a bad example for the general public and in particular incite children to imitate these vicious practices. 20 This particular logic, the dual focus on preventing cruelty at the site of production and moral degradation at the site of reception, should be kept in mind through subsequent discussions. One of, if not the, first specific mention of motion pictures in the NHR came in December 1913, in an article titled “The Court and the Motion Picture.” The article notes that in London, a 32 Mr. Wallace had blamed cinematograph shows for “the downfall of many young people.” 21 The next issue brought the first mention of animal cruelty in films, again involving England, in a short blurb. In its entirety, the passage reads: A censor of films has been appointed in England to pass on all films used in motion picture theatres. The Royal S.P.C.A. has received assurance from the censor that he will try to eliminate films depicting acts of cruelty. In a letter to the Society he states: “We shall continue to exercise most careful supervision, and endeavor to prevent the public exhibition of films representing horrifying and demoralizing scenes.” 22 No context was given as to what would constitute a “horrifying or demoralizing scene.” Still, these two mentions set the tone for the type of attention the AHA gave to motion pictures over the next decade—split between the familiar moralistic discourse and the less examined animal welfare discourse, though the two discourses frequently overlapped. In the February 1914 issue, Stillman argued against an Episcopal bishop’s proclamation that the moving picture was “one of the greatest educational forces that we have,” arguing instead that while the bishop had stated movies drew men from saloons, this was irrelevant because “but few men of this class attend moving picture exhibitions.” Stillman also pointed out that “the women and children who attend the theatres, are exposed to the double temptation of pictures with vicious influences and that they there form objectionable acquaintances, which often lead to bad results.” He wrapped up his harangue against the movies by noting that a school superintendent had recently declared films injured eyes and increased fire risks. “Much has been written to show the connection between motion pictures and crime,” he concluded. “What is most urgently needed is an adequate censorship for motion pictures.” 23 This characterization of motion pictures was fairly typical of Stillman, who would continue to advocate for federal censorship of pictures whenever the occasion arose naturally, 33 and occasionally when it did not. In the May issue of that year, he complained about a film that had been exhibited recently in Dallas: The series of pictures represented a bloody animal hunt, which resulted in the killing of a number of beasts. The scenes depicted were said to be actual ones and our Dallas correspondent stated it was claimed by the moving picture concern that the film had been passed on favorably by the existing volunteer National Board of Motion Picture Censors, located in New York City. We have had complaints before in regard to decisions of this Board. It is claimed that brutal and inhumane pictures have been sometimes endorsed, including some hunting scenes and some western ranch views showing very inhumane exhibitions. 24 Though the anonymous Dallas correspondent’s concerns were with the depiction of cruelty to animals, Stillman adroitly shifted the article’s purpose, using language familiar to those who know the history of American film censorship, to again call for effective federal censorship on moral grounds: There can be no reason why motion picture scenes representing tragedies, brutalities, bloody casualties, robberies, and petty rascalities, which tend to lower the moral standard of the community and to make heroes of ruffians and villains, and which also cause the officers of the law to be viewed with contempt, should be permitted to be shown. The moral sewers of society should not be ransacked for "thrillers" with which to entertain children and women, who so largely compose the audiences at the motion picture theaters. 25 Later in the issue, the proposed Smith-Hughes Motion Picture Censor Bill was addressed. The bill, which would have established a federal motion picture censorship board, was neither endorsed nor condemned by the publication at this time. 26 In July, the NHR discussed the bill again, insinuating that it should be passed because the National Board of Censorship, 27 while well-meaning, was inadequate: According to the statement of the board itself about 96 per cent of the films manufactured were inspected. Many of the films of the uninspected 4 per cent were among the most objectionable ones placed before the public. The board has no legal authority whatever and its decisions are accepted merely as an act of policy by the film companies submitting their 34 product to them. Many films have been passed by the board of censors which have provoked much unfavorable criticism throughout the country […] While no one questions the good faith of the board of censors, under present conditions it fails to carry enough weight to compel the manufacturers of films to submit their product to it or to force them to accept its orders. If the Smith-Hughes bill were enacted, all films would be passed upon by men competent to determine whether or not they complied with the high standards outlined by the law. 28 Again, the article focused on the “indecent and immoral,” and made no specific mention of cruelty to animals aside from bullfighting films and “the inhumane.” Stillman was, first and foremost, a moral reformer. He continued to push for the censorship bill. And, by the September 1914 issue, he was questioning the good faith of the board of censors, arguing, “There can be no doubt but what many children are moved to commit serious crimes by witnessing the sensational films which are being sent broadcast throughout the United States.” 29 The bill was being held up, Stillman claimed, not only by motion picture production companies, but also by the “so-called ‘National Board of Censorship,’ which it is claimed co-operates with the manufacturers and is supported by them.” 30 More appeals for federal censorship came in November 31 and December of 1914. The December appeal is noteworthy not for its claim, by now expected, that “The moving picture has become a cheap siren luring young people in very questionable direction,” 32 but because Stillman called for decentralization—what we might now refer to as grass-roots action. Though he was still advocating for federal censorship, he now urged local and state anticruelty societies to establish campaigns in their area in order to achieve that end. This strategy made sense, given that a significant portion of humane work was achieved on the local or state levels anyway. It should be noted that the National Board of Review of Motion Pictures was given at least one chance to defend itself in The National Humane Review’s pages. In the August 1916 issue, O. G. Cocks, the Board’s advisory secretary, all but accused the humane reformers of 35 elitism and upper-class snobbery. Primarily relying on the familiar “popular demand” argument, Cocks claimed: Ten million of the American people daily would not attend the picture play houses if the entertainments were not wholesome and fundamentally clean […] The masses of the people have made the motion picture, not the classes […] They pour out from work,--hard, exhausting, numbing work,-- and find in the picture satisfaction for their craving for fun, thrill, drama, change and rest. The people have no enthusiasm for moral regulation and dictation. They want freedom within the limits of decency. They resent any who would sit over them and declare what they shall or shall not see, enjoy, think about or dispute. 33 The National Board, according to Cocks, answered to the “rank and file of the American people,” 34 rather than the intellectual elite. He took pains to point out that the review of mass entertainment had never been done in America before, that judgments of the National Board were “not those of a professional moralist…or the individual slants of cultured individuals.” In addition, he claimed, the National Board had tried to alert the public to the fact that certain pictures might be acceptable for adults but not children; however, no one had listened and only now were parents beginning to assume “the responsibility which has always been theirs.” 35 Cocks concluded by asserting that the National Board had “a right to demand that all those who are working for wholesomeness, without suppression, will render assistance.” 36 The effectiveness of this plea on those in charge at the AHA was dubious. Of course, the Smith-Hughes Motion Picture Censorship Bill did not pass; federal censorship of motion pictures in the United States never came to be. But despite the bill’s defeat, Stillman continued to advocate for stringent censorship, bringing up the topic regularly in the NHR through the rest of his tenure. 37 The censorship question did not fully go away until 1934, when the Production Code was finally enforced. But rhetoric did shift somewhat. In 1915’s famous Mutual vs. Ohio decision, the United States Supreme Court unanimously ruled that motion pictures were, in the words of 36 Justice McKenna, “a business pure and simple, originated and conducted for profit.” 38 If the federal government recognized motion pictures as a business rather than an art form, and if businesses were motivated by profit rather than morals or artistic integrity, humane reformers seem to have realized that it might be more productive to try and shift demand, rather than supply, while they waited for federal censorship to happen. Audiences apparently clamored for unclean and inhumane pictures, but perhaps it would be possible for humane educators to change their minds and create a demand for wholesome, uplifting pictures instead. As noted previously, Sydney H. Coleman was more astute than Stillman regarding the business aspects of cinema. In his March 1916 article “Law Breaking Club Women,” which was nearly two pages of explanation as to why the New York law forbidding under-sixteens to attend movies unless accompanied by a parent was a good one, Coleman went so far as to reproduce eight full paragraphs of testimony from Carl Laemmle, the president of Universal, that had first been published in Moving Picture Weekly in November 1915. Laemmle, playing the part of moralistic studio executive, expressed his shock at receiving the results of a survey given to his exhibitors: “I don’t hesitate to say that I fully expected that 95 per cent of [exhibitors] would favor clean, wholesome pictures […] Instead of finding that 95 per cent favored clean pictures, I discovered that at least half, and maybe sixty per cent, wanted the pictures to be ‘risque,’ which is a French way of saying ‘smutty.’” 39 According to Laemmle, this was not the personal taste of his exhibitors; rather, while theater owners preferred clean pictures too, “their patrons were more willing to pay money to see an off-color play than a decent one.” What choice did these businessmen (both producers and exhibitors) have but to capitulate to public desire? Or, as Laemmle put it: The Universal does not pose as a guardian of public morals or public taste. For that reason it is quite possible that we may put out a picture that is off- 37 color now and then as a feeler. We have no such picture yet, but it is easy to make them. Personally I am against them from soda to hock, but if the demand for them is so overwhelmingly great, we will bow to the superior wisdom of the majority. If the time comes when we depend solely on such pictures I will gladly get out of the picture business and strike the street commissioner for a job sweeping streets. 40 Laemmle’s message was clear: Film was a business, driven by demand, and while he and others in the business might personally find “off-color” films unappealing, it was neither Universal’s nor exhibitors’ responsibility to act, as he put it, “as a guardian of public morals or public taste.” Humane activists continued to grapple with motion pictures—both their morality and their compassion for dumb creatures placed before camera lenses. Though many instances of what looked like cruelty onscreen may not have been cruel in reality, others clearly were. Moreover, film companies occasionally boasted about what they had inflicted on animals for publicity purposes, as in the case of a 1915 version of Carmen made by the Fox Film Company in New York State. 41 Though this case had no lasting impact on industry practices, it did resonate with humane-minded individuals; it also illustrates how little impetus film studios had to not abuse animals. On October 21 st , 1915, the ASPCA, which was headquartered in New York City, learned via a newspaper article that a horse had been forced to make a forty-foot leap into Ausable Chasm in Essex County, New York—Don Juan’s dramatic suicide. 42 As the ASPCA had jurisdiction over Essex County, it sent Superintendent Thomas F. Freel and an unnamed humane agent to investigate the site. Freel and his companion found compelling evidence that a horse had indeed been forced to leap from a 43-foot precipice via a platform with a spring-loaded trap door. 43 Eyewitnesses were interviewed, warrants were issued, and soon after, five individuals connected with the stunt were arrested: M.H. Morhange, whom the NHR cited as the picture’s director, though he was likely the unit director (Raoul Walsh was the credited director for the 38 feature, but does not seem to have been involved in this stunt); Carl Harbaugh, “who wrote the scenario and was present to assist in the direction of the picture” according to the NHR, though he was credited only as an actor on the film; the horse’s owner (ironically a veterinarian), Dr. Martin J. Potter, V.S.; Jack Brent, a Fox carpenter responsible for building the platform; and Arthur Jarvis, the stuntman who had ridden the animal. 44 Miraculously, the horse—a circus animal named Toreador, according to Jarvis—was uninjured. 45 But this was irrelevant, as New York’s Penal Law stated that the mere instigation of animal cruelty constituted a misdemeanor. And, as Freel helpfully pointed out, “Causing a horse to leap or jump from a precipice 43 feet high into the waters of the chasm was an act that tended to produce cruelty to the animal.” 46 The presiding justice on the case agreed. Each defendant, as well as the Fox Film Company, was found guilty; each was charged $25.00. 47 In July of 1916 (and again in 1939), the NHR printed a picture of the horse mid-fall, presumably a still from the film. As the accompanying description, lacking attribution but smacking of Stillman, noted, “It is gratifying to know that the principals in this dastardly act were all prosecuted and fined. In spite of the fact that the act was illegal and brutal in the extreme, the film has been shown all over the United States. Is it not time steps were taken to secure an adequate censorship of all motion pictures?” 48 This was the first time that filmmakers had been convicted of animal cruelty for the purposes of making a picture in New York State; it seems safe to assume that it may have been the first successful conviction of that nature in the country. 49 Unfortunately, the actual impact of the case in the wider world was negligible. Stuntman Arthur Jarvis, who broke his leg in the fall, boasted about his dangerous act in a publicity piece that omitted any mentions of the animal 39 cruelty conviction in favor of portraying Jarvis’s fall as a well-planned yet foolhardy act of bravery. 50 But humane advocates remembered, and they continued to use it as an example when the subject of animal cruelty in films arose. In October of 1920, Richard C. Craven, who in 1940 would become the AHA’s first official Hollywood liaison, gave a talk at the AHA’s annual convention in Omaha. His speech, later reprinted in the NHR, again demonstrates the attempt to negotiate between sites of production and exhibition. Craven’s address begins with statements against “immoral” films of sex and adultery, even those with supposedly moral endings: what he described as “fifty-nine minutes of damnable intrigue and wife-breaking,” ending in “one minute of triumphant virtue.” 51 From there, he moved on to a critique of crime-glorifying films, arguing that justifications made by the film industry (primarily that films portrayed life as it really was, and that films were made according to public demand) were inadequate. 52 Of course, nothing in the first half of Craven’s address is in any way unusual. Much more interesting is the article’s second half, in which he definitively states that “every person associated with humane work must condemn cruelties in the movies as much as on the streets or on the stock ranges.” 53 Craven began by stating that the movie industry was making enormous profits, and that the penalties attached to animal cruelty statutes, usually a fifty-dollar fine, were simply not large enough to concern producers. This fine was, as he noted, much less than the cost of an average stage setting. He proposed a two-part solution: The first is that humane officers should have authority set up by law to enter any place where animals are used for motion picture production, with authority to stop anything in the nature of cruelty, even to the extent of arresting any person concerned. Responsibility also should attach to the productions’ managers. In the next place the law should forbid the marketing of any film, or part of that film, obtained by an act of cruelty contrary to law. The law not only prosecutes and punishes the bootlegger; it confiscates the whiskey. The law that prosecutes for cruelty should 40 prohibit the sale of the results of that cruelty. We all know the case of the horse forced to jump from a high cliff for a movie stunt. There followed a conviction and a penalty, but the penalty was nothing to the profits earned. 54 Craven makes a few particularly salient points in this speech. First, out of his three examples of movie industry problems—impure films, crime films, and animal cruelty—he offers a specific, detailed solution only to the question of animal cruelty, likely indicating either that this issue was foremost on his mind or that this was the problem he felt that he and fellow humane activists were best equipped to tackle. Second, he seems to have recognized, more than William Stillman ever did, that the movies were first and foremost a business. (It should be noted that Stillman’s successor as AHA president, Sydney Coleman, also recognized and accepted the profit-driven motives of the motion picture industry.) Therefore, Craven posits that though animal cruelty in movie-making should not be tolerated, the most effective means of engendering reform would be to attack the movies on economic grounds, rather than moral ones. This viewpoint was rather prescient. As noted previously, it was a combination of domestic publicity troubles and foreign censorship concerns—both of which had meaningful financial implications—that finally convinced studios to allow Craven and the AHA to set up shop in Hollywood in 1940. But in the 1910s, the motion picture industry was still in the process of moving from New York to California, away from the watchful eyes of the most powerful humane societies. 55 Though there were certainly humane societies out West, they were generally younger, smaller, and far less influential than the AHA (headquartered in Albany, New York), the ASPCA (New York City), and the Massachusetts Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (Boston). Oddly enough, the Los Angeles Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals was quite well- established, having been founded in 1877. Like most Eastern humane associations, its initial 41 charter was to protect working horses. It does not seem to have greatly concerned itself with films until the mid-1920s. 56 Thus, the first major incident reported between a Los Angeles-based film production company and a humane society was brought about by the State Humane Association of California, an umbrella organization. 57 The incident was reported in the September 1917 issue of the NHR, and was written by Mrs. James G. Sprecher, a director of the SHAC. Her article covered the organization’s failed attempt at passing state legislation which would have prevented the exhibition of pictures depicting cruelty. 58 According to Sprecher, the majority of the public was ignorant to how terrible movie production could be, because only employees were privy to what took place on set. “There are things which take place behind closed doors, that are gruesome in their horror,” she claimed. “The tortured animal can’t tell about it, and the employee knowing his position is at stake, dare not. Occasionally one whose pulse beats in their defence [sic], quietly and secretly will appeal to the Humane Society for help.” 59 But these pleas did little good. Humane officers were allowed on set only when invited, and if an invitation had been extended, one could be sure that no cruelty would be inflicted in the officer’s presence. Though some cases of cruelty had been prosecuted, Sprecher noted (as Craven later would) that the consequences were, in fact, inconsequential: “They do not care for fines, so long as the picture is taken and they realize their profit, which is far greater than any fine could be.” 60 Sprecher also recognized that the state had economic considerations affecting its decisions: the motion picture industry brought so much money to California that officials were “reluctant to antagonize.” Thus, Sprecher concluded, “fear, from employee up, prevents the Humane Societies from eliminating or even lessening these horrible cruelties.” 61 42 The SHAC therefore drew up a bill, which was introduced in assembly. The bill’s appointed chairman took it to the Keystone Company. Keystone had previously been visited by Humane Society members regarding a possibly cruel film. The visitors had found the company “most gracious, most willing, and apparently eager to cooperate with us and to aid in any possibly way. So the question of their endorsing this bill was most courteously given.” 62 Mack Sennett, Keystone’s general manager, sent a letter that endorsed the bill and appealed to legislators for its passing. The bill was favorably recommended out of committee and passed the assembly, but was killed by the senate committee—due, Sprecher claimed, to duplicitous behavior on the part of Keystone and three unnamed companies, which had surreptitiously hired a lobbyist to ensure that the bill was defeated: Had we known [the lobbyist’s] secret mission, we would have been more active in the senate committee, but we little dreamed that the moving picture producers were so determined to torture animals that they would employ a lobbyist. The reason given for this duplicity, it is alleged, was that the Keystone Company wished to gain favor with humanitarians and to secretly work to oppose the bill that they might continue to carry on their purpose of dealing with animals, unrestricted, and that the helpless animal should still continue to be the target for the passion and ill temper of some director or employee. 63 Though the State Humane Society of California would continue to push for legislation, Sprecher noted that it would be two years before they would be able to reintroduce the bill. In the meantime, she urged, it was the work of humanitarians to “wipe out these atrocious pictures, through public sentiment.” 64 Readers were urged to write theater managers and production companies as well as to preach to friends and family, that children might not become “calloused” by the onscreen depiction of cruel treatment of animals—which would, of course, by “natural consequence,” lead children to mistreat not only pets, but also playmates and parents. “You will many times be told that it is ‘trick photography,’ no harm was done the animal,” she wrote. 43 “Oftentimes it is, but let us let the producers and the exhibitors know that we do not want even a portrayal of what looks like cruelty.” 65 Unfortunately, not enough people did let producers and exhibitors know. The case does not seem to have made waves outside of the humane movement; Variety, at least, failed to remark upon it, as did the Los Angeles Times. 66 Legally, treating an animal cruelly for the purposes of taking motion pictures remained indistinct from treating an animal cruelly for any other reason—at least in California and most other states. Maine, of all places, had a motion picture-specific anticruelty law on the books by 1921. 67 This law had most likely been passed not because large numbers of animals were being abused on film shoots in Maine, but because the state’s governor at the time, Percival P. Baxter, was a humanitarian; he had also written the nation’s first vivisection law, and drew ire in 1923 when he flew the State House flag at half-mast following the death of his dog, Garry. 68 He wrote at least one lengthy article on animal cruelty in the movies for the National Humane Review, and he would later impress his influence upon Will Hays and the MPPDA. 69 A variety of species were subject to what looked like cruelty onscreen, and reformers were concerned with all of them. As has been discussed, vitriol was certainly directed at fictional studio productions such as those of Fox and Keystone; these were, after all, the most widely-seen films. However, humane groups were also concerned with documentary and educational-type pictures. 70 Sometimes, the distinction between studio productions and low-budget newsreel footage was treated as irrelevant. A few major trends are worth addressing here. First, as will be discussed further, a series of fictional short films that took hunting and trapping as subject matter sparked the previously mentioned, publicly fought battle between Stillman and the New York censorship board. The second category of problematic film drew on existing humane work regarding the treatment of animals in live performances, a term I deliberately use broadly. 44 During the teens and early twenties, live performances that concerned humane reformers were largely vaudeville and vaudeville-type shows. 71 Later, as vaudeville faded, 72 the AHA condemned Wild West shows, rodeos, circus acts, and bullfights. Articles discussed the animals’ training regimens, living conditions, and grueling performance schedules. These problematic live exhibitions bled into filmmaking—sometimes real rodeos and bullfights were filmed for documentary purposes; sometimes narrative fiction films took rodeos and bullfights as their subject matter. Neither was considered acceptable by humanitarians. Finally, in the early 1930s, a genre that both the humane movement and trade press referred to as “jungle films” and which Thomas Doherty has described as “expeditionary films” pitted supposedly wild, savage animals (generally species that would neither meet nor fight in nature) against one another for audience titillation. 73 These latter trends will be discussed in greater detail in Chapter Two. Though censorship/immorality and animal cruelty were the most frequently and vehemently addressed aspects of motion pictures prior to 1934, other movie-related topics did receive attention. Starting in 1916, the NHR made sporadic mention of the cruelties inflicted on child actors. 74 Reports of children being nearly drowned, surrounded by fire, and so forth in the process of making pictures followed the tendency of reformists to attempt to protect child actors in stage productions and other live performances. 75 However, despite the AHA’s stated goal of protecting both children and animals, child endangerment in motion pictures was never covered to the degree that moral indignities or cruelty to animals were. Resources were more often directed at attempting to keep children fed, clothed, educated, and out of factory labor than at keeping them off the silver screen. 45 The “Bob and Bill” films In 1921, the NHR reprinted a letter Stillman had sent to “a well-known New York daily paper” regarding the “Adventures of Bob and Bill.” These were a series of one-reel adventure films released by Pathé. 76 In some of the films, two boys (director Robert North Bradbury’s twin sons) tracked, trapped, and killed animals such as raccoons, coyotes, and bobcats. 77 One of the child actors was dressed in clothing resembling a Boy Scout uniform, though the extent to which the Boy Scouts were officially involved is unclear. The “Bob and Bill” films are a particularly useful example because they so well illustrate the separate-but-entangled interests in political censorship at the site of consumption, preventative measures at the site of production, and—in the absence of official intervention—appeals to public interest to manipulate demand. First, the AHA and other humane groups strongly objected to the trapping of animals, period. As Stillman wrote, “Hundreds of thousands of helpless little animals are caught each year in steel traps. They suffer from the relentless grip of the trap which cuts down to the bone […] Imagine the agony which they must suffer.” Stillman also pointed out that recently, several states had claimed that corrupt films produced “bad citizenship, crime, and moral callousness.” 78 New York State, in which Stillman lived, did in fact have a censorship board in place—one which Stillman felt was not doing its job. Here, he made clear his feelings that the state censor board had failed to uphold its duties, a critique he wrapped in an appeal to the public: Fair-minded and pure-minded people object that commercial greed should be allowed to dictate the kind of films which are being shown to the public, and the State seems inclined to back them in this movement, by preventing the exhibitions of moving pictures which are immoral, indecent, and opposed to good public policy […] Films which are exerting a corrupting and degrading influence should be abolished. It is a case of self-defense, on the part of the community against conscienceless exploitation. 79 46 The state censor board, Stillman insinuated, was apparently unaware of which types of films were immoral, indecent, or otherwise corrupting and degrading. Other humane groups protested the “Bob and Bill” films as well. Our Dumb Animals, the publication of the Massachusetts Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, claimed that the Pathé Company had assured them that the steel traps would be switched out for box traps in subsequent films. But even with a less painful trap in place, “Bob and Bill” would still be a series of trapping films, and therefore cruel to whatever animals were captured. The public, urged Our Dumb Animals, should write to both exhibitors and manufactures of offensive films: “Convince them that the public is not entertained by pictures made at the expense of animal suffering or the disregard of animal rights, and they will stop producing that kind.” 80 But they did not stop producing “that kind.” In 1922, towards the end of his tenure as AHA president, Stillman took the cruel “Bob and Bill” films as a launching pad for a laundry list of complaints about immodest, scandalous, and sensual “sex impulse” films, as well as crime in motion pictures. By now, he was insisting that while the censors serving on the Motion Picture Commission of New York State “may have meant well,” they “have not had clean-cut, reasonable, and proper standards.” 81 The exchange became so virulent that eventually George Cobb, chairman of the commission, took to the pages of Variety to defend his organization. 82 Cobb claimed that Stillman had incorrectly represented the situation. According to Cobb, the offending films had never been presented to the censor board for passage; rather, they were older films, initially exhibited before the commission took office. Therefore, the board was legally required to issue permits without first inspecting the films. According to Cobb: One wildcat picture, in regard to which Dr. Stillman wrote me, showed two boys capturing a vicious wildcat with a snare, the animal placing its head in a crotched stick. 47 There was no cruelty in this action. I wrote Dr. Stillman that no scenes of killing were shown and that unless all capturing of wild animals were to be prohibited the films showing it would have to be licensed. As a matter of fact, the motion picture commission is the only organization having power to prevent cruelty shown on the screen, and it has done wonderful work in this respect. This fact Dr. Stillman or any representative of the S.P.C.A. can ascertain by visiting our office and examining the eliminations made. 83 Cobb’s claim regarding the eliminations that had been made again illustrates the gap between political censorship at the site of exhibition and preventative anticruelty measures at the site of production: he seems to have completely missed the point that the AHA did, in fact, want to prohibit the trapping of all wild animals. Aside from questions of to what extent cruelty to animals ought to be censored in motion pictures, there were fundamental disagreements between the censors and the reformers as to what constituted cruelty to animals in the first place. It is therefore unsurprising that both parties remained unsatisfied by the situation. Though Pathé apparently did withdraw the initial steel trap films from circulation, humane reformers continued to organize around the “Bob and Bill” series. In January 1923, longtime and highly respected AHA officer Eric Hansen noted that he had, with “great pleasure,” seen these films bring out “expressions of horror on all sides” in theaters. 84 He had spoken to the owner of three theaters; the theater owner claimed that the only guide he had been given regarding the films came from the Board of Censors. Hansen subsequently urged AHA members to write directly to the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America to protest the “Bob and Bill” films, going so far as to print the MPPDA’s address. So what did humane organizations like the AHA want in a film? In letters to the NHR, members and officers spoke generally of “clean” pictures, ones that would uplift and educate the public. And they often had a specific source text in mind: Anna Sewell’s 1877 novel Black Beauty. Black Beauty, the “autobiography” of an English horse who moves from owner to owner 48 and is treated with varying levels of compassion, was a foundational text for the humane movement, so it is unsurprising that activists wanted it faithfully translated to the screen. In 1917, Stillman announced that “two large film manufacturers” were preparing scenarios for films based on Black Beauty and another popular humane novel, Beautiful Joe; the scenarios were to be submitted to the AHA for approval. 85 If this in fact happened, it was never mentioned in the NHR again. Versions of Black Beauty were eventually produced for the screen by Vitagraph in 1921 and by Monogram in 1933, but neither version adhered closely to the original story, and humane activists do not seem to have found either film particularly exemplary. 86 The American Animal Defense League, The Christian Science Monitor, and the MPPDA: 1923-1925 In 1923, a new animal welfare group formed in Los Angeles. Calling itself the American Animal Defense League, the group’s stated purpose was to combat cruelty “in the training of animals for vaudeville, circus, and motion-picture entertainments.” 87 Despite its small size, the group had a few major assets. One was the apparently deep pockets of its president, Fannie T. Kessler. Another was the allegiance of a very well-connected humanitarian, Maine’s Governor Baxter. But the AADL’s biggest asset was likely its tenacious vice-president and de facto leader, Rosamonde Rae Wright, whose knack for generating adverse publicity rubbed most of the motion picture industry the wrong way. In fact, she managed to irritate not only the industry, but also the much larger and more powerful Los Angeles Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, which took her accusations as insults to its own work and eventually joined the MPPDA in efforts to silence her. At the core of these struggles were questions of what constituted cruelty at all, which groups or individuals got to make those decisions, and the film 49 industry’s right to self-regulation and self-surveillance. Throughout, industry representatives maintained that abuse was not a problem in the industry. Unsavory training methods might have been employed in the past, but were not now used for a number of reasons: because everyone loved animals too much, because it had been proven that cruel training methods did not provide desired results, and because trained performing animals were so expensive that it would be economically unsound to abuse them. These claims were each partially if not wholly true. 88 In September 1923, Wright told the Los Angeles Times that she had been investigating motion picture studios for about three months, and had “found that terrible cruelties are being inflicted on many of our dumb companions.” 89 Not all studios were accused of mistreatment; Selig, Trimble-Murfin, and Neil Shipman were cited as production companies that were cooperating with the AADL. The Universal City zoo, on the other hand, was found lacking on a number of fronts. In November, Wright got a lengthy article published in the Christian Science Monitor that described the recent mercy killing of a motion picture elephant named Charley, reportedly an intelligent and well-behaved animal until cruel treatment at the hands of Universal trainers made him “unmanageable.” 90 In addition, she wrote directly to Carl Laemmle Sr. in New York to inform him of generally poor zoo conditions, which included too-small cages and a lack of water. Laemmle responded favorably to the letters. “I am going to see that our zoo is beyond criticism or else I shall do away with it entirely,” he assured her. 91 One employee deemed responsible for the poor conditions was fired, and Laemmle personally thanked Wright for her service: “While it is humiliating to know that anyone in my employ has been guilty of cruelty to animals, still I have your League to thank for arousing me to the true state of affairs which had been so successfully concealed from me.” He enclosed a donation, accepted Wright’s offer to periodically visit Universal City and check up on the animals, and—casually, in a postscript— 50 asked Wright if she could perhaps get The Christian Science Monitor to print a story on the zoo’s improved conditions, as a corrective of sorts. Such an article was published in December; it described the cleanup at Universal, noting that “quick action on the part of Mr. Laemmle when he was informed of the inhumane treatment accorded the animals of his company removed the cause of their suffering in less than three weeks,” and included a large chunk of one of Laemmle’s letters to Wright. 92 Unlike the State Humane Society of California, the AADL eschewed trying to pass legislation in favor of the more standard approach of asking its supporters (who lived across the country) to write letters to studios and the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America, and to threaten boycotts of specific films, which will be described shortly. At the same time, Wright began a correspondence with William Hays and the MPPDA regarding those same films. Hays was not at all opposed to publicly ridding the movies of animal cruelty; in fact, he welcomed the idea. But he was very much opposed to anyone unjustly accusing the film industry, and aside from Carl Laemmle, most executives and producers seemed to feel Wright was doing just that. Since Hays was based in New York, he enlisted on-the-ground help from Fred W. Beetson, secretary-treasurer of the newly formed, Los Angeles-based Association of Motion Picture Producers. 93 Hays and Beetson maintained a polite, if strained, relationship with Wright and AADL president Fannie Kessler while they attempted to figure out the most effective way to disprove the organization’s accusations. 94 Beetson, who shouldered much of the burden, told Hays that a newspaperman had described Wright as “quite a trouble-making type of woman” in one of the many memos that went cross-country during the time. 95 She had even previously made an enemy in the business: Charles H. Christie, the vice-president and general manager of the Christie Film Company, which specialized in comedy shorts. 96 Christie was a dog enthusiast, 51 and had previously run afoul of Wright at a dog show where she was distributing literature claiming abuse in the training of show dogs. 97 In addition to being the proud owner of some fifty- six show dogs, Christie was also—likely to Wright’s detriment—a director of the LASPCA, which was far older, larger, and therefore more legitimate and powerful than the AADL. 98 Wright and her club women were not the only people writing to Will Hays; Maine’s Governor Baxter also began a correspondence with the MPPDA president beginning in 1924. As previously noted, Maine had a law specifically forbidding cruelty to animals during motion picture productions, and Baxter’s devotion to the cause of keeping animals unharmed by filmmakers would continue after he left office in 1925. “There can be no question but that cruelties sometimes are practiced in this work,” he informed Hays, regarding the AADL’s mission. “I appeal to you both in behalf of the poor creatures who suffer and of those who are obliged to witness their sufferings as portrayed on the screen,” he wrote. “You are the one man in the country who can summarily correct the present evil and I have every reason to believe that you will do so once you are convinced that dumb animals are really being abused in the picture studios of the country.” 99 Finally, Willis Abbott, editor of The Christian Science Monitor, began writing to Hays about the situation. At this point, Abbott was sympathetic to both sides of the argument. He initially contacted Hays to forward along some criticism, which he said the Monitor received “constantly” from readers objecting to advertisements of films: “I suppose the Monitor has more readers who have extreme views of a humanitarian character than most papers,” he noted, “but I don’t think it is wise for you to ignore this growing feeling regarding alleged cruelties in the preparation of films.” 100 The Monitor’s nationwide circulation was approximately 86,000 in 1923, then spiked to approximately 108,000 in 1924 before dipping to 101,000 in 1925, though it is not known what percentage of these readers might have had any 52 degree of humanitarian views. 101 (The National Humane Review’s 1924 circulation was approximately 15,000 monthly. 102 ) Kessler also published a missive in the National Humane Review 103 , and by 1924, American Humane Association secretary Nathaniel J. Walker and Alabama governor William W. Brandon had both contacted Hays regarding these apparent cruelties. 104 The films that activists cited as cruel to animals were a diverse lot, but unsurprisingly, big-budget Westerns and historical epics were at the top of the list. Pictures that created spectacle through the use of masses of animals were self-evidently more likely to result in injury or animal death, though such cruelty was often, if not usually, unintentional. Like the 1915 Carmen, expensive historical spectacles were also likely to play up or even exaggerate the danger and excitement created by their stunt work in advertising and publicity, which could only have made them more obvious targets for humanitarians. One such film was the “ambitious” The Covered Wagon (Paramount, dir. James Cruze, 1923), 105 a production large enough in scale that one enthusiastic reviewer described it as “the biggest and most interesting photoplay…since the famous ‘Birth of a Nation.’” 106 The film reportedly employed 1,200 horses and mules pulling 500 covered wagons, with scenes including a buffalo hunt, wagon trains fording the Kaw River, a prairie fire, and an Indian massacre of pioneers. 107 As one concerned letter-writer informed Hays, “The long, terrible struggles of the animals depicted gave no pleasure to the audience. That it was true to the times pictured was no excuse.” 108 Cecil B. DeMille’s The Ten Commandments (prod. Famous Players-Lasky, dist. Paramount, 1923) was also cited as “brutal”: “There are newspapers and magazines stating that the horses were beaten over the head with chains, and one of the animals in the film had the flesh torn from its side.” 109 That newspaper statement came from Wright herself, in yet another Christian Science Monitor article: 53 Anyone who sees this production cannot escape seeing evidences of cruelty to some of the horses pictured, but only a small part of the cruelty which went on day after day on location came before the camera…I have sworn statements made by men who were present during the filming of the picture in which they declare they saw horses beaten over the head with chains and otherwise mistreated, some of them so badly that they had to be destroyed. 110 Horses for the chariot race had been provided by the U.S. Army and reportedly trained for a month before filming the scene; The Washington Post reported that “In the thrilling race, cavalrymen took many chances, but fortunately the casualties were slight” without giving any details of said casualties. 111 Another pioneer epic, The Last Frontier (Producers Distributing Corp.), was initiated by Thomas H. Ince in 1923, though it was not released until 1926. His death prior to the film’s completion was not the only problem in its production. 112 While on location in Alberta, Canada, a “round-up and killing of buffalo” was allegedly made into a “blundering mess” after inexperienced cowboys failed to control the animals; ten buffalo were meant to have been “instantaneously killed by expert riflemen” for the picture, but due to the confusion and eventual stampede, over thirty animals were eventually slaughtered. 113 Whether blame for the incompetency of the slaughter should be placed entirely on Ince and his film crew is unclear; indeed, it is unclear whether the slaughter was botched at all. The Alberta government had intended to destroy around 2,000 of the herd’s 8,000 buffalo “to prevent the herd from increasing as rapidly as it had in the past.” 114 Ince merely secured the rights to kill some of the buffalo in advance and on camera. 115 The AADL raised objections prior to shooting, not because they disagreed with the slaughter of 2,000 buffalo (a decision Wright said was “the business of the government”) but because they disagreed with the plans to cause and film a stampede. 116 Though an animal defense league in name, the AADL objected on the grounds that the film would have 54 “a demoralizing effect upon the thoughts of impressionable children, and will make the work of humane societies just that much harder when the coming generation reaches maturity […] The sight of such suffering…will cause either sorrowful pity or the feeling that it is not wrong to make animals suffer.” 117 Other films cited as cruel included a Tom Mix picture, North of Hudson Bay (Fox Film Corporation, dir. Jack Ford, 1923); Ashes of Vengeance (Norma Talmadge Film Company, dir. Frank Lloyd, 1923); a newsreel from International News Services Weekly; and several efforts from the Hal Roach Studios: two features, The Call of the Wild (dir. Fred Jackman, 1923), which club women including a Mrs. Robert King seem to have successfully prevented from being shown in Emporia, Kansas 118 , and The King of Wild Horses (dir. Fred Jackman, 1924, and referred to incorrectly by activists as “Rex, King of the Wild Horses”); an “Our Gang” short, The Big Show (dir. Robert F. McGowan, 1923); and the “Dippy Doo Dad” series. 119 Specific titles for the Dippy Doo Dad shorts were not mentioned, but it seems reasonable to assume that objections were to the series as a whole, which Richard Lewis Ward has described as “burlesques of standard melodrama” performed by “an all-animal cast headed up by trained monkeys wearing human-style clothing and cavorting on miniature sets.” 120 The letters that arrived at Will Hays’ office regarding these films came not just from club women, but also from prominent humanitarians such as Francis H. Rowley, who was president of both the Massachusetts Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals as well as the American Humane Education Society. 121 Rowley would become involved in this controversy again at a later date. No one at Fox, the Norma Talmadge Film Company, or the International News Services Weekly seems to have taken these complaints particularly personally, but Hal Roach did. At some point in late 1923, Roach met with Wright, and during that meeting—as Beetson informed 55 Mrs. King back in Emporia, Kansas—“she made certain statements which were not so. Naturally Mr. Roach resented these remarks and simply refused to deal with Mrs. Wright, who apparently singled him out for attack as a result.” 122 This differs greatly from Wright’s account of events: “You can judge the caliber of the man when I tell you that in one interview I had with him a few weeks ago, he told me ‘That he would not hesitate to shoot or beat a dog that would not obey him’,” she told Mrs. King. 123 In addition, Wright’s letter noted that Buck, the canine star of Call of the Wild, had passed away two weeks after filming, presumably because of said filming, and that the upcoming Rex picture would be, according to Roach, “full of suggested cruelty.” Warren Doane, general manager of the studios, called Fred Beetson in December to ask if Beetson could “try to have all her badges revoked.” 124 Roach, of course, denied these claims, informing The Christian Science Monitor that he could not be paid to use cruelty in his motion pictures: “I have enough money not to have to resort to such methods in order to make a few more paltry dollars. It is true that there may be suggestive cruelty in some of my productions; but I feel that in these cases the average audience will be impressed rather with the wrongness of maltreating animals than be inclined to abuse them.” 125 In January 1924, during a visit to Los Angeles, Will Hays met personally with the American Animal Defense League and offered a solution: a special humane officer would be appointed, and it would be that officer’s duty to inspect all the studios and lots. “The creation of such a position, Mr. Hays agreed, would tend to prevent actual cruelty and prevent suspicion of cruelty on the part of the public,” noted the Monitor. 126 Regardless of whether or not his plan was carried through, Hays promised that he was committed to the efforts to eliminate cruelty from the pictures. “It is a wonderful advance to have the recognized head of the picture industry in America admit that cruelty to animals in pictures is out of place,” noted the National Humane 56 Review. “It remains to be seen whether the actual producers of motion pictures will follow his lead.” 127 In the full statement he gave to the Monitor, however, it is evident that whatever feelings Hays might have had for animals, his real goal was to protect the film industry: In the readjustment of the industry, I am interested in the correction of any real grievance. The general impression is, I believe, that in this readjustment, so far as it has gone, cruelty to animals has been pretty well eliminated. The producers want to be sure that it is not practiced […] While the actor expires in Hamlet, John Barrymore is still about. The dog that was killed in “The Call of the Wild,” is today alive and happy in his kennel out at the Hal Roach Studio in Culver City. There are many instances where what appears upon the screen would lead one to suspect that cruelty has been practiced in the filming of animals, where the effect has been gained entirely through “trick photography.” 128 The industry would come to use three major points for its defense, and Hays hit upon two of them here. First, while animals might have been mistreated previously, studios and producers had mostly eliminated the practice on their own, with minimal involvement from humane activists. Second, what might have looked like cruelty or mistreatment onscreen was often, in fact, trick photography. The third point of defense, which Fred Beetson put quite succinctly in a response to Rosamonde Rae Wright, was that it made no economic sense to mistreat animals and therefore studios would not do it: For your information, I find that the Producers willingly combat cruelty to animals for two reasons: 1 st , from the humane point of view and 2 nd , from the dollars and cents point of view. It develops that all trained animals are worth from a few hundred dollars to many thousands of dollars each and it would be very poor judgment not to give these animals the best possible treatment. 129 But this reply was inadequate, and as 1924 progressed, Will Hays found his hands fuller and fuller. Just prior to his meeting with the AADL, The Christian Science Monitor reported that 400 animals had been killed for a pioneer picture (likely The Covered Wagon) and MPPDA secretary 57 Courtland Smith had made the very unhelpful statement that animals killed during the making of films had been “slaughtered for a good cause.” 130 Smith subsequently denied that 400 animals— or indeed any animals—had ever been killed for any picture, a patently untrue claim since, as the Monitor immediately pointed out, Thomas Ince had declared quite openly that buffalo were slaughtered before his cameras. 131 In addition to all the letters Hays continued to receive from individuals, humane societies from across the country began sending telegrams. 132 By April, the AADL had “pretty well covered” Los Angeles with large billboards, which claimed that “repeated rehearsals of cruelty to animals are required for animals of screen, stage, and circus” and that these acts resulted “in maiming, killing, etc.” 133 And Hal Roach was threatening damage suits against the AADL. 134 Fred Beetson, however, was hard at work marshaling defenses in Los Angeles. Though Roach was preparing a statement, and Thomas Ince had been advised to do so, such measures would clearly be insufficient in clearing up the public relations nightmare. 135 That much was evident even before Ince completely refused to be contrite about his onscreen buffalo slaughter. Ince defended his filmed cruelty on an intriguing combination of education, historical verisimilitude, and rigorously following anticruelty logic to its obvious ends. The film, he said, would be his “contribution to the permanent educational screen library,” and he claimed that “it was absolutely essential that a few buffalo be killed to truthfully and historically depict the actual occurrences in the early American western history.” 136 Furthermore, the buffalo slaughtered for the film had, according to Ince, been immediately butchered and supplied to locals as food. “If it is wrong to kill these few buffalo bulls for a permanent historical record of a very important event and with the meat disposed of according to nature’s laws,” he argued, “then it must be wrong to slaughter any animals for the commercial market.” 137 It might have been possible to 58 argue the validity of this last point; the American Animal Defense League does not seem to have had an official position on vegetarianism. On the whole, however, Ince’s unapologetic statement seems unlikely to have placated any humanitarians. But there were other tactics to take. It had come to the MPPDA’s attention that Wright and Kessler were definitely “out of touch with the regular Association for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals,” 138 and accordingly, Beetson began arrangements to receive an “endorsement giving clean bill of health to motion picture industry” from the LASCPA. 139 He also checked in with other established humane societies; all said “they knew of no cruelty and if they did, they would make an arrest […] Further examination showed that the American Animal Defense League is not incorporated, has not a charter from the State of California, and…Mrs. Wright does not today stand as a humane officer.” 140 Hugh M. Bole, a director of the LASPCA, told Beetson: There is no need for another society, such as the American Animal Defense League, whatsoever, to take up any work along the lines that has been attempted by it and its sponsors in the attack upon the movie industry regarding the treatment of dumb animals in motion pictures. Our Society has at all times answered all calls of every nature, cruel and unhumane [sic], regarding treatment of dumb animals, and have gone to all parts of the county; and our Field Investigator, Mr. Fred Wilson, has kept careful tab of the work of the animals in the movies and has yet, according to his reports, to find a single case of cruelty or ill treatment of any animals used in the motion picture industry. 141 The reaction suggests that “out of touch with the regular Association” might have been an understatement. Certainly Bole was thoroughly rankled. On top of the fact that his work was under attack, the single biggest financial supporter of his organization was a movie man— Western star William S. Hart, who had donated over $1,500 in 1923—and producer and executive Charles H. Christie was a fellow LASPCA director. 142 Bole’s extremely negative reaction to Wright is hardly difficult to understand. 59 On April 11, Beetson held a conference with two representatives from the SPCA, director Bole and field investigator Wilson, as well as reporter Courtland Holdom from The Christian Science Monitor. The LASPCA representatives had nothing but good news for Beetson and Hays. As Beetson summarized the day’s activities: Wilson stated that he had been at the studios at least fifty times in an official capacity, had seen some Hal Roach Dippy Doo Dad series made and at the time his identity as a humane officer was unknown. He has never in all his investigations seen a single instance of cruelty to animals. He wanted to know if Mrs. Wright saw any of the things she saw why she did not immediately make an arrest. Both Mr. Wilson and the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, through Mr. Boles [sic], director, absolutely discredit this woman, and before we get through we will have a story written in the Christian Science Monitor that will state our side truthfully. 143 Accordingly, an investigation into cruelty was planned. Beetson, Wilson, Bole, and Holdom would visit studios and producers as well as owners of animals rented out for pictures, and interview various individuals who regularly worked with animals in the movies. A report would be produced by the committee; the Monitor would then publish an article based on it. The investigation was carried out over several days in April of 1924, with the report completed on May 12 and the Monitor article printed one month later, on June 12. The committee’s report was both impressively thorough and, at the same time, utterly self-serving. Somewhat predictably, it found no cruelty whatsoever in the motion picture industry. 144 Nearly every individual interviewed made a similar statement: Yes, cruelty might have been practiced in the past, but filmmakers and animal trainers had long ago discovered that kindness was far more effective in producing desired results before the cameras. Cruelty made no economic sense, because an injured or dead animal was of no further use. And besides, everyone involved with the making of movies loved animals. No one wanted to see animals harmed. 60 Thus, Charles Murphy, in charge of the Universal Studios zoo and a twenty-year veteran of wild animal pictures, claimed that he “had never known a single case of where an animal had been whipped, maimed, killed, or ill treated in the movies; that he had never known a case where there had been repeated rehearsals over at least three times for any picture,” and that Rosamonde Rae Wright’s charges were false. 145 Charles F. Eyton, general manager of Famous Players-Lasky, stated that he had heard of many “movie stars going out of their way to stop cruelty to animals outside motion pictures, and that he knew of his own knowledge that scarcely any of them would stand for any cruel acts by anyone toward animals.” In addition, his wife, silent star Kathleen (typically spelled Kathlyn) Williams, belonged to humane societies. 146 Cecil B. DeMille denied “that he had ever seen any cruelty in the movies and particularly the charges that there were cruelty to animals in the filming of ‘The Ten Commandments’.” He did admit that one horse had broken its leg after escaping from a corral one night and stumbling in the desert. But he himself was an animal lover: he owned a big ranch, he did not like the killing of animals, his children raised rabbits as pets, and the rabbits were not eaten. Al Christie and Charles Christie were “indignant” at the cruelty charges, and the committee found that “the absolute sincerity with which both these brothers spoke, left no question in our minds about their love for dumb animals.” William S. Hart, who had not been accused of any cruelty by the AADL, was interviewed anyway and “said in plain vernacular that if he found anyone that was unkind to his animals he would kill him.” The list went on. First National was preparing to release a film called Sundown, which featured a cattle drive; a Mr. Hudson there stated that “the animals which were shown as killed, numbering about twenty, were merely staked to the ground for the taking of the picture” and “he had never known of any real cruelty in the moving picture industry.” J.W. Consadine, described 61 as Joseph Schenck’s right-hand man, explained that the dog fight in the contested Ashes of Vengeance was created through smearing egg whites on a wolf’s face to create the impression of fierceness, then a blanket was thrown over Rin Tin Tin, punctured with a knife, and a stuffed dog used to show the dead wolf. The film’s director, Frank Lloyd, spoke of “the extreme love of animals that most of the moving picture stars had and their temperament being such that they would not stand for any downright cruelty to animals.” Once a flock of pigeons had been turned loose in the studio after being used for a scene, he said, and a crew of men had to gather them up to satisfy Norma Talmadge, “as she would not go to bed until she knew the pidgeons [sic] were safely housed.” Schenck himself said the charge of cruelty was “absolutely ridiculous,” that he had “intimate knowledge” of some four hundred pictures and had personally produced one hundred; that one hundred fifty of the four hundred pictures involved animal scenes, and that …he never knew of a single set of cruelty being used with animals or any of them being killed or maimed in the production of pictures. He said that he even had animals around his studios now that he was supporting, having once been used in pictures, and that frequently the stars would fall so in love with the animals that they used in the production of a picture that they would either purchase them or take them, themselves, after being used in the picture. 147 More and more producers, trainers, and directors added to the denials of cruelty: Warren Doane at the Hal Roach Studios; Thomas Ince, who was quick to inform the committee that the Canadian government had investigated charges regarding his buffalo slaughter and found no cruelty; William Gilbert, longtime employee of Mack Sennett; Charles Gaye, who owned 43 lions that he hired out to pictures; and finally, James Cruze, who said the cruelty charges regarding The Covered Wagon were untrue; if they had been made, it was for publicity, and the statements were not sanctioned by Famous Players-Lasky. He did admit that he knew two horses were accidentally killed during filming. The animals had been pulling a wagon across a river 62 when “the rope became wet and heavy and tangled about the horses; that the man in the wagon went to loosen or cut the traces and was kicked or knocked over senseless while so doing and the animals were drowned.” Capping off the testimony was Hal Roach, who denied any knowledge of cruelty in productions made by his studio, and furthermore informed the committee “that if he was a wild animal in captivity, or any other kind of animal, that he knew no other field of work or place that he would rather be than a trained animal in the movies, and that because of the fact of the care, kindness, and consideration shown to the animals in that industry.” The conclusion of the report, signed by Beetson, Wilson, and Bole (Holdom refused to sign, on grounds of journalistic integrity) 148 was as follows: FIRST – That there has not been any acts of cruelty in the motion picture plants or in any of the pictures or in the training of wild animals for the motion pictures, as charged by Mrs. Wright and the American Animal Defense League. SECOND: We find that the utmost care, kindness, and consideration are used toward the animals in the motion picture industry in the making of pictures, and in every other way. THIRD – That the charges made by the American Animal Defense League and by Mrs. Wright regarding cruelty to animals in any specific motion picture, and particularly “The Ten Commandments”, “The Covered Wagon”, “Sundown”, “Ashes of Vengeance”, and “The King of Wild Horses”, and, in fact, all other charges regarding cruelty to animals in moving pictures and the making of them, including the buffalo picture taken by Mr. Ince’s company in Canada, are absolutely untrue and are without any foundation at all; and also any picture or pictures which had been made by William S. Hart in which charges of cruelty have been made by Mrs. Wright and the American Animal Defense League; and we also find that no acts of cruelty were practiced upon the dog “Buck” in the making of any picture by the Hal Roach Studio, or had there ever been any acts of cruelty practiced by Mr. Roach in the making of any of his pictures but, on the contrary, Mr. Roach has always stood for the utmost kindness and consideration to dumb animals owned by him which have been used in the motion pictures, or otherwise. FOURTH – That from our investigation, we find that in the motion picture industry are some of the greatest lovers of both wild and tame animals and loyal supporters of the work which is being done for and on their behalf by the L.A.S.P.C.A. 63 FIFTH – That from our investigation, we find that Mrs. Wright and her associates and the American Animal Defense League (if the same does exist) are to be criticised severely if they have seen any acts of cruelty and have permitted the offenders, or those causing the performance of the cruel acts, to go unpunished. SIXTH – That we believe a great injustice has been done the motion picture industry by the American Animal Defense League, and its associates, by spreading the reports of these alleged cruelties, which, from our investigation, are unquestionably false. The report was delivered to Hays, who sent it to Willis Abbott at The Christian Science Monitor well in advance of Holdom’s article. While they waited for the article to be published, there was one loose end to follow up on. Hays had been incorrect in his January 1924 statement that Buck, the dog from The Call of the Wild, was alive and well despite having been killed in the film’s narrative. Buck had indeed passed on, in May of 1923, but a veterinary report procured by Hal Roach confirmed that the dog had perished of a brain lesion that was believed to be unrelated to filming. 149 Beetson also collected as reinforcement individual statements of support from investigatory committee member Fred Wilson and from Hugh J. Baldwin, the Chief Field Inspector of the State Humane Society of California. 150 Baldwin testified that he had been investigating occasional charges of cruelty in motion pictures for over five years, in Hollywood and on location shoots, and had never witnessed cruelty. He had recently made an unannounced visit to the Hal Roach Studios, and “discovered a most thoughtful and kind method of procedure and particularly was this demonstrated in the handling of the wild stallion, Rex, who fully appreciates the kind voice of his trainer.” 151 It appeared, then, that Rosamonde Rae Wright and the American Animal Defense League were on increasingly shaky ground. That spring, in an apparent effort to find new evidence, Wright had convinced the Santa Barbara Humane Society to send their superintendant to Guadalupe, where DeMille was on location—but no cruelty had been found. 152 64 On June 2, the Los Angeles Times published an article on Beetson’s investigation, reporting that “a thorough investigation completely disproved the charges” of animal cruelty, “and that at least one producer probably will bring suit to clear the name of the picture industry in the matter.” 153 Fannie Kessler, the AADL’s president, soon responded. In a letter to the editor of the Times, she quite correctly pointed out that the investigatory committee was perhaps less than objective: “Refutation of charges of cruelty in motion pictures, issued by the local Committee of Investigation, composed of Mr. Hays’s representatives, together with allied humane officers, is highly farcical.” 154 The AADL would not be intimidated or deterred, she said, bringing in support for her claims from the now-oft-cited letters written by Carl Laemmle. The Christian Science Monitor’s article based on the AMPP/LASPCA investigation was published on June 12, 1924. 155 Over and over, the article hammered home the stated sincere desire upon the part of motion picture producers to prevent cruelties that had already ceased to occur: Whatever may have been the condition within the industry before humane organizations took up the cry that there was cruelty connected with the performance of animals before the camera, motion picture circles now are very much awake to their relationship to four-footed actors now, and have given every assurance that they are and will continue to be well treated without exception. Fred Beetson was quoted as saying that, if any future instances of mistreatment did come to light, he was “even more interested in seeing that cruelty is stopped than are the humane societies. In addition to my wish to see the animals protected is my desire to protect the good name of the industry, which inhumanity would harm.” According to Beetson and Holdom, it was misunderstanding of how films were made, more than anything else, which was responsible for the belief that animals were treated cruelly. On the whole, then, the article is quite unsurprising. Most fascinating is Beetson’s departure from Hays’ party line regarding apparent cruelty. Hays, 65 both in correspondences with advocates and in the press, had previously agreed that it would be best not to imply cruelty onscreen. Beetson, however, disagreed: “We resent strongly the charge of ‘implied cruelty’ in our films. Regulating the material that makes up our pictures is censorship, pure and simple and we shall resist it. But actual cruelty we shall not tolerate.” It might have been presumed that the Monitor article would put an end to the hoopla. It did not. The AADL, which had failed to come up with any new evidence of ongoing cruelty, quieted down somewhat. But their fight with Hollywood was not yet over. This was in part because the industry decided it wanted to kick the organization while it was down. At the beginning of July, Beetson sent Hays a lengthy update on the situation. He and Courtland Holdom of the Monitor were working out a plan to approach the Los Angeles District Attorney to see whether the AADL might be investigated “on the basis of collecting money, spending fairly large sums of money, attacking an industry and seeming to be responsible to no one as to the disbursements of this organization.” 156 He was also considering having Rosamonde Rae Wright investigated by the Pinkerton Detective Agency. At some point, it had been discovered that the only official badge Wright possessed had been issued by the police (rather than an established humane society) and might have been revoked through pressing charges against her, which Beetson felt entitled to do. Hearsay from other humane officers suggested that Wright was making a living off of Fannie Kessler, primarily by “keeping her agitated and convincing her that they have a great work to perform in the world.” 157 Hal Roach, meanwhile, had already had Wright investigated by the Burns Detective Agency, though all the information he gathered was “more or less of a gossipy, hearsay character,” and Roach’s attorneys had said “it would be rather difficult to prove libel.” 158 Wright’s only real remaining trump cards were the letters of support from Carl Laemmle, though Beetson felt sure that they had been written, and the 66 donation given, “purely for the purpose of being rid of a nuisance.” 159 In the end, Fred Beetson did hire the Pinkertons to investigate Wright, but decided not to pursue legal action against her or the organization. 160 It seemed as though the group might have been at a low point. “The attitude of the American Animal Defense League at the present time seems to be to dwell on possible cruelty that may have existed a year or so back,” Beetson wrote Hays. “They admitted to a girl from Mr. Holdom’s office today that they had done nothing specific to stop cruelty to animals but were carrying on at this time a propaganda campaign for the future.” 161 But the AADL had immediately succeeded in one respect: it had managed to make the MPPDA wary of apparent screen cruelty, as evidenced by brief discussions over Wanderer of the Wasteland, a six-reel Technicolor Western produced by Famous Players-Lasky and distributed by Paramount. 162 The film contained a sequence in which a dog appeared to have been kicked twice and subsequently ran down an alley with its tail between its legs. Though the MPPDA seemed to believe that this effect had been achieved through a combination of trick photography and clever editing, Jason Joy nevertheless advised MPPDA treasurer and foreign manager Frederick L. Herron 163 —and subsequently, Adolph Zukor—that “In view of the present ripple concerning cruelty to animals, I wonder if it would not be advisable to cut these two shots—at least, from the prints which are to be distributed in New England and the Far West.” 164 Zukor was furnished with a copy of the Monitor article, in the event he had missed it previously; it is unclear whether he followed Joy’s advice and had the potentially offending shots altered. Will Hays, meanwhile, had sent a copy of the report to Governor Baxter of Maine. 165 Unfortunately for Hays, Baxter came to much the same conclusion as had Fannie Kessler. Though he felt that Hays was sincere in his desire to eliminate cruelty and credited him for the progress that had been made, he did not believe that all cruelties had been eliminated from the 67 industry. Calling the agitation “justifiable,” Baxter informed Hays that “the report is almost too one-sided to be convincing.” 166 Hays, rather exasperated by this point, asked Baxter why he believed cruelties to still exist in the motion pictures in spite of the report by “disinterested investigators,” hinted that Baxter might not know all the facts “concerning the interest of the particular party who has been agitating the matter locally there,” and complained to Willis Abbott at the Monitor that the governor was “quite prejudiced.” 167 Abbott had his own problems stemming from the report. “This thing has really given me more trouble than anything that has come up since I took charge of the paper,” he wrote to Hays. 168 Given that a representative of his paper had served on the committee, and given that the report denying cruelty had been endorsed by his paper, it is small wonder that by August, Abbott’s initial sympathies towards the AADL had dissipated. He was “suffering,” he said, from “systematic propaganda undertaken by Mrs. Wright and Mrs. Kessler…I have on my desk more than one hundred letters bitterly attacking the report as printed in the Monitor, and in some instances accusing the Monitor of having been paid for its publication.” (By the end of the summer, he also had on his desk a missive from actor Conrad Nagel, who described the AADL as “well-meaning, but misinformed, busy bodies” who had probably tried to succeed in Hollywood, failed, and were bitter because of it. 169 Abbott seems to have declined to publish these remarks.) According to Abbott, Kessler’s new argument was that if the motion picture studios were as innocent as they claimed to be, then they would sue her for damages; the fact that they had not done so proved she was correct. “In some way or another,” he said, “I have got to meet this attack.” Abbott reminded Hays that when the two had last met in person, Hays had suggested the Monitor send Governor Baxter to California to investigate the studios for himself 68 at the Monitor’s expense; he presumed the MPPDA would be willing to reimburse whatever expenses accrued. Thus, plans for a second investigation of Hollywood’s treatment of animals were set in motion, though it took several months to work out the details. This time, Hays and Abbott were careful to appoint as investigators publicly well-respected individuals who were if anything biased against the film industry. Baxter, who retired from office in January 1925, was the first member. The humanitarian credentials of the committee’s second member, Dr. Francis H. Rowley—ordained reverend, former secretary and vice president of the American Humane Association, president of the Massachusetts Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals since 1910, concurrently president of the American Humane Education Society, and author of at least one letter of complaint to Will Hays—were impeccable. 170 Rounding out the committee was Rufus Steele, a longtime newspaper man, sometime motion picture producer, and eventual member of the Monitor’s editorial board. Years previously, he had published at least one article decrying the overwork of horses, and had testified in Congress in opposition to the motion picture censorship bills of 1916. 171 However, none of these men traveled to California. Rather, they appointed and sent Edward G. Lowry. Lowry “was in charge of the German division of the American embassy in London during the first two years of World War I”; before and after the war, he was a journalist for various newspapers, and had published a book called Washington Close-Ups in 1921. 172 Lowry began his investigations on January 11, 1925, and they continued until March 21; his lengthy findings were published in The Christian Science Monitor on June 18, about a year after the initial report had been printed. 173 The committee also wrote an article, published on the same day, which provided some additional context for the situation. 174 A summary was printed in the NHR in August. 175 69 After all the conflicting and emotional statements from both sides of the cruelty in films debate, Lowry’s rational, thorough, even-handed report must have come as a relief. Written in first person, it begins by laying out the particulars of his investigation (including a meeting with Kessler and Wright), criticizing Holdom for bad journalism and “exceed[ing] his functions as a reporter,” and explaining the difficulties of finding firsthand witnesses to cruelty. 176 In his first week of inquiries, three of nineteen people professed firsthand knowledge of cruelty. All were former studio employees, but had not been on studio lots for one, two, or three years, so their information was, Lowry noted, up to three years old. These persons promised to put Lowry in contact with persons currently employed by the studios, but failed to do so. Fourteen subsequent interviews, including four with current studio employees, revealed no firsthand knowledge of cruelty, but all four studio employees “testified that cruelty existed in occasional instances.” Thus, he summarized the general conditions as such: A number of people who believed that cruelty is practiced, but who could offer little or no proof that would convince a detached and disinterested public opinion […] Virtually every one [sic] that I saw who believed that cruelty existed voluntarily expressed a doubt that it could ever be proved. They all said that the people who knew the facts are necessarily connected with the industry and would not tell what they knew for fear of losing their jobs. After two and a half weeks of interviews, Lowry found himself convinced that “the reports of cruelties were exaggerated, and that a number of worthy, respectable, humane persons, men and women, who were giving currency to these reports did not have sufficient, if any, actual knowledge upon which to base them.” He also found that “all of the cruelty alleged to take place in making the motion picture falls under three general heads,” overlapping almost exactly with the American Animal Defense League’s list of cruel films. The first of these were “big outdoor spectacles, where large numbers of animals—horses, camels, mules, elephants, etc. etc.—are 70 used to produce big mass effects of motion,” such as The Covered Wagon, The Ten Commandments, or The Last Frontier. Second were “the cheap, short comedies in which animals are employed—cats, pigs, chickens, ducks, with an occasional donkey or cow. In these so-called animal comedies it was contended that the animals are required to do unnatural ‘stunts’ or ‘gags,’ and that to get the comic effect desired the animals were wired and otherwise maltreated. That is, they were made to perform under duress, and sometimes suffered injury in the process.” This was an apt description of Roach’s Dippy Doo Dads series, which at that point had been out of production for over a year. The third category of complaint was that studio zoos and lots did not provide sufficient care for animals. Lowry had not yet visited the studios, however. On February 2, he began to do just that, with Beetson’s blessing. After he had visited “virtually all of the studios,” Lowry came to the conclusion that indeed, Hollywood did sometimes mistreat its animals. His summary is worth quoting at length: Occasional acts of cruelty to animals are committed in making motion pictures, but these cruelties are exaggerated both as to number and as to extent. The producers, directors and others concerned in the making of a picture are quite honest in saying that they do not countenance cruelty or mistreatment of animals. The occasional acts of cruelty are not wanton. In making a picture the directors are ordered or seek to produce certain effects; the script of the story calls for the animals involved to do certain things. The effect sought is produced in the most direct way possible. The burden of the testimony was that where animals are uncared for or badly treated on the lots it was by underlings or lesser people. I found everywhere about the studios that everyone concerned disliked making animal pictures because of the time and trouble it involves. It sometimes takes days, I was told, to induce an animal to do the simplest thing naturally and of its own accord. I was also told by several persons that in big, outdoor, spectacular pictures, when mass effects of motion is desired, human beings run the same chance of being hurt as the animals, and in fact, sometimes were injured in spite of all precautions. The point was made that human beings were put on the same plane with the animals in making a big outdoor picture where danger was to be incurred. 71 Precautions were taken not to hurt either but sometimes these precautions failed. 177 My concern, of course, was solely with the treatment of animals. For my own part, I became persuaded from my inquiries that cruelty is more apt to occur in the so-called animal comedies and in lack of proper care for small animals on the lots than in making the big pictures. There is, I believe, a real basis for complaint there, though the condition is exaggerated, and is not nearly so bad nor so frequent as is alleged by persons outside of the industry who are interested in this matter. In addition to the testimony he heard from current studio employees, Lowry himself witnessed an act of cruelty on a movie lot (though he refrained from specifying which): the administration of “‘high life’ (carbon bisulphide) to a trick mule to make him kick up and act wild.” Armed with this knowledge, Lowry went to visit Will Hays (presumably in Los Angeles), who was “incredulous” over the act of cruelty Lowry had witnessed, accepted the findings at once, and declared that “something must be done to cure the situation and condition.” Hays reported the act of cruelty to the producer in charge, who then “made an immediate investigation, confirmed [Lowry’s] personal observations wholly from his own employees, and at once issued reprimands, discharges, and written orders that in future on his lot no effect should be sought or allowed which depended in any way on cruelty to animals.” Hays also asked Lowry to write a memo, which he did; the bulk of the memo was then adapted and adopted as a set of resolutions at an AMPP meeting held February 19. These resolutions stated that “the producers of motion pictures who are members of this association are in thorough sympathy with the efforts to eliminate cruelty to animals and it is their determined purpose to prevent any cruelty in the making of motion pictures.” It acknowledged, per Lowry’s report, that “occasional cases” of cruelty still existed, but insisted the majority of cruelty had been eliminated. Due to the AMPP’s “determination” to eliminate all cruelty, it was resolved that individuals—“any director, assistant director, or person in authority in making a motion picture, 72 who permits cruelty or intentional injury to owned or rented animals; or any property man having charge of owned or rented animals who neglects properly to water, feed and care for such animals shall be subject to dismissal.” The use of drugs and chemicals that might have been injected or applied topically to cause irritation was also prohibited, as were the use of wires— though, crucially, the wire guidelines seemed to apply more specifically to small animals: “No animal or fowl…shall be wired in a fixed position or dragged on wires or in any manner used on wires in such a way as to cause it pain or risk of injury, and no effects shall be sought or allowed which depend in any way on cruelty to animals.” Livestock used “to secure mass effects of movement in making outdoor or open country pictures” would have safeguards employed to protect “from accident or possible injury,” though the nature of such safeguards was not specified. It was specified that “competent men trained to control and manage herds” should be in charge of the livestock. Included also was a provision that whistleblowers not be penalized, that “any specific and definite complaint filed by any accredited and responsible humane officer” would be investigated promptly, and that “any accredited agent or agents agreed upon” by the MPPDA and “the presidents of national or state humane organizations” be admitted to any studio lot or location upon request. “It goes without saying,” the statement concluded, that independent producers would not be affected by these resolutions. The resolutions may have sounded all well and good, but they were clearly written to protect the industry just as much as, if not more than, the animals it employed. It is worth noting that the wording of these latter points seems to be tailored quite precisely to remove the American Animal Defense League from the equation. Beetson had claimed that Rosamonde Rae Wright was not an agent of a national or state humane association, and if this claim was accepted, she could have been (and probably was) denied access to studios and locations. The 73 resolutions also preemptively shifted blame from producers and executives to lower-level employees: directors, assistant directors, and animal handlers. On the one hand, this made logical sense; after all, producers and executives were neither interacting directly with the animals nor setting up their stunts. On the other hand, it neatly absolved the higher-ups from direct responsibility for animal welfare. The anti-wire clause is also worth discussing, because it seems to be directed specifically at protecting small animals such as those that would have appeared in the Dippy Doo Dads series. Neither the wire clause nor the livestock clause specifically mentions horses, the animals which would be at the center of the 1930s’ biggest controversies. While it could certainly be argued that the statement “no effects shall be sought or allowed which depend in any way on cruelty to animals” could and should apply to both the Running W (a device that used wires to cause galloping horses to fall) and to concealed pits (also occasionally used to make horses stumble), specific mention of those methods is completely absent from the MPPDA resolutions. In their complementary article, Baxter, Rowley, and Steele applauded the MPPDA’s actions, and praised Hays in particular for his sincerity. But they also warned readers not to take the industry entirely at its word: The mere passage of resolutions…will not prevent cruelty to animals in the picture industry. An awakened, aggressive public sentiment is needed to supplement and make effective the action of the directors. When picture patrons give both producers and exhibitors to understand that box office receipts will suffer and that picture houses will not be patronized if cruel films are shown, the evil soon will disappear and motion picture animals will suffer no more. 178 Considering the resumes of Baxter and Rowley in particular, it should be unsurprising that the committee’s opinion followed established humane society discourse in more ways than the advice to hit the industry in the wallet, where it hurt most. They also invoked the moral 74 arguments familiar from William O. Stillman, stating “we are convinced that cruelty to animals in film work is morally wrong and without any justification, and that cruel pictures exert a demoralizing and debasing influence upon human beings.” They followed the by-now doctrinal belief that suggested cruelty caused spectators to become more hardened to actual cruelty. And they called for the elimination of all scenes “where dumb creatures are coerced to perform unnatural and dangerous acts, whether actual cruelties are practiced upon, or foolish ‘stunts’ are required of the animal performers. Bull fights, rodeos, diving horses, stampedes of herds of cattle, animals performing dressed as humans, and similar acts degrade the public taste and cause pain to the harmless creatures employed.” This was in line with other humanitarian concerns of the day; as mentioned previously, the American Humane Association was actively trying to ban bullfights and rodeos. The second investigation and the two articles it produced seemed, finally, to have the effect Will Hays and Fred Beetson desired. Presumably they still received the occasional letter from a spectator convinced that animals had been mistreated by filmmakers, but the situation was no longer critical. Variety made very brief mention of the report and the MPPDA’s resolutions. 179 Two months later, the Monitor ran a couple of articles describing the report’s influence on humanitarians as well as on state censorship in Great Britain, where welfare societies were at work to push through a bill that required licensure for all persons training animals for stage, screen, or circus work. 180 So there were long some long-reaching, and long- ranging, effects. But on the whole, what the American Animal Defense League had really accomplished was solid proof that the industry could, and would, go to great lengths to protect its own interests. 75 Stateside, the AADL had been effectively silenced. No more articles about the group were published in The Christian Science Monitor; this may have been for no other reason than Willis Abbott was tired of dealing with them. There was hearsay that Harry Carr, editor of the Los Angeles Times, had started refusing to cooperate or interact with Rosamonde Rae Wright over a year previously. 181 With the two dailies most likely to cover their activities as well as the largest nearby humane associations alienated, the AADL seems to have faded rather quickly from the public eye. Kessler got a letter to the editor of the Los Angeles Times published in August, in which she generally protested big game hunting in Africa, rodeos, “drowning and breaking of legs of animals in motion pictures to get thrills for an audience—performing animals trained by blows, starvation and hot irons,” hunting, and vivisection, then specifically protested the establishment of game preserves for hunting. 182 Wright claimed to have been on location prior to and for the filming of the chariot race in Ben-Hur (MGM, dir. Fred Niblo, 1925), which she described in gruesome terms, claiming that the final crash was so devastating that “only a beneficent Providence saved the animals from horrible death.” 183 However, nothing came of her report. In January of 1926, the Times noted that the AADL was trying to rescue a Barnes Circus elephant named Tusko, whose case seemed eerily similar to that of Charley, the unfortunate Universal elephant. 184 In 1927, the Chicago Tribune mentioned that the group was assisting in the American Humane Association’s annual Be Kind to Animals Week, with particular protests against fur trapping, “the treatment accorded trained animals of the screen, vaudeville, and circus world,” vivisection, and sport hunting. 185 It was not until 1928, in another letter to the editor of the Times, that Fannie Kessler got another harangue against the industry in print: Movie fans should know that all spectacular pictures featuring animals have left a trail of wounded, tortured, dying and dead victims, and that 76 hundreds of films too horrible to show are cut before even reaching the ‘continuity’ man and then he cuts many that he knows even the most hardened would not stand for. One man whom the writer knows voiced his indignation upon witnessing such a scene among many in a well-known biblical picture by rising and saying loudly, ‘it is a damned outrage,’ and walking leisurely and noisily out. If this were done often and the women instead of closing their eyes until the cruel scene is over would hiss their displeasure and walk out hissing it would mean something. Many people who formerly enjoyed the movies no longer go because if the feature picture happens to please them they are generally regaled by an ‘educational’ (?) film showing a bull fight or rodeo or other cruelty made especially for the camera. 186 Kessler’s claims do seem overstated (in addition to lacking in evidence). Surely not all spectacular pictures left trails of dead animals in their wake; surely there were not “hundreds of films” needing cruelty trimmed out before being unleashed upon an oblivious public. But this letter to the editor is worth mentioning because the biblical picture in question was very likely Warner Bros.’ Noah’s Ark, a massive part-talkie production that had premiered in Los Angeles at the beginning of November. 187 The picture required thirty assistant directors in addition to Michael Curtiz, and allegedly, two extras drowned during the filming of the flood; it is not difficult to imagine animals being swept away as well. 188 Admittedly, the connection is speculative. But if Kessler was speaking of Noah’s Ark, and if animals were mistreated during filming, it provides a fascinating connection to what was probably the most important single battle between Hollywood and humanitarians: Curtiz’s 1936 historical war epic, The Charge of the Light Brigade. But to backtrack slightly in history—all the way back to 1927—there is one final anecdote connected to the American Animal Defense League worth mentioning. In September of that year, Kessler wrote the Los Angeles Times to protest what she called a “melodramatic publicity stunt” in which “an old lion” was to be flown from San Diego to New York. 189 This 77 lion turned out to be none other than Leo, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer’s famous feline mascot. The exact reason for Leo’s journey was unclear; Kessler was probably correct in calling it a publicity stunt. (He went on a nationwide tour, presumably via ground transportation, in 1928. 190 ) This time, she was not alone in her pleas to stop what she saw as senseless. The San Diego Humane Society also asked for the flight to be canceled, 191 but MGM refused, assuring the public that “every safeguard for the comfort of the lion has been provided.” 192 Certainly Leo was flying in style. Only a few months after Charles Lindburgh’s solo transatlantic flight, he was to travel in a near-duplicate of the Spirit of St. Louis piloted by Martin Jensen, who had recently won second place in a nonstop air race from Oakland to Hawaii. 193 Duly fortified for the 22-hour journey—Leo with a pre-flight meal of steak, Jensen carrying several sandwiches—the two took off from Camp Kearny at 10:15 on September 16 th . 194 Though MGM representatives were waiting in New York with “five gallons of milk and a big, gilded cage,” Leo did not arrive as scheduled. 195 In fact, the plane went off radio contact quite early in its flight. Search parties were dispatched, 196 but the two were not heard from until September 19 th , when Jensen arrived on foot at a ranch outside Globe, Arizona. 197 The plane had crashed in a canyon, due to “light air, a heavy load, and a turn up the wrong fork of a mountain creek.” 198 Jensen gave Leo water and a portion of his sandwiches before departing to seek help. 199 It was reported that ranchers planned to kill a cow for Leo before he was shipped (via highway, not airplane) back to MGM headquarters in Culver City. The lion was physically uninjured in the crash, and according to Jensen, he was not terrified, as Kessler claimed he would have been. Jensen was quoted as saying, “He did look disgusted, and I figure his opinion of me as a flyer is pretty low […] He seems to have taken care of himself in the cage while we were tumbling, and if he didn’t like it he didn’t make any roar about it.” 200 78 Perhaps because Leo survived his ordeal unharmed, humane societies let the matter alone. The story is thus an amusing footnote that nevertheless in some ways helps to illustrate shifts that occurred in the thinking of both Hollywood and humane societies around this time. Celebrity was becoming more and more ubiquitous, and Leo was not just any lion; he was a famous lion, a movie lion. Stars would become important links in negotiating some of the tensions between motion pictures and the humane-minded public. William S. Hart, interviewed by the initial MPPDA committee, was an important figure in this development. So too were Mary Pickford and Shirley Temple. Along with the early 1930s cycle of jungle films and the formation of the Production Code Administration in 1934, the use of stars to sell movie culture to humanitarians forms one of the most important trends in animal welfare/film industry relations prior to the 1936 debacle over The Charge of the Light Brigade. 1 This passage was originally published in the Lancaster (PA) New Era, July 30, 1923, and has been reprinted in Richard Sieverling, Tom Mix: Portrait of a Superstar (Hershey, PA: Keystone Enterprises Educational Publishing, 1991), 56. It, and most other cited materials on Tom Mix, are housed at the Autry Institute for the Study of the American West; I would like to thank Library and Research Services Director Marva R. Felchlin for her assistance. 2 In addition to films, Tony traveled with Mix on many publicity tours, making regular public appearances. See, for instance, Richard Sieverling, Tom Mix and Tony: A Partnership Remembered (Hershey, PA: Keystone Entertainment Educational Publishing, 1980); M.G. “Bud” Norris, The Tom Mix Book (Waynesville, NC: The World of Yesterday, 1989); John T. Nicholas with an introduction by Gene Autry, Tom Mix: Riding Up to Glory (Oklahoma City: Persimmon Hill/National Cowboy Hall of Fame and Western Heritage Center, 1980). 3 “Tom Mix’s Horse to Die: Owner Will Have Tony, 40 and ailing, Destroyed Today.” The New York Times, October 7, 1942, p. 27. ProQuest Historical Newspapers: The New York Times (1851-2009). 4 H.M. Christeson and F.M. Christeson, Tony and His Pals (With a Chapter by Tom Mix) (Chicago, IL: Albert Whitman and Company, 1934), 50. 5 Jennifer M. Bean, “Technologies of Early Stardom and the Extraordinary Body,” Camera Obscura 16.3 (2001): 20. 6 Diane L. Beers, For the Prevention of Cruelty: The History and Legacy of Animal Rights Activism in the United States (Athens, OH: Swallow Press/Ohio University Press, 2006), 70. 7 Beers, For the Prevention of Cruelty, 71. 8 Though the LASPCA had worked with the film industry before, and may have seemed a more obvious contender, it was a local organization with jurisdiction limited to Los Angeles County. This meant that it would not have been able to oversee distant location shooting. 9 UC Berkeley’s collection includes V.1:8-V.2 and V.4-39 (1913-1951). V.3 (1915) is missing. 10 For a discussion of Red Star, see Beers, For the Prevention of Cruelty, 100-01. 11 “1905-1924:The Stillman Years—Instilling Business Principles.” Unpublished document, no author, no date (Courtesy of the American Humane Association’s Film and Television Unit, Studio City, CA, received July 6, 2012): 10-12. 12 Ibid. 79 13 According to AHA literature, “President Stillman recognized that for years humane organizations in general and the AHA in particular had not addressed children’s issues and animal issues equally […] Stillman firmly believed that AHA should place equal emphasis on protecting the well being of children and animals.” “1905-1924: The Stillman Years”: 12. 14 On the whole, animal welfare advocates were Protestant. Authors such as Harriet Ritvo and Kathryn Shevelow have described the animal protection movement’s origins in 18 th and 19 th - century England, which was of course a predominantly Protestant country. See Harriet Ritvo, The Animal Estate: The English and Other Creatures in the Victorian Age (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1987), esp. pp 125-166, and Kathryn Shevelow, For the Love of Animals: The Rise of the Animal Protection Movement (New York: Henry Holt and Company, 2008), esp. pp. 201-280. Diane L. Beers has thusly described the early American reformers: “For the most part, they were people who already believed fervently in various social justice issues and participated in other reform movements. Like many reformers of the time, they tended to be financially comfortable urbanites from the East Coast. Women reformers in particular gravitated to the cause, and they represented the majority of the membership of most organizations.” Beers, For the Prevention of Cruelty, 40. 15 Garth S. Jowett, “‘A Capacity for Evil’: The 1915 Supreme Court Mutual Decision,” Historical Journal of Radio, Film, and Television, Vol. 9 No. 1 (1989): 59-62. 16 Alison M. Parker, “Mothering the Movies: Women Reformers and Popular Culture,” in Movie Censorship and American Culture, 2 nd Edition, ed. Francis G. Couvares (Amherst and Boston: University of Massachusetts Press, 2006), 89. 17 Bernard Unti, “The Quality of Mercy: Organized Animal Protection in the United States before World War Two” (Ph.D. diss., American University, 2002), 564-566. 18 Richard Maltby, “The Production Code and the Hays Office.” In Tino Balio, Grand Design, 42. 19 Grieveson, Policing Cinema, 6. Emphasis in original. 20 William O. Stillman, “Film Standards: A Very Serious Situation. Are the Censors Themselves Blameworthy?” The National Humane Review (subsequently cited as NHR), May 1922, 83-4. 21 NHR, December 1913, 283. Typically, only longer articles and editorials in the NHR were credited to an author; many pieces were also untitled. I have included author and title when available. 22 NHR, January 1914, p. 10. 23 Stillman, “Children and Movies,” NHR, February 1914, 37. 24 Stillman, “Effective Censorship Needed,” NHR, May 1914, 109, 113. 25 Ibid. 26 “Humane Legislation—Federal,” NHR, May 1914, 115. 27 Stillman and others who wrote for the NHR were often imprecise when it came to reporting the names of various censorship boards and institutions. In a way, this only seems appropriate; Variety and other trade presses tended to get the names of humane societies wrong. I have followed the organizational names as reported in the NHR unless otherwise noted. 28 “Humane Legislation—Federal Motion Picture Bill.” NHR, July 1914, np. Emphasis added. 29 NHR, September 1914, 205. 30 Ibid. 31 Stillman, “Movie Sensationalism,” NHR, 1914, 253. The brief editorial reads, in full, “Almost within gunshot of The Review office, a tragedy was enacted recently which had been provoked by the unreasonable sensationalism of a moving picture film. Two small boys were playing together. One of them declared, ‘I'm Broncho-Billy and you're Mustang-Pete. Hands up!’ The youthful imitator of the picture film lesson flourished a revolver in his playmate's face. There was a loud report, and the little victim fell to the floor with the blood gushing from his face. He was promptly taken to a hospital. By a mere chance his life was not sacrificed. How long shall we have to wait before there is national censorship of moving picture films?” 32 Stillman, “Censoring Motion Pictures,” NHR, December 1914, 277. 33 O. G. Cocks, “The Human Appeal of the Motion Picture,” NHR, August 1916, 174. Emphasis in original. 34 Ibid. 35 Ibid. 36 Ibid. 37 Aside from previously mentioned pieces, the pernicious influence of movies on society and/or the need for effective federal censorship was discussed in the following NHR articles, among others: “Meeting the Managers of Motion Pictures Halfway,” January 1916, 7, 15; Sydney H. Coleman, “Law Breaking Club Women,” March 1916, 53, 65; Stillman, “Children and the Movies,” April 1916, 85; Stillman, “The Moving Picture Scandal,” June 1916, 133-4; an untitled editorial, July 1916, 153; an untitled editorial, September 1916, 199; two articles from October 80 1916, “Evil Effects of Bad Pictures,” 216, and Stillman, “Commercializing Cruelty,” 219; “The Child and Motion Pictures,” June 1917, 105; “Motion Picture Censorship,” November 1918, 219; Coleman, “Clean Movies: Do the American People Want the Filth of the World Put on Screen?” June 1918, 106-7; “Lurid Movies Plant Crime Germ in Child Mind,” May 1920, 89; Stillman, “Movies and Child Life,” April 1921, 70; Stillman, “Motion Picture Regulation,” December 1921, 234; Stillman, “Moving Pictures Declared Immoral,” January 1922, 10; Nathaniel J. Walker, “The Great Need of State Censorship of Motion Pictures,” February 1922, 25, 40; “Governor for Movie Censorship,” December 1922, 227; Stillman, “Immoral Movie Films,” April 1923, 70. 38 Quoted in Garth Jowett, “‘A Significant Medium for the Communication of Ideas’: The Miracle Decision and the Decline of Motion Picture Censorship, 1952-1968,” in Couvares, ed., Movie Censorship and American Culture, 259. See also Jowett, “‘A Capacity for Evil’: The 1915 Supreme Court Mutual Decision,” 59-78. 39 Coleman, “Law Breaking Club Women,” 65. 40 Ibid. Emphasis in original. 41 “Horseman’s Wild Leap into Ausable Chasm,” Boston Daily Globe, November 22, 1915, 2. 42 “The Use of Animals in Dangerous Motion Picture Acts,” NHR, January 1916, 22; “Falls 83 Feet For Movies,” The Washington Post, October 28, 1916, 6. The Washington Post only slightly exaggerated the height of Jarvis’s plunge. 43 The article’s full description of the device is as follows: “[Freel and his associate] also discovered that a wooden platform had been erected, and after a search the platform was located. ‘It proved to be a deadfall or trap cut in half and held together by hinges which could be sprung, thus dropping down the outer part of the platform and shooting the horse and rider over the top of the cliff.’” The internal quotation is Freel’s. “The Use of Animals in Dangerous Motion Picture Acts.” 44 Credit information is taken from the AFI Catalog, accessed July 3, 2013. On this incident, see also Unti, 566. 45 “Horseman’s Wild Leap into Ausable Chasm.” 46 “The Use of Animals in Dangerous Motion Picture Acts.” 47 Ibid. According to Freel, the justice stated his opinion that “the act of causing the horse, even a trained horse, to jump from a height of over 40 feet was a very hazardous and very dangerous act, and one that had a tendency to cause injury to and possibly the death of the animal.” See also “Fined for Cruelty in ‘Movies,’” New York Herald, November 9, 1915, 11. 48 “The Round Table,” NHR, July 1916, 162. Elsewhere on the page is a letter to Stillman from John P. Heap, the secretary of the Washington D.C. Humane Society, urging that the motion picture craze “be turned to the benefit of humane work.” Heap suggested a film based on Black Beauty, or else “the story of a faithful dog following his master through prosperity and poverty and finally ending his days after a long and lonely vigil on his master’s grave. Or the saving of life by rescuing the lost or the drowning or the wounded on the battlefield.” The insinuation was that Stillman and the AHA should produce such a film in conjunction with an existing production company. In fact, the AHA did put forth some effort to create a film version of Black Beauty that would have been produced by Thomas A. Edison, Inc., though I have found no evidence that the film was ever completed (or, indeed, that it was ever begun). See “Black Beauty in Motion Pictures,” NHR, March 1917, 51. 49 “Fined for Movie Cruelty: Horse’s Leap into Chasm Violated Law, Court Holds.” The New York Times, November 9, 1915, 7. 50 “Horseman’s Wild Leap Into Ausable Chasm.” 51 Richard C. Craven, “Movies and Their Humane and Moral Influence,” NHR, June 1921, 106. 52 Ibid. 53 Ibid. 54 Ibid. 55 Koszarski, An Evening’s Entertainment, particularly pp. 63-137. 56 The organization is today known as spcaLA, and has always been an independent organization, never affiliated with the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (though it is associated with the State Humane Society of California). Currently, spcaLA maintains a number of connections to the entertainment industry: Betty White is a member of the honorary board of directors, and the “Entertainment Committee” (the organization’s website does not make the exact function of the Entertainment Committee clear) boasts such names as actors Ed Asner, Jason Alexander, Ellen DeGeneres, Cloris Leachman, and John Travolta, as well as various musicians, executives, agents, entertainment attorneys, and astronaut Buzz Aldrin. See <http://spcala.com/aboutUs/history.php> and <http://spcala.com/aboutUs/entertainment.php>. Accessed July 5 th , 2013. 57 According to its website, “The State Humane Association of California (SHAC) was founded in 1909 to represent local humane organizations with matters of concern to all, but beyond the resources of any one organization or 81 agency. Throughout the 1900s, SHAC assisted individuals establishing private humane organizations, consulted with local officials and architects to construct new animal shelter facilities, advised staff and board members of humane organizations and animal shelters on policies and services, and worked to enact pro-animal legislation.” < http://www.californiastatehumane.org/aboutus.htm#History>. Accessed July 7 th , 2013. 58 The attempts at introducing California legislation were first mentioned in “Humane Legislation in California,” NHR, March 1917, 57. 59 Mrs. James G. Sprecher, “Motion Picture Industry and Its Attendant Cruelties,” NHR, September 1917, 166. 60 Ibid. 61 Ibid. 62 Ibid. 63 Ibid. 64 Ibid. 65 Ibid. 66 This may have been for the best. In the late teens, Variety’s infrequent mentions of humane activities could make the societies look faintly ridiculous—as in the case of Little Eva, a pet canary at the La Salle Theatre in Chicago. According to the trade publication, “Somebody sent the humane society an anonymous letter, complaining that Little Eva was not getting a square deal and that Manager Nat Royster was the Simon Legree in the act. They came and demanded an explanation. Nat proved that Eva was the most pampered canary in Chicago, was fed Italian creams by the chorus girls, and always occupied the star dressing room when she wasn’t working in the lobby.” Variety failed to comment on whether or not the humane society found Italian creams to be an appropriate diet for a canary. “Simon Legree Royster,” Variety, April 4, 1919, p. 18. 67 Beers, For the Prevention of Cruelty, 104. 68 “Maine Governor Percival Proctor Baxter,” National Board of Governors, http://www.nga.org/cms/home/governors/past-governors-bios/page_maine/col2-content/main-content- list/title_baxter_percival.html (accessed July 10, 2013). “Defends Flag Tribute to His Faithful Dog: Maine Governor Holds That Dumb Animals Should Be Honored for Their Services,” The New York Times, June 5, 1923, 2; “A Governor Talks,” The Hartford Courant, September 12, 1925, 16. 69 Governor P.P. Baxter, “Cruel Motion Pictures Should Be Barred,” NHR, June 1924, 108-9. According to this article, Maine’s motion picture anticruelty law stated that it was “illegal for any person to manufacture, photograph, or exhibit, or to take part in the preparation of, ‘any moving or motion picture film involving in its preparation, manufacture, or making intentional and deliberate cruelty to animals.’ The penalty for breach of this law is imprisonment ‘not exceeding three months or by fine not exceeding one hundred dollars or by both.’ Any corporation violating the law by its servants or agents is subject to the same penalties. Chapter 53, Laws of 1921.” Baxter admitted that regrettably, the law was very infrequently enforced, primarily because the majority of motion pictures were made in California and it was thus “difficult to prove actual cruelty in their making although any intelligent person…knows cruelty is practiced.” 70 I use these general categorical designations, rather than more conclusive ones, as the authors of the NHR were frequently vague as to what the documentary/educational films actually were. How, why, and by whom they had been made, and whether instances of cruelty had been staged for the cameras or merely captured on film, were not always mentioned. Almost inevitably, it was claimed that whether or not the cruelty had been staged for cameras was irrelevant, because the act should have been prevented regardless. 71 See, for instance, “Animal Exhibitions,” NHR, June 1914, 131; “Performing Animals,” NHR, July 1914, 158. 72 Jewell, The Golden Age of Cinema, 37-8. 73 Doherty, Pre-Code Hollywood, 221-251. 74 Cruelty to child actors was discussed in the following NHR articles, among others: an untitled editorial, February 1916, 28, 37; Alfred M. Kerchley, untitled editorial, September 1916, 195; “Commercializing Cruelty”; “Children in the Movies,” August 1917, 153; “Protecting the Child Actor,” September 1917, 165, 178; “Making a Juvenile Star in Movieland” (reprinted from The New York Sun and Globe), May 1924, 100. 75 See, for instance, an untitled snippet in Variety, February 16, 1917, 9, which reported that the Humane Society of Pittsburgh had sent home child actor Henry Quinn, forbidding him to appear in the stage production of “Just a Woman,” or “‘Wild’ Boy Stopped,” Variety, July 5, 1918, 7, which noted that humane officers in Chicago had investigated a “wild boy” act (the article attributes symptoms of autism to the boy) and found the child to have been rented out by his parents. 76 “New Vitagraph Production,” New York Tribune, February 13, 1921, B4. 82 77 Robert Bradbury Jr. would later change his name to Bob Steele, and star in B westerns as well as the television series F Troop. See Burt Folkart’s obituary of Steele, “Bob Steele; Prolific Star of Dozens of Western Films,” Los Angeles Times, December 23, 1988, B26. 78 “Complaint about Moving Pictures,” NHR, July 1921, 133. 79 Ibid. 80 “Wild Animals and Moving Pictures,” NHR, September 1921, 169. The article is attributed to Our Dumb Animals, but the original date of publication is not given. 81 Stillman, “Film Standards: A Very Serious Situation. Are the Censors Themselves Blameworthy?” NHR, May 1922, 83-4. 82 “Cobb Defends N.Y. Screen Censorship: Answer Attack of Humane Society on Alleged Exhibition of Cruelty,” Weekly Variety, November 10, 1922, 46. 83 Ibid. 84 Eric Hansen, “Cruel ‘Bob and Bill’ Films,” NHR, January 1923, 11. 85 Stillman, “Movie Humane Aid,” NHR, January 1917, 11. Beautiful Joe, originally published in 1893, is essentially a North American version of Black Beauty, though the protagonist is a dog rather than a horse. Joe, disfigured as a puppy through various abuses, is found beautiful by the family of humanitarians who adopt him. The novel uses an episodic structure—each episode concerning a different area of humane education, such as the killing of birds so that their decorative tail feathers may be made into fashionable hats—and is extraordinarily didactic. Both novels are now in the public domain. (Margaret) Marshall Saunders, Beautiful Joe: An Autobiography of a Dog (Amazon Kindle Edition, 2012); Anna Sewell, Black Beauty: The Autobiography of a Horse (Amazon Kindle Edition, 2012). 86 The AFI catalog describes the 1921 version thusly, emphasizing human characters over equine and suggesting that the plot has more to do with a romance and a robbery than the autobiography of a horse: “The famous story of Black Beauty tracing his career from colt to thoroughbred and his various exchanges of hands among English aristocracy, a London cabby, and a kind farmer. Beckett (George Webb), who has framed George Gordon in a robbery, induces Jessie (Jean Paige) to marry him when she comes of age, but Harry Blomefield (James Morrison), her childhood sweetheart, has discovered the secret through Derby Ghost (Bobby Mack) and uses Black Beauty to get Jessie ahead of Beckett and to win the race. The horse finds a home with Harry and Jessie.” Variety’s description of the 1933 version: “Story is fairly well and evenly told, starting with the birth of the horse that was to lose his chance as a racing champ, go down the river to a cruel buyer and later land as a dray horse for a junkman. As the last reel approaches the horse is recovered from the boat taking him to the foreign bull rings for further punishment.” Though in the novel, Beauty is variously owned by an aristocrat, a cabbie, and a kind farmer, he is never a racehorse and these plots would appear to have almost nothing to do with Sewell’s text. Variety, August 29, 1933. “Black Beauty” clipping files, Margaret Herrick Library, Los Angeles, CA. 87 “To Curb Brutal Trainers,” Los Angeles Times, September 13, 1923, 2. 88 A version of the following events is also related in Unti, “The Quality of Mercy,” chapter XIV, as part of a larger discussion on animals in entertainment; see especially pages 564-569. His overview is accurate and relatively thorough, but—as the work is a history of animal protection rather than film history—he does not go into depth regarding the MPPDA. 89 “To Curb Brutal Trainers.” 90 “Kindness to Animals Pays, New Society Seeks to Prove,” Christian Science Monitor (subsequently cited as CSM), November 6, 1923, 7. 91 Carl Laemmle, letter to Rosamonde Rae Wright, Flinders University Library Special Collections, Record #150, Correspondence, 1-1465 to 1-573. Accessed June 6, 2013. <http://mppda.flinders.edu.au/records/150>. Adelaide, Australia. Neither of Laemmle’s letters to Wright are dated; this one was likely sent in early November 1923 (it references a letter from Wright sent November 5 th ) and the second (which references a letter from Wright dated November 26 th ) in late November or early December 1923. All subsequent archival documents cited “MPPDA Digital Archives” can be found at this record. 92 “Animal Actors of the Screen Have Friend in Defense League,” CSM, December 21, 1923, 17. 93 “Fred W. Beetson,” MPPDA Digital Archives. <http://mppda.flinders.edu.au/people/41>. 94 “I want you to keep in touch with her in sympathy,” Hays informed Beetson, in a memo dated January 24, 1924. MPPDA Digital Archives. 95 Beetson to William H. Hays, April 23, 1924. MPPDA Digital Archives. 96 On the Christie Film Company, see Richard Lewis Ward, A History of the Hal Roach Studios (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 2005), pp. 17, 63, 92; and Blair Miller, American Silent Film Comedies: An Illustrated Encyclopedia of Persons, Studios, and Terminology (Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 1995), 48-9. 97 Beetson, letter to Mrs. Robert King, March 12, 1924. MPPDA Digital Archives. 83 98 Beetson, letter to Hays, April 23, 1924. MPPDA Digital Archives. 99 Percival P. Baxter, letter to Hays, January 18, 1924. MPPDA Digital Archives. 100 Willis J. Abbott, letter to Hays, March 27, 1924. MPPDA Digital Archives. 101 Email communication from Kurt Morris, Researcher, The Mary Baker Eddy Library, October 16, 2013: “According to our records, the Audit Bureau of Circulations numbers in 1923 for paid circulation was 83,428 and for unpaid circulation was 2720, for a total of 86,148. In 1924, the paid circulation was 102,306, and the unpaid circulation was 4826 for a total of 108,032. In 1925, the paid circulation was 96,767, and the unpaid circulation was 3976 for a total of 100,743.” 102 NHR, “The Review Goes,” July 1924, 122. 103 Mrs. F. T. Kessler, “Cruelty to Animals in the Movies and On the Stage,” NHR, August 1923, 145. 104 “An Appeal to Will Hays: Movie Czar Asked to Discourage Cruelty in Films,” NHR, June 1924, 108. 105 “The Covered Wagon,” The Hartford Courant, September 16, 1924, 10. 106 “‘The Covered Wagon’ at the Majestic: Romance and Hardship of Pioneer Days Pictured in Grippingly Dramatic Story,” Boston Daily Globe, May 22, 1923, 8. 107 “Task of Filming ‘The Covered Wagon’: Bringing This Epic of the Pioneers to the Screen Greatest Feat in Movie Land,” Boston Daily Globe, May 13, 1923, 31; “Much Advance Preparation for ‘The Covered Wagon,’” Boston Daily Globe, September 2, 1923, 54; “Greatest Photoplay Ever Filmed is Jas. Cruze’s ‘The Covered Wagon,’” Norfolk New Journal and Guide, October 4, 1924, 5. As these articles indicate, the film was popular enough to have been held at Boston’s first-run Majestic Theatre from May until at least October. 108 Annie E. Henkels, letter to Hays, March 12, 1924. Miss Henkels was director of the Kindness Club of the Humane Education Society of America (which was affiliated with the AHA as well as several women’s clubs). MPPDA Digital Archives. 109 Ibid. 110 “Defense League Decries Cruelty to Film Animals,” CSM, January 16, 1924, 1. 111 “Uncle Sam Loaned Crack Cavalrymen For Chariot Races,” The Washington Post, October 19, 1924, SO11. 112 Reportedly, Ince left the property to his wife with the “remarkable” stipulation that she “must never invest a penny in the motion picture industry under penalty of disinheritance.” “The X-Ray: Gossip of Stage and Screen,” The Hartford Courant, August 9, 1925, A2. 113 Typed manuscript of an article originally published in the Los Angeles Examiner on November 25 th , 1923. MPPDA Digital Archives. See also “Defense League Decries Cruelty to Film Animals,” which mentions that a letter writer had informed Wright that 400 animals were killed for a pioneer picture and that Courtland Smith, MPPDA secretary, had apparently said that animals were “slaughtered in a good cause.” Smith denied by telegraph that there had ever “been a picture made in which 400, or any number of animals have been killed.” As the article notes, “This statement, however, is contradicted by a recently published statement of Thomas H. Ince, it has been pointed out, which declares that buffalo were killed before the camera, to add realism to the ‘Last Frontier.’” 114 “Buffalo Stampede for Film Opposed,” CSM, October 13, 1923, 1. 115 “Building of First Transcontinental Railroad To Be Pictured,” The Sun, November 4, 1923, MP6. 116 Ibid. 117 Ibid. 118 Mrs. Robert King, letter Hays, February 19, 1924. MPPDA Digital Archives. 119 Rex had a fairly interesting career, especially by horse standards. He starred in four films for the Hal Roach Studios and became one of the few horses to achieve stardom on his own, rather than via association with a particular cowboy actor. According to Richard Lewis Ward, Rex bit stuntman Yakima Canutt in the face during the production of Devil Horse (1926). According to Richard Koszarski, Madame Glyn listed Rex as one of the four possessors of “It,” along with Clara Bow, Antonio Moreno, and the Ambassador Hotel’s doorman. Richard Lewis Ward, A History of the Hal Roach Studios, 56; Koszarski, An Evening’s Entertainment, 309. 120 Ward, A History of the Hal Roach Studios, 48-9. 121 In addition to the letters from Henkels and King cited above, see Francis H. Rowley, letter to Hays, March 26, 1924; Wright, letter and report to Hays, March 26, 1924, both found in the MPPDA Digital Archives. The letters also cite two titles, “The Stag Hunt” and “Dog Races,” on which I have been unable to find information. These may have been newsreel segments. 122 Beetson, letter to King, March 12, 1924. MPPDA Digital Archives. 123 Wright, letter to King (copy), Dec. 10, 1923. MPPDA Digital Archives. 124 Beetson, letter to Hays, April 23, 1924. MPPDA Digital Archives. 125 “Cruelty to Animals in ‘Movies’ Can’t Be Tolerated—W.H. Hays,” CSM, January 24, 1924, 1. 126 Ibid. 84 127 “Will Hays Approves: Motion Picture ‘Czar’ Against Cruelty to Animals in Films,” NHR, June 1924, 106. 128 “Cruelty to Animals in ‘Movies’ Can’t Be Tolerated—W.H. Hays.” 129 Beetson, letter to William Hays, April 23, 1924. MPPDA Digital Archives. Beetson quoted part of his letter to Wright in his missive to Hays. 130 “Defense League Decries Cruelty to Film Animals,” CSM, January 16, 1924, 1. There exists in the MPPDA Digital Archives a remarkable letter to Fred Beetson which reveals exactly the kind of attitude towards cruelty that Rosamonde Rae Wright believed existed all over Hollywood. Unfortunately, the letter is unsigned and unattributed, though it seems likely to have been written by Courtland Smith. Due to the lack of attribution, I have decided to omit this letter from the body of the text. Still, the document is worth quoting at some length: “Human beings and animals have risked their lives in making pictures and that must always be the fact…Beyond that there has been no cruelty to animals unless we have the courage to say in this that regardless of what has been done what is being done and what will be done in the future we will find this industry being dictated to by the Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals and such other institutions…No one else takes them seriously so why should we […] I was asked in the meeting of Society of Prevention of Cruelty to Animals [sic] about any cruelty done to animals in the making of pictures and without any subsequent information I defended all cruelties as absolutely necessary and in the line of duty. I said there was no unnecessary cruelty but if four hundred cattle had been killed in ‘The Covered Wagon’ the results justified that sacrifice. The facts as I afterward learned was that one condemned horse was sacrificed. “We must reserve the right to be judge as to what sacrifices of animals are necessary in the making of pictures. The same sacrifices and risks are required of human beings in the making of pictures. Needless to say we will have 99-44/100ths per cent support from the public for all the risks that we take in the making of pictures.” In addition to what seems like a severe underestimation of how the public felt about animal cruelty, the anonymous author seems to have rather missed the point that animals, unlike human actors, did not have a choice as to whether or not they risked their lives in the making of motion pictures. 131 “Defense League Decries Cruelty to Film Animals.” 132 Ibid. According to the CSM, these societies were the AHA, the Colorado State Bureau of Child and Animal Protection, the Massachusetts Humane Education Society (which included the Jack London Club, with membership of approximately 300,000) the Pennsylvania Humane Education Association, The Washington State Humane Education Association, the Pennsylvania Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, the Womens [sic] Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals of Pennsylvania, the Latham Foundation of Berkeley, California, the Federation of Womens Clubs of Kansas. The Kansas City Star was also reported to have sent a telegram. 133 Beetson, letter to William Hays, April 23, 1924. MPPDA Digital Archives. Beetson quoted part of his letter to Wright in his missive to Hays. 134 Letter to Willis J. Abbott, March 31, 1924. The letter is unsigned, but presumably from Hays. MPPDA Digital Archives. 135 Unsigned letter (presumably from Hays) to Beetson, March 31, 1924; Beetson, telegram to Hays, April 8, 1924. MPPDA Digital Archives. 136 Thomas H. Ince, statement regarding The Last Frontier, undated. MPPDA Digital Archives. It is unclear whether this statement was ever released publicly. 137 Ibid. 138 Unsigned letter (presumably from Hays) to Abbott, March 31, 1924. MPPDA Digital Archives. 139 Beetson, telegram to Hays, April 8, 1924. MPPDA Digital Archives. 140 Beetson, telegram to Hays, April 23, 1924. The other humane societies mentioned are the “California State Humane Association”—Beetson likely meant the State Humane Association of California—and the Los Angeles Humane Society, as well as the LASPCA. 141 Hugh M. Bole, letter to Beetson, May 7, 1924. MPPDA Digital Archives. 142 Ibid. 143 Beetson, letter to Hays, April 11, 1924. MPPDA Digital Archives. 144 Hugh M. Bole et al, report to the Association of Motion Picture Producers, May 12, 1924. MPPDA Digital Archives. Subsequent quotations are taken from this citation. 145 Mr. Murphy, demonstrating how tame the Universal wild animals were, received perhaps the most vividly written praise of the whole report: “One big lioness played peek-o-boo with Mr. Murphy and responded in true flapper fashion to his caresses and seemed to enjoy his love-making as much as any flapper possibly could, and when Mr. Murphy was with any other animal she danced around the cage showing her jealousy and anxiety, and was only content when he came back to her.” 85 146 Anthony Slide, Silent Players: A Biographical and Autobiographical Study of 100 Silent Film Actors and Actresses (Lexington, KY: University of Kentucky Press, 2010), 407-08. Electronic version. 147 It is worth pointing out that at the time of this investigation, Schenck was serving as president of the Association of Motion Picture Producers. 148 Abbott, letter to Hays, May 21, 1924. MPPDA Digital Archives. 149 The offices of Carr & White, letter to Hal Roach, undated. MPPDA Digital Archives. 150 Hugh J. Baldwin, Chief Field Inspector of the State Humane Society of California, unaddressed statement, May 1, 1924; Fred Wilson, letter to Fred Beetson, May 7, 1924. MPPDA Digital Archives. 151 Baldwin, unaddressed statement. 152 Beetson, letter to Frederick L. Herron, May 15, 1924. MPPDA Digital Archives. 153 “Deny Cruel Treatment of Animals,” Los Angeles Times, June 2, 1924, A2. 154 Fannie T. Kessler, “Letters to The Times: From Animal Defense League,” Los Angeles Times, June 11, 1924, A4. 155 “Cinema Survey Reveals No Cruelty to Animals,” CSM, June 12, 1924, 13. Courtland Holdom was not named as the author of the article, though he almost certainly was. Subsequent quotations are taken from this article. 156 Beetson, letter to Hays, July 3, 1924. MPPDA Digital Archives. 157 Beetson, letter to Hays, April 23, 1924. 158 Beetson, letter to Hays, July 3, 1924. MPPDA Digital Archives. 159 Beetson, letter to Hays, July 3, 1924. MPPDA Digital Archives. Given that Laemmle had written to the National Humane Review prior to his communication with Wright, he may have been genuinely interested in the welfare of animals in his studio. 160 Beetson, telegram to Hays, July 8, 1924. MPPDA Digital Archives. 161 Beetson, letter to Hays, July 3, 1924. MPPDA Digital Archives. 162 “Wanderer of the Wasteland,” American Film Institute Catalog. 163 “Frederick L. Herron,” MPPDA Digital Archives. <http://mppda.flinders.edu.au/people/258> 164 Jason Joy, memo to Major Frederick L. Herron, June 25, 1924; letter (unsigned) to Adolph Zukor, June 30, 1924. MPPDA Digital Archives. 165 Hays, letter to Baxter (unsigned), June 18, 1924. MPPDA Digital Archives. 166 Baxter, letter to Hays, July 9, 1924. MPPDA Digital Archives. 167 Hays, letter to Baxter (unsigned), July 10, 1924; Hays, letter to Abbott (unsigned), July 10, 1924. MPPDA Digital Archives. 168 Abbott, letter to Hays, August 4, 1924. MPPDA Digital Archives. Subsequent quotations are taken from this document. 169 Conrad Nagel, letter to Courtland Holdom, August 8, 1924; Beetson, letter to Hays, August 22, 1924. MPPDA Digital Archives. 170 “Will Protect Animals: Rev. Francis H. Rowley Unanimously Elected to Succeed the Late George T. Angell in Humane Work,” Boston Daily Globe, January 27, 1910, 3; “Kind-to-Animals Week Indorsed by Coolidge,” The Washington Post, March 6, 1924, 8. 171 “Plays and Players of the Film World,” The New York Tribune, January 12, 1916, 14; The Associated Press, “Rufus Steele Dies; ‘Monitor’ Editor,” The Washington Post, December 26, 1935, 5; Rufus Steele, “Worked to Death: The Fate of Many Horses in San Francisco Now,” New York Tribune, April 21, 1907, C8. 172 “E.G. Lowry Sr., Ex-Constitution Man, Succumbs,” The Atlanta Constitution, July 23, 1943, 9. 173 Edward G. Lowry, “Mr. Lowry’s Investigation Covered All of the Important Producing Studios,” CSM, June 18, 1925, 6. 174 “Inquiry Into Use of Animals in Motion Picture Production Completed by Investigators,” CSM, June 18, 1925, 1. 175 “Little Gross Cruelty to Animals In Films: Report of Committee, Including Dr. Rowley and Former Governor Baxter, Tells of Conditions,” NHR, August 1925, 2. 176 Lowry, “Mr. Lowry’s Investigation.” Subsequent quotations are taken from this citation. 177 As mentioned in a previous footnote, the difference, which seems obvious now but which humane reformers then failed to articulate, was that humans were presumably given the choice to go before the camera for potentially dangerous scenes. Animals were not. 178 “Inquiry Into Use of Animals.” Subsequent quotations are taken from this citation. 179 “Treating Animal Actors Better,” The Billboard, July 4, 1925, 46. 180 “Motion Picture Use of Animals is Questioned,” CSM, August 10, 1925, 1; Lieutenant-Commander J.M. Kenworthy, “Britain Gains Protection for Acting Animals,” CSM, August 10, 1925, 1. Though the Monitor reported that the licensure bill had passed, later documents claim it never became law. See E. Keith Robinson, “Wild Animals and the Films,” Sight & Sound, Spring 1939, 8-10. 86 181 Beetson, letter to Hays, April 11, 1924. MPPDA Digital Archives. 182 Fannie T. Kessler, “Letters to The Times: Cruelty to Animals.” Los Angeles Times, August 14, 1925, A4. 183 “Ben Hur Chariot Race,” NHR, February 1926, 13. 184 “Issue Call to Relieve Huge Tusko,” Los Angeles Times, January 26, 1926, A2. 185 “Be Kind to Animals Week Protest Against Trapping,” Chicago Daily Tribune, April 4, 1927, 38. 186 Fannie Thompson Kessler, “Letters to The Times: Animal Pictures,” Los Angeles Times, November 28, 1928, A4. The parenthetical question mark is hers. 187 Alma Whitaker, “Spiritual Message in ‘NOAH’S ARK’: Symbolism Plays Part in Biblical and Modern Sequences of Film,” Los Angeles Times, October 28, 1928, C11. 188 Donald Crafton, The Talkies: American Cinema’s Transition to Sound, 1926-1931 (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1997), pp. 111, 275. 189 Fannie T. Kessler, “Hard on the Lion,” Los Angeles Times, September 12, 1927, A4. 190 “Big Crowd Greets Appearance Here of Famous Lion,” The Atlanta Constitution, December 6, 1928, 24. 191 “Air Cage Ready for Aviating Lion,” Los Angeles Times, September 7, 1927, A2. 192 “Humane Plea Not to Defer Lion’s Flight,” Los Angeles Times, September 8, 1927, A3. 193 Ibid. 194 “Movie Lion Making San Diego-New York flight with Jensen,” Chicago Daily Tribune, September 17, 1927, 15. 195 “Five Gallons of Milk Wait Flying Lion,” The Atlanta Constitution, September 18, 1927, 9. 196 “Nine Planes Seeking Ship Carrying Lion,” The Atlanta Constitution, September 19, 1927, 1; “Pilots Hunt Lion Ship,” Los Angeles Times, September 19, 1927, 1. 197 “Jensen’s Lion Plane Crashes, Hitting Tree,” The Atlanta Constitution, September 20, 1927, 1; “Jensen and the Lion Forced Down in Plane,” New York Times, September 20, 1927, 5. 198 “Jensen Leads Party To Aid of Movie Lion,” The Atlanta Constitution, September 21, 1927, 1. 199 “Flier Hits Trail to Save Lion Marooned in Crash,” The Washington Post, September 21, 1927, 1. 200 “Jensen Safe After Crash,” Los Angeles Times, September 20, 1927, 1. 87 Chapter Two Lions, Tigers, Bears, and Bullfights: The Transitional Period, 1926-1935 In 1934, the New York Times ran an article describing the lives of Edward G. Robinson’s newest screen partners. Among Robinson’s co-stars in The Man with Two Faces (Warner Bros., dir. Archie Mayo, 1934) were two white rats, dubbed Essie and Wessie. 1 The rats provided their caretakers, described as “overburdened property men…sworn in as special deputy nursemaids” with a host of difficulties during filming: they could only be placed before the cameras for short periods of time due to the heat from the studio lights; the general hustle and bustle of the set made them nervous, especially when one of the human actors brought along his pet terrier; a litter of four baby rats was produced during the production. After their work on the film was complete, the property department failed to find anyone willing to adopt Essie and Wessie, and the two rodents (along with their progeny) were returned to the laboratory from whence they had originally come. “On behalf of Hollywood’s benevolence,” the article informed its readers, the rats were somewhat under the protection of the local SPCA while they worked, noting that “the studios are watchful that their behavior toward the animals in their work does not antagonize that organization, as they had been known to do in the not distant past.” 2 This particular choice of phrase made it all too clear that Hollywood’s benevolence was still, unfortunately, a matter of courting public opinion and avoiding headaches from welfare organizations, rather than rooted in any real desire to not harm animals because doing so was wrong. 3 MPPDA-affiliated studios undoubtedly did not fully adhere to all of the resolutions adopted in 1925, but it would take roughly a decade for another full-scale confrontation between animal welfare advocates and Hollywood filmmakers to erupt. Though the years were certainly not free of incident, relations remained relatively calm from 1925-1933. On occasion, 88 Hollywood even attempted to show humanitarians that it was making good on the promises of 1925: for instance, in 1931, attendees of the California Humane Convention were taken to a nearby theater, shown trick photography sequences, and given explanations of how they had been taken without harming the animal actors. 4 Things changed in the early 1930s, when both bullfight films and the jungle film cycle drew ire. This chapter, which covers the transitory period between the MPPDA resolution of 1925 and the furor over The Charge of the Light Brigade (Warner Bros., dir. Michael Curtiz) in 1936- 37, is comprised of two main parts: an overview of trends in humane work related to mass entertainment during these years (some of which extended into the late 1930s), including bullfighting and the increased importance of celebrity culture, and a discussion of the “jungle film” cycle of the early sound period, with a case study of Trader Horn (MGM, dir. W.S. Van Dyke, 1931). In 1922, when Will Hays established a “Committee on Public Relations,” neither the AHA nor any other animal protection groups were invited to participate. 5 By the late 1930s, Hollywood had begun to listen. While the uproar caused by the American Animal Defense League discussed in Chapter 1 certainly contributed to that shift, so too did the American Humane Association’s stands against the various kinds of staged animal combat films discussed below. Trends in Humane Work, 1925-1938 In 1929, AHA president Sydney H. Coleman identified the nine most pressing current issues for the humane cause. He declared them to be, in order: humane education, trapping (for fur), the cropping of dogs’ ears, the need for more animal shelters, the elimination of rodeos, work in foreign countries (special mention was made of Spain and Mexico here, thus indicating 89 that the real problem was not a lack of humane work in foreign countries so much as it was bullfighting in foreign countries), abuse of range stock, a more uniform practice in veterinary clinics, and the continuing observance of Humane Sunday and Be Kind to Animals Week. 6 Film did not make Coleman’s list. There were still occasional mentions of film in The National Humane Review, of course. Many of these continued to have to do with the moral influence of movies on the public in general and children in particular, especially prior to Joseph Breen’s appointment as enforcer of the Production Code. 7 Regarding sex, violence, and criminal behavior, once the industry promised to adhere to its own Code, the NHR cautioned that “the movie industry must keep its word […] Hollywood knows where to get soap, water, and disinfectants. Let the magnates cease their excuses and start scrubbing.” 8 After the Production Code Administration was formed and stringent Code enforcement began in 1934, the NHR praised Hays and Hollywood for improving the morals of motion pictures. 9 But this applied only to depictions of sex, crime, and so forth—the elements already well covered by other reformist groups. Of course, as discussed in Chapter 1, the American Humane Association and other animal welfare groups continued to believe that cruelty to animals was a moral issue, and one that was not yet covered by the Production Code. Consequently, articles occasionally mentioned cruelty to animals in films. Until the AHA took full notice of the jungle film cycle, these mentions were infrequent and often tied to the larger issue of animal cruelty in live performances, especially rodeos. 10 There was, however, one major exception to this rule: bullfighting. Eliminating bullfighting—or more accurately, preventing bullfighting from becoming popular in the United States—was a major concern for the humane movement at this time, and in fact had been since before the turn of the century. 11 Subsequently, it should come as no surprise 90 that the humane movement also opposed films about bullfighting, whether fictional (because even if the picture could be taken with no harm to bulls, the suggestion of cruelty and the glamorizing of a blood sport were both problematic) or documentary (because bullfighting was cruel in and of itself). The most notable example was a project called Men Without Fear, on which Universal began work in 1932. The script, written by former bullfighter Tom Kilpatrick, was purchased as a Lew Ayres vehicle; Ayres would have portrayed “a young Spanish matador.” 12 Universal then sent Kilpatrick to Spain so that he could film bullfights in Madrid and Seville—reportedly “the first closeups ever made of a bull-fight,” though this may have been an exaggeration. 13 There were signs, early on, that the film might run into some trouble from humane societies. In July, with Kilpatrick’s Madrid footage safely back at Universal, the studio discovered that it was “jake with the S.P.C.A. for bulls to mutilate bullfighters, but not vice versa.” 14 Variety reported that Men Without Fear would thus “be edited to show only the toreadors getting the punctures.” 15 There were two problems with this editing-out-the-cruelty strategy, aside from the fact that the film would still inevitably suggest cruelty and glamorize a blood sport. Not only had some documentary-type footage of bullfights already been shot, but Universal had also announced that additional bullfighting would be filmed in Mexico. 16 This meant that humanitarians—at this point, it can be safely assumed that at least some of them were regularly reading the film industry’s trade press—found out about it. Regardless of what would or would not have gone on in Mexico, Coleman and the AHA were prepared to fight against any motion picture that glorified the sport of bullfighting. As it happened, Kilpatrick was unable to come to an agreement with the Mexican government regarding permits. The project was put on hiatus in October before being canceled outright in December, with Universal claiming that there were 91 “too many pictures in the same cycle,” though what cycle this was remained unclear. 17 If the cycle was “bullfighting films,” and they had indeed been overdone recently, the cycle was rather short-lived. The American Film Institute catalog suggests that only four English-language features with bullfighting in the plot had been released in the sound period: a western, Under a Texas Moon (Warner Bros., dir. Michael Curtiz, 1930); two dramas, Strangers May Kiss (MGM, dir, George Fitzmaurice, 1931) and The Last Flight (First National Pictures, Inc., 1931, dir. William Dieterle); and an Eddie Cantor musical comedy, The Kid from Spain (United Artists, dir. Leo McCarey, 1932). It seems unlikely that Universal canceled Men Without Fear because there were too many bullfighting pictures, or because of Kilpatrick’s inability to secure Mexican filming permits. Rather, the picture was probably shelved because, in November of 1932, the American Humane Association organized a massive protest against it; a full account of the AHA’s strategy was printed in the National Humane Review in January 1933. 18 First, Coleman personally telegrammed Carl Laemmle Jr., noting tactfully that bullfighting was “bloody and cruel in the extreme, and could not legally be undertaken in this country.” 19 Therefore, he hoped the rumors that Universal was planning to make a bullfight film were untrue. Laemmle responded that indeed, Universal was planning a film about a bullfighter, but said that it would be “more of a character study of the individuals in and around the sport,” and that the studio felt “reasonably certain that the manner in which we intend to photograph this picture will not offend the American public.” Coleman quickly wrote back, informing Laemmle that the effect of such a picture would be “extremely bad,” that “thousands of people” across the country would be “definitely alienated,” that the film would help those who wished to establish bullfighting in the United States, and that the AHA could not “view the production of this film without alarm.” 92 When Laemmle failed to make a second response, Coleman mailed an appeal to AHA members, who at the time numbered more than ten thousand, and to the roughly 550 societies with which the AHA was affiliated, “inviting them to make vigorous protests to Mr. Carl Laemmle and to the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America, Inc.” Hundreds, the NHR reported, had not only written to Laemmle and the MPPDA, but also sent copies of their protests to the AHA, along with unsolicited donations to aid in stopping the film. 20 The article also discussed the importance of the foreign market in general and Great Britain in particular, and the distaste for films portraying animal cruelty. It mentioned Trader Horn and Bring ‘Em Back Alive as recent examples of pictures that had offended these markets. (This observation on the part of the AHA will be discussed in greater depth later in this chapter, in relation to the jungle film cycle.) Finally, the article noted that “actually the animal protection societies are by no means the whole of the opposition”; also concerned were children’s welfare societies, educators, parents, spiritual leaders, women’s clubs, and so forth, all of which contained members “who would forego personal pleasures offered at the expense of tortured animals.” 21 The remainder of the pages were given to excerpts of the letters that had been sent in. These included selections from psychiatrists, clergy, magazine editors, leaders of other humane organizations, and (unsurprisingly) the Honorable Percival P. Baxter, former Governor of Maine. In February, Coleman received another letter from Laemmle Jr., asking Coleman to assure his organization’s members that, if the film was made, he would “under any circumstances observe our customary precaution against including in this film any real or apparent cruelty to animals.” 22 He thought Coleman would agree that Universal’s films had so far “been singularly free from subject matter offensive to the members of your organization.” Laemmle also said that if the film was made, it would not include pro-bullfighting propaganda 93 that might aid in introducing the sport to the United States. A real bullfight, he said, would not be filmed, and he hoped that the AHA would “advise all members to whom your previous communication was sent, stating the facts, in order that your members may be correctly informed and may not, acting on misinformation, be led to make statements or take action tending to cause us further inconvenience.” Aside from a brief introductory paragraph noting that many readers had asked for an update on the protest and that the letter was of “unusual importance,” the NHR did not comment on Laemmle’s statement. It was merely printed—hardly a ringing endorsement as to its perceived sincerity. Whether or not Laemmle was sincere about not including actual bullfights or spreading pro-bullfighting propaganda remains unknown, because Universal permanently abandoned the project. Coleman hailed this result as a triumph in his address at the 1933 National Humane Convention, though he concluded that, thanks to the recent trend in jungle films, “despite some advances that have been made for a more kindly consideration of animals generally, the repeated use of acts of brutal combat and other atrocities on the screen have perhaps more than offset any advancement for animal welfare.” 23 There was still much work to do. However, the movies were not completely demonized. There was some evidence of increased collaboration with the Hollywood machine—or, at least, increased recognition of the movies’ by-now-undeniable importance as a cultural force. In particular, this was related to the ever-increasing visibility of stardom and celebrity culture in American daily life. 24 So, perhaps unsurprisingly, the NHR began to print occasional stories about animal actors who had not been obviously abused in their films. Rin Tin Tin and his owner, Lee Duncan, “devote[d] a great deal of time to the humane cause” on a vacation to Oregon in 1927; the dog was photographed for use in the next year’s Be Kind to Animals publicity campaign. 25 One of Rin Tin Tin’s 94 granddaughters, Lady (a movie dog in her own right, though her screen credits were not given), somehow wound up in a Seattle animal shelter after her film career was over. The shelter publicized her plight, and she was soon adopted. The NHR reported gleefully of the kindnesses shown to Lady, including six hundred letters from interested adopters around the country, as well as telegrams from Warner Bros. and Gary Cooper, each offering her future movie roles. 26 An obituary was published for Bobby, a cat who had appeared in “many motion pictures.” 27 In 1933, there was a three-month run of articles about animal films done right, films that set good examples for both studios and viewers. Morgan Dennis, known primarily for his illustrations of dogs, produced a short film entitled Jock and Jill that featured two Scottish Terriers completely at liberty. The dogs performed some tricks on cue, and were enticed to bark by having someone pretend to attack their owner, but there was “no strapping of the dogs’ legs so that dummies could be used for trick motions; no wiring of dogs’ heads and limbs so that they could be made to respond to the demands of unconsciously cruel humans.” 28 Lucky Dog (Universal, dir. Zion Myers, 1933) was criticized for its depiction of criminality but praised for its depiction of canine character Buster. Readers were encouraged to patronize the film: “If this picture should prove a box office success it opens the way to progress along the same line,” noted the article. 29 And in July, it was reported that the National Canine Defence League of Great Britain had produced its second short film, Lucky Dogs—and Others, which showed “the possibility of producing humane films on a commercial basis […] It has been shown in many of the big cinemas, including the great Gaumont-British, and undoubtedly many dogs are leading happier lives as a result of the impression created by this film.” 30 Second, human actors known to care about animals were tapped to make appearances at humane events, to speak on behalf of animals, or to appear in the pages and on the cover of The 95 National Humane Review, often with their animal co-stars or their pets. A few stars had been featured in the silent period. Western actor William S. Hart was probably the film industry’s most notable devotee of animal causes; as noted in Chapter 1, he was at one time the single biggest financial donor to the Los Angeles SPCA. He also dedicated the LASPCA’s new shelter in 1932, remarking, “If I ever get to heaven I don’t want it chalked up against me that I was ever cruel to one of God’s creatures.” 31 The NHR reported on his personal kindnesses to children, dogs and horses. 32 It also saw fit to publish an obituary of Hart’s horse, Fritz, as well as a photo of Fritz’s grave taken by an AHA officer who happened to visit Hart’s ranch during a trip to California. 33 During World War I, Mary Pickford spoke on behalf of Red Star Animal Relief, a Red Cross-like arm of the AHA devoted to aiding animals in combat zones. 34 In the ‘20s, she was pictured in the NHR twice: with husband Douglas Fairbanks and two of their dogs, and with a bear cub, which she was spraying with a garden hose. 35 By the early 1930s, the NHR regularly featured content that served little purpose other than to put an animal-oriented spin on celebrity tidbits. Demonstrating a love of animals was particularly beneficial for child stars and/or stars who appealed to children. Thus, Tom Mix was revealed to be a member of “at least twenty humane societies with his dues all paid up” and was quoted at length regarding his distaste for calf roping exhibitions and wild animal circus acts. 36 When his famous equine partner Tony was officially retired in 1933, it was noted in the NHR. 37 Child star Jackie Cooper was pictured with Rin Tin Tin Junior. 38 Another Jackie—Moran this time—was called “a real lover of dogs.” The press had dubbed Moran “The All-American Boy,” a title the NHR said could not be earned by any boy “unless he is kind to animals.” 39 Deanna Durbin and her spaniel mix Tippy were featured several times: smiling for the cameras, celebrating Be Kind to Animals Week, playing on a lawn. Lest readers imagine their affection 96 was all for show, it was reported that Durbin had said that she was “more interested in [Tippy] than anything else—even her music!” 40 Among the more adult set, actors such as Boris Karloff, Doris Nolan, Anita Page, Madge Evans, and Robert Montgomery were pictured with their dogs. 41 May Robson appeared with Flush, the spaniel who had risen to fame in The Barretts of Wimpole Street (MGM, dir. Sidney Franklin, 1934) and played Robson’s character’s dog in Three Kids and a Queen (Universal, dir. Edward Ludwig, 1935). 42 A lengthy interview with George Arliss, who had a personal rule that no animals of any kind appear in his films because he felt “they should not be exploited in any way” for human benefit, and “when animals have been used in films there has almost always been a certain amount of cruelty,” was published in 1933. 43 Arliss felt so strongly about the topic that he had, he said, considered quitting acting and instead “going round the country lecturing against animal pictures.” 44 Leslie Howard took to the airwaves in support of Be Kind to Animals Week in 1935; in case interested persons had missed the radio broadcast, his speech was reprinted in its entirety. 45 Apparently an extra two paragraphs of copy were needed for a 1936 issue, when it was reported that Henry Byron Warner had refused to go duck hunting during the filming of The Man Who Turned White (Jesse D. Hampton Productions, dir. Park Frame), a film that had been released almost twenty years prior in 1919. 46 Earlier in the year, an article entitled “Dogs of Movie Stars” informed readers about the canine companions of Charles Ruggles (he bred various kinds of terriers), Carole Lombard, Marie Provost, Gertrude Michael (all three preferred Dachshunds), Claudette Colbert (whose pet was a “beautifully coiffed” French poodle), Gary Cooper (owner of two English bulldogs), and others. 47 And actress Jean Rogers was featured for adopting five kittens after their mother was killed in a hit-and-run near the Universal 97 lot. “Most of the movie stars are kind to animals and people around Hollywood say the best thing for a dog or cat is to be owned by a movie star,” noted the article. 48 But no star, young or old, appeared in the National Humane Review more frequently than Shirley Temple. America’s sweetheart was featured frequently through the mid-to-late 1930s, often with her pets—she reportedly had many—or her animal co-stars. At least twice, she graced the NHR’s cover (once with a Scottish terrier, once with a pony). In 1936, she served as figurehead for the Junior Division of Be Kind to Animals Week. Readers were assured that “Shirley knows how to care for her pets, knows the importance of proper care, and does much of that very thing herself.” 49 Naturally, many of these magazine appearances happened to mention the latest Shirley Temple film. 50 If, as numerous scholars have argued, Hollywood stars provided the public with models of behavior, with “compelling standards of emulation,” then the desire to feature these stars in humane literature makes sense even with the persistent general belief that animals were treated badly in the movies. 51 The system may have been cruel, but individual actors and actresses were not. Attractive, clean, intelligent, polite, kind, and a lover of animals, Temple’s persona made her the ideal symbolic child for the American Humane Association— which, after all, wished to protect both. It should be emphasized that both types of content—critiques of filmmaking practices and pictures of stars with their pets—could, and often did, exist in a single issue. The NHR was either unaware it was sending mixed messages about the movies or, more likely, simply did not care. (It was, after all, partially constructed each month from content previously published by other sources.) Either way, this was a radical shift from the first decade or so of the magazine’s publication, when hardly a positive word was said about motion pictures. The change can be attributed to a number of factors. Some have already been discussed, such as the enforcement of 98 the Production Code and the shift in AHA regimes from William O. Stillman, a cantankerous provocateur, to Sydney Coleman, who was more interested in animal welfare than his predecessor and also more practically recognized that the movies were in the business of making money rather than the business of moral education. Also, of course, between the late teens and the mid-‘30s, movies had become increasingly ingrained in the American way of life. Finally, more and more so-called “average Americans” were beginning to believe in kindness to animals, thanks in large part to continued efforts from humane societies. As humane societies shifted to include members with less radical beliefs, there was a reciprocal shift in NHR content overall, reflecting the increasingly general interests of its readership. 52 II. “One dead man, two dead beasts”: Trader Horn and the Jungle Film Cycle As mentioned briefly in Chapter 1, the early sound period saw a vogue for what humanitarians called “jungle films” or “jungle pictures,” a designation that was not quite a genre. Though partially inspired by nonfiction sources, including silent safari films such as those of Martin and Osa Johnson and ethnographic documentaries such as Robert Flaherty’s Nanook of the North (1922) or Merian C. Cooper and Ernest B. Schodesack’s Grass (1925) and Chang (1927), the jungle film was often fictional. 53 Trader Horn (MGM, dir. W.S. Van Dyke, 1931) is probably the most representative example of these, and will be analyzed later in the chapter. Thus, the jungle picture is also closely aligned with the genre described by Thomas Doherty as expeditionary film. Docudramas that gave “Westward look[s] at what were not then called Third World peoples,” the expeditionary genre featured narratives framed around Westerners penetrating so-called primitive cultures in plots that Doherty has summarized as “Great White Photographer Brings Back Movies from Savage Land for American Moviegoers.” 54 But the 99 jungle pictures could also be documentary, as in the independently produced, RKO-distributed Bring ‘Em Back Alive (1932), or faux documentary, as in the exploitation flick Ingagi (Congo Pictures Ltd., 1930). 55 Finally, the cycle also aligns closely with early examples of what would eventually become the cinematic and televisual genre that Derek Bousé has termed “wildlife films”: rather than true documentaries, Bousé argues, these films are “primarily narrative entertainments that usually steer clear of real social and environmental issues.” 56 Chang, Trader Horn, and Rango are among early examples of these, though the wildlife film as we know it today generally eschews or effaces depictions of humans. 57 For humanitarians of the time, unconcerned with the taxonomic impulses of film scholars, the unifying trait of the jungle film cycle was not mode of production but an obsession with animal combat. Jungle films pitted man against animal and animal against animal. Fights were often to the death, and numerous creatures were killed onscreen, whether by other animals or by humans armed, perhaps unfairly, with guns and spears. (Humans were sometimes killed in the films’ narratives, but it is questionable whether humans regularly perished in the making of these pictures.) In addition to animal combat, the jungle films were unified conceptually by setting, usually the African or Southeast Asian jungle but occasionally the African savanna, and by claims to authenticity even in fictional narratives. What made a jungle film authentic? In a word, danger. This should be understood largely as the danger in which filmmakers placed themselves—or more accurately, claimed to have placed themselves—in order to take an exciting picture. It did not mean danger to any animals captured, wounded, or slaughtered during production. It did not mean that the animal fights were not staged, that the pictures were filmed entirely in uncontrolled savage nature, or that animal sounds were not recorded after the fact and then synchronized to the picture. These were all 100 done, and justified as being in the service of dramatic interest. As Mitman has put it, “In Hollywood’s commercial exploitation of nature for entertainment, some…found the distinction between artifice and authenticity more and more difficult to maintain.” 58 Bouzé has productively discussed contradictions between nature as it is in reality (wild animals’ lives do not hold much dramatic interest, even if cameras happen to be around to catch the more exciting incidents) and nature as it tends to be presented on screen, “with the boring bits cut out.” 59 As he illustrates, throughout the history of nature/safari/wildlife films and continuing to the present day, filmmakers have grappled with the extent to which it is ethically acceptable to intervene with reality for the purposes of creating a filmed event. 60 Many of the makers of jungle films seemed completely unconcerned with ethics, so long as spectacular action was produced in a way that seemed authentic and believable. Though it is not the focus of this discussion, any contemporary critique must also acknowledge—as Doherty’s description of expeditionary films makes evident—the cycle’s near- unwavering commitment to racist treatment of its nonwhite human subjects. Indeed, the jungle film cycle overlaps with what Fatimah Tobing Rony has called “ethnographic cinema,” which she describes as “the broad and variegated field of cinema which situates indigenous peoples in a displaced temporal realm.” 61 According to Rony, such films flourished in the years after Nanook, when “Hollywood was willing to invest in films of ethnographic romanticism, time machines into a faraway present which represented a simpler, ‘savage’ past.” 62 The particular relevance here is that animals were a crucial part of this romanticism, with the presence of exotic and savage beasts serving as visual evidence of anti-civilization: animals were still at the center of the primitive man’s world, which filmmakers would now record and bring back to civilized society. 101 Before moving on to discussions of individual films, it should be noted that the ethnographic documentaries proper—all of which featured animals—generally did not inspire humanitarians to organize protests. (Nor, oddly enough, did most of the safari films described by Bouzé and Mitman, which frequently featured animal distress or death.) This is not to say that the films were not seen as problematic; they were. For instance, The National Humane Review reprinted an anonymous editorial from a Grand Rapids, Michigan newspaper regarding 1929’s African game hunting film Jango (prod. Davenport Quigley Expeditions, Inc., and distributed on a states’ rights basis). The newspaper editor lambasted Jango, noting that the topic claiming that the film “outranks in sheer cruelty anything I have seen on the screen”: Not one of the animals shown killed in the part of the picture I saw was cleanly killed with a first shot. That, however, is a mere detail. Each time a pack of savage, apparently half-wild dogs were turned loose on the wounded antelope or buffalo, and the creature was harassed…and literally torn to pieces for the benefit of the camera […] This picture, advertised as an animal film, is neither instructive nor educational… [it] certainly can do no one any good. 63 The editorial then praised “the splendid Schoedsack and Johnson films of tropical jungle life.” However, this reprinted editorial was an exception. The jungle films, especially the independently distributed ones, were simply not remarked upon at length or with great frequency in the NHR until 1934, after the cycle was past its peak. In some respects, this lack of attention seems surprising: the claims to authenticity and reality engendered by documentary films seemingly ought to have raised cries of protest from those who did not like hunting or animal death to be depicted onscreen. This is especially true in light of subsequent revelations about how certain instances (for instance, the seal hunt in Nanook) were staged and produced for cameras. However, ethnographic films already operated under a perverse logic—one that made the bare breasts of tribal African women permissible to show on screen when the bare breasts of 102 white women were forbidden, for example. 64 It should also be remembered that the AHA, and many other animal welfare groups at the time, were not opposed to the consumption of meat if the animal had been killed in a matter considered humane. If hunting was presented as necessary to the survival of these “primitive” civilizations, rather than as an activity to be emulated for the amusement of Western audiences, if the animal deaths were swift and merciful, and if the hunting was not thought to have been staged for the cameras, the relative lack of concern over its recording on film seems more reasonable. 65 Although this logic may somewhat explain a general silence over safari films and ethnographic documentaries, it does nothing to account for how certain of the jungle pictures seem to have escaped the generally close scrutiny of humanitarians. It seems bizarre that there was no furor over the independently produced, Columbia-distributed Africa Speaks! (dir. Paul Hoefler, 1930), for instance. Said to be the first sound film made in Africa, 66 the picture features a great deal of brutality and was hailed as particularly authentic. 67 The film opens with titles proclaiming that Africa is a land where “deadly beasts of the jungle are supreme!” Our Great White Photographers for the journey (director Hoefler, accompanied by Harold Austin) 68 are very explicitly photographers rather than hunters: they are shooting with cameras, not guns. But guns are mentioned frequently, with hunting used as a point of reference for filmmaking. For instance, before elephants are revealed, the film shows a man with a gun as well as a man with a camera, each aiming at the beasts. A gun is fired to make a herd of impalas scatter, though one of the hunter/filmmakers admonishes his partner not to hit the animals. Eventually the men construct a blind from which to film lions at close range. “You know, this reminds me of a duck blind back home,” says one; his partner answers, “That’s practically what it is, except that we’re hiding a camera instead of a gun.” The audience is informed that “Shooting the prowlers of the 103 plains with a camera is much more difficult than with a gun, and brings one in closer contact with them.” In actuality, the party members were hiding guns as well as cameras. The first half of the film is relatively peaceful, but the second half, involving an extended sequence with lions, is quite brutal. Lions are shown eating zebras, wildebeests, and gazelles, and a lion pulls what seems to be a warthog from the ground and kills it onscreen. This could possibly be explained as natural behavior on the part of the lions that has simply been caught on film, overlooking the convenience of how the prey happened to be directly in front of the camera. However, soon after, lions get too close to the filmmaking party. One lion approaches the blind, prompting a call for the Maasai guide to fetch a rifle from the party’s truck. A lion changes course to follow him. Most of the subsequent chase is constructed through editing, without guide and lion in the same frame, but at chase’s end it appears the guide may actually have been knocked down by a lion. The filmmaker-explorers subsequently shoot at lions with pistols, eventually killing one—for real, it would seem, and with the man in actual danger; the lion and the man share the camera’s frame. Narration subsequently reveals that the fight was not continued after pistols were reloaded, “because by then it was too late to do anything” for the Maasai guide (though his death seems likely to have been faked). The film concludes with the tribe of the fallen guide going after the offending lions in what the audience is told is the traditional tribal lion-hunting fashion. Two of the animals are speared to death on camera, in long takes; shot composition and editing leaves very little doubt that the lions really were killed for the film. The initial lion fight sequence in Africa Speaks! is fascinating not just for the onscreen animal deaths, but for the ways in which the film is constantly constructing itself as a filmmaking expedition. Throughout, the camera and sound equipment are shown, with a second 104 (invisible) camera and sound crew recording the first one, a self-reflexivity that was noted by some reviewers of the time. 69 Africa Speaks! thus makes visible the importance of technology to the jungle film cycle, in addition to its title playing up the importance of sound. As Doherty notes, sound reinvigorated the expeditionary and safari genres through synchronized scores, authoritative narration, and—crucially—“the songs of exotic natives and beasts.” 70 Watching the films with a critical eye, it is difficult to suspend belief enough to imagine that the majority of jungle sounds were recorded synchronously with their images, though the filmmakers certainly claimed that they were. It was reported, for instance, that Paul Hoefler had “fashioned his own sound apparatus for the recording of the noises made by the denizens of the jungle.” 71 Denizens of the jungle were also noisy in what was probably the most prestigious jungle film, MGM’s big-budget adventure Trader Horn. Running just over two hours and based on a book by the real-life trader Alfred Aloysius Horn and Ethelreda Lewis, Trader Horn was finally released in 1931 after a lengthy and complicated production that spanned Los Angeles backlots and Mexican fields as well as various African locales. As Vanessa Schwartz has noted, it was the first major studio film to send a principal cast to Africa. 72 Opening to exceedingly positive critical reviews, Trader Horn quickly became popular with the public as well: the film was on Variety’s list of highest grossers for 1931. 73 It was not at all well received by humanitarians, however. Because of its critical and commercial popularity, its unusual status as a jungle film produced by a major (thus making it simultaneously somewhat of an anomaly and also an indication of industry standards regarding animal welfare), and because at least some studio production records are still extant, Trader Horn is worth discussing at some length. The film’s plot finds the titular Horn (Harry Carey) journeying through darkest Africa with a young, ambiguously European companion, Peru (Duncan Renaldo) and trusted native 105 guide Rencharo (Mutia Omoolu). What begins as a trading expedition and instructive journey for Peru turns into a rescue mission, as the white men decide to “save” a white woman, Nina (Edwina Booth), a missionary’s daughter who was kidnapped and raised by natives and is now worshipped as a “white goddess,” and return her to the white, European civilization of which she is unaware. Along the way, the party encounters a variety of African wildlife, including lions, giraffes, rhinoceroses, hippopotami, zebra, several species of antelope, and numerous other animals. Though some of the animals are shown to be peaceful (the hippos are shown wading in a river, and there is some lovely footage of giraffes running across the savanna), much of the film’s spectacle is provided through lengthy fights between species. A leopard and a baboon tussle; a rhinoceros is shot on camera several times and from various angles after it gores a native; a zebra and lion scuffle before several lions kill a gazelle onscreen and Horn’s party, wanting the gazelle for meat, subsequently chase off the big cats, spearing one through the neck when it gets too close to Nina. Rencharo, defending Horn, is killed by a rival African tribe. Peru and Nina fall in love despite the language barrier, and he takes her away to properly acculturate her. The film ends with Horn, alone and still mourning Rencharo, sailing down the river for further trading adventures. In his survey of American directors, Andrew Sarris would remark that director W.S. Van Dyke’s authorial touch was marked by carelessness and haste. 74 But whatever else Trader Horn might have been, its production can hardly be described as hasty. MGM had begun developing Trader Horn in 1928. 75 Whether or not the studio initially intended for the project to be a sound film is up for some debate. The first wave of scripts extant (from the summer of 1928) are of the silent continuity variety, and contain dialogue written for intertitles rather than speech. Some versions of the script, written before Van Dyke left, do mention talking and singing, with off- 106 screen voices to be “weaker.” 76 According to Olive Carey (who portrayed Edith Trent, and was also Harry’s wife) filming started silent and a sound truck was sent to Africa soon after, which Mark A. Vieira has also claimed. 77 Sound equipment was taken to Africa, but not for the purposes of recording dialogue. Prior to departure, the Los Angeles Times noted that Van Dyke said he intended to capture “the noises of the jungles, especially the roars of the wild beasts.” 78 The highly-publicized barrage of sound equipment reportedly included three varieties of microphone, including “a ‘super-low frequency’ affair for picking up the roars of gorillas and lions, in deepest tones,” a medium frequency for recording human speech, and a “super high” for tsetse flies. 79 Upon the film’s release, Photoplay would claim that at the time the unit had gone to Africa, “sound was still new and no sound apparatus was taken along,” and that later, recording equipment was sent over but the quality of recordings was so low as to necessitate doing them over in the studio. 80 Perhaps they were done over too well; one reviewer complained that the lion-antelope fight was “marred by the thought of how the microphone managed to be there.” 81 Van Dyke was in Africa for the better part of 1929, from at least mid-May to the very end of the year, and returned with an immense amount of film. 82 (Some 32,000 feet of his African footage would find its way into MGM’s stock library.) 83 This proved to be insufficient for creating the feature: though there were plenty of shots of the actors in Africa, these takes did not include the dialogue required to make a “full talkie.” The film’s dialogue was not scripted until March 1930, after Van Dyke’s return from Africa. The first dialogue continuity script, in fact, was clearly written around the footage Van Dyke brought back: it makes careful note of which parts of the film have already been shot. One transitory passage even called for the “BEST AVAILABLE SHOT OF ANIMAL LIFE ALONG RIVER BANK. It may be elephants bathing, hippopotamus, or any scene essentially African, the sight of which may tend to arouse in the 107 audience the same kind of interest it has excited in Peru.” 84 Mutia Omoolu was brought to Hollywood to film the dialogue sequences. With script drafts in hand (revisions were being made throughout filming), Van Dyke and company spent much of 1930 shooting on the MGM backlot and at nearby locations such as Lasky Mesa. Two days in January, six in May, and the span of mid-July to mid-October were consumed with recording or rerecording scenes one might reasonably have expected to be taken in Africa, such as a pool of crocodiles, an African river, the native village, waterfalls, and an elephant watering hole. 85 When Trader Horn finally opened in early 1931, the initial critical reviews were exceedingly positive, stressing the picture’s authenticity—with some degree of acknowledgement that the authenticity might have been partially manufactured. “After waiting two years for this epic of the Darkest Continent to come to life…‘Trader Horn’ is worth the wait,” opined one review, one-quarter of which was devoted to listing and describing species that appeared in the film. 86 Norbert Lusk attended the New York opening and reported that the audience (which included the mayor and Claudette Colbert) had declared Trader Horn “the best wild-animal picture ever produced, the best ever filmed in Africa.” 87 Even those reviews that were less than glowing praised the film’s action sequences in general, the animals in particular, and—most particularly of all—the animal fights. “The sequences of wild beasts leaping on their prey and the killing of a lion thrilled an audience as possibly no other such screen views have done,” noted Mordaunt Hall in the New York Times, who also took care to note the danger in which filmmakers must have placed themselves: “In thinking of the struggling lion with a stick through its throat one must not forget the photographer, even if he did have a telefocal lens on his camera. This is a close-up with a vengeance.” 88 Elsewhere, Hall noted that while “some of the scenes were made in Hollywood, the exciting ones were photographed in Africa.” 89 Another 108 reviewer noted that the film excelled at “wild animal picturization and the recording of real thrills.” 90 The Washington Post praised the film extensively, saying it was “entitled…to play as a road show and at road show prices,” and noting that “Every animal known to Africa is displayed before the eye in astounding numbers […] amid virgin surroundings, the like of which have seldom been presented anywhere.” 91 It was, in short, “the best of all animal pictures and by far the superior of all pictures filmed in Africa or purporting to have that locale.” 92 Perhaps surprisingly even for the pre-Joseph Breen era, Trader Horn encountered almost no censorship issues. In fact, the Studio Relations Committee waxed poetic over the animal carnage: Photographically speaking this picture is excellent entertainment, containing many thrilling shots of jungle animal life, such as a frenzied fight between four lions over a freshly killed gazelle and the death of the victor; a fight between a hungry leopard and a baboon; between hyenas and leopards. Also, the shot where a native boy is killed by a stampeding lion and a later one where a native falls into a crocodile-infested body of water. 93 The film was given a Code seal without cuts. Colonel Jason S. Joy told Irving Thalberg he felt that Trader Horn was “most wonderful,” though he noted that some local censor boards would likely eliminated the shots of bare-breasted native women, which he said often got cut “even from authentic travel pictures”; he also noted that some boards had cut the lion killing a native from Africa Speaks. 94 A few cuts were indeed made by local censors, including Horn’s line “Well, lad, that’s Africa for you: one dead man, two dead beasts, and no one the better for it.” Only the “one dead man” part was considered problematic, and it was eliminated by the New York Board of Censors (along with some shots of native Africans choking white men), the British Board of Film Censors (which also cut the rhino charge, torture scenes, shots of human 109 bones, and crucifixion), and the British Columbia Censor Board (which made numerous additional eliminations). 95 Though Trader Horn was undoubtedly a jungle film, MGM made sure to mark a distinction between their picture and lower-budget efforts typical of the cycle. To be sure, the cast was not exactly A-list. Harry Carey, after all, was best known for silent Westerns, Duncan Renaldo and Edwina Booth virtual nobodies, and Mutia Omoolu a nonprofessional actor. Still, this was an expensive MGM film with a known director, and therefore not comparable to efforts such as Ingagi or Africa Speaks. Thus, the publicity pieces that circulated throughout the entire production process and after release emphasized that Trader Horn was a jungle picture, but not an ordinary one. In this, they used the typical jungle film tactic of claims to authenticity, wherein authenticity really meant danger. 96 The trailer informed audiences that “Through fourteen thousand miles of jungles, beset by savages and wild beasts, the brave Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer expedition faced untold peril for fourteen months to bring you back this masterpiece.” 97 Similarly, advertisements boasted that Trader Horn had been “filmed in the wilds of Africa.” 98 Articles repeatedly detailed how dangerous it had been to make the film, and not only because of the uncivilized natives, unforgiving terrain, and wild animals (Edwina Booth in particular had become quite ill in Africa; she would later sue MGM, claiming her career had been ruined). 99 This was reflected in reviews of the film. “As to its authenticity ‘Trader Horn’ possibly will be questioned in various of its aspects,” mused Philip K. Scheuer, critic for the Los Angeles Times. “Perhaps it is not all Africa, but her spirit is there. It doesn’t matter to me. I have had a real adventure.” 100 In fact, some audience members believed that Trader Horn had not been made in Africa at all, thinking of the film as a sort of Ingagi with higher production values. For instance, after a Mr. Carveth Wells, who claimed to be a member of the Explorer’s Club, read the Chicago 110 Daily Tribune’s review of Trader Horn (which concluded with the sentence “This is Africa,” he wrote to the paper to proclaim that “Until I read this article I felt satisfied that ‘Trader Horn’ was one of the best faked African films I had ever seen; in fact, so cleverly faked as to be extremely funny and quite unlikely to be taken seriously by any person of ordinary intelligence.” 101 Another newspaper writer, responding to an anonymous reader complaint regarding “African hunt films, which are so obviously staged,” said that “the faked episodes in Trader Horn were simply silly, and, for the most part, fairly easy to detect.” 102 But not everyone minded the trickery; one critic, who said the film was probably “eighty percent fake,” nevertheless declared that “No one short of an experienced African explorer is qualified to question the authenticity of the backgrounds, the natives or the animals.” 103 MGM was fairly upfront about the fact that some of the film had been made in the United States, as the publicity piece in Photoplay made clear: There has been criticism in some quarters that the jungle scenes, natives, animal shots and growls in the picture are not always genuine, but in many instances were doctored. This is true enough, but the producers explain that “Trader Horn” is neither an animal picture nor a travelogue, but a dramatization of a human interest story with a jungle background. They had the good taste not to misrepresent it to the public like so many others have done. 104 However, the more important controversy that erupted after the film’s release was not due to MGM’s partial attempt to pass off Southern California as the Dark Continent. The problem, rather, was with the Mexican sequences. Though MGM did not deny that part of the film had been made in Mexico, much less was made of that fact—possibly because the knowledge undercut the authenticity of the African jungle film in a way that the studio reshoots, which could be explained by the need to rerecord dialogue in a controlled setting, did not. MGM sent a unit to Tecate, Mexico to film animals sometime in 1930. 105 It has been claimed that the crew 111 “returned from Mexico emptyhanded,” though studio records indicate that this was untrue. 106 The crew brought back a full 63 reels of footage that included footage of leopards, hyenas, spring buck, and baboons. 107 Apparently these actions were necessary because Van Dyke’s African-shot animal scenes were not exciting enough. Photoplay mentioned, albeit briefly, that the lion hunt sequence, which it called “the biggest thrill of the picture,” had been made in Mexico “in a corral constructed for the purpose.” According to their article, “Caged animals were let loose with the lions, who had been starved and hungered for days in advance. The battles ensued naturally. Riflemen were stationed at strategic points lest any of the animals escape, and cameras were posted at every conceivable angle.” 108 Photoplay failed to mention the supposed reason that Mexico had been chosen for reshoots: because if they endeavored to produce spectacular animal fight scenes in a foreign country, the filmmakers would not have to contend with interference from American humane societies. There is no direct evidence in the film’s production files (such as memos from Louis B. Mayer or Irving Thalberg) to corroborate these claims regarding the avoidance of humane officers as a reason to leave the country, though an exchange to that effect between Mayer and Thalberg is related in longtime New York Times film critic Bosley Crowther’s 1957 history of MGM, as well as in Mark A. Vieira’s biography of Thalberg. 109 Kevin Brownlow has quoted MGM production manager J.J. Cohn as saying “If we’d ever been found out, we could never have released the film.” 110 Crowther goes on to provide a matter-of-fact, rather graphic description of the Mexican activities, which differs slightly from Photoplay’s account: A cage of lions was turned loose in a well-disguised outdoor pen. The animals were starved for a few days and then thrown a couple of chunks of dead meat. When they didn’t fight over it with sufficient ferocity, they were starved for a few more days and then a horse was sent into the pen among them. A lion leaped on the horse and tore its side. The horse was shot right away, but its fresh blood spurting did the trick with those lions. 112 They lashed and ripped at one another in a swirling, snarling pack fight that was photographed by hidden cameras for the most exciting animal scene in the film. 111 Variations of this carnage have since been repeated in numerous discussions of the film: according to Mitman, following Brownlow and Robert C. Cannom, the Mexican shoot included “gory scenes of an antelope mangled by lions and a hyena whelp mauled by a leopard.” 112 Bousé, also following Brownlow, mentions that “scenes of predatory killing were staged using lions that had been starved and then set upon hapless hyenas, monkeys, and deer in a corral.” 113 Cannom claims that the Mexican footage was “so inferior to the real African footage” that it was not used in the film. 114 Kenneth M. Cameron has described the Mexican scenes as having been filmed with “a cruelty that is still an industry benchmark.” 115 After a Los Angeles screening in January 1931 (this was possibly the film’s premiere), Rob Wagner—artist, author, friend to the stars, and editor of the biweekly Beverly Hills/Hollywood industry and culture rag Script 116 —rather preemptively called Trader Horn the greatest picture of the year. Wagner noted that some action “must have been more or less staged,” but claimed it did not matter because any trick shots used “were all of artistic privilege…Van Dyke told the essential truth…the tragic violence of the African jungle and the lure of the veldt.” 117 Soon after, though, Wagner changed his tune, with his magazine taking a firm anticruelty stance. In late March and early April, Script published a two-part satirical editorial penned by Trader Horn’s credited screenwriter, Richard Schayer, which critiqued sport hunting. “Man has devoted the better part of his spare time toward the utter extermination of all wild life, no matter how harmless and beautiful,” Schayer wrote in Part I, before describing vividly the trauma he felt when, as a child, he had gone hunting with an uncle and killed a deer. 118 Part II of the essay decries duck hunting, fishing, and—ironically, considering the recent 113 screen credit—African big game hunting. 119 Schayer did not mention Trader Horn or any other film; the irony of this was not lost on certain readers, one of whom wrote in to inquire, “But how, pray tell me, does Mr. Schayer reconcile his lofty ethics with the fact that his name appears as the accredited author of “Trader Horn” in which we witness the most terrible killings that have ever been shown on screen?” 120 Schayer did respond, claiming that “none of the cruelties to animals seen on the screen were in the script that I wrote and which Van Dyke took to Africa with him as the basis of the picture”; he additionally claimed that both he and the director were “strongly in favor of Trader Horn’s own philosophy against wanton destruction of wild life” and that “Van’s purpose was to show an African game picture in which nothing was killed.” 121 The truth of this statement was debatable, though Schayer was likely sincere. A draft of the script dated from 1928 (on which Schayer was not credited) called for “sensational animal or hunting shots.” 122 Van Dyke discussed the shooting of animals—with guns and bullets, not just cameras—quite candidly in newspapers, and someone at MGM collated a lengthy list of everything brought back from Africa, which included a number of animals said to have been personally killed by the director. 123 The issue of Script in which Part II of Schayer’s essay appeared, April 4 th , placed Trader Horn front and center, featuring a cover emblazoned with the headline “Was the Slaughter of Animals in ‘Trader Horn’ Filmed in Mexico to Avoid Humane Societies?” The first two inside pages were devoted to a denouncement of Trader Horn. The essay, entitled “Movieland Goes Roman,” took a somewhat convoluted logical approach to the moral and ethical quandaries presented by the depiction of animal death on film. 124 Despite its incongruities, “Movieland Goes Roman” is important in that it both reflected and influenced contemporary thinking on the treatment of animals in motion pictures; similar logic, whether derived from the essay or not, is 114 evident in various other writings on jungle films. It provides a useful snapshot as to what those who did not actively participate in humane movements felt was acceptable treatment of animals in the making and exhibition of motion pictures. Wagner first argued that the filming and exhibition of animal death was not necessarily morally or ethically problematic. Giving the example of an unnamed, recent Soviet picture in which a dog had been killed on screen, he cited “dramatic value” as one reason the dog’s death was acceptable. “Furthermore,” he stated, “if governments will send millions of men forth to die for their country, the death of a dog does not seem too great a sacrifice for a new and struggling state to make in order to put over a frankly propaganda film, whether one agrees with the propaganda or not.” He also glossed over the tendency of American studios to kill cattle and horses in the making of what he called “super-westerns,” mentioning that tendency without criticizing it. Wagner also saw no problem with showing “the actual death struggles of jungle creatures”; he believed that “in the jungle…no animal dies a natural death,” but that all jungle animals were killed by younger, fitter animals. Thus, it was perfectly acceptable for cameramen to film natural struggles, even if these struggles involved local humans. Schoedsack’s Rango, which ended with the death of a tiger, was “perfectly proper film material” since it “filmed the actual life of a man and boy struggling to survive against the jungle beasts of prey.” With this background out of the way, Wagner proceeded to lambast MGM for work “made under circumstances utterly inexcusable even in a work of art”: For years we have watched with sickening heart many cruelties perpetuated upon animals in order to get ‘punches.’ We have seen running horses tripped by wires, thrown over cliffs, and killed; we have seen lions stirred to violent action by charging a wire-meshed floor with electricity; we have seen comedy dogs driven almost mad with rubber bands about their muzzles and roosters choked with chewing gum in order to make them crow. However, with the perfection of trick camera work that permitted cheating, many of the old torture stunts were disappearing and 115 the growing public apathy regarding animal stuff seemed for a time to mark the end of that kind of entertainment. Citing the arrival of sound as responsible for a renewed public interest in animal subject matter (because people wanted to hear the blood-curdling roars of lions), Wagner argued that while it was natural for studios to try and cash in on this craze, and that to “set up a camera in the jungle and patiently wait for a bit of dramatic action,” staging such action was “highly improper,” not least because the staging was inevitably done with animals that had spent their whole lives in captivity and therefore knew “nothing of jungle habits” and had to be “prodded into action, or simply thrown at one another; or, as a last resort, starved into ferocity.” Wagner’s source remained anonymous—understandably so, given that the person likely wished to remain employed—but was said to be a cameraman on the Trader Horn Mexico shoot. Reportedly, “several of the fellows were downright sick at the horror of the scenes they were supposed to register.” The essay concluded by suggesting that, if Will Hays was not prepared to stop this type of behavior from studios, perhaps the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences should establish a “Bureau of Ethics.” This, obviously, did not happen. But Wagner’s final prediction did: If something isn’t done inside the industry to discourage this kind of stuff, the public will take action. And The Script, honoring the industry often beyond its desires, will make it its business to keep the public informed. Rome’s fall started when the public conscience began to enjoy slaughter as a form of entertainment. We don’t believe our public is in any such state of lustful degradation. We feel sure it would protest if made aware that animals are slaughtered just for entertainment purposes. While Wagner may not have been the first to denounce MGM’s cruelty, this editorial was the piece that piqued the interest of humanitarians. Wagner’s position as adjacent to (if not actually a part of) the film industry lent his claims credence and weight they might not otherwise have had. 116 And among the readers of Script were some Los Angeles-based humane workers—Wagner called them the State Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children and Animals, though that group did not exist—who praised the editorial. 125 Whatever group Wagner actually meant to name seems to have sent his piece to the American Humane Association, because a lengthy passage from “Movieland Goes Roman” was reprinted in The National Humane Review in June of 1931. Even before then, the AHA had become aware that cruelties had been enacted in the filming of Trader Horn. In May, the NHR reported that an anonymous complainant, likely connected to the film industry, had telephoned an AHA-affiliated, unnamed humane society in Los Angeles, and that a humane officer had subsequently investigated. 126 As the article summarized the context under which investigations had been made: Ninety-nine out of every hundred would believe from the promotion literature that [the film] had been made [in Africa] in its entirety, that America sent its cameramen, actors, and caravanserai to Africa, that the animals of the jungle fought and wounded and killed each other in whatever place the camera happened to be and at the exact spot on which the lenses were trained, that they fought and killed for the edification and education of the American public, for the purpose of teaching them the facts of jungle life. 127 On the matter of why the African footage had been lacking in thrills, the NHR speculated, “There was probably an incompleteness about [the picture] due to the fact that animals of the jungle failed to understand that they were actors in a business proposition.” Excerpts from the humane officer’s report were reprinted in the NHR; perhaps predictably, they contradicted some other reports regarding the making of the film. According to the unnamed officer, Luna Park Zoo (formerly the Selig Zoo) 128 had sold MGM a zebra with the understanding that the animal, which had a disease called ringbone, would be killed after filming 117 was complete. 129 Apparently “the Zoo wished it killed so that it would not be in competition with the new one for pictures.” 130 Luna Park Zoo had also furnished a leopard, which was uninjured. Lions, panthers, and African leopards were provided by “an outfit in San Francisco and a man in Kansas.” These may have been transported to Mexico, though the officer’s wording regarding location was somewhat unclear: “My information is that these lions were not fed for a number of days before putting them in the scene where they kill a gazelle and have a fight among themselves, also that they were so badly injured that the company would not allow them to come to California but were shipped to Kansas, not coming to this State to avoid trouble.” Gay’s Lion Farm of El Monte supplied a baby lion, which was not injured. An unnamed studio employee said he was given charge of the animals “during the latter part of the filming of the picture and that when he took them over they were in very poor condition.” This employee denied that the zebra had been injured, and said the animals were in good shape by the time they were sent to Kansas. If MGM had indeed filmed in Mexico to avoid local humane groups charging them with cruelty, as the NHR suggested was true, it was a sound decision; the local humane society reported to the AHA that they were unable to prosecute on foreign soil. Mexico’s government ought not to be condemned for permitting it, the AHA said, given that an American company was enacting the cruelties. But they thought MGM owed an explanation to the public. The AHA claimed it had “always endeavored to give the movie industry a square deal” in the hopes that it would self-regulate, likely a reference to the MPPDA resolutions of 1925. “Today we demand that any exploitation of animals” that might be cruel, unfair, or cause suffering should be “barred from public entertainment,” concluded the article. “Animal conflicts…common rooster fights, dog fights, snake fights, or fights between animals of the forest, are abhorrent to every person 118 who has a scrap of refinement.” Thus, the NHR managed to neatly link jungle films to other entertainment and performing animal concerns of the day. The AHA stated that, since publishing their report in the previous issue, they had “not seen any reply from the motion picture concerns, although the matter has been discussed in the trade and other journals.” 131 The article was fleshed out with reprints of passages from the previously cited Photoplay article and from Rob Wagner’s Script. This was, more or less, as far as things went. At some point, a representative of the MPPDA met with members of the “Humane Board” (whichever society that really was); the society said past attempts to cooperate with studios regarding animals had been made, but they had not received “satisfactory cooperation” from these studios. The humane society’s board of directors threatened to organize boycotts of films not approved by them; their lists would be distributed to various women’s organizations as well as the Campfire Girls. 132 Nothing seems to have come of this meeting, however. 133 Jungle films continued to be critically and commercially successful for the next couple of years. Released around the same time as Trader Horn was an Ernest B. Schoedsack film, the Paramount-distributed Rango (1931), which Photoplay called “the grandest true-jungle, non-fake animal picture ever filmed.” 134 The main character here is not a Great White Photographer, but Rango himself, a young orangutan in the Sumatran jungle. Derek Bousé has described Rango as what “may well be the first fully realized wildlife film,” in that not only is the protagonist an animal, but that the narrative “establishes animal characters, then proceeds to tell a story that reveals their individual personalities and explore [sic] their intimate lives.” 135 At the film’s climax are two animal fights: young Rango is killed by a tiger; the tiger is subsequently killed by a water buffalo. (Billboard noted that Rango suffered in spectacle when compared to Trader Horn and Africa Speaks! 136 ). Reviews of the film were quite positive, especially regarding 119 Schoedsack’s characterization of the animals. 137 Of nearly equal mention was the end battle between the tiger and the water buffalo. At least one reviewer seemed to find the animal action so exciting that it was difficult to believe it had occurred naturally: Someday I am going to take Ernest B. Schoedsack into a room bare of furniture, and I am going to lock him in it without even bread and water until he agrees to tell me how he could persuade a water buffalo and a tiger to have a fight to the death right in front of his camera in Sumatra. And after he tells me that I’ll lock him up again until he tells me how he could persuade two tigers to fight until one of them is killed in front of the same camera. And he will also have to explain how he could get a large flock of monkeys to fall out of a tree onto the prostrate body of a murdered tiger at the exact moment when his camera was up in the air and was pointed straight downward at the tiger. 138 The reviewer’s concerns were likely not without merit; it seems extraordinarily unlikely that such a scenario could have been spontaneously enacted and caught on camera. But, perhaps because Schoedsack’s reputation gave the film a more convincing documentary pedigree than some of the other jungle pictures, humanitarians did not directly object to it. Other films were protested, not just for how they had been made, but also for how local theaters were marketing them. Bring ‘Em Back Alive (1932), an independently produced documentary that depicted adventurer Frank Buck capturing wildlife in Malaysia, 139 did good business for distributor RKO. 140 Buck’s mandate was not to kill animals, but—as one might expect from the title—to “bring ‘em back alive.” He was, as the film’s opening titles asserted, “A hunter who uses no gun, except in self-defense.” Even without his gun, Buck still tormented animals throughout the picture: a monitor lizard was trapped with a snare, trussed, and hauled off by native guides; a baby elephant (not yet weaned) was captured and suspended from a rope sling; a baby orangutan was captured when Buck and company chop down the tree in which it rested. There were also several animal fights, all of which appear to have been staged and 120 instigated, and all of which were heavily edited, presumably to make them more exciting on film than they were in real life: leopard versus python, tiger versus leopard, crocodile versus tiger, and python versus crocodile. (This last fight was also intercut with many close-up reaction shots of Buck looking concerned.) In Philadelphia, the Women’s SPCA of Pennsylvania protested when a string of Warner Bros. houses advertised the film by displaying caged wild animals, including “bears, foxes, skunks, raccoons, prairie dogs, badgers, porcupines, monkeys, lion cubs, ground hogs, ferrets, baby tigers, owls, and pheasants” outside the theaters; the film itself, which one society member took it upon herself to suffer through, was described as “most revolting to our humane cause.” 141 Through the remainder of the decade’s first half, the NHR continued to denounce animal cruelty in films, with a special focus on the jungle pictures. In the spring of 1934, AHA president Sydney H. Coleman wrote to over 250 newspapers in the United States, protesting the cycle with the same logic humanitarians had been employing for two decades: bringing together species that would normally avoid each other in the wild and provoking them into “brutal life and death struggles” was cruelty in and of itself; furthermore, the depiction of animal cruelty onscreen caused audiences to become hardened to cruelty in real life. “Appeals to producers have been received courteously,” Coleman wrote, “but brushed aside because the public must have its thrills, but more largely because the subject was profitable.” 142 To these, Coleman added a third tactic that he would continue to pursue, arguing that if staged fights or other brutalities were illegal when enacted with live animals, they should be illegal to show on film as well. Readers of the NHR were, as always, encouraged to write letters of complaint to theater management, producers, and the MPPDA. 143 Coleman tried again in August, with a similar plea published in 121 the New York Times. 144 The NHR also reprinted jungle film criticisms from other sources, such as newspapers and sporting magazines. 145 Though Trader Horn may ultimately be seen as a case of bad publicity for MGM that had little lasting effect on the studio, or on the industry, it (and the jungle film cycle as a whole) are nevertheless useful for thinking about humanitarian/Hollywood relationships during the early sound period. 146 First, the absence of sustained national furor at the beginning of the jungle film cycle indicates a lack of public interest in such humanitarian causes during this time. It does not seem a stretch to assume that some members of the general public who might otherwise have been sympathetic were more concerned with the effects of the Depression than with the treatment of a handful of exotic animals, whether the beasts were wild in Africa or captive in North America. The extent to which public perception changed over the next few years can be amply demonstrated by the fact that when Trader Horn was reissued in 1936, Joseph Breen ordered several of the animal fights be cut down from the original, so that they were less gruesome. 147 Humane organizations, too, were finding other issues more pressing, at least during the beginning of the period. As noted at the beginning of this chapter, in 1929, Sydney Coleman did not feel that film was a top concern for humanitarians. Within the next five years, this would change drastically, with Coleman bringing up jungle pictures in print as well as at various annual meetings. 148 Occasionally the issue even made the mainstream press. 149 At the 1934 AHA National Convention, he lambasted the film industry on a number of fronts: for failing to enforce its own Production Code, for considering the production of bullfight films, for drowning hundreds of cattle in rivers for pioneer films, for driving horses over cliffs and rolling them down steep embankments, and, of course, for the wildlife and jungle films. “For nearly three-quarters 122 of a century legislative bodies throughout the United States have recognized that cruelty to animals was an offense to be punishable by law,” he noted. “Staged fights between animals and any acts tending to produce cruelty to animals have been strictly forbidden.” 150 Why, then, he wondered, should these illegal acts be permissible to stage for cameras and then show on screen? The point was not completely unreasonable. Discourse surrounding the cycle—in trade publications, humane journals, daily newspapers, and also in later scholarly and historical discussions—thus illustrates once again the seeming impossibility of working to end animal cruelty in films. This time it was not a question of whether studios had acted cruelly towards animals. What other way was there to describe a setup in which animals were forced to fight to the death, or were shot, or were speared through the neck? Undoubtedly cruelty had been used in these cases. The trouble was that very few people seemed to care. By appealing to authenticity, jungle films could protect themselves under the veneer of documentary, even in fictional narratives. When the documentary elements were proven false or staged, which was difficult to do, the films could still be justified as educational. Thankfully, there would be no “law of the jungle” logic that could be wielded, however fallaciously, to defend the use of horse tripping devices. The next major clash between animal welfare advocates and the motion picture industry would center on these. 151 Second, MGM’s decision to film deliberately enacted cruelty in Mexico rather than the United States (and, for that matter, their decision to film in Africa in the first place) foreshadows later industrial developments. While it is extremely unlikely that any runaway productions of the 1950s chose to visit foreign countries simply in order to avoid the restrictions that would come once the AHA became affiliated with the Production Code Administration in 1940, a lack of 123 involvement from welfare advocates on foreign soil nevertheless made it easier for those productions to work around those restrictions, or to claim that none had been violated. Finally, though the humane movement had largely given up on the possibility of federal film censorship in the United States, they remained cognizant of the fact that if Hollywood would not alter its behavior based on moral arguments, it would certainly respond to economic considerations. As discussed in Chapter 1, this had been identified as an effective strategy as early as 1920. Now, though, humane reformers began to look beyond local boycotts of films and letter-writing campaigns. Turning their gaze overseas, they identified Great Britain as the most profitable foreign market in the 1930s. Britain also had a national censorship board, the British Board of Film Censors. And, crucially, the BBFC and British public were far less tolerant of animal cruelty, whether actual or apparent, than were American censors and moviegoers. Thus, the AHA concluded that international action might be an effective method of ending filmed cruelty: “We do not want in this country pictures which are the result of cruel animal exploitation in other parts of the world. The same is probably true of other countries.” 152 In fact, the jungle film cycle did soon die out—though by the time the humane movement took firm notice, it had already begun to wind down, and may simply have run its natural course. But this does not diminish the importance of the AHA’s observation that market forces and British censorship could be influential in stopping animal cruelty in films. As will be discussed in Chapter 3, both played vital roles in William Hays’ decision to allow the AHA to open up shop in Hollywood as the industry’s official animal welfare overseers. 1 “Not On the Cast Sheet,” New York Times, July 8, 1934, X3. Subsequent information and quotations are taken from this citation. 2 Emphasis added. 3 Of course, it is entirely possible that Essie and Wessie found the Warner Bros. studios preferable to the laboratory. 4 “California Humane Convention,” NHR, November 1931, 20. 124 5 Ruth Vasey, “Beyond Sex and Violence: ‘Industry Policy’ and the Regulation of Hollywood Movies, 1922-1939.” In Controlling Hollywood: Censorship and Regulation in the Studio Era, Matthew Bernstein, ed. (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1999), 124-5. 6 Sydney H. Coleman, “Is Animal Protection Work a Fad?” NHR, February 1929, 5. 7 Among others, see “Making a Juvenile Star in Movieland,” May 1924, 100; John F. Poucher, “Movies for Children,” January 1927, 5; “Children and Movies,” March 1928, 12; “Objectionable Pictures,” July 1930, 19; “Children Reveal their Reaction to Movies,” October 1931, 6; “Gang and Sex Films,” October 1931, 14; “Poor Advertising,” October 1932, 15. 8 “Our Frank Opinion: Hollywood,” NHR, September 1934, 14-15. 9 Among other articles, see “Our Frank Opinion: Movies Are Better,” NHR, June 1935, 14: “We congratulate the motion picture industry and Mr. Hays. It was our idea and that of many others that perfect productions of fine themes would win the approval of the public, that more people enjoyed clean entertainment than any other kind.” A year later, the NHR would note that “As time goes on the improvement of the movies becomes more apparent.” “Our Frank Opinion: The Mission of the Films,” NHR, July 1936, 14. 10 In the context of humane work, the term “live animal performances” generally encompassed vaudeville and other stage shows, circuses, bullfights, and rodeos. For but a small sampling of the NHR’s coverage of rodeos, see E.K. Whitehead, “Why Condemn the Bullfight in Spain and Patronize the Rodeo in America?,” May 1925, 5, 22; “Fighting the Rodeo in Chicago,” September 1925, 3-4, 17; Richard C. Craven, “A Close-Up of the Rodeo: Why Humane Societies Would Outlaw Such Performances,” January 1927, 10-11, 22; “Seattle Rodeo Ends in Stampede of Creditors,” September 1927, 5; “State of Ohio Promotes a Rodeo,” October 1927, 20-21. On other topics: Mrs. Richard Hardy, “The Exploitation of Animals for Amusement and Commercial Purposes,” NHR, November 1924, 205, 218-9 focuses on vaudeville, rodeos, and bullfights, mentioning film only in passing: “We place animals in moving pictures in the same category with performing animals although we should be careful to make these distinctions, namely, that there are many domestic animals with the film companies that do perfectly natural work which is undoubtedly agreeable to the animals…There is a record of unspeakable and mercenary cruelties in the filming of moving pictures, and the elimination of these cruelties forms a very important function of humane organizations” (218). The Ausable Chasm incident described in Chapter 1 is mentioned somewhat inexplicably in an article about diving horses that otherwise had nothing to do with film. See “The Cruelty of the Diving Horse,” NHR, September 1923, 167. A similar incident was described in “German ‘Wild West’ Thriller: Movie Director Pays Maximum Penalty for Shocking Cruelty,” October 1926, 13. This article, a reprint from Time, does not mention Ausable Chasm even though the parallels are much closer. “Animals in the Films,” April 1933, 17, is a letter to the NHR editors from the Women’s Pennsylvania SPCA describing their efforts to have scenes of “emaciated and badly frightened cats” as well as “a bull and lion caged together” eliminated from a Charley Chase short, Girl Grief (MGM, dir. James Parrott, 1932). 11 Unti, “The Quality of Mercy,” 563-4; Beers, For the Prevention of Cruelty, 75-79. Humanitarians were in fact successful in this mission: bullfighting never did gain widespread popularity in the United States, and is currently illegal in all fifty states. One exception is California’s exemption of so-called “bloodless” or “Portuguese” bullfights for religious traditions. See Angela N. Velez, “Olé, Olé, Olé, Oh No!: Bullfighting in the United States and Reconciling Constitutional Rights with Animal Cruelty Statutes,” Penn State Law Review 115.2 (2010): 497-516. 12 Harrison Carroll, “Behind the Scenes in Hollywood,” Atlanta Daily World, August 3, 1932, 6a; see also “Pictures: Ayres’ Spanish Story,” Variety, May 10, 1932, 6; “Pictures: Bully,” Variety, September 7, 1932, 25. 13 Carroll, “Behind the Scenes in Hollywood.” 14 “Pictures: A Break for Bulls,” Variety, July 19, 1932, 3. 15 Ibid. 16 “Pictures: ‘Men Without Fear’ to Be Made Mostly in Mexico,” Variety, September 20, 1932, 11. 17 “Pictures: Too Much Cycle,” Variety, December 20, 1932, 7; “Bull Fight Scenes Off, U Shelves ‘Without Fear,’” Variety, October 11, 1932, 7. 18 “Keep the Bullfight off the Screen,” NHR, January 1933, 3-7, 20. 19 “Keep the Bullfight off the Screen,” 3. Subsequent quotations are taken from this page until otherwise noted. 20 “Keep the Bullfight off the Screen,” 3-4. 21 “Keep the Bullfight off the Screen,” 4. In February, this stance was reiterated briefly, and it was “certain that England will not submit quietly to the showing of bullfight pictures.” “Our Frank Opinion: Bullfight Films,” NHR, February 1933, 14. 22 “Bullfight Films,” NHR, March 1933, 7. Subsequent quotations are taken from this citation. 125 23 Sydney H. Coleman, “Hard Times, Children and Animals: President Coleman’s Review at National Humane Convention,” NHR, November 1933, 6. Coleman also discussed the tendency of morally unscrupulous films to cause childhood delinquency at some length. 24 On stardom and celebrity, see Leo Braudy, The Frenzy of Renown: Fame and its History (New York: Vintage, 1997); Richard deCordova, Picture Personalities: The Emergence of the Star System in America (Champaign: University of Illinois Press, 1990); Richard Dyer with Paul McDonald, Stars, New Edition (London: BFI, 1998); Dyer, Heavenly Bodies: Film Stars and Society, Second Edition (New York: Routledge, 2005); Christine Gledhill, “Introduction,” Stardom: Industry of Desire, ed. Christine Gledhill (London and New York: Routledge, 1991); P. David Marshall, Celebrity and Power: Fame and Contemporary Culture (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1997); Diane Negra, “Female Stardom and Early Film History,” Camera Obscura 48 (2001): 1-7; Chris Rojek, Celebrity (London: Reaktion Books, 2004). 25 “Rin Tin Tin Works for the Cause,” NHR, July 1927, 11. 26 “Grand Old Actress,” NHR, August 1938, 4. Lady remained retired from films and was adopted by the Driscoll family, who owned “a vast estate on the shore of Lake Washington.” 27 “Cat Star of Films,” NHR, July 1935, 12. According to his obituary, Bobby’s final screen appearance was Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch (Paramount, dir. Norman Taurog, 1934), a W.C. Fields comedy. He was buried in a pet cemetery in Los Angeles. 28 “Scotties Are Natural in a Dennis Movie,” NHR, May 1933, 8. The film had not yet been completed when the article was written; I have been unable to find any evidence that it was ever released. Dennis did illustrate a children’s book entitled Jock and Jill: the Tails of Two Scotties (New York: Grosset & Dunlap, 1934) and continued to provide illustrations for such occasions as Be Kind to Animals Week. 29 “A Motion Picture with Dog Actors,” NHR, June 1933, 9. The article also noted “It would be too much to expect producing companies to spend huge sums on propaganda for the S.P.C.A. movement, and we do not ask it. There is, however, much that is associated with this work that might provide good picture material.” 30 “Another Dog Film,” NHR, July 1933, 23. 31 Untitled, NHR, November 1932, 25. 32 “Bill Hart Saves Dogs,” NHR, September 1924, 175. Hart saved twelve dogs from a kill shelter, paid for their licenses, and gave the dogs to children before establishing an additional fund to “buy the freedom of other dogs and give them to worthy children.” He also provided the twelve new dog owners with ice cream, pie, cake, and tickets to a Jackie Coogan movie. Demonstrating the extent to which certain of these celebrity pieces were not exactly news, “Bill Hart, Friend of Horses,” NHR, March 1933, 13, reports that Hart exited a train in a Chicago blizzard and then bought an apple for a carriage horse. 33 “William S. Hart Grieves for ‘Fritz,’” NHR, April 1938, 27; “Bill Hart’s Horse,” NHR, September 1939, 12. 34 “Red Star Wins Support of Motion Picture Celebrity,” NHR, December 1917, 225. 35 “‘Doug’ and Mary With Two of Their Pets,” NHR, March 1925, 10; “Mary Does a Good Turn for the Bear,” NHR, June 1927, 5. 36 “Tom Mix Loves Animals,” NHR, October 1929, 20. There is some irony here, given that Mix would later tour with Wild West shows and purchase his own circus. 37 “Tony Retires,” NHR, May 1933, 10. 38 NHR, March 1936, 6. 39 NHR, May 1937, 11. 40 NHR, June 1937, 12; Louise Price Bell, “Deanna’s Best Friend: Young Star More Interested in Dog Than Music,” NHR, February 1938, 13; Louise Price Bell, untitled photo caption, NHR, May 1939, 13. 41 Montgomery (p. 12), Page, and Evans (both p. 13), NHR, December 1932; Karloff and Nolan (separate photos), NHR, November 1937, 13. 42 “Famous Star, Famous Dog,” NHR, January 1936, 13. 43 “Cruelty in the Movies: No Animals in My Films, Says George Arliss,” NHR, October 1933, 28. 44 Ibid. 45 “Leslie Howard’s Plea for Animals,” NHR, June 1935, 8-9. Howard’s somewhat scattered address is perhaps most notable for his uncomfortable claim that Anglo-Saxons abused power (in general) less than any other race, and exercising such restraint had given them “a dominant love of animals.” 46 “H.B. Warner,” NHR, August 1936, 27. 47 “Dogs of Movie Stars,” NHR, January 1936, 12. 48 “She Adopted Five Orphans,” NHR, September 1937, 13. 49 Louise Price Bell, “Number One Youngster—At Home,” NHR, April 1938, 12. Accompanying photos included an overall-clad Temple with two of her dogs; page 11 of that issue featured a picture of Temple with a pony. 126 50 Temple’s appearances included the following: “Well, If It Isn’t Shirley,” NHR, May 1935, 11 (photograph of Temple, wearing a football uniform, accompanied by a dog); “Shirley: Here’s Where You Take a Bow,” NHR, June 1935, cover photograph (Temple shakes hands with a Scottish terrier); “The Little Colonel (Shirley Temple) Takes Command of the Junior Division for Kindness Week,” NHR, March 1936, cover photograph (Temple stands next to a pony); “Shirley Temple in Wee Willie Winkie,” NHR, September 1937, 13 (Temple is pictured with canine co-star Waif, “which has been with her in at least two pictures”). “America’s Number One Youngster” mentioned the upcoming Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm (Twentieth-Century Fox, dir. Allan Dwan, 1938). 51 Rojek, Celebrity, 187. 52 To be fair, as noted in Chapter 1, the AHA was always a fairly moderate organization anyway. On top of that, it was also an umbrella organization. Thus, by the 1950s, as Bernard Unti has argued, it “catered mainly to the interests of its constituent societies, all of which were absorbed with urban animal control issues.” A collective of more radical members splintered off in 1954 to found The Humane Society of the United States. Bernard Unti, Protecting All Animals: A Fifty-Year History of The Humane Society of the United States (Washington, DC: Humane Society Press, 2004), 1. On the AHA/HSUS split, see pp. 2-5. 53 On the safari film, see Derek Bousé, Wildlife Films (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2000), 46-53, and Gregg Mitman, Reel Nature: America’s Romance with Wildlife on Film (Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press, 1999), 27-36. Following William K. Everson, Bousé additionally argues that Chang’s “dramatic portrayal of marauding animals terrorizing the village is overblown,” and that Hollywood’s influence on the film’s dramatic structure mark it as formally separate from the documentary genre. See pp. 120-1. 54 Thomas Doherty, Pre-Code Hollywood: Sex, Immorality, and Insurrection in American Cinema, 1930-1934 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1999), 222, 226. Doherty’s insights on expeditionary docudramas may also be applied to the more documentary-leaning of the jungle films, such as Bring ‘Em Back Alive. 55 On Ingagi, see Eric Schaefer, Bold! Daring! Shocking! True!: A History of Exploitation Films, 1919-1959 (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 1999), 266-268. 56 Bousé, Wildlife Films, xiv. 57 Bousé, Wildlife Films, 118-125. 58 Mitman, Reel Nature, 25. 59 Bousé, Wildlife Films, 8. 60 The entirety of Wildlife Films grapples with this question, but see particularly pp. 9-10. 61 Fatimah Tobing Rony, The Third Eye: Race, Cinema, and Ethnographic Spectacle (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 1996), 8. 62 Rony, The Third Eye, 133. 63 “Cruelty in Movie Jungle Picture Condemned as Brutal and Harmful,” NHR, May 1930, 11. 64 As Thomas Doherty has noted, “Just as National Geographic magazine provided a respectable forum for the exposure of native peoples in states of natural nudity that would be unnatural for straitlaced Americans, expeditionary films were granted wider latitude than entertainment features in the exposure of naked flesh, ostensibly because they were educational documents and definitely because they unveiled a lower order of humanity.” Doherty, Pre-Code Hollywood, 225. 65 On Nanook, see Rony, The Third Eye, 99-126; on Grass and Chang, see Rony, The Third Eye, 133-137; on Chang, see also Bousé, Wildlife Films, 119-120. 66 “The First African Sound Film,” The New York Times, September 28, 1930, X3. 67 “Yes, I remember ‘Ingagi,’ but this one looks authentic to my untutored eye,’ wrote one critic. Roberta Nangle, “Here’s Splendid Picture of Life in the Jungle: Dark Continent Holds Lots of Thrills,” Chicago Daily Tribune, September 21, 1930, F1. An anonymous Washington Post reviewer gushed over the film without expressing any doubts to its veracity, while the Los Angeles Times reviewer, though slightly more skeptical, nevertheless called the film “genuine-looking” and stated that it was “less ‘fakey’ in its depiction of certain wild-animal life.” Also in the Post, Nelson B. Bell claimed that the film “presented authentically what its predecessor [Ingagi] had either borrowed or clumsily imitated on the outskirts of Hollywood.” See “African Love Film Contains Many Thrills,” The Washington Post, October 5, 1930, A2; “Adventure in Africa Exhibited: Animal ‘Shots’ Features of Film; Blossom Seeley Leads R.-K.-O. Vaudeville,” Los Angeles Times, October 18, 1930, A9; Nelson B. Bell, “The Jungles, A Vogue and a Tear for Some Old Friends,” The Washington Post, March 22, 1931, A4. 68 Mourdant Hall, “The Screen: Sounds in the Jungle,” The New York Times, September 20, 1930, 23. 69 “While one man grinds the camera another stands by with his gun. There’s a second camera some place nearby; I can’t figure out just where,” noted Roberta Nangle. 70 Doherty, Pre-Code Hollywood, 227. 71 Hall, “The Screen: Sounds in the Jungle.” 127 72 Vanessa Schwartz, It’s So French! Hollywood, Paris, and the Making of Cosmopolitan Film Culture (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007), 192. 73 Tino Balio, Grand Design: Hollywood as a Modern Business Enterprise, 1930-1939 (Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London: University of California Press, 1993), 405. 74 Andrew Sarris, The American Cinema: Directors and Directions, 1929-1968 (Cambridge, MA: Da Capo Press, 1994), 267. 75 Major Edward Bowes, MGM’s vice president, wrote Louis B. Mayer in July of 1928 regarding a Mrs. Delia J. Akeley, the widow of Carl E. Akeley. The Akeleys were “naturalists” of the sort who hunted with Teddy Roosevelt and collected specimens to be displayed, taxidermy-style, in American natural history museums. Mrs. Akeley had accompanied her husband on a number of African expeditions, and Bowes thought she “might be of very great assistance in [Mayer’s] contemplated African Expedition.” Letter from Major Edward Bowes to Louis B. Mayer, July 16, 1928; Stella Burke May, “She Feels Safer in the Jungle! Delia J. Akeley, Who Has Faced Lions Without Flinching, Fears Elevators and Taxicabs,” New York Herald-Tribune, July 8, 1928, 12-13. Both items are in Folder T-1873, Turner/MGM Scripts, TRADER HORN (1931). These and subsequent archival materials on Trader Horn are housed at the Margaret Herrick Library, Los Angeles, CA. 76 Trader Horn script, second temporary complete version, July 10, 1928. Adaptation by John Thomas Neville and Dale Van Every, Turner/MGM Scripts, Folder T-1875; Trader Horn first temporary continuity script by Alfred Alysius [sic] Horn and Ethelreda Lewis, continuity by Dale Van Every and John Thomas Neville, August 10, 1928, Turner/MGM Scripts, Folder T-1876. 77 Kevin Brownlow, The War, the West, and the Wilderness (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1979), 564; Mark. A. Vieira, Irving Thalberg: Boy Wonder to Producer Prince (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2010), 135. 78 Speed Kendall, “Jungle Expedition Starts: Initial Party Filming ‘Trader Horn’ Sails to Set Up Studio in Wilds of Africa,” Los Angeles Times, March 3, 1929, C13. 79 “Intricate Apparatus Notes Jungle Sounds,” Los Angeles Times, October 27, 1929, 24. 80 “How ‘Trader Horn’ Was Made,” Photoplay, April 1931, 30, 129. 81 R.H., “Trader Horn: America Films Africa,” The Manchester Guardian, March 11, 1931, 7. 82 “Trader Horn,” Diary of “Red” Golden. Typed carbon copy dated December 11, 1933. Turner/MGM scripts, T- 1898, TRADER HORN (1931). 83 List of stock shots/Notes for cutter, April 1, 1931. Turner/MGM scripts, T-1898, TRADER HORN (1931). Included amongst this footage were, among other things, twelve reels of natives and nine of “scenic shots” as well as hundreds of feet of lion cubs, giraffes, monkeys, crocodiles, ostrich, elephants, buffalo, rhinoceros, zebra, hippos, and birds. 84 Trader Horn first temporary continuity script (full citation above); Trader Horn dialogue continuity (first temporary incomplete) by John Howard Lawson and Jim Tully, March 27, 1930, Turner/MGM Scripts, Folder T- 1882. 85 Daily production reports, January-October 1930. Turner/MGM scripts, T-1898, TRADER HORN (1931); Complete script of Trader Horn, From the book by Alfred Aloysius Horn and Ethelreda Lewis, October 1, 1930. Turner/MGM scripts, T-1888, TRADER HORN (1931). Production records indicate that filming was delayed on August 18 th and 19 th because the company was waiting to receive dialogue. 86 This review comes from a scrapbook held by the Herrick Library; author, date, and title of publication were not retained. “Trader Horn” clipping, 22. Chamberlin Scrapbooks, Volume 4, Manuscript Collection #123, Margaret Herrick Library, Los Angeles, CA. Subsequent clippings will be cited as “Chamberlin Scrapbooks”; only Volume 4 was consulted. (Page numbers for citations from the Chamberlin Scrapbooks refer to the pages of the scrapbook itself, not the original page numbers of the articles). 87 Norbert Lusk, “East Lauds ‘Trader Horn’: African Film Called Best Wild Animal Picture; ‘Seas Beneath’ Pictorial Value Impresses,” Los Angeles Times, February 8, 1931, B9. 88 Mordaunt Hall, “In the African Wilds: Thrilling Scenes of Beasts Fighting in Film of ‘Trader Horn’—Further Comments,” The New York Times, February 8, 1931, 110. 89 Mordaunt Hall, “The Screen: An Impressive Jungle Melodrama,” The New York Times, February 4, 1931, 28. 90 William Crouch, “Trader Horn,” Chamberlin Scrapbooks, 22. 91 Don B. Reed, “Movie Openings: National,” The Washington Post, March 10, 1931, 11. 92 “Trader Horn,” Chamberlin Scrapbooks, 27. 93 Synopsis of Trader Horn, written by R.E. Plummer, February 5, 1931. Production Code Administration Files, Trader Horn [MGM, 1931]. Margaret Herrick Library, Los Angeles, CA. 128 94 Letter from Jason S. Joy to Irving Thalberg, January 21, 1931. Production Code Administration Files, Trader Horn [MGM, 1931]. 95 The Ohio, Virginia, and Kansas censor boards passed the film without cuts; Alberta cut a shot of a speared native and—apparently feeling sound made the carnage harder to take—removed the sound in two scenes of animals fighting. In addition to the “one dead man” line, British Columbia cut a “scene of man on limb of tree,” bare- breasted women, a close-up of a man being tortured on a cross, and a number of derogatory lines of dialogue that they felt to be “a slur on the memory of an eminent explorer.” France eliminated ten feet of unspecified footage from Reel 7 (presumably this was the crucifixion) and Denmark took out 18 feet of “torture” and “lion fight.” See letters from Joy to Thalberg, dated February 25, March 17, April 6, April 7, April 14, 1931; memos from Joy dated April 1 (there are two), May 12, and June 30, 1931. Production Code Administration Files, Trader Horn [MGM, 1931]. 96 See, for instance, Philip K. Scheuer, “Trek Yields Jungle Film: ‘Trader Horn’ Results from Efforts of W.S. Van Dyke and Hardy Troupe of Actors in Africa,” Los Angeles Times, January 20, 1931, A9. Taking Van Dyke at his word, Scheuer claims “When they returned here they found it necessary to re-record much of the dialogue, making new close-ups to match the African scenes; but the backgrounds remain authentic. Van Dyke wouldn’t have it any other way.” 97 Titles on domestic trailer, TRADER HORN, March 5, 1931. Turner/MGM scripts, T-1898, TRADER HORN (1931). 98 Advertisement for Trader Horn, Photoplay, April 1931, 107. 99 Kendall, “Jungle Expedition Starts”; “Pass the Quinine,” The Washington Post, September 22, 1929, A2; “Cast Back from Africa: ‘Trader Horn’ Troupe Returns Travel Weary From the Dark Continent,” The New York Times, December 8, 1929, X5—this piece does not mention Booth’s illness, but includes her boasting that she had shot a lion; “The Sponsors Declare it a Miracle Film,” The Washington Post, March 8, 1931, A5; “Jungle Epic the Feature at Columbia,” The Washington Post, May 3, 1931, A4; “Millions Asked by Miss Booth: ‘Trader Horn’ Actress Sues, Charging Health Ruined,” The Los Angeles Times, October 26, 1933, 3. Booth remained ill for several years. Her death was frequently reported, though in fact she survived until the age of 86, passing away in 1991. Trader Horn was her last film. Jon Tuska, in his 1971 monograph on the film, suggests that Booth faked her own illness after her career failed to take off. See “Miss Booth Given Hope: Actress Writes of Illness,” Los Angeles Times, February 15, 1936, A1; “Edwina Booth, 86; Actress Who Won Fame Due to Illness,” The New York Times, May 24, 1991, B8; Jon Tuska, A Variable Harvest: Essays and Reviews of Film and Literature (Jefferson, NC and London: McFarland and Company, Inc., 1990), 19-21. 100 Philip K. Scheuer, “Trader Horn,” Chamberlin Scrapbooks, 25. 101 The editors responded with a droll, “Of course, it is possible that the company spent a year or two in Africa for their health and returned to Hollywood to make the picture.” “The Voice of the Fan: A Letter from Mr. Wells,” Chicago Daily Tribune, March 15, 1931, G12. 102 D.K., “Screen: Physical Exaggeration Of Characters On Movie Screens Is Discussed. Animal Films Criticized.” The Sun (Baltimore), June 24, 1931, 8. 103 Robert E. Sherwood, “Trader Horn in Comparison with Rango, New Jungle Film,” The Sun (Baltimore), March 15, 1931, MR1. 104 “How ‘Trader Horn’ Was Made,” 30. 105 In addition to the animal deaths, two humans were injured during the shoot: one “wrenched his shoulder when a haltered zebra jerked away from him,” and another was bitten by an insect—apparently badly enough to have received disability compensation. “Perils of Filming Thrillers Told by Insurance Figures,” Chicago Daily Tribune, January 25, 1931, 25. 106 Harry Waldman, Beyond Hollywood’s Grasp: American Filmmakers Abroad, 1914-1945 (Metuchen, N.J. and London: Scarecrow Press, Inc., 1994), 75. 107 List of stock shots/notes for cutter, April 1, 1931. 108 “How ‘Trader Horn’ Was Made,” 129. 109 Bosley Crowther, The Lion’s Share: The Story of an Entertainment Empire (New York: E.P. Dutton and Company, Inc., 1957), 168; Vieira, 135. 110 Brownlow, The War, the West, and the Wilderness, 566. 111 Crowther, The Lion’s Share, 168-9. Crowther goes on to relate an anecdote regarding the hiring of prostitutes (though he does not use that word) for a companion of Mutia Omoolu’s, who had accompanied the actor to Los Angeles. 112 Mitman, Reel Nature, 58. 113 Bousé, Wildlife Films, 208. 129 114 Robert C. Cannom, Van Dyke and The Mythical City of Hollywood (New York and London: Garland Publishing, 1977), 226. 115 Kenneth M. Cameron, Africa on Film: Beyond Black and White (New York: Continuum, 1994), 39. 116 “Rob Wagner: Writer, Artist of Beverly Hills, Edited Script Magazine,” The New York Times, July 21, 1942, 19. 117 Rob Wagner, Review of “Trader Horn,” Rob Wagner’s Script, January 31, 1931, 6-7. Margaret Herrick Library, Los Angeles, CA. 118 Richard Schayer, “Let’s Kill Something, Part I,” Rob Wagner’s Script, March 28, 1931, 7. 119 Schayer, “Let’s Kill Something, Part II,” Rob Wagner’s Script, April 4, 1931, 4-5. 120 Alice Everett Truesdale, “The Voice of the Gang” (letters to the editor), Rob Wagner’s Script, April 4, 1931, 15. The editor titled her letter “A Mean Question.” 121 Richard Schayer, “The Voice of the Gang” (Letters to the editor), Rob Wagner’s Script, May 2, 1931, 18. 122 TRADER HORN script, second temporary complete version, July 10, 1928. Adaptation by John Thomas Neville and Dale Van Every. Turner/MGM scripts, T-1875, TRADER HORN (1931). 123 Scheuer, “Trek Yields Jungle Film”; “List of things brought back from Africa,” January 29, 1931. Turner/MGM scripts, T-1898, TRADER HORN (1931). The list, which is annotated rather humorously, may have been intended for publicity purposes. According to the list, Van Dyke brought back a number of trophies from animals he had shot: “1 lion skin, 1 giraffe skin, 1 pair Grant’s gazelle horn, 2 pairs impala horns).” 124 “Movieland Goes Roman,” Rob Wagner’s Script, April 4, 1931, 1-2. Subsequent quotations are taken from this citation. 125 “We Ring a Loud Bell,” Rob Wagner’s Script, April 18, 1931, 21. 126 “The Filming of Trader Horn,” NHR, May 1931, 22. Subsequent quotations are taken from this citation. 127 Emphasis in original. 128 Carla Hall, “Zoo to display lion statues from early L.A. menagerie,” The Los Angeles Times (May 14, 2009). Accessed April 3, 2014. <http://articles.latimes.com/2009/may/14/local/me-selig-zoo-lions14>; Nathan Masters, “When Lincoln Park was Eastlake,” KCET.org (May 23, 2013). Accessed April 3, 2014. <http://www.kcet.org/updaily/socal_focus/history/la-as-subject/when-lincoln-park-was-eastlake.html>. 129 Ringbone is the horseman’s term for proliferation of bone in one of two joints: between the distal phalanx (a.k.a. coffin bone, a small bone which encapsulated inside an equine’s hoof wall) and middle phalanx (short pastern bone) or between the middle phalanx and proximal phalanx, or long pastern bone. (The pastern is the portion of an equine’s leg between the hoof and the ankle.) The disease is not in itself fatal, but can be very painful, cause lameness, and impair the animal’s mobility and quality of life. See, for instance, David Frisbie, DVM, PhD, “Ringbone Treatment Options,” The Horse (July 15, 2013). <http://www.thehorse.com/articles/32200/ringbone- treatment-options/> Accessed June 26, 2014. 130 “The Filming of Trader Horn,” May 1931, 22. (As will be discussed subsequently, the June 1931 issue also carried an article entitled “The Filming of Trader Horn.”) 131 “The Filming of Trader Horn,” NHR, June 1931, 20. 132 Memo from L.R. [illegible] to John V. Wilson, undated, 1931. Production Code Administration files, Trader Horn [MGM, 1931]. The humane group also objected to Cimarron, Ingagi, and The Big Trail. 133 In December of 1932, the NHR reprinted an article written by a British correspondent stationed in Nairobi that described cruelty to animals in two Africa-made films; the films were unnamed but one was obviously Trader Horn. The article noted that government officials in the British-ruled Tanganyika Territory had the authority to supervise filming, halt filming entirely, and confiscate footage of any scenes that were considered dangerous to humans or could cause cruelty to animals. The article does not state whether this law had ever been enforced. “Making Jungle Movies in Africa,” NHR, December 1932, 22. 134 Harry Lang, “Poor Li’l Rango,” Photoplay, March 1931, 47. 135 Bousé, Wildlife Films, 120. 136 H. David Strauss, “Rango,” The Billboard, February 28, 1931, 10. 137 Four reviews (one untitled, three titled “Rango”) in the Chamberlin Scrapbooks, 56-57; “‘Rango,’ Human Tale of Jungles, in Film: Struggle of Man and Tiger Is Tellingly Revealed in New Picture at Rivoli,” The New York Times, February 19, 1931, 27; “Jungle Life Subject of Allyn Film: ‘Rango,’ Picture Taken in Far Reaches of World, Has Educational Value for Audience,” The Hartford Courant, February 28, 1931, 4. 138 “Rango,” Chamberlin Scrapbooks, 57. 139 “Every foot of this picture was actually photographed in the Malaysian jungle country,” asserted the opening titles. 140 Richard B. Jewell, RKO Radio Pictures: A Titan is Born (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2012), 55. 130 141 Mrs. Edwin O. Lewis, “Live Animals in Movie Advertising,” NHR, November 1932, 17. 142 Sydney H. Coleman, “Cruelty to Animals in Motion Pictures,” NHR, June 1934, 15. 143 “Our Frank Opinion: A Fight in Every Reel,” NHR, March 1934, 14. 144 Coleman, “For Humane Movies,” New York Times, August 8, 1934, 16. 145 “A California Protest,” July 1934, 8 (reprinted from the San Francisco Call-Bulletin; original date of publication not given); Ray P. Holland, “Unnatural History in Movies,” July 1934, 8 (reprinted from the July 1934 issue of Field and Stream). 146 Vieira (p. 137) notes that Trader Horn was “sullied by bad publicity,” but mentions neither the Mexican reshoots nor the animal cruelty controversy. 147 Memo from Al Block to Joseph Breen (list of recommended cuts for TRADER HORN reissue attached), January 8, 1936; Letter from Breen to Louis B. Mayer, January 9, 1936. PCA files, Trader Horn [MGM, 1931]. 148 “Animals in the Movies,” NHR, March 1934, 23. 149 “Fights Cruelty in Films,” New York Times, January 28, 1934, N3. 150 Coleman, “Humane Tasks of 1934.” NHR, November 1934, 3-5. 151 Perhaps somewhat ironically, W.S. Van Dyke’s first job in the industry was as an extra in the chariot race sequence in D.W. Griffith’s Intolerance (1915). According to biographer Robert Cannom, Van Dyke—who did not know how to drive a chariot—was nevertheless assigned to drive one. During the take, his horses ran away and nearly ran over the camera car. Apparently there were no equine fatalities; nevertheless, Cannom’s description of the events makes one wince on the horses’ behalf. Cannom, Van Dyke, 24-6. 152 “Film Cruelties,” NHR, August 1931, 12-13. See also “Censor’s Note,” New York Times, September 30, 1934, X5. 131 Chapter Three “It Must Have Been Tough on the Horses and Extras”: From The Charge of the Light Brigade to Jesse James, 1936-1939 Perhaps in part because Great Britain remained the most important export market, the 1930s saw a general industry-wide vogue for films about British imperialism. 1 This trend for depictions of Empire dovetailed neatly with another post-Code enforcement cycle, which Richard Maltby has described as “comparatively high-budget historical pieces” that were “aimed at convincing middle-class America of the bourgeois respectability of the cinema.” 2 These two cycles eventually converged at Warner Bros. in the first of two films that served as catalysts in the establishment of official humane society oversight of Hollywood: The Charge of the Light Brigade (dir. Michael Curtiz, 1936). The second catalyst was also a high-budget historical piece, Twentieth Century-Fox’s Jesse James (dir. Henry King, 1939). Ostensibly a biopic of one of America’s best-known outlaws, the James Gang found itself fictionalized into respectability too, thanks to the influence of Joseph Breen. Light Brigade’s importance stemmed from a series of factors, two of which were discussed in Chapter 2. First, the British Parliament and the British Board of Film Censors were getting closer and closer to an outright ban on the depiction of animal cruelty in films (regardless of whether actual cruelty had been inflicted in order to take the picture). Second, as demonstrated by the write-in campaigns to end jungle films and prevent the making of Men Without Fear, animal welfare advocates were getting better and better at marshaling public opinion and organizing protests and boycotts. Additionally, though the MPPDA resolutions adopted in 1925 (and discussed in Chapter 1) were likely ill-enforced, they were—albeit arguably—still under effect. By the time Light Brigade went into development, Joseph Breen’s Production Code 132 Administration was in full swing; since Men Without Fear had not actually been made, Light Brigade was the first major clash between industry and humane advocates to take place under his regime (though much of the heavy lifting still fell to William Hays). While the Code did not, at that point, forbid cruelty to animals whether actual or apparent, Breen was cognizant of the fact that such cruelty was no longer kosher to an increasingly large percentage of both domestic and foreign audiences. Given that, it might come as some surprise that the film caused such an uproar—but it should not. Breen and the PCA were concerned far more with what appeared onscreen than what happened on set and outside the projected frame. Therefore, though it was important that apparent abuse be curbed, actual abuse could be more or less tolerated by Breen so long as the public did not find out about it. His job was to regulate screen content, not the methods by which that content was produced. It seems likely that humane officers did not, as the MPPDA agreements stipulated they could, often go to film locations in the hopes of catching filmmakers in the act. However, this was precisely what happened during Light Brigade’s second unit production. When a licensed humane officer appeared on location in Northern California, personally witnessed the deaths of several horses involved in the climactic battle sequence, and successfully prosecuted three individuals for animal cruelty, the groundwork was in place for advocates to demand real change. Three years later, Jesse James went to some trouble to keep anyone from finding out that one of two horses they had thrown over a seventy-foot cliff died in the process; however, the story eventually got out anyway. Though Darryl Zanuck, Sidney Kent, and Joseph Breen would all claim the horse’s death was an accident, Twentieth Century-Fox left the offending shots in the finished film, making it painfully evident that the stunt was done deliberately and that the shot was not made through trick photography. As will be seen, the 133 studio took the somewhat unbelievable tactic of claiming that the act of throwing a horse over such a cliff was not in itself cruel. The Charge of the Light Brigade Set during the Crimean War and loosely based on Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s 1854 poem, The Charge of the Light Brigade follows Captain Geoffrey Vickers (Errol Flynn) through various encounters with the increasingly villainous Surat Khan (C. Henry Gordon), leader of the fictional native Suristanis. The Khan has been a British ally, but upon hearing that the Crown intends to cease paying him an annuity, he massacres the Chukoti army post, killing British and Indian women and children as well as British officers. Vickers is spared in the massacre because he has previously saved the Khan’s life; nevertheless, he swears to avenge those who were killed. There is also a romantic plot: Vickers’ fiancée Elsa (Olivia deHavilland) and his brother Perry (Patric Knowles) have fallen in love while Vickers has been away with his regiment, but neither wishes to hurt Vickers by acknowledging their affair. The film’s climax is the Battle of Balaclava, a massive action set piece. 3 When Vickers learns that Surat Khan has joined the Russians, he forges a charge order for the regiment so that he can personally deliver a fatal blow to the Khan. He also sends Perry away to deliver a message, thus ensuring Perry’s safety. The British win the battle, and Vickers succeeds in avenging Chukoti by slaying the Khan; however, he is killed in combat, thus resolving the love triangle. Vickers’ subordination is concealed by his superior, saving his reputation, and it is assumed that Perry and Elsa will live happily ever after. Though the furor over The Charge of the Light Brigade was due to the climactic Battle of Balaclava sequence, violence towards animals permeates the narrative to a surprising degree, and 134 it is difficult to believe that animals (and in particular, horses) were not mistreated throughout the production. Light Brigade opens with Vickers and his regiment en route to a diplomatic meeting with Surat Khan. Less than three minutes into the film, Vickers is told one of the supply horses has broken its leg. The animal is seen lying on the ground, and Vickers gives orders for it to be shot off-screen. Immediately after his order is given, another British officer, Sir Humphrey (E.E. Clive) takes a rifle shot at a bird, which turns out to be one of Surat Khan’s prized falcons. In the initial meeting with the Khan, the conversation turns to falconry; Vickers notes, in an off-hand tone, “Ancient sport of kings, falconry. The appeal lies in its cruelty.” The Khan and British envoys subsequently mount elephants and embark on a leopard hunt, during which a live leopard appears to be killed onscreen. 4 Soon after, Vickers shoots a second leopard (this one is rather evidently a stuffed leopard thrown from a tree) as it is about to attack the Khan, thus placing the Khan in his debt. All of these violent acts take place within the first thirteen minutes of the film. Once the military plot is underway, the barrage of animal cruelties subsides somewhat— or, at least, the narrative ceases to revolve around hunting and killing animals. But Light Brigade, an “A” war picture set in 1854, could not do without horses and high-stakes action. A good portion of the film is devoted to Vickers’ journey across the Persian desert to acquire more horses for the British army. There are two major fight sequences before the climactic battle, and in both, Curtiz appears to rely on then-standard Hollywood horse tricks to make his action scenes more spectacular. The first of these fights occurs as Vickers is returning from Persia with the lot of Army horses, and the best that can be said about the sequence from an animal welfare standpoint is that the large herd of galloping loose horses was stock footage. 5 But hundreds of loose galloping horses are only the beginning. At one point in the sequence, Vickers jumps off a rock formation from an estimated height of ten feet or so, lands half on a horse’s back, and drags 135 a Suristani rider from the saddle. Soon after, a British soldier fires a rifle at Vickers, who is now on horseback and in disguise as a Suristani. The bullet misses, but the horse falls down anyway, pulled over backwards by its rider. Narratively, this animal is fine, as it immediately gets up and walks away. However, the film cuts from one angle to another, and the horse that stands up is clearly not the same animal that fell down; its facial markings are decidedly different, raising questions as to whether there might have been a specific reason—such as injury—that the animals were switched between takes. Horses also fall frequently during the longer Siege of Chukoti, as underground explosives (meant, narratively, to be gunfire) tear up the ground under their feet. Whether horses or any other animals were injured or killed during the first unit production of Light Brigade is unclear. The question remains relevant even if it cannot be definitively answered. Though it is hard to imagine that no animals were injured in any way, documentation in the film’s production files to support or deny such a claim is not extant. It certainly appears that Running Ws were used. As Light Brigade went into pre-production, correspondence with the PCA made Warner Bros. well aware, if they had not previously been so, that their project contained some potentially problematic elements. Among the censorable moments noted in the preliminary script were several instances of rough dialogue (“damnation,” “bloody,” and other epithets), a veiled allusion to sex, and a note not to make Surat Khan’s death too gruesome. Breen also recommended that two scenes involving animals, a fight between “two beasts in [a] cage” and what became the Khan’s leopard hunt (a tiger hunt in the initial draft) be filmed carefully. Breen’s notes regarding the tiger hunt were fairly nondescript: “The important point here is to keep away from indicating brutal or inhuman treatment of animals. Also it is necessary that you do not show close-ups of the animals suffering great pain.” 6 A revised script was sent to Breen in February 1936. Charles 136 Metzger, who reviewed it, listed five specific criticisms regarding the treatment of animals, all of which occurred in the script’s early pages. Criticisms of the Battle of Balaclava were limited, as in the first version, to vague notes about “gruesomeness.” 7 This time, when Breen wrote Warner Bros., the critique was more direct: “In reading this script, we feel that great caution must be used at all times as to any scenes involving cruelty to animals, which will undoubtedly be deleted by political censor boards.” Following Metzger’s report, Breen specifically noted a hawk killing a pigeon, a camel with a broken leg, a fight between two unspecified animals, and a mahout digging a hook into an elephant as scenes that were likely to be interpreted as cruelty; he also reminded Warner Bros. that “no scenes be used showing suffering by the animals.” 8 This was reiterated in a March 26 th letter regarding the final draft, which again mentions the hawk and the camel, and concludes with another caution “to avoid scenes depicting cruelty to animals” as well as the note that “The greatest of care should be used in all scenes pertaining to the Battle of Balaclava to avoid scenes which will be gruesome or terrifying to women and children in the audiences who see your completed picture.” 9 Revisions were approved in April, May, and July, with no mentions of cruelty to animals made. 10 It is important to note that at no point in this correspondence did Breen advise Warner Bros. to carefully shoot the tiger/leopard hunt, the Battle of Balaclava sequence, or indeed any other scene, in order to avoid actual cruelty to animals. Rather, the studio was told to avoid the depiction of cruelty, as this was what would induce political censor boards such as the BBFC to make cuts. Thus, we once again turn to the distinction between sites of production and sites of exhibition. The Production Code Administration operated under the “sites of exhibition” logic, and this meant that so long as cruelty did not reach the screen, there was little impetus to prevent it from occurring on set, because one could simply throw the offending shots away. Of course, in 137 order for such a scheme to work, any on-set, off-screen cruelty to animals would have to be kept from the public. This is precisely what did not happen during filming of the Battle of Balaclava. Onscreen, the Battle of Balaclava sequence is just under ten minutes of spectacular carnage, with Tennyson’s poem superimposed upon the opening shots of a battle that eventually includes cannon blasts, rifle fire, bayonet stabbings, and, of course, countless falling horses and riders. The majority of this sequence was filmed separately by the second unit, hundreds of miles from Los Angeles. In a weekly report dated June 13 th , 1936, production manager Frank Mattison noted that Michael Curtiz’s first unit would begin their next round of shooting on the 17 th , while Light Brigade’s second unit would set out for Sonora, Mexico on the 14 th . 11 The latter portion of Mattison’s memo was incorrect. Light Brigade’s second unit went north, not south, to Sonora, California, a small, historic gold mining town in the Sierra Nevada Foothills. 12 Working under the sequence title “The King’s Guard,” 13 this unit was headed by B. Reeves (“Breezy”) Eason, a frequent director of lower budget, action-oriented Westerns as well as a noted second unit director for action sequences. His highest-profile work was likely the chariot race in the silent version of Ben-Hur (MGM, dir. Fred Niblo, 1925). Eason had been involved with Light Brigade for some time prior to the second unit’s departure. In May, he and Curtiz had met with assistant director Jack Sullivan (referred to as “J.J.” in most production documents) to discuss the shooting of unspecified battle sequences. 14 Eason also co-directed a previous “Charge sequence” earlier in June. 15 This was likely the Siege of Chukoti, filmed at Lasky Mesa, northwest of Calabasas. 16 Finally, Eason had also been in command of the leopard hunt (filmed at the Selig Zoo) and the elephant-riding scenes. 17 In preparation for the Sonora shoot, before the production arrived, 243 horses were rented locally from 26 owners in the area. 18 Clyde Hudkins, a preeminent independent wrangler in Los 138 Angeles who was in charge of horses for the production as a whole, supplied 36 animals of his own. 19 The 243 locally secured horses were leased under nearly identical contracts that are worth discussing in some detail, as they help to reveal how Hollywood conceived of its equine extras. Owners verified that their animals were in good condition, and received an average of $2.50 per day per animal. The contracts specified that these horses were to be used “in connection with photographing a battle or war scene,” with the potential for injury or death to the animals made explicit. Thus, the contracts each carried a general release: I also understand that your use of said horses in connection with said photoplay is of a hazardous nature and I, therefore, agree that in the event that your use of any of said horses results in an injury to any of them, necessitating, within your sole discretion, the destruction thereof, to release Warner Bros. from any and all claims and demands of any nature whatsoever on account of any of said horses being destroyed, upon the payment by Warner Bros. to the owner the sum of 150.00 per head. 20 Additionally, Warner Bros. was to pay “reasonable compensation” for any horses returned injured, which would include medical attention for the animal’s period of incapacitation. Significantly, the contracts do not stipulate that Warner Bros. would make a good-faith effort to prevent injuries—only that they would compensate for any injuries sustained. So, while the individual contracts each carry a disclaimer regarding the hazards of filmmaking, there is no indication or acknowledgment that Warner Bros. would be responsible for keeping filming as nonhazardous as possible. In short, the studio was under no contractual obligation to actively attempt to prevent harm to these animals. Eason and company proceeded to depict carnage by enacting it. At the time, there were two primary methods for forcing a horse to fall on film, the Running W and the pit; both had been in use since the silent period. For the pit method, a hole was dug in the ground and loosely covered and disguised, so that the galloping horse, unable to 139 see the sudden change in footing, would stumble or fall. The Running W was a bit more complicated, and a bit more sinister. As Petrine Day Mitchum has described it, the device involved attaching slim cuffs around a horse’s forelegs. Wires were then run from the cuffs through rings on the horse’s girth and attached to weights buried in the ground. When the running horse got to the end of the wire, its front legs were literally yanked out from under it. Later, famed stuntman Yakima Canutt designed a supposedly improved Running W, which would break before the horse hit the ground, thus freeing the animal and preventing the most severe injuries. Canutt’s device was safer, but according to Mitchum, even Canutt admitted that once a horse caught on to how the contraption worked, it would no longer perform willingly. 21 A third, less common method was the “tilt chute” (likely not used in Light Brigade, but employed to devastating effect in Jesse James). A horse was coerced into a chute with a greased, angled floor, forcing it to slide downwards; this was the usual method used to make a horse go over a cliff or other drop. 22 The Running W and other devices led to uncounted fatalities among Hollywood’s equine ranks, typically from broken necks, backs, or legs. Despite the studio’s later claims to the contrary, Light Brigade did use pits and Running Ws to create its spectacles of equine carnage for the Battle of Balaclava. Even without production records to bear out this fact, it is impossible to imagine, watching the action, that the horses were not forced into the contortions their bodies underwent. With its legs unencumbered, a falling horse (even one carrying a rider) will naturally attempt to break its fall by rolling sideways onto its shoulder or hip, rather than tumbling head over heels, as pre-1941 movie horses so often do. (This would later be pointed out by humane activists.) In all the film’s battle scenes, but especially in the final charge sequence, horses’ legs are clearly yanked out from under them—precisely the function of the Running W. However, it is not necessary to rely on 140 observation alone to come to the conclusion that dangerous, cruel devices had been inflicted on the horses. Though the first unit’s records did not mention such tactics, the second unit’s did. Running Ws were used on an unspecified number of horses during at least five days of the eight- day Sonora shoot, and at least seven “pit falls” were filmed on one day. 23 And on three of these days—June 16 th , 19 th , and 20 th —horses were injured and/or killed. In all fairness, Light Brigade’s first equine fatality may have been from natural causes. The attending veterinarian, P.C. Davenport, wrote a statement attesting that the animal had collapsed and died after filming; his autopsy determined that the cause of death was a ruptured aorta. 24 June 19 th saw injuries to three horses, which Davenport subsequently reported to Mattison. Referring to “the shot on the battlefield just made,” Davenport found that a black gelding and a brown gelding each had “a severely bruised or broken shoulder,” and recommended that each horse receive a period of rest: “I do not feel justified in ordering the horse destroyed,” he wrote, in regards to the black horse, “as I believe that he might recover in three or four months, if turned to pasture and not worked during that time.” A similar statement was made regarding the brown gelding’s injuries. Furthermore, a brown mare was found to have had her hip “knocked down,” a nonspecific term for any traumatic injury causing one side of the horse’s pelvis to appear lower than the other when viewed from behind. While the hip injury made her unsuitable for work, Davenport thought she could be used as a broodmare, and did not recommend that she be destroyed either. 25 All three of these animals belonged to Clyde Hudkins, who summarily had them put down on the 20 th . 26 During filming on that same day, two other horses were injured and subsequently killed. The first was another brown gelding belonging to Hudkins, which “stumbled in the shot just made,” broke its leg, and was destroyed. The second 141 was a brown gelding belonging to a local owner, Henry Sanguinetti, which “rolled over on its back” during a take, thus breaking its back. 27 In and of themselves, none of these equine deaths were particularly significant. The fact that Hudkins, a well-established Hollywood wrangler, chose to destroy three animals rather than allot them the mere three to four months of recovery time prescribed by Davenport suggests that, at least for the larger horse-providing outfits, these animals were primarily thought of by their owners as easily replaceable property, rather than unique and individual beings with distinct personalities and a right to live, as we might think of them today. Hudkins may also have felt that it was not worth the expense to ship the injured animals back to Los Angeles in the hopes that they might heal enough to return to work, or to pay to keep them in Sonora while they recovered. He probably had little use for a broodmare. Similarly unemotional transactions regarding injuries to horses can be found elsewhere in Hollywood archival records. For example, the owner of a racehorse injured during the filming of MGM’s Saratoga (1937) complained that while his horse had previously been valued at $400, he would now accept $150 for the animal because he wanted to go to Caliente the next weekend. A veterinarian, N.P. Carr, was subsequently sent to examine the horse and reported that the animal would require four to six months rest; the owner was paid $150 in damages. An additional $200 in damages was paid to another owner “for compromise agreement on the value of one race horse which died on location.” 28 There was no organized, sustained public outcry from humane groups over equine mistreatment in Saratoga; today the film is probably best remembered as Jean Harlow’s final screen appearance. If nothing about the six equine deaths during The Charge of the Light Brigade’s Sonora shoot was particularly out of the ordinary, then why did the film become so controversial? The answer, as previously indicated, is simple. On June 20 th , Alfred Girolo (sometimes called 142 Alfredo or Al), a police officer in Sausalito who was also licensed as a humane officer by the San Francisco Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, was on location and thus in a position to witness five of the six deaths. 29 In fact, he participated in the killing of at least one horse: Frank Mattison had authorized Girolo to personally destroy the gelding belonging to Henry Sanguinetti. Girolo’s appearance at the Sonora location was no accident. In June, the Los Angeles SPCA had notified the American Humane Association that Light Brigade was being made. According to the AHA, “rumors of the manner in which…horses would be used in shooting the various battle scenes prompted the Society to seek permission for its representative to be on the lot. Some delay occurred in obtaining it, but no scenes of an objectionable nature were observed.” 30 When it was learned that battle scenes were to be staged at Sonora, the SFSPCA sent Girolo to “warn the production crew not to make use of the Running ‘W’.” 31 He was, of course, unsuccessful in this. Girolo subsequently charged three Warner Bros. employees, Cliff Johnson, Rate Otsego, and Jack Sullivan, with animal cruelty. 32 Johnson and Otsego were riders; they do not seem to have been permanent employees of Warner Bros., and were most likely wranglers who worked primarily for Clyde Hudkins. 33 Jack Sullivan was, as previously mentioned, the film’s assistant director. Somewhat ironically, he later won an Academy Award for his work on the film, the only Oscar Light Brigade received. 34 But on June 22 nd , 1936, Sullivan was likely not imagining that he might someday receive a small gold statue. On that date, he appeared in the Justice’s Court of Sonora Township, Tuolumne County, on behalf of himself, Johnson, and Otsego, and pled guilty to the animal cruelty charges. Later, when the furor was in full swing, Warner Bros. would claim that the guilty plea had been entered only “in order that time and expense might be saved.” 35 The inference was that 143 this guilty plea should not be taken as evidence that actual animal cruelty had actually occurred; they simply wanted to get on with their production. Certainly, the case was treated as unimportant at the time. After Sullivan entered his plea, the court fined each man twenty-five dollars and sentenced each to ten days in jail. The court then immediately suspended the jail sentences and ten dollars of each fine, ultimately making the punishment for fatally injuring six horses a grand total of forty-five dollars. 36 The court records make no mention of animal deaths, only cruelty. The trial was not heavily reported on, but word of it must have gotten around the area quickly. A few days later, on June 26 th , Sonora’s local paper, the Union Democrat, reported that while “two carloads of dummy horses” had been used, no animals had been killed in the course of filmmaking: While the taking of the picture was somewhat hazardous no persons or horses received more than minor injuries always attendant where horses are used in rough riding. Considerable anxiety was manifest due to a rumor that horses would be killed while in action but this had no foundation whatsoever. It probably arose due to a story appearing in a metropolitan paper, the author later ringing up the Democrat office for substantiation as he had been called to account for the assertions made in his story. We have since learned that the writer and the company have settled their differences, but however incorrect the article may have been it must have had some kick to it. 37 Of course, it was in fact the Union Democrat that got things wrong. (Regarding this erroneous reporting, it is certainly not difficult to imagine that Sonora, a small town which surely got a considerable economic boost from the production—the lodging and feeding of a hundred or so Warner Bros. employees mentioned elsewhere in the Union Democrat article, as well as rentals of properties and animals—did not wish to make itself seem inhospitable to potential future productions that might wish to shoot there.) At this point, the Warner Bros. legal department may have thought itself more or less in the clear regarding the Sonora incidents. It was, at least, 144 wrapping up loose ends with both county courts and livestock owners. On June 23 rd , the studio paid Tuolumne County local Whitey Soren $150 for unspecified damages to his horses, while Albert Shell received $45 to for unspecified damages to his stock. 38 The production left Sonora that evening. 39 The “story appearing in a metropolitan paper” referred to in the Union Democrat was of Al Girolo’s doing as well. Within several days of his visit, Girolo had written an apparently long, inflammatory—and, according to Warner Bros. executives, wildly exaggerated— report to his superiors at the San Francisco SPCA. The report was subsequently used as the basis for articles published in The San Francisco News and The San Francisco Chronicle, 40 as well as a later article published in Our Dumb Animals, the magazine of the Massachusetts Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. 41 The National Humane Review would also report extensively on the film. As national humane associations frequently reprinted stories from each other, both in whole and in part, it is safe to assume that smaller societies would also have disseminated the articles. Somehow, in the retelling and reprinting of the story, the number of dead horses apparently rose from the handful that had actually died to “three or four hundred.” 42 How the number of equine deaths managed to multiply hundredfold is rather baffling. The San Francisco Chronicle reported that three horses had died; the National Humane Review claimed that only two animals perished. 43 (It is therefore likely that Girolo had not in fact exaggerated his testimony, given that Warner Bros.’ production records indicate six animals had died in total.) Since animal lovers considered the mistreatment of one animal for the purposes of filmmaking unacceptable, the statement that several had been killed triggered a massive letter-writing campaign, with humane-minded Americans chastising Warner Bros. for the fatalities before the 145 film had even been previewed by critics; the later rumors that hundreds of animals had perished certainly did not help the situation. Many of the written protests wound up at Warner Bros., which unfortunately did not preserve the correspondence. Thankfully, humane societies had also urged their members to write directly to the MPPDA and Production Code Administration. Some of these letters do still exist, and it seems reasonable to assume that the letters Warner Bros. received were similar. These letters varied wildly in tone and intent. On one end of the spectrum was this brief, mild, and polite inquiry to Joseph Breen: You, of course, have seen the Humane Societies’ report on the making of certain scenes for that picture [Light Brigade], and the expressions of protest & disapproval that followed. I shall appreciate it very much if you will tell me what action was taken by your office regarding this picture and the methods involved, and whether the showing of this picture will be permitted. 44 The author’s politeness was met with an equally polite dismissal. A reply, unsigned but presumably from Breen, insisted that the PCA’s “sole responsibility” was to enforce the Code: “Beyond that, I have no responsibility whatsoever. What may have occurred in the actual making of a picture is, thus, no specific concern of mine.” 45 On the other end was a letter that arrived well after the film’s release; it had reportedly been sent to the MPPDA as well as to the AHA, and was later printed in The National Humane Review, which tactfully described it as a “strong protest.” Its author insisted not only that films such as Light Brigade and a Cecil B. DeMille western, The Plainsman (Paramount, 1937), were unacceptably cruel, but that this cruelty reflected poorly on the American national character: Not only were these animals exploited in a very cruel way but such American films are the worst possible example to those in other countries where intelligent men and women educators are trying to better conditions. […] As an American citizen I feel I have a right to such advertising of our national character as I can be proud of. No one wishes 146 to appear an inhumane moron, either personally or nationally […] One way [to prevent cruelty] is to ask dismissal of any director guilty of such unworthy use of animals. That includes any director owner as well as other person and KEEP THEM OUT. Any man who has any experience with horses blushes with shame and pity at what those horses…went through, and why, for what? Anyone who would enjoy that kind of running and breaking and rough disregard of horses would have to be a moron […] The people once organized who are against such cruelty can make it pretty hot for those animal-exploiting directors. 46 The letter ended with a direct, slightly threatening plea for the MPPDA to take action: “Your organization is in part responsible for putting out and allowing the public to spend its money on this sort of thing and we ask you to get to work and stamp it out. I have never sued any person for anything but that stuff I saw on the screen unnerved me for a month.” 47 One has to wonder if the letter-writer in fact envisioned offended individuals across the country filing lawsuits against Curtiz, Eason, and DeMille, or what Hollywood cinema might have looked like if a director blacklist including such individuals as Curtiz and DeMille had actually been instated. In all fairness to Breen and the PCA, the 1936 version of the Code contained no outright ban on animal cruelty, whether depicted or actual, and it really was not his business to keep an eye on location shoots for potential mistreatment. At Warner Bros., most of the angry correspondence wound up on the desk of legal executive Roy Obringer, who spent the summer and fall of 1936 trying to sort out precisely what had happened in Sonora, what humane societies were reporting had happened, the extent to which Warner Bros. might be legally vulnerable, and how the company might avoid this kind of trouble in the future. Also involved in the postmortem were producer Hal B. Wallis, studio head Jack Warner, and MPPDA president Will Hays. Hays served mainly as liaison between Warner Bros. and animal welfare advocates, most of whom (including SFSPCA secretary-manager Matthew McCurrie) were AHA officials. 48 In July, a meeting was held. In attendance were Roy 147 Obringer, location manager William Guthrie, unit manager Frank Mattison, San Francisco SPCA president B.F. Brisac, and an unnamed attorney. At this meeting, the Warners employees accepted a letter from McCurrie, “with the implication therein that some of Warner Bros. representatives attending the conference had made admissions of the use of the ‘Running W’.” 49 Warner Bros. officials attempted to show Brisac what Obringer called “photostatic evidence” (film stills) that showed “various positions of horses on the ground with their feet extended in midair to show that no wires or other devices had bound their feet,” but Brisac, on the basis of Girolo’s report, remained convinced that Warner Bros. was guilty, which Obringer seemed to feel was unreasonable. 50 No admission of guilt had been made at the meeting, according to Obringer, but they had had to accept McCurrie’s letter in order to keep him from continuing his press campaign. 51 Domestic unrest aside, the case was especially concerning to Warner Bros. (and by extension, to the rest of Hollywood) because of the previously mentioned anticruelty bill that was working its way through the British legislature. It was in everyone’s best interests to prevent similar incidents from happening in the future. Thus, Jack Warner wrote to the AHA in late July, insisting that he had “no personal knowledge whatsoever regarding the subject-matter of your investigation, nor did I know that the persons in charge of our location unit were committing any acts contrary to the aims and purposes of your Society.” 52 He assured the AHA that he had ordered an investigation, personally criticized all persons involved and that he would be happy to cooperate with any subsequent legislative undertakings by humane societies, and promised that the offending footage would not be in the finished film. (It almost certainly was.) However, Warner’s statement was not published in the National Humane Review until October, by which 148 point it may have been too late. By the end of September, Obringer estimated that he had received over a thousand letters in protest. 53 Jack Warner’s personal investigation, whatever it entailed (it may not have actually happened), was not the only internal investigation that the company made. In mid-August, Wallis forwarded Obringer a batch of telegrams Warner Bros. had received regarding Light Brigade: “Apparently, despite all of the talks in San Francisco and the agreement that this matter had been settled satisfactorily, some word has gone out to the respective branches, as all of these wires coming in at the same time are certainly a concerted action,” he noted. 54 He asked Obringer to both get in touch with Hays and to send the location manager, W. L. Guthrie, up to San Francisco to investigate. This Obringer did. Guthrie spent several busy days in the Bay Area, working to disparage Girolo’s character and thus get some sort of leverage against the humane societies. 55 He complained to various government workers about Girolo, informing the City Controller of San Francisco that Girolo had borrowed $100 from Frank Mattison for unspecified reasons. He tried and failed to track down the address of the author of the unflattering articles in the San Francisco Chronicle, but did manage to speak at length with an editor at the newspaper, who told him that “these things were handled by a bunch of old fogies,” that Warner Bros. was blowing the whole thing out of proportion, and that the paper was “not going to publish anything further about the case upon the information they had already received, and that if we wanted to deny these statements and deny the article that was published some week or ten days ago about the operation at Sonora, they would be very glad to work with us.” Guthrie also met with others who had been present in Sonora, including H. J. Winters, the 82-year-old manager of a Sacramento-based animal welfare group, who had been on location for a single day (presumably not a day on which horses had been killed). 56 Winters had himself been 149 engaged in antagonistic communication with Matthew McCurrie, though McCurrie, who had a long and storied career in the humane movement, was almost certainly held in better regard by the majority of those in the know. 57 Winters gave Guthrie an enthusiastic endorsement of Warner Bros., reportedly telling him: “You tell Mr. Jack Warner to…go ahead and keep my endorsement which I sent him. Tell him I am glad that I sent it. The members of the Warner Brothers organization have proven to me that they are gentlemen and you have proven to me that Girolo is a crook, and I thoroughly believe in Warner Brothers.” Meanwhile, two Sonora residents were working at odds. Henry Ruoff was in the process of collecting affidavits on behalf of Warner Bros., assuring Guthrie that he could get “more than 50.” On the other hand, local theater owner Norman S. Tronselin had apparently previously written to McCurrie regarding his displeasure with the Sonora shoot and was, according to Guthrie, “thoroughly prejudiced against Warner Bros.” Guthrie sent a proxy to meet with Tronselin. Additionally, Guthrie either personally met with or telephoned a number of prominent SFSPCA members and officers, including several members of the organization’s Board of Trustees (one of whom Guthrie claimed to count as a personal friend). And finally, Guthrie arranged a meeting with Matthew McCurrie, who— perhaps under some pressure from the Board of Trustees—agreed to send AHA president Sydney H. Coleman a telegram: “At the request of Warner Brothers will you hold up publication of motion picture cruelty story until they complete investigation.” The telegram was sent at a cost of $1.97, which Guthrie paid. The extent to which Guthrie’s machinations made any difference is unclear, but after McCurrie’s telegram, Coleman did write directly to Hays, including a copy of an editorial he planned to publish in The National Humane Review. 58 The editorial contained a proposition for the prevention of future cruelty in motion pictures. Will Hays had begun to push for MPPDA collaboration and cooperation with humane groups. 150 Obringer agreed, though he had some reservations about Coleman’s actual proposal (which unfortunately has not been preserved): I concur with you that while it may be an approach to work out future relations between the Humane Society and the motion picture industry, some of the suggestions are impracticable, and I think would result in material interference with the production of pictures, but I believe Coleman’s proposal could be ironed out, and friendly relations between the industry and the society arrived at and different plans adopted for future activities. 59 Meanwhile, the Production Code Administration had some concerns about what foreign censors might think of the film. These were not regarding Light Brigade’s treatment of animals, but rather its depiction of Indians, which some members of the (British colonial) Indian government thought would be offensive to, well, Indians. However, Breen apparently felt that the portion of the Indian export market that might be offended was not large enough to invoke the Code’s “national feelings” clause. “I don’t know just how we can be helpful and I am not clear just what anybody can do in all the circumstances,” he told Jack Warner, forwarding on some letters that the PCA had received from various officials in Calcutta. 60 Evidence suggests that Breen was correct in his assessment of the situation; if any objections did arise from India, they were too slight to be of note. The Production Code Administration eventually gave Light Brigade a seal in August of 1936, and the film was released in November to mostly positive reviews. Critics almost universally adored the action sequences, several even comparing the charge to the famous climactic charge in D.W. Griffith’s The Birth of a Nation, though some felt that the love triangle between Geoffrey, Perry, and Elsa took away from the film. 61 But one critic, Archer Winsten of The New York Post, had a different, more progressive take on the action. Noting that the film drew heavily on standard “horse opera” techniques, Winsten noted: 151 If it be argued that the picture has at least caught something of the spirit valor that was in the famous charge, no one can disagree. My own impression was gradually shifted from the contemplation of valor to the belief that it must have been tough on the horses and extras engaged in simulating death by cannon fire. Both in the charge and during the previous scenes of border warfare in India there is an inordinate amount of killed men falling off horses, cliffs, and walls, and the effect is repetitious. 62 By October of 1936, details of the AHA/MPPDA proposal that would theoretically make things easier on the horses (if not the extras) had been ironed out. Scripts and scenarios sent to the Production Code Administration for review would now be examined for scenes involving animals as well as potential Code violations. Those scripts which contained “situations that might possibly result in cruelty to animals” 63 would be forwarded to “one or more of a small advisory group appointed by the American Humane Association.” The AHA appointees would review the script and give the PCA advice on how to shoot the scenes without enacting cruelty. Additionally, an AHA representative would be present during shooting, “to interpret the formula for filming the scene as agreed upon by the Production Code Administration, the Producer, and advisory member or members.” Finally, the AHA would be able to criticize the final product prior to release; any part of the film deemed objectionable from an anticruelty standpoint would be reported to the PCA, which would have the authority to reject that part of the film. In theory, then, a film that the AHA representatives felt was unacceptably cruel to animals could be denied a Code seal, and thus prevented from being shown in MPPDA-affiliated theaters. Additionally, the AHA would retain the ability to take legal action against perpetrators of cruelty, if such a thing was considered necessary. “The plan offers greater opportunity of eliminating cruel scenes appearing in pictures than anything that has been done to date,” wrote the NHR, noting that it was still subject to modifications. Praising the “wide success” of the PCA 152 in other areas, the AHA said that it felt this plan was “certainly worthy of a fair trial and the Industry is to be congratulated on its willingness to take this forward-looking step.” Finally, the NHR noted that “the producer” of Light Brigade (presumably they meant either Jack Warner or Hal Wallis) had taken a “fair stand” regarding the picture, on which no further action on the AHA’s part was possible, “though the Association has not previewed it and is not to be understood as approving it.” Readers were assured that the Legion of Decency had “given assurance of its cooperation” in the matter. “Out of this very unfortunate incident we trust that there has come an arrangement which will make impossible a similar situation in the manufacture of other films involving animals,” the article concluded. Elsewhere in the issue, Coleman reiterated many of these points, additionally noting that “the protested part of the film would not be used in the final picture, and that [the producer] would assist the California Societies in obtaining legislation prohibiting the use of the running ‘W’ or device whose use was responsible for much of the cruelty.” 64 The theme of collaboration between humane societies and the film industry was reiterated throughout the next few months. Coleman and Hays’ plan was unanimously approved at the AHA’s National Convention that fall, “in the hope that it will be faithfully carried out by the parties to the agreement and that from it a spirit of genuine cooperation will be created which will absolutely put an end to the abuse of animals, domestic and otherwise, in future productions.” 65 In December, after Light Brigade’s release, Coleman reminded readers that though “the violence with which the horses were thrown” was shocking and could not be tolerated, since the time when the offending parts of the picture had been made, the MPPDA had entered “honestly and wholeheartedly” into collaboration with the AHA. 66 He also alluded to the MPPDA resolutions of 1925, and—having apparently forgotten the jungle film cycle of just a 153 few years prior—claimed to believe that the MPPDA had made “an honest effort…to control member companies.” 67 Without condoning what had happened in Light Brigade, Coleman reiterated that he and the AHA believed cooperation with the industry would be more productive than criticism, as if the studios decided to forbid the presence of humane officers during filming, humane groups had no power to overrule them. This spirit of benevolence towards motion pictures was soon tried upon the release of The Plainsman (Paramount, 1937), a Cecil B. DeMille Western starring Gary Cooper. Unsurprisingly, DeMille was unable to resist a big action sequence. As Coleman (correctly) described the cringe-inducing spectacle: The big scene comes with the ambushing of an army detail by hundreds of mounted Indians. Charge after charge, reminiscent of ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade,’ in which animals were injured, is made with many horses in action. As they come dashing through a shallow stream, horsemen fall from their mounts and a score of horses are thrown violently to give a spirit of realism. A wheel mule in a four or six horse hitch stumbles and falls in front of the wheels of the wagon and is either dragged or run over. Whether any of the horses or mules are injured or killed we have no way of saying authoritatively, but no one can see the picture and not have the feeling that more than trained horses were required to produce the results. 68 Despite this criticism, Coleman concluded his editorial by noting that Will Hays had assured the AHA that soon “scenes that are made at the expense of animal suffering” would be eliminated from the pictures. 69 This quest would be aided by British censorship law. The British Cinematograph (Animals) Act of 1937 As noted in previous chapters, as early as 1920, the AHA had realized that putting economic pressure on studios through boycotting (or threatening to boycott) films deemed problematic was an effective method for motivating them to change their behaviors and stop making that kind of film. Earlier in the 1930s, they had correctly identified English censorship 154 laws as another possible deterrent for animal abuse in filmmaking. In 1934, the British Board of Film Censorship announced that it would not approve “fight-to-death” films and that it disapproved of “fake cruelty” films made with dummy animals and trick photography, as well as “pictures in which deliberate cruelty is simulated though it has not yet taken place,” a policy aimed primarily at jungle films but certainly applicable to other types of pictures. 70 The British press backed this move, which in fact had already been a de facto policy for some time. 71 The AHA, for its part, noted that motion picture companies were not “in business with the intent of sooner or later committing suicide,” that Britain was the “best foreign market,” and that for this reason, it was “absolutely certain that no more pictures will be produced of the type of some of the atrocious films of the last five years.” 72 By this, the AHA meant jungle films, which had probably more or less run their natural course anyway. Unlike the site-of-exhibition logic generally followed in the United States, under which the potentially troublesome bits could simply be cut out (as noted in Chapter 2, Breen in fact excised some of the more brutal animal combat shots for the 1936 American reissue of Trader Horn), the British legislation was aimed at preventing cruelty from reaching the screen by preventing it from happening in the first place. Films “in the production of which suffering has or may have been caused to an animal, or any film which shows or depicts or portrays suffering to an animal, and which is produced or made by any means whatsoever” would be prohibited. 73 The legislation thus specifically forbade actual cruelty in production, regardless of whether it reached the screen, and apparent cruelty onscreen, regardless of whether the results had been achieved through mistreatment or trick photography. “Screen tricksters must not permit the public to imagine shooting of horses or any other animals, even though they are just so much rubber and painted paper,” noted the New York Times. 74 The legislation also applied to 155 exhibition, not production; thus, the terms applied regardless of a film’s country of origin. Even before the legislation was passed, some British territories began to follow similar policies. Late in 1936, six American films were banned in British Malaya for a variety of reasons that included “gun play, gangsterism, cruelty to animals and other manifestations which might disturb the quiet folk of the Straits Settlement.” 75 Despite unanswered (and, indeed, unasked) questions about what this might mean for the rare documentary which really did capture wild animals fighting each other without provocation, the bill went through the House of Commons in the spring of 1937 and the House of Lords over the summer; by September, it needed only “the formality of receiving the Royal assent.” 76 Based on what was reported to members of Parliament, the bill was indeed intended to curb jungle pictures—“films showing fights between animals which could not have taken place under natural conditions”—with what would occur during the making of Westerns and action pictures merely a footnote. Details included: …a fight between a leopard and a hyena, a lion and a hyena, between two snakes—one of which swallowed the other—a monkey and three giant crabs, scenes in which hippopotami were driven over a high cliff, rare wild animals pursued by automobiles and airplanes, a tiger enveloped by a python, horses tripped by wires. The law will put an end to exhibition of films made at the expense of Africa’s wild life, as well as of films in which domestic animals, such as dogs and horses, are pictured under conditions indicating abuse or suffering. Despite the emphasis on staged animal combat over wire-tripped horses, the Production Code Administration was under the opinion that Britain’s bill had been aimed specifically at Light Brigade. A confidential memo circulated the PCA in February, after the bill was read before the House of Commons, stating that the British press had published some statements to the effect that “death and injury were caused to horses during the production of this film” (which of course 156 had happened); therefore, it was believed that Light Brigade had been targeted. 77 This was not strictly true, since the bill had been under discussion in animal welfare circles since at least 1934. But Light Brigade had in fact been brought up during the House of Commons reading, where it was stated that the BBFC had accepted Warner Bros.’ claims that the charges of cruelty were false and that the offending shots had been achieved through trick photography. 78 However, it is certainly possible that the rumors surrounding Light Brigade made passing the bill seem more pressing. Between the American and British releases of Light Brigade, the Warner Bros. legal department, obviously anticipating censorship problems in Great Britain, had remained hard at work. In September of 1936, Roy Obringer informed the London office that he was in correspondence with Will Hays; that Hays was in regular contact with Sydney Coleman, that they were working to correct the erroneous belief that three or four hundred horses had been killed, and that Coleman was attempting to use the incident to persuade the MPPDA to make concessions to his organization on future productions. It was Obringer’s understanding, he said, that various European SPCAs had “commenced some sort of attack on this picture,” which he felt was because they had received copies of the unknown exaggerated publications. 79 The BBFC did censor Light Brigade fairly heavily, making cuts to five reels prior to approving the film for release. Three of these concerned animal cruelty. Eliminated were a direct hit on a leopard in Reel 2, three “spectacular roll-overs” of horses in Reel 5, and a great deal of Reel 12, which could only have been the Battle of Balaclava. “The Board were very much up against this reel on account of the suggested cruelty,” wrote Breen. “We had to delete practically all the shots of the horses falling, which did not rise again, but were able to do this quite satisfactorily, without losing continuity or in fact, without detriment.” 80 It would have been nice 157 for the horses (and for the extras) had Breezy Eason and Michael Curtiz realized that before they made the horses fall in the first place. After Light Brigade had been released in Great Britain, Obringer began a regular correspondence with Warner Bros.’ lawyers across the pond, the firm of Denton, Hall and Burgin. Thanks to the guilty plea in the animal cruelty case, there was indisputable evidence that cruelty had occurred. The Cinematograph Act had not yet been passed, but it seemed likely to pass soon. On top of that, a group, The Women’s Guild of Empire, Limited, had made a complaint to the British Board of Film Censors about its decision to approve Light Brigade for release, as they believed the film had used Running Ws and pits and therefore was against British public interest. Obringer was tasked with amassing as much evidence in defense of his company as he could, and sending it on to England. 81 For his part, Obringer felt “extremely reluctant” to submit any materials from the Sonora court case, owing to the fact that it would “in no sense be beneficial” to their cause. 82 The problem was, he said, that production manager Frank Mattison had told Sullivan et al to enter the guilty plea without first consulting the Warners legal department; Mattison had not thought the case would become public knowledge, and he had felt he could not hold up proceedings for a potential trial, given that the production overhead was somewhere between ten and fifteen thousand dollars per day. 83 Perhaps the only good news was that the presiding justice in the court case had sent an affidavit to the effect that it was the arresting officer, Al Girolo, who had recommended that the jail sentences and fine be suspended. 84 Obringer’s immediate strategy, therefore, was to continue attempting to discredit Girolo. Location manager William Guthrie was now claiming that all the horses had died due to accident and not use of the Running W. The cause of the accidents was said to be “the horses becoming entangled in wires which were attached to bombs and smoke pots.” 85 Breezy Eason’s 158 own production records stated that Running Ws and pits had both been used in Sonora, but apparently no one wanted to go look at them, or send copies of them to England. Another task that fell to Obringer was finding out what records the Women’s Guild might have acquired, if any, from the San Francisco SPCA. An “informal check” with Girolo, McCurrie, and the Sonora court clerk indicated that they had not, though Obringer supposed it was possible Sydney Coleman had sent them information. 86 In May, Warner Bros. and First National filed suit against the Women’s Guild. Unfortunately, not all of the documentation from this lawsuit has been preserved. What is still extant makes it appear as though Warner Bros. had decided that the best defense was a good offense, and that attacking the Women’s Guild was preferable to allowing the Women’s Guild to attack them. The London legal team felt that it was “of strategic importance that the initiative should not be allowed to pass to the Defendants, and that we should maintain the impression that the Plaintiffs have brought this Action with the object of disproving the allegations of cruelty to horses made in the letter referred to in the Statement of Claim.” 87 Obringer had sent affidavits from numerous witnesses which were “necessarily negative in character,” but nevertheless seemed to “disprove the allegations of cruelty that are complained of.” 88 The three men who had actually been convicted of animal cruelty—Johnson, Otsego, and Sullivan—had not provided affidavits, which Denton, Hall and Burgin felt might lead to “unfavorable conclusions.” 89 Another weak spot in the attack was McCurrie’s letter, which made it appear that Warner Bros. representatives had “made some admission on the use of the ‘running W’.” 90 The Women’s Guild subsequently posed a set of interrogatories to Warner Bros. on May 27 th . These interrogatories questioned Warner Bros.’ understanding of the British Board of Film Censors’ role as interpreters of “objectionable” films “including matters or incidents which 159 might be offensive to public feeling or sentiment,” including cruelty to animals; that three Warner Bros. employees had been convicted of animal cruelty in Tuolumne County the previous year during the production of The Charge of the Light Brigade, that during the animal cruelty trial, use of the running W and pits had been alleged and admitted to by Sullivan et al., and that the use of these methods had resulted in three horses becoming so badly injured that they had to be destroyed. 91 Obringer spent much of the summer in correspondence with the London solicitors, attempting to determine who would answer the questions posed. For some time, it seemed as though Jack Warner himself might be obligated to provide sworn formal testimony. 92 In the end, Paul A. Chase, then the assistant treasurer of Warner Bros., provided the official affidavit on the company’s behalf. 93 His answers were masterfully vague, some perhaps even on the edge of deceit. Chase replied that, first of all, Warner Bros. was not, in fact, engaged in the English cinematograph industry, though First National was. 94 He understood that the BBFC licensed films for general exhibition, and that films made by methods cruel to animals were, to the best of his belief, in opposition to British public sentiment. He knew the cruelty charge had been made against Sullivan et al, and that the men were Warner Bros. employees, but stated that the guilty plea had been “in order that time and expense might have been saved.” He had been informed, he said, that Girolo had alleged running Ws had been used by Sullivan et al, but he did not know to how many horses it had allegedly been attached. He said he knew that Girolo had alleged that three horses had been injured, but did not know whether Girolo or anyone else had alleged that those injuries were caused by the running W. Somewhat egregiously, he claimed to have been informed, and to believe, that “unless carefully used and unless all reasonable precautions” were taken, the running W “may cause pain and suffering” but was “not designed to do so,” a curious claim in regards to a device designed to literally yank a 160 galloping horse’s feet from underneath it. Finally, Chase claimed that the action that had led to the animal cruelty charge was an accident that could not have been prevented. The scene, he said, had been “carefully and properly rehearsed,” but during the take one horse stumbled, throwing its rider. The horse continued to gallop unguided, eventually colliding with another horse, causing both animals to fall; he denied that either had been wearing a running W or subjected to “any other contrivance”; nor had either animal fallen into a pit. Finally, he testified that one horse had died from “an affliction of the heart” when it had not been in use, and another had been destroyed because “the horse in question, or another animal near to it, kicked or struck a small, sharp stone or other small obstruction, and that the object so kicked flew up and cut the horse in question in such manner as to result in serious injury,” though “all reasonable precautions” had been taken, such as examining the terrain for stones. 95 Again, it is worth noting that the production records Breezy Eason brought back from Sonora quite clearly stated that running Ws and pits had been used. It is true that there is no direct evidence that the horses destroyed due to injury had been subjected to such methods. But it is very difficult to believe that all of the injuries described by the attending veterinarian (broken back, fractured foreleg, broken hip, and two broken shoulders, in addition to the horse with the heart condition) occurred spontaneously. None of the veterinarian’s records, or any other production records, mention a loose galloping horse or any incident with a sharp stone. It is unclear exactly what happened after Chase’s affidavit was submitted; the paper trail in Light Brigade’s legal files runs cold until October 19 th , at which point a memo was circulated stating that London had cabled to report that the Light Brigade case had been “agreeably settled.” 96 In the settlement, Warner Bros. and First National admitted that the Women’s Guild had acted “bona fide and without malice” in their communications with the BBFC. 97 The 161 Women’s Guild would not further dispute Warner Bros.’s claims that all equine deaths had been purely accidental, neither side would continue to pursue the matter in print or in the courts, and Warner Bros. and First National would pay the Women’s Guild’s court costs. 98 And Roy Obringer informed Hal Wallis that he had recently outlined “our procedure with respect to future pictures involving the use of animals” to the production department, and was sure that they would have “no future trouble of this nature.” 99 Perhaps part of Obringer’s procedure for future pictures would have accounted for collaboration with the American Humane Association, as dictated by the joint MPPDA/AHA plan that had been hammered out in 1936; perhaps not. The plan had not yet been put into effect. This was due to the AHA’s inability to finance the operation. “There is reason to feel that [the plans] have accomplished a useful purpose,” Coleman optimistically assured NHR readers late in 1937, noting that several scripts (the names of which he did not mention) had been altered to omit animal sequences, and that the Los Angeles SPCA had “generously” sent some representatives to supervise pictures at the request of producers. 100 For the next few years, this informal arrangement would have to do. In 1938, the AHA acknowledged that while some studios were asking for a humane officer to supervise productions involving animals, the matter was not always practical: Unfortunately several pictures might be in production at the same time where the presence of such an officer was essential, making it impossible for all to be inspected while the filming was in progress. In other instances the agent would be on the lot during only a portion of the scenes involving animals. Thus, with the best intentions and at great sacrifice to the local society, the job has only been partially done. It certainly has not satisfied the adherents of the humane cause and it is doubtful if it has been satisfactory to the industry. 101 162 The article correctly pointed out that a skilled eye could ascertain whether or not a horse had been deliberately tripped by one method or another, reiterated the AHA’s longtime stance against implied cruelty, which it said “created a grave question” as to the film industry’s real intentions, and noted that the industry was obviously capable of self-regulation, pointing to the success of the Production Code Administration in eliminating other types of objectionable films. Paramount ably demonstrated that indifference to animals still existed in the studio system with the summer 1938 release Booloo. This was a belated entry into the jungle film cycle directed by Clyde Elliott, who had been behind the camera for Bring ‘Em Back Alive as well as 1934’s Devil Tiger (Fox Film Corporation). 102 It could be safely said that Elliott had no qualms about harassing the local wildlife: before he left to shoot Devil Tiger (then under the working title Man Eater) in Malaya, Elliott reported “optimistically” that his crew would “invade the lair of tigers, black panthers, giant orang-outangs, crocodiles, elephants, wild boar, water buffalo, and cobras.” 103 Part of Booloo was shot in Malaya as well, and prior to Elliott’s departure, the BBFC had reportedly not only sent him an official communique as to what would and would not be allowed as regarded the Malayan wildlife, but also sent a representative along “as an added deterrent.” 104 This had no real effect. The NHR declared that the picture was bad; on top of that, it was extremely objectionable. Rather than describe the film, the NHR reprinted an extraordinarily unfavorable review from Mildred Martin of the Philadelphia Inquirer. Martin called Booloo a “silly” story that provided “an excuse for slaughtering all manner of Malayan fauna”: Jungle and Hollywood sequences have been spliced together so crudely that one is never in doubt about which is which. Tigers, leopards, black panthers and numerous other animals, who presumably were minding their own business before Mr. Elliott came along, are killed senselessly by gun and spear. A baby elephant is inexcusably tormented and a python is loosed for no other reason than to terrify a caged parrot…There is also a 163 sickening—and we suspect staged—fight between a tiger and a water buffalo. England will not permit the showing of this sort of film. Animal- lovers in this country will find it distasteful. And just plain moviegoers are likely to consider it ridiculous. 105 Martin’s review may have been particularly harsh (the Variety critic felt merely indifferent towards both the film and its treatment of animals 106 ), but she may also have been correct in her assessment of both film and audience response. Booloo (which, at a running time of approximately 60 minutes, seems to have been shown in double bills at most of the first-run theaters) did not do particularly well at the box office in major cities, and was pulled from theaters in Martin’s area, Philadelphia, after only five days. 107 Elliott was reportedly to make yet another jungle film in the fall of 1938, one that would have taken him to harass wildlife in Australia, Celebes, and Burma, but this project was not completed. 108 In 1942, Elliott would go to Brazil to make a jungle picture, Killers of the Amazon, for Monogram; this film was not released either. 109 After WWII ended and global restrictions on travel were lifted, Elliott would call for a revival of the jungle or expeditionary film. In a twist that seems almost absurd, he critiqued his own previous pictures for being “contrived” and instead—praising the films of Ernest B. Schoedsack (whose name he misspelled), Merian C. Cooper, and Robert Flaherty—called for a Griersonian approach to wildlife filmmaking. Presumably this would have reduced the harassment of jungle fauna. However, Elliott’s description of his intended next project, a tale of two British rubber plantation owners struggling to “restore their Jap-wrecked plantation to productivity in the face of discouraging odds created by intriguing natives, wild animals and Nature’s angry moods,” sounds like more of the same, albeit minus the lost white jungle goddess typical of the early 1930s cycle. 110 164 Nothing extraordinary happened through the end of 1938—at least, nothing that immediately reached the attention of the American Humane Association. The NHR reprinted part of a critique of a Joan Bennett western, The Texan, which had originally been published in the New York Journal of Commerce. Its reviewer, bemoaning the quality of the film, stated that in this case the narrative’s unbelievable nature was a good thing, as “an active concern with what’s goin’-on would force anyone to call in the services of the S.P.C.A. to protect the poor cattle and horses that get driven, ducked, frozen and shot for one full hour all over the South and Midwest.” 111 Another short piece continued the crusade against implied cruelty, this time arguing that if producers’ justification for these scenes was that cruelty had only been faked, then the Legion of Decency had no grounds for arguing against films showing actors involved in immoral acts. Audiences were able to distinguish that human actors were not really carrying out immoral behaviors; however, the audience viewing a film depicting cruelty believed and was “expecte[d] to believe that cruelty actually was perpetrated on the poor animal,” a twist of logic that was confusing at best, as there was no explanation as to why audiences who could understand that other acts were faked for cameras would be unable to distinguish implied from actual cruelty. 112 The other ongoing problem was, as always, an inability for studios and humane organizations to come to a consensus on what, precisely, constituted cruelty to animals. Additionally, there was still little acknowledgement from filmmakers that they might have any sort of ethical, moral, or legal obligation to set up scenes in ways that would reduce the possibility of accidents that might cause injury to animals. As it turned out, whether or not he agreed with them, Joseph Breen may have understood the humane activists better than anyone else in the industry. 113 165 Jesse James When Twentieth Century-Fox sent the initial treatment for Jesse James to the Production Code Administration for review, Breen’s immediate concern was naturally not the potential treatment of animals but rather the sympathetic portrayal of an outlaw. Colonel Jason S. Joy, by then the studio’s director of public relations, told Breen that Zanuck intended to make the film as “an epic of the West,” in Technicolor, with a budget of over one million dollars. 114 A meeting between Joy, Breen, and Geoffrey Shurlock (also of the Production Code Administration) took place early in April, at which Joy was informed that the treatment was unacceptable under the Code, “for the reason that it is hardly more than a glorification of a man, who was a bandit and killer.” 115 Breen’s suggestion was to rework the film in the vein of Robin Hood of El Dorado (MGM, dir. William A. Wellman, 1936), which had imposed some measure of compensating moral values on the problematic real-life figure Joaquin Murietta, a bandit sometimes known by the nickname that would become the title of his biographical film. 116 Breen, Shurlock, and Joy watched the MGM film together and agreed that Colonel Joy would “submit a new treatment, in which emphasis would be laid on the fact that what the James boys did was definitely wrong.” 117 By June, Joy had a script that provisionally met the Code, although Breen still wanted a number of changes made to it. 118 These ranged from avoiding dialogue that seemed to glorify James to omitting mild toilet humor. But most intriguing is the third page of Breen’s letter. He was by now keenly aware of what would set off various pressure groups, and this knowledge that extended to animal welfare groups. He was also, of course, quite familiar with the British Board of Film Censors and the Cinematograph Act of 1937. Thus, he noted that script pages 103 and 155 contained scenes of horses falling that would be eliminated by the British censors, and the 166 “horses jumping through the windows” on page 156 would possibly also be omitted. And then there was his thoroughly prescient note regarding a scene on page 157: The British censor board will very likely also delete this scene of the horse diving over a cliff. Before shooting the scenes in which animals are involved, we recommend that you secure the services of a representative of the local branch of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty of Animals, or other organized humane group, who will be present during both the rehearsals and the filming of the scenes, and who will, later, furnish you with a certificate, stating that the animals were not cruelly, or, otherwise, improperly treated. This is especially important, if your picture is to be released in England. 119 It could not be said, then, that Joe Breen didn’t warn ‘em. Nevertheless, when Henry King arrived in the Missouri Ozarks in mid-August with stars Tyrone Power and Henry Fonda, he appears to have disregarded this advice. 120 King decided to essentially recreate the Ausable Chasm incident of 1915, except that this time, he used a higher cliff. Most contemporary sources agreed that the drop was about 70 feet; the scene, left in the finished film, is startling even today. In September, Breen had warned Joy once again that Jesse James would not be approved unless it conformed to the Code, “including the requirement that ‘the sympathy of the audience must not be thrown on the side of crime.’” 121 He must have been wholly displeased when he viewed the finished film, but not because of potential audience identification or mimetic behavior. Jesse James was approved, but when Breen sent over the certificate of approval, he appended it with a note: “It is almost certain that there will be a number of serious complaints from animal lovers and organized groups of such, in protest against the shot of the horses, going over the cliff.” 122 The wording of Breen’s note suggests he was unaware that, in fact, one of the two horses sent over the cliff had been killed during the process. Three days later, he wrote to Francis Harmon, Will Hays’ executive assistant, to warn him that though the film had been approved, “howls of protest” were likely forthcoming. 123 The scene was, he said, an accident; the intent had 167 been to use dummy horses, but because of said accident, live horses and riders had been “plunged headlong over the cliff.” Still apparently unaware of the equine death, Breen assured Harmon that “Fortunately, however, no one was injured. The horses landed in the water and swam away, and so, too did the actors. There was no attempt to brutalize, or injure the animals in any way, and the convincing proof of this is that the actors went over the cliff with the horses.” How anyone was able to claim, with faces straight, that sending an animal over a seventy-foot cliff was not brutal to said animal remains utterly dumbfounding. But Twentieth Century-Fox would go to great lengths to back up said claim. The stunt was, in fact, against Missouri cruelty statutes, which is likely why the studio made a partial effort to cover it up. This strategy worked, at least for a time; certainly a good number of reviewers did not mention cruelty to animals. 124 Because the horse incident did not become known to Sydney Coleman when it occurred, though Jesse James was shot in the fall of 1938, the AHA did not begin action against Twentieth Century-Fox until January 1939, just prior to the film’s release. The Humane Society of Missouri had by then obtained 16-millimeter amateur footage of the stunt, which it sent along with affidavits of eyewitnesses to Coleman in New York. At that point, an outraged Coleman cranked up his well-oiled protest machine, which was soon running full speed ahead. He made two major moves on January 14 th . The first was to write a letter of complaint to Will Hays. The second was to call a press conference at ASPCA headquarters in New York City, at which he shared the eyewitness testimony and screened the 16-millimeter footage to members of the press. 125 A copy of Coleman’s letter to Will Hays is included in the Production Code Administration files (accompanied by a note to Francis Harmon that the press conference had happened). The extremely reasonable letter informs Hays that “reliable eye-witnesses” had reported the following: 168 A blind-folded horse was placed on a greased slide in a blind schute [sic] and roller-rocker and hurled over a cliff, estimated from sixty to seventy feet high. As the animal was urged forward by members of the crew, its weight automatically tipped the rocker, plunging rider and horse into the water below. According to the statement, backed up by the actual film…the horse left the schute [sic] hindmost first, and its feet were in the air as it fell. We are informed that this particular horse struck the water in this position, came to the surface twice, and was drowned. In spite of the fact that the first horse was killed, a second horse was then put into the schute [sic] and thrown over the cliff. This horse was not killed. 126 Coleman also noted that in two other scenes, horses were shown “violently thrown to the ground, and give every appearance of having been brought down by artificial means,” then reminded Hays that this was far from the first time his organization had petitioned for an end to filmed cruelty. Humane activists were, he said, “sadly disillusioned.” Hays was en route from New York to Los Angeles on the 14 th , however, and did not immediately receive the letter. In the meantime, Twentieth Century-Fox executives wasted no time in asserting their innocence. Also on the 14 th , producer Darryl Zanuck sent an extremely lengthy telegram to Sidney Kent, Twentieth Century Fox’s president. 127 Zanuck began by noting that it was “well- known” that he was an owner and breeder of Thoroughbreds, and his “devotion to same as a polo player and sportsman” was well known. “You can rest assured that no animals are ever harmed or mistreated in any Twentieth Century-Fox picture,” he told Kent. He claimed over 300 horses had been used in total for the picture; he said it had been “necessary for us to secure exciting scenes in order to properly portray the character of Jesse James,” and he said that during the fourteen-week shoot, only one of the horses had suffered injury, this because of what he called a “premature fall.” He further claimed that “the very fact that the scene was repeated without injury to either horse or rider” was “definite proof that it was purely an accident and not because we were compelling either horse or rider to take an unnecessary risk.” The SPCA (he did not 169 indicate which) had, he said, been overseeing Twentieth Century-Fox pictures for the last three years at the studio’s request; the humane organization had never questioned them, and an animal had never been hurt. He further informed Kent that several people had come forward claiming to have photographic evidence of the scene, attempting to blackmail the studio, but the studio refused to engage with the would-be blackmailers. It seemed “amazing,” Zanuck said, that the humane societies had waited until the film was released to protest. If they were sincere and possessed incriminating evidence, why had they not gone to the studio before the press? Zanuck then noted that there had been a number of accidents to humans during the shoot, but the American Medical Association was not protesting on behalf of stuntmen. If Kent felt the picture had been damaged, Zanuck said, he wanted to begin legal action at once. “This attack is unwarranted because it capitalizes an accident in an effort to create sensational publicity,” he concluded. Of course, this was precisely Sydney Coleman’s intention. Naturally, Sidney Kent took Coleman’s charges about as well as Zanuck had. He repeated Zanuck’s refutation almost wholesale in his own refutation to the New York Times, which was published on January 17 th . Kent followed Zanuck’s stance that although one horse had died, this was due entirely to accident. He claimed that for the past three years Fox had asked for humane society representatives to be present on set during the making of animal pictures and none had questioned them, and that “the very fact that the scene was repeated without injury to either horse or rider is definite proof that it was purely accidental and not because we were compelling either horse or rider to take an unnecessary risk.” 128 Kent thus missed two very important points. The first was that—as the presiding judge in the Ausable Chasm case had noted, way back in 1915—sending a horse plunging over a cliff into a river was an act that constituted cruelty in itself, regardless of whether or not the horse had been injured. The second 170 point had been noted by Britain’s Film Weekly in 1937, during the discussion of the Cinematograph Act: stuntmen made conscious choices to put themselves in harm’s way, with knowledge and understanding of the risks involved, and the ability to refuse should they so desire. Animals had no such autonomy. 129 These and other points would soon be reiterated by the National Humane Review, which immediately began devoting a significant amount of space to the Jesse James incident. Even before the monthly publication could put out its next issue, news of the incident began to spread. In fact, on the same day Coleman had held his press conference, Ed Sullivan, who wrote a column called “Looking at Hollywood,” published a piece on stuntmen that opened with “In ‘Jesse James’ you will see Tyrone Power ride a horse off a seventy foot elevation and plunge into water. For that, Stunt Man Cliff Lyons earned $1,770 for about two hours’ work.” 130 He subsequently claimed that California humane officials had banned Lyons from making the Jesse James dive into a tank of water in that state, though this seems unlikely, considering that the production had always been planned as a location shoot and that if California humane officials had banned such a thing, Sydney Coleman would almost certainly have heard about it. Sullivan also stated that “the riding actors come into contact with the A.S.P.C.A. in every picture” (also untrue, as the ASPCA was New York-based, and the LASPCA inspected pictures only upon invitation) but despite these precautions, “quite a lot of cruelty is practiced on horses.” He then described the Running W accurately, said that watching the device in use in a picture made him “sick at my stomach,” and noted that the horses should “thank England for escaping a lot more punishment” due to its “inflexible censorship law on all pictures that use horses, and unless the picture reaches England accompanied by statements from the A.S.P.C.A. and qualified witnesses that cruelty has not been practiced to achieve effects, the picture cannot be exhibited.” (As will 171 be discussed subsequently, this was not in fact true in practice.) Shortly thereafter, Sullivan printed part of a letter of thanks he had received from Sydney Coleman, along with selections from the Missouri affidavits. “I submit these herewith to the bosses of 20 th Century-Fox, Darryl Zanuck and William Goetz, both of whom are horse owners,” Sullivan wrote. “I open the column to 20 th Century Fox for an answer. I trust sincerely that the answer will vindicate the movies.” 131 Darryl Zanuck did in fact answer, sending Sullivan a copy of the response he had written to Coleman, and Sullivan printed this without commentary. 132 The most interesting part of Zanuck’s response was the inclusion of a statement from stuntman Cliff Lyons, who, like Zanuck, claimed the whole thing had been a terrible accident: The horse fell in a position where it was impossible to hurt him, and I fell clear of the horse. This is proved because when I came up the horse came up swimming toward me. He was cool and swimming strongly. He definitely was not injured in the fall. In order to keep him from swimming over me and pawing me under, as horses often do, when he had traveled approximately fifteen feet from where he came to the surface I pushed him away and headed toward the boat in which were the men familiar with handling horses under any conditions, and who were there to catch hold of the horse and lead it into shallow water. When they tried to throw a rope over him, the horse became excited, floundered, went down and took on a great quantity of water. The fact that the second jump, made exactly as we made the first, went off without a slip, and the second horse was led ashore in perfect condition, indicates that the first jump was an unfortunate accident. 133 Lyons and Zanuck, then, continued the only line of defense available to them, even if it made little logical sense. They could not deny (and did not try to after the affidavits came out) that two horses had been sent over a 70-foot cliff. Even without the amateur 16mm footage, the shots were included in the finished film. Thus, Lyons and Zanuck had to instead deny that the stunt was so dangerous it should not have been attempted for the sake of the horses. Later, the National Humane Review would succinctly demolish this argument, though many members of 172 the general public already disagreed with it. Indeed, by now the news had gone mainstream: Time had reported on the issue, describing Coleman as “mild-mannered” and “efficient.” 134 “It is difficult to see how he [Zanuck] can thus construe an animal deliberately hurled over a cliff,” wrote a Time magazine reader, in response. 135 (The film’s credited screenwriter, Nunnally Johnson, had probably not helped when he glibly remarked to Time magazine that “the horse was out of a job, and he told us he knew how to swim.” 136 ) Toronto’s The Globe and Mail also reported on the issue. 137 One of Sydney Coleman’s immediate actions upon hearing of the incident had been to send an independent (and therefore theoretically unbiased) journalist, Irvin John Scully to Missouri as soon as possible. Scully likely went to the Ozarks in or around December of 1938, and Coleman probably waited for his report before beginning the campaign against Twentieth Century-Fox. 138 Scully’s lengthy article was published in the February 1939 issue of the NHR, and included some of the original affidavits collected as well as his own reportage. Scully found that not only was Twentieth Century-Fox indeed guilty of killing one horse and terrifying another, but that the Jesse James crew had apparently gone to some lengths to cover up their actions. 139 He claimed that in order to keep the locals (both onlookers and potential humane society representatives) from finding out about the greased tilt chute, the production had put out information that part of the film would be made on October 7 th, but actually did their preparatory work on October 4 th and filmed the scene on October 5 th . A short newspaper article appeared in the October 7 th edition of the Camdenton, Missouri Reveille; this was reprinted in the National Humane Review as an accompaniment to Scully’s piece. 140 The Reveille had indeed reported, at the time, that the scene had involved a 75-foot drop and a greased tilt chute, that the first horse had died, and the scene was repeated with a second horse before the film company packed up 173 and left; “quite a number from Camdenton and other points were present.” 141 However, the Reveille was a small-town weekly, and therefore almost nobody read it. Scully was unable to find any other newspaper account of the “tragic barbarity”; he had interviewed various journalists in Jefferson City, about 60 miles from Camdenton, and none of them had heard of the incident. 142 But officials in Camden County did read the local paper, and the prosecuting attorney sent the county sheriff to investigate. By this time, however, the production had left town and the prosecuting attorney was unable to get enough information to make a case, “so he did nothing, although he agreed it was an atrocious piece of cruelty and cited Missouri laws against such barbarity.” 143 There was some information to be gleaned, however. The eyewitness accounts cited by Coleman had been collected by Arnold M. Amundsen, the managing director of the Humane Society of Missouri. Amundsen told Scully that the act was “one of the most wanton phases of cruelty ever brought to his attention,” and gave Scully permission to print the affidavits in his NHR article. These eyewitnesses were local residents who had been employed by the studio as extra hands; one of them reported that there were actually four horses at the ready, “if any more deaths occurred.” 144 Most of these men worked for boating companies that had rented boats to the production, and were out on the lake, in good position to witness the calamity. One told Scully that the blind chute, which tipped the horses onto a greased slide “designed to propel the huge animal well out over the water,” worked only half of the time: it had functioned correctly for the first take, during which the horse was killed, and failed to function correctly during the second take, merely injuring (but not killing) that horse. 145 The crew, they reported, had referred to each other only by first names or nicknames, and therefore nobody was quite sure of the crew members’ identities. 146 174 Scully also cottoned on to one of the two points outlined above, that stuntmen could agree or refuse to perform a stunt, but horses could not. The stuntman, he noted, had “worked out a plan how to escape harm to himself,” while the horse “was not a professional in the sense of a 70-foot leaper, as obviously no horse could be trained to make such a leap. It had no foreknowledge of what was in store” and therefore could not, “like the stunt man, figure out a safe landing.” 147 The dead horse, he said, was fished from the river because the trick saddle was needed for the second horse; the first horse’s body was hauled to shore with grappling hooks and incinerated. “This seems a high point in barbarity,” wrote Scully, who—if he had indeed been neutral when he began his investigations—certainly was not by the time he completed them. “A horse had just been killed, so the plea could not be made of a lack of realization of danger to the animal. But two shots were needed. Four horses were brought along. That seems significant! […] [The second horse] apparently had suffered no serious physical injury, other than [a] flesh wound; but its mental anguish undoubtedly was as intense as that of the horse that was killed.” 148 To add insult to literal injury, Scully noted that the Lake of the Ozarks, into which the horses had been thrown, was a man-made body of water that had not existed during Jesse James’ time, thus negating any potential claims to historical accuracy that Twentieth Century-Fox might have made. Finally, Scully noted that he and Amundsen went to the Attorney General of Missouri, Roy McKittrick, who had been unaware of the incident but promptly issued a statement in which he expressed that “had I the faintest suspicion that the anti-cruelty laws of Missouri would have been violated, I would have exerted every power of my office to have prevented it.” 149 Amundsen, too, expressed sincere regret that he had not heard of the incident in advance, that his humane society might have prevented it. The article concluded with the printing of the affidavits 175 Amundsen had collected in November of 1938; the National Humane Review concluded its coverage for the month by reprinting a film still from the Ausable Chasm incident of 1915, noting that the Jesse James case resembled it strongly. 150 The judge in the Ausable Chasm trial had ruled that although the horse involved in that cliff dive had not been injured, the act of forcing a horse over a 40-plus-foot drop was cruel in and of itself. NHR readers were reminded of this in March, when Jesse James was named as but one of a long string of incidents in an issue that devoted almost ten full pages to the film. “The Indictment of the Movies” additionally cited an unnamed animal comedy (possibly a “Dippy Doo Dad”), Trader Horn, Booloo, and The Charge of the Light Brigade, repeated George Arliss’s 1933 statement that he would not make a picture with animals because they should not be exploited, and further made a brief list of troublesome films that had not sparked any major protest at their times of release: Marco Polo (this was probably Samuel Goldwyn’s The Adventures of Marco Polo, dir. Archie Mayo, 1938), the silent Ben-Hur: A Tale of the Christ (MGM, dir. Fred Niblo, 1925; Light Brigade’s Breezy Eason had also worked on this picture), the beloved Shirley Temple’s Heidi (Twentieth Century-Fox, dir. Allan Dwan, 1937), and The Prisoner of Zenda (Selznick International Pictures, dir. John Cromwell, 1937). 151 The lead story that month was written by Richard C. Craven, a longtime AHA officer who would soon be named head of the AHA’s official Hollywood operations. “We refuse to tolerate these cruelties any longer,” he wrote. “The motion picture industry is going to stop it, whether they like it or not. The time has passed for requests and beseeching; we are now telling them.” 152 The article was accompanied by a still from Jesse James showing not the cliff scene, but a galloping horse falling to its knees in an unnatural fashion. Excerpts from various letters written to the AHA, MPPDA, and Twentieth Century-Fox were also published. These included condemnations from 176 the presidents or deans of over 40 institutions of higher education, ranging from small liberal arts colleges to Rutgers University, and another 40-plus from the general public, including a longtime Army veterinarian and the performing animal’s old friend Rosamonde Rae Wright, who said that an AHA representative “would not be amenable to the financial and social lure of Hollywood producers” and would therefore be “a much needed acquisition to cruelty to animals law enforcement in motion pictures.” 153 One anonymous letter received special attention, as it had purportedly come from a Hollywood studio employee; the employee reported anecdotally that “During the filming of ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’ some of the cameramen said that they had to start their cameras and turn away, unable to watch the scene!! Fix it so they can’t use any animals in pictures if they haven’t the decency to treat them properly […] They [producers and directors] aren’t all bad but the ones that are make up for the others.” 154 Also in March, the National Humane Review set about dismantling Zanuck’s argument that the horse’s death was an accident. The studio “knew grave risk was involved,” it said, because Cliff Lyons had been paid $1,770 for the day’s work instead of the usual $35 daily salary. 155 Furthermore (reiterating Scully’s investigative report), the stuntman performed willingly, with an understanding of the dangers involved and the ability to “anticipate things going amiss.” The horses, which had no idea what was going on, could not. “One of the greatest cruelties to a horse is terror […] The horses that went into the lake were beyond doubt terrified,” it noted, in a completely reasonable bit of conjecture. “If neither had been killed, or even injured, the terror cruelty would have been there just the same […] Accident is not the correct term when the risk is known in advance and death results. Responsibility is with the person who takes or authorizes the risk.” 156 (Presumably this was Henry King, but he remained remarkably silent on the matter.) The NHR also noted that it did not now have, nor had it ever had, a representative in 177 Hollywood, did not “exercise control over other societies,” and that local humane officers were responsible only to their own organizations. “Mr. Zanuck may be a polo player, breeder of horses or what have you,” concluded the piece. “To introduce these considerations is to draw a very stale cinematic red herring across the trail. The horse was jumped from a cliff, it was killed. There is no excuse and no explanation. The company did a terribly wrong thing and it must not happen again.” By April, the National Humane Review was reporting that over 30,000 people had joined the protest against cruelty to animals in motion picture production, and that a representative from the AHA’s Board of Directors was on his way to Los Angeles to meet with industry heads. Though the AHA had not previously asked for donations to offset the costs of operating a motion picture supervisor, it now did so, telling readers that “The Association cannot spend what it doesn’t have and it could not morally allow the film industry to defray the cost, even though it might be willing to do so.” 157 The man on his way to Los Angeles was general manager Eric Hansen, who spent three weeks there, publishing his report in the NHR in August. 158 After discussion with studio folks as well as local humane officers, and watching some filming, Hansen came to a three-part conclusion: first, the problem had to be addressed on a national or even international scale (that is to say, it was not merely a concern for California) and therefore only the AHA was up to the task; second, a humane officer above reproach must be appointed to establish a California office, with the power to appoint officers to supervise individual productions; and third, this officer be the only person authorized to certify that a film had been made without cruelty to animals. This would preserve the integrity of the certificates, which would be significant internationally inasmuch as they would serve as a guarantee to such foreign censorship bodies as the British Board of Film Censors. Hansen also changed the AHA’s 178 previous hardline stance on implied cruelty: “Every allowance must be made for clever photography,” he said. “You can have a picture of a fight between a tiger and an elephant where, actually, neither tiger nor elephant even saw each other.” As will be discussed in the next chapter, the assurance that trick photography could be used without cruelty to animals would become a point of pride for the Hollywood liaisons. Later in the issue, it was noted that now was not the time to make another list of accusations against the film industry. It was time to move forward, with “the loyal financial aid and loyal cooperation” of the AHA’s “component parts.” 159 And move forward they soon would. It was no accident that the job description Hansen gave for the AHA supervisory office sounded much like an animal welfare version of Joseph Breen’s job. (The Los Angeles Times, apparently forgetting every previous complaint from animal welfare groups, reported that “A new censorship headline loomed today on the horizon, and this time it’s from a wholly unexpected quarter—the animal anti-cruelty people.” 160 ) By the end of 1939, Richard C. Craven would be named the American Humane Association’s first Western Regional Director, and head on his way to Hollywood, where he would work closely with the Production Code Administration. Before proceeding to a discussion of the Western Regional Unit’s early years, however, there are two final notes to address. These illustrate just how confusing, contradictory, and paradoxical the matter of censorship could be. First, Will Hays had been obliged to explain to Warner Bros. in no uncertain terms that just because Twentieth Century-Fox had been allowed to make a picture about Jesse James did not mean that Warner Bros. would be allowed to make a picture about John Dillinger; Dillinger had been a decidedly verboten subject since 1934, and he would remain so. Hays’ justification for this was that Jesse James was a historical figure and Dillinger was contemporary; he said “the mythical or legendary character does not so readily 179 induce imitation because present day audiences are not so likely to identify themselves with him […] the technique of JESSE JAMES’ crimes is at least outmoded.” 161 Second, despite absolutely everyone including Darryl Zanuck agreeing that a horse had been killed during the production of Jesse James, the film was still approved for release in Great Britain. Granted, heavy cuts were made, exactly as Breen had expected: both shots of galloping horses falling, the horse jumping through the glass window, and not just the cliff-jumping shots, but the entire sequence were excised by the BBFC. 162 It can only be imagined the film was allowed because there had been no legal action taken against Twentieth Century-Fox—or perhaps the Cinematograph Act of 1937 was simply not taken so seriously as had been feared. Nevertheless, it was a central concern for both the industry and the American Humane Association as both organizations prepared to move forward. 1 Lev, Twentieth Century-Fox, 38. 2 Richard Maltby, “The Production Code and the Hays Office,” 42, 63. 3 Production documents alternate between two spellings, “Balaclava” and “Balaklava.” I have chosen to use “Balaclava” throughout. 4 These shots unfold as follows: there is gunfire, we see a shot of the animal falling down, and there is an immediate cut away from the leopard, which is never seen again. Production records do not indicate how this scene was accomplished, but it appears as though the animal may have been shot with a tranquilizer dart. 5 DeLeon Anthony, memo to Hal Wallis, July 7, 1936. The Charge of the Light Brigade production files. Warner Bros. Archive, University of Southern California, Los Angeles, CA (subsequently cited as “Light Brigade production files”). Footage “from the same source but not the same scenes” was also used in Stormy, a “horse stampede picture” from Universal. 6 Joseph Breen, letter to Jack Warner, dated November 1, 1935, The Charge of the Light Brigade Production Code Administration files. History of Cinema Series I: Hollywood and the Production Code, Reel 11. Margaret Herrick Library, Los Angeles, CA (subsequently cited as “Light Brigade PCA files”). 7 Charles R. Metzger, memo, “CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE – WARNERS – SCRIPT DATED 2/12/36,” February 13, 1936, Light Brigade PCA files. 8 Breen, letter to Jack Warner, dated February 14, 1936, Light Brigade PCA files. 9 Breen, letter to Jack Warner, dated March 26, 1936, Light Brigade PCA files. 10 Breen, letters to Jack Warner, dated April 3, 1936, May 2, 1936, May 25, 1936, and July 6, 1936, Light Brigade PCA files. 11 Frank Mattison, memo to T.C. Wright, June 13, 1936, Light Brigade production files. Production records are unclear as to which parts of the Battle of Balaclava sequence were filmed in Sonora and which were filmed on the Leffingwell Ranch in Lasky Mesa (just north of Calabasas), where the Chukoti garrison scenes were filmed— Curtiz’s unit was there for about four weeks in total, with Eason making occasional appearances. Errol Flynn, who is of course featured heavily in the Balaclava sequence, did not travel to Sonora. He, Olivia deHavilland, and Curtiz were doing pickups on the Warner Bros. back lot during the Sonora shoot. In particular, see: Contract between Neil W. Duckels and Warner Bros., dated May 23, 1936, and a memo from Frank Mattison, the film’s production manager, to T.C. Wright, dated June 19, 1936, both in the Light Brigade production files. 180 12 “Welcome to the City of Sonora,” accessed December 6, 2012, http://www.sonoraca.com. 13 According to daily production reports. It is unclear why the second unit shot under this title. 14 Mattison, memo to T.C. Wright, May 7, 1936. Light Brigade production files. 15 Daily production reports, June 1 to June 6, 1936 inclusive; memos from Mattison to Wright, dated June 1, June 2, and June 6, 1936. Light Brigade production files. 16 Wright, memo to Wilder (no first name given), March 16, 1936. Light Brigade production files. 17 Daily production reports dated May 14 and May 25, 1936. Light Brigade production files. 18 The Light Brigade production files hold a number of horse rental contracts, most of which are dated June 2, 1936. Five of the 243 horses were rented from an owner in Calabasas, CA, rather than the Sonora area. 19 Daily production reports, Light Brigade production files, dated June 19-23, 1936. Hudkins had been working on the picture since at least March, when he and Curtiz had been working on getting horses with long manes and tails for the riders in the front lines. Hudkins also supplied the horses used for the principal actors, and for other location shoots. See memos from Mattison to Wright dated March 2, 1936, March 24, 1936, and April 17, 1936. 20 Contract with A.L. Pedro, Light Brigade production files, dated June 9, 1936. Nearly all of the horses rented in the Sonora area were given a “death value” of $150, though some contracts omitted this clause. 21 Mitchum with Pavia, Hollywood Hoofbeats, 63; Anthony Amaral, Movie Horses: Their Treatment and Training (Indianapolis and New York: The Bobbs-Merrill Company, Inc., 1967), 11-12. 22 Mitchum, Hollywood Hoofbeats, 64. 23 Daily production reports, Light Brigade production files, dated June 19-23, 1936. A DPR from June 18 mentions that Curtiz, Flynn, and deHavilland were filming on the Warner back lot that day. 24 P.C. Davenport, written statement to Frank Mattison, Light Brigade production files, June 17, 1936. The statement in full reads: “Dear Sir, Last night, Tuesday, June 16 th , about 6 P.M., when your company had finished shooting on the picture, one brown mare reeled over to the ground dead. I examined the horse immediately, and found that he [sic] had died from a rupture of the post aorta. This horse had worked two days in the picture in an apparent sound condition, showing no previous sign of illness or injury.” The veterinarian’s initials are in question. Though some of the statements are typed, Davenport’s name is not; his signature appears to read “P.C.” with the “P” written quite distinctly from the “D” in “Davenport.” However, later legal documents in the Light Brigade files refer to him as D.C. Davenport. I have chosen to follow Davenport’s own handwriting. 25 Davenport, written statement to Mattison, Light Brigade production files, June 19, 1936. 26 Davenport, written statement to Clyde Hudkins, Light Brigade production files, June 20, 1936. 27 Davenport, written statements to Mattison, Light Brigade production files, June 20, 1936. 28 N.P. Carr, letter to to Curley Eagle, June 25, 1937; Agreement between MGM and Charles June, June 26, 1937; Inter-office communication from W.L. Gulick to F.L. Hendrickson, June 22, 1937; J.G. Mayer, memo to Gulick and Hendrickson, June 23, 1937. MGM Legal Department Records, Folder 327, “Horse agreements.” Margaret Herrick Library Special Collections, Los Angeles, CA. 29 Girolo had been working as a humane officer since the early 1930s, first for Sonoma County and later for the State Humane Association of California. “Humane Affairs in California,” NHR, January 1934, 2; San Francisco Police and Peace Officers’ Journal of the State of California (San Francisco: San Francisco Police Department, Vol. XX No. 12, March 1943), 34. 30 “Animals in Motion Pictures: Plan to Prevent Cruelty in Future Productions,” NHR, October 1936, 9. 31 Ibid. 32 Otsego’s name is spelled any number of ways throughout the production files. He was also variously referred to as Arte Otsego and (in the later British court case) Arte Ortegan. The official Tuolumne County trial proceedings cited subsequently use Rate Otsego; I have chosen to follow that spelling. 33 “Horse Deaths Result in Fine,” San Francisco Chronicle, June 25, 1936, 3. A draft of a telegram from Roy Obringer to Denton, Hall, and Burgin (Warner Bros.’ British solicitors) on May 11, 1937, stated “Sullivan assistant director this company” and “Johnson Artego [sic] available satisfied all three will testify according to your presumption.” Neither Johnson nor Otsego received screen credit, and I have been unable to find their names elsewhere in the film’s production records. 34 http://awardsdatabase.oscars.org/ampas_awards/. Accessed December 1, 2012. The database does not provide hard links to results. 181 35 Transcript, “THE ANSWER of the above-named Plaintiffs WARNER BROS. PICTURES INC. to the Interrogatories for the examination by the above-named Defendants.” The Charge of the Light Brigade production files, dated July 13, 1937. The answer was given by P.A. Chase, Warner Bros.’ assistant treasurer. 36 Court record from The People of the State of California, Plaintiff vs. Cliff Johnson, Rate Otsego, and J.J. Sullivan. June 22, 1936. Case No. 265, Justice Court 2 Criminal Docket, Year 1928, Location R4-B63, 07/06/1928 - 07/06/1936. Carlo M. De Ferrari Archive, Sonora, CA. 37 “Movie Stars Leave Pullman Sleepers,” Union Democrat, June 26, 1936. Page 1, Column 5. 38 Statement signed by Whitey Soren, Frank Mattison, Albert Shell, and Clyde Hudkins, June 23, 1936, Light Brigade production files. The species of Alfred Shell’s stock was not specified either; no contract between Shell and Warner Bros. is extant. 39 “Movie Stars Leave Pullman Sleepers,” Union Democrat. 40 W. L. Guthrie, untitled manuscript, undated. Light Brigade production files. 41 According to Warner Bros. legal documents. Of the three articles mentioned—none of which were preserved in the WB Archives—I have been able to find only the Chronicle piece, which is cited elsewhere in this chapter. It does not exaggerate the number of equine fatalities. See, for instance, a letter from Roy Obringer to Perkins, dated March 24 th , 1937, in which Obringer enclosed “general correspondence” on the matter. Light Brigade production files. 42 Obringer, letter to D.E. Griffiths, September 29, 1936. Light Brigade production files. 43 “Horse Deaths Result in Fine”; “Animals in Motion Pictures.” 44 P.H. Klotz, letter to to Joseph Breen, October 26, 1936. Light Brigade PCA files. 45 Unsigned letter to R.H. Klotz, October 31, 1936. Light Brigade PCA files. 46 G. Evans, “Cruelty to Animals in the Movies,” NHR, March 1937, 9. 47 Ibid. 48 “Matthew McCurrie: Noble Career Closes After 43 Years of Service,” NHR, July 1938, 16. 49 Obringer, letter to Denton, Hall and Burgin, May 25, 1937. Light Brigade production files. 50 Ibid. Obringer seems not to have considered that Brisac, McCurrie, and Girolo would have been upset about horses falling with their legs extended in midair regardless of what method had been used to achieve that result. 51 Unfortunately, McCurrie’s letter has not been preserved. 52 “Animals in Motion Pictures,” 9. 53 Obringer, letter to D.E. Griffiths, September 29, 1936. Light Brigade production files. 54 Hal B. Wallis, memo to Obringer, August 13, 1936. Light Brigade production files. 55 Guthrie recounted the details of his trip at length (six typed pages) in a signed, undated document cited previously. Subsequent quotations are from this document. 56 Guthrie refers to the group only as the “Sacramento Society.” 57 McCurrie became assistant secretary of the SFSPCA in 1895, secretary and manager of the SFSPCA in 1906 and was appointed as a director of the American Humane Association in 1933. Shortly before his death in 1938, he was named Western Regional Director of the Red Star Animal Relief. He was particularly noted for his ability to draft humane bills and see them through California’s legislature. See “McCurrie: Noble Career Closes,” 16. 58 Obringer, letter to Hays, August 24, 1936. The letter preserved in the WB archives is a carbon copy sent by Obringer to Hal Wallis. Light Brigade production files. 59 Ibid. 60 Breen, letter to Jack Warner, July 24, 1936. The documents Breen forwarded included a report from the American Consul General to the Secretary of State, dated May 27, 1936; a report to the Specialties Motion Picture Division from trade commissioner George C. Howard, dated June 18, 1936; and a letter to Breen from Frederick L. Herron, the Foreign Manager of the MPPDA, dated July 20, 1936. Light Brigade PCA files. 61 “Flynn, Direction, Cast Outstanding,” The Hollywood Reporter, October 17, 1936; review of The Charge of the Light Brigade, Variety, October 17, 1936; review of The Charge of the Light Brigade, Motion Picture Daily, October 17, 1936; review of The Charge of the Light Brigade, Film Daily, October 20, 1936; Gus McCarthy, review of The Charge of the Light Brigade, Motion Picture Herald, October 24, 1936; Frank S. Nugent, “The Screen,” The New York Times, November 2, 1936; The Hollywood Reporter, “New York Reviews: ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade,’” November 10, 1936. All reviews are included in the Light Brigade PCA files. 62 Archer Winsten, “Light Brigade Charge in Hollywood Version,” The New York Post, November 2, 1936. Light Brigade production files. Emphasis added. 63 “Plan to Prevent Cruelty In Future Productions.” Subsequent quotations are taken from this citation. 64 Sydney H. Coleman, “The Humane Movement in 1936,” NHR, October 1936, 5. 65 “Cruelty in Motion Pictures,” NHR, November 1936, 6. 182 66 Coleman, “The Charge of the Light Brigade,” NHR, December 1936, 7. 67 Ibid. 68 Coleman, “Cruelty in Films Must Cease,” NHR, February 1937, 15. 69 Ibid. 70 “Our Frank Opinion: Cruelty in Films,” NHR, October 1934, 14. 71 “Film Cruelties,” NHR, August 1931, 12-13, reports that the BBFC had already rejected several films due to implications of cruelty. 72 “Our Frank Opinion: Cruelty in Films.” 73 “Animals in the Movies,” NHR, January 1936, 15. 74 “Britain May Forbid Films of Animals’ Suffering,” New York Times, April 18, 1937, 33. 75 “RKO-Radio Acquires Kaufman-Ferber Opus, ‘Stage Door’—Two Shows Here Set Holiday Record,” New York Times, November 28, 1936, 13. 76 “Cruel Films Banned By Law,” NHR, September 1937, 4. Subsequent quotations are taken from this citation. 77 “British Bill to Restrict Animal Films” (memo), February 15, 1937. Light Brigade PCA files. 78 “News of the Quarter: Cruelty to Animals,” Sight & Sound, Spring 1937, 1. 79 Obringer, letter to Griffiths, September 29, 1936. 80 Joseph I. Breen, memo regarding The Charge of the Light Brigade, January 14, 1937. The Charge of the Light Brigade PCA files. 81 Denton, Hall and Burgin, letter to Obringer, March 1, 1937; Denton, Hall and Burgin, letter to Obringer, May 11, 1937. Light Brigade production files. 82 Obringer, letter to R.W. Perkins, March 13, 1937. Light Brigade production files. 83 Ibid. 84 R.H. Dietrich, letter to Obringer, March 20, 1937. Light Brigade production files. 85 Obringer, letter to R.W. Perkins, March 24, 1937. Light Brigade production files. 86 Perkins, telegram to Obringer, April 2, 1937; Obringer, memo to Espinosa (no first name given), April 2, 1937; Obringer, memo to Espinosa, April 6, 1937. Light Brigade production files. 87 Denton, Hall and Burgin, letter to Obringer, May 11, 1937. Light Brigade production files. 88 Ibid. 89 Ibid. 90 Ibid. 91 “Interrogatories on behalf of the Defendants,” High Court of Justice, King’s Bench Division, 1936. W. No. 3974. Warner Bros. Inc. and First National Film Distributors Ltd. Vs. The Woman’s Guild of Empire Ltd. May 27, 1937. Light Brigade production files. The full text of the interrogatories is as follows: 1. Are not the British Board of Film Censors or some and if yes which of them appointed by firms engaged in the cinematograph film industry including yourselves? 2. Is it not the object and duty of the said Board to consider and investigate the suitability for public exhibition in this country of films submitted to them by the makers and/or persons engaged in the public exhibition thereof including yourselves and (a) to advise the makers and/or others interested in such public exhibition including yourselves and/or local authorities authorised to grant licenses for the exhibition of films under the provisions of the Cinematograph Act of 1909 thereon, and (b) to assist in checking and preventing the exhibition in this country of objectionable films and/or of films including matters or incidents which might be offensive to public feeling or sentiment? 3. Is not public feeling and sentiment in this country opposed to the use in the making of films of methods involving cruelty to animals? 4. Were not J.J. Sullivan, Cliff Johnson and Arte Ortegan or any and if yes which of them on or about the 22 nd June 1936 convicted on charges of cruelty to animals contrary to Section 597 of the Penal Code of the State of California or on some other and what or charges involving cruelty to animals at the Justices Court of Second Township County of Tuolumne State of California held before J.H. Pitts a Justice of the Peace of the said Township in proceeding by the People of the State of California as Plaintiff against the said persons and do not the documents described as the “Abstract of Judgment” and “Proceedings” dated in each case the 23 rd June 1936 and signed by the said J.H. Pitts which will be produced and shown to you on request relate to the said convictions and proceedings and accurately record the same? 5. Were not the convictions referred to in Interrogatory numbered 4 above in respect of offences committed (a) on or about the 20 th June 1936 (b) during and/or in connection with the film entitled or known as “Charge of the Light Brigade” or some other and if yes what film? 183 6. Was it not alleged and/or charged in the proceedings referred to in Interrogatory numbered 4 above that the said three men or any and if yes which of them had made used of a contrivance known as “the running W” described in sub-par A of paragraph 7 of the Defence or of some and if yes what part thereof or of some and if yes what similar contrivance fixed to moving horses and designed to cause their forelegs to be suddenly drawn to their bellies and/or the horses to be tumbled to the ground as is set out in sub-paragraph (b) of paragraph 7 of the Defence and/or in some and if yes which parts thereof? 7. Was it not further alleged and/or charged in the proceedings referred to in Interrogatory Numbered 4 above that the contrivance referred to in Interrogatory numbered 6 above or some similar contrivance had been fixed to and used on a considerable number of or on some and if yes how many horses? 8. Was it not further alleged and/or charged in the proceedings referred to in Interrogatory Numbered 4 above that five or some and if yes how many pits had been dug and covered in the manner and/or for the purpose set out in sub-paragraph (C) of paragraph 7 of the Defence or in some and if yes which parts thereof? 9. Was it not further alleged and/or charged in the proceedings referred to in Interrogatory numbered 4 above that three or some and if yes how many horses taking part in the making of the said film had been seriously injured so that they had to be killed and were not the said horses so injured as a result of the use of the contrivance referred to in Interrogatory numbered 6 above and/or the pits referred to in Interrogatory numbered 8 above or some other and what cause connected with the making of the said film? 10. Is not the use of the contrivance referred to in Interrogatory numbered 6 above calculated to cause pain and suffering to horses on which it is used? 11. Is not the use of the contrivance referred to in Interrogatory numbered 6 above calculated to be offensive to public feeling and sentiment in this country? 12. Did not the said J.J. Sullivan attend the proceedings referred to in Interrogatory numbered 4 above and did he not on behalf of himself and of Cliff Johnson and Arte Ortegan plead Guilty to all the allegations and charges referred to in Interrogatories numbered 6 7 8 and 9 or some and if yes which of them? 13. At the time of and in the course of performing any and if which yes of the various acts alleged and charged against them in the proceedings referred to in Interrogatory numbered 4 above were the said J.J. Sullivan, Cliff Johnson and Arte Ortegan or if any and if so which of them acting for or on behalf of or as the servant or agent of the first named Plaintiffs? If the answer is yes state the capacity in which each of the said persons was so engaged or employed [period omitted] 14. In the course of and for the purposes of making the film referred to in Interrogatory numbered 5 above (a) was the contrivance referred to in sub-paragraph (A) of paragraph 7 of the Defence or some and if yes what part thereof or some and if so what similar contrivance attached to the fetlocks of many or some and if yes how many horses and (b) were the said horses moved in the manner described in sub-paragraphs (B) and (C) of paragraph 7 of the Defence or some and if yes what part thereof and (c) were three or some and if yes how many horses seriously injured as a result of the use of the said contrivance or from some other and what cause during and in the cause of the making of the said film, and (d) did the said horses have to be and were they killed? Each of the Plaintiffs is required to answer all the above interrogatories by their Secretary or other duly authorised officer. 92 Denton, Hall and Burgin, letter to Obringer, June 30, 1937. Various telegrams between Obringer, Denton, Hall and Burgin, and other Warner Bros. personnel regarding Jack Warner’s potential testimony can be found in the Light Brigade production files, dated between July 1, 1937 and July 10, 1937. 93 Chase was a longtime Warners employee, having joined the company in 1912. He retired in 1946. “Obituary 2— No Title: Paul A. Chase,” Los Angeles Times, April 19, 1946, 12. 94 P.A. Chase, “The Answer of the above-named Plaintiffs Warner Bros. Pictures Inc. to the Interrogatories for the examination of the above-named Defendants,” July 13, 1937. Light Brigade production files. 95 There is an unsigned, undated, handwritten document in the Light Brigade production files that seems to be an attempt to draw up an account of all the known horse deaths. According to this document, either two or three horses were killed by pits, a third “dropped dead”; in Chatsworth, a sharp rock had caused one horse’s destruction, six pits had been dug, including one pit intended for three horses; and six running Ws had been used at an unknown time or location. 96 Miles H. Alben, memo to Ralph E. Lewis and Roy Obringer, October 19, 1937. Light Brigade production files. 97 Warner Bros. Pictures Inc. and First National Film Distributors Limited v. The Women’s Guild of Empire Limited, carbon copy, undated. Included with a letter from Miles Alben to Ralph Lewis and Roy Obringer, October 27, 1937. Light Brigade production files. 98 Ibid. 99 Obringer, memo to Hal Wallis, October 26, 1937. Light Brigade production files. 184 100 Sydney H. Coleman, “Surveying the Humane Field,” NHR, November 1937, 4. 101 “Stop Cruelty in the Movies,” NHR, May 1938, 6. 102 Per the AFI Catalog, Devil Tiger featured the following animal fights: leopard versus python, tiger versus crocodile, elephant calf versus panther (the calf is subsequently caught in a tiger trap), lizard versus binturong (also known as a bearcat), monkey versus three giant crabs, leopard versus tiger, bear versus hyena, human versus python, lion versus tiger, tiger versus elephant herd, buffalo versus python, and finally, humans versus the titular devil tiger, which they shoot. Undoubtedly, then (unless someone else made a film featuring a monkey fighting three giant crabs), Devil Tiger was referred to during the Cinematograph Act readings. 103 “Inspiring Wilds,” New York Times, October 16, 1932, X5. 104 “Engl. Censors Nix Wild Stuff,” Variety, June 2, 1937, 4. 105 “An Objectionable Animal Film: Jungle Story of a White Tiger and so forth,” NHR, September 1938, 9. (The words “so forth” are not capitalized in the original.) 106 Hurl., “Film Reviews: Booloo,” Variety, August 3, 1938, 15. 107 “Picture Grosses: ‘Letter’ Bulky $18,000 in Hub,” Variety, August 10, 1938, 9; “Picture Grosses: ‘Alex Terrific $28,000 in Philly,” Variety, August 17, 1938, 8; “Picture Grosses: ‘Alex’ Socko $75,000 2d Week, B’way Grosses Good; ‘Sailor’-Webb Orch. Nifty $40,000, ‘4’s a Crowd’ 75G, Variety, August 17, 1938, 9; “Picture Grosses: Wash. Heat So Bad, They’re Hissing Weather Bureau Reel; Taylor Nice 17G,” Variety, August 17, 1938, 11. 108 “Screen News Here and In Hollywood: Clyde E. Elliott Will Leave in Autumn to Direct ‘Road to Asia’ in Australia,” New York Times, July 26, 1938. 109 Thomas F. Brady, “Hollywood’s Story Marts Dry Up: Decline in Plays and Fiction,” New York Times, May 24, 1942, X3. 110 Clyde E. Elliott, “Adventure Movies on the Horizon: Past Failures and Future Possibilities of Once Popular Animal Films Are Examined by a Veteran Director,” New York Times, November 2, 1947, X5. 111 “Animals in Movies,” NHR, November 1938, 17. 112 “Cruelty in the Pictures,” NHR, October 1938, 14-15. 113 Of course, this was literally part of Breen’s job, and he would have received and read more letters of complaint than anyone else, except possibly Will Hays. 114 Jason S. Joy, letter to Breen, March 31, 1938. Jesse James Production Code Administration files, History of Cinema Series I: Hollywood and the Production Code, Reel 11. Margaret Herrick Library, Los Angeles, CA (subsequently cited as “Jesse James PCA files”). 115 Breen, memorandum re: JESSE JAMES, April 12, 1938. Jesse James PCA files. 116 See Walter Noble Burns, The Robin Hood of El Dorado: The Saga of Joaquin Murrieta, Famous Outlaw of California’s Age of Gold (Albuquerque, NM: University of New Mexico Press, 1999). Electronic version. Burns’ book was originally published by Grosset & Dunlap in 1932. In February and March of 1936, the Los Angeles Times presented a serialized version of Murrieta’s life written by Peter B. Kyne; it ran for over thirty chapters. 117 Breen, memorandum re: JESSE JAMES. 118 Breen, letter to Joy, June 3, 1938. Jesse James PCA files. 119 Ibid. 120 The film was shot primarily around Pineville, Missouri and in the Arkansas Ozarks. Reportedly, all the locations were “actual sites where the famous desperado staged his most thrilling exploits.” See Edwin Schallart, “Robinson Looms as Choice to Act Juarez,” Los Angeles Times, July 15, 1938, 10; “King Selects Sites for ‘Jesse James’,” The Hartford Courant, August 21, 1938, A4; Jessie Hodges, “Big Doin’s In The Ozarks: Everybody’s Working in Noel, Mo. as 20 th Century-Fox Starts ‘Jesse James’,” New York Times, September 4, 1938, 102. This was not strictly true, however: as will be discussed subsequently, the offending cliff-diving stunt was filmed at the Lake of the Ozarks, a man-made lake that did not exist in Jesse James’ day. 121 Breen, letter to Joy, September 16, 1938. Jesse James PCA files. 122 Jesse James PCA certificate, December 17, 1938. Jesse James PCA files. 123 Breen, letter to Francis S. Harmon, December 20, 1938. Jesse James PCA files. Subsequent quotations are taken from this citation. 124 Reviews and other articles not mentioning cruelty included: “‘Jesse James’ Glosses Character of Bandit: Film Play at Palace Exalts Technicolor,” The Washington Post, January 27, 1939, 6; Norbert Lusk, “Critics, Public Disagree on ‘Jesse James’ Picture,” Los Angeles Times, January 23, 1939, A16; “‘Jesse James’ in Color Thrilling Melodrama,” Los Angeles Times, January 10, 1939, 10; John T. Applby, “The Post Impressionist: Hollywood in the Ozarks,” The Washington Post, October 4, 1938, X8 (though this article may have been written prior to the horse stunt); Edwin Schallert, “ Jesse James’ Roaring Melodrama of Banditry,” Los Angeles Times, January 19, 1939. The 185 actual plot of the film, which was wildly historically inaccurate, is not germane to this discussion except inasmuch as it contained the crucial chase scene. 125 “Cruelty to Horses in Film Charged: Head of Humane Association Says Animal Was Forced to Leap, Blindfolded, to Death,” New York Times, January 15, 1939, 36. 126 Coleman, copy letter to Hays, undated. Jesse James PCA files. Subsequent quotations are taken from this citation. 127 Darryl Zanuck, telegram to Sidney Kent, January 14, 1939. Jesse James PCA files. Zanuck also sent a copy of his wire to Will Hays, who likely received it on the 15 th or 16 th , when he wired Breen from Winslow, Arizona. Hays, telegram to Breen, January 16, 1939. Jesse James PCA files. 128 “Cruelty to Horse in Film is Denied: Kent Explains Accident that Caused Injury to Animal,” New York Times, January 17, 1939, 27. 129 This Film Weekly excerpt was quoted in “Cruel Films Banned By Law.” 130 Ed Sullivan, “Looking at Hollywood: Behind the Scenes,” Chicago Daily Tribune, January 14, 1939: 13. Subsequent quotations are taken from this citation. 131 Ed Sullivan, “Looking at Hollywood: Death in the Ozarks,” Chicago Daily Tribune, January 28, 1939, 11. 132 Ed Sullivan, “Looking at Hollywood: Zanuck’s Answer,” Chicago Daily Tribune, January 30, 1939, 9. 133 Ibid. 134 “Jesse James’s Horse,” Time, February 6, 1939, 56. Time managed what very few other publications seemed able to do: report reasonably and accurately about the AHA and other humane societies. It noted that the AHA acted as a “general supervisor and clearing house,” that “SPCA” was “a generic term used by many local U.S. societies” rather than a nationwide organization, and that the AHA was generally successful in practical efforts such as humane cattle transport and humane trapping, owing to the fact that their suggestions yielded better end products. 135 “Jesse James’ Horse,” Time, February 20, 1939, 4-5. 136 Johnson’s quote appeared in the February 6 th “Jesse James’s Horse.” See also “Our Frank Opinion: The Horse Was Out of a Job,” NHR, March 1939, 14-15. The NHR’s response was to suggest that Will Hays might find some use for a “bridle,” a gagging device used by “our forefathers” that involved fitting a steel cage and a metal tongue depressor to keep nagging wives from talking too much. 137 In addition to “Jesse James’ Horse,” cited above, see “Jesse James,” Time, March 20, 1939, 4; A.R., “Cruelty to Animals,” The Globe and Mail, February 14, 1939; “Cruelty for Amusement,” The Globe and Mail, February 27, 1939, 6. See also E.V. Durling, “On the Side with E.V. Durling,” Los Angeles Times, January 21, 1939, and “Abuse of Horses,” NHR, May 1939, 6. The latter was a reprint of an editorial from the Los Angeles Examiner that did not mention Jesse James by name but nevertheless condemned the abuse of horses in motion pictures. The original date of publication is not given. 138 “Our Frank Opinion: Animals in the Movies,” NHR, February 1939, 14. Immediately following this editorial was Coleman’s letter of protest to Hays. 139 Irvin John Scully, “Cruelty to Animals in Filming ‘Jesse James’: One Horse Was Killed in 70-Foot Cliff Leap,” NHR, February 1939, 3-6. 140 “Motion Picture Filmed On Lake,” NHR, February 1939, 4. 141 Ibid. 142 Scully, “Cruelty to Animals,” 4. 143 Ibid. 144 Ibid. 145 Ibid. 146 Scully, “Cruelty to Animals,” 6. 147 Scully, “Cruelty to Animals,” 5. 148 Ibid. 149 Ibid. 150 “22 Years Ago,” NHR, February 1939, 26. 151 “The Indictment of the Movies: Revulsion against ‘Jesse James’ Climaxes a Long Series of Abuses,” NHR, March 1939, 26-7. 152 Richard C. Craven, “The Abuse of Animals in Motion Pictures: Storm of Protest Aroused by Cruelty in the Filming of ‘Jesse James’,” NHR, March 1939, 2. 153 “The Voice of the People: Thousands Sign Protests Against ‘Jesse James’ Cruelty: Indignation Voiced Far and Wide,” NHR, March 1939, 8-9; “Verdict of the Colleges: Condemnation Follows Exposure of Film Cruelty,” NHR, March 1939, 22-23. 154 “A Protest from Hollywood,” NHR, March 1939, 22. 186 155 “Our Frank Opinion: Reviewing the Facts,” NHR, March 1939, 14. Subsequent quotations are taken from this citation. 156 Emphasis added. 157 “Help Needed,” NHR, April 1939, np. 158 Eric H. Hansen, “What I Found in Hollywood,” NHR, August 1939, 3. 159 “Our Frank Opinion: Animals in Motion Pictures,” NHR, August 1939, 14. Hansen would speak on the matter at the 1939 annual convention in Albany. See “A Historic Humane Convention: Dedication of the Stillman Memorial: Important Discussions on Problems of Children and Animals,” NHR, October 1939, 3-4, 8. 160 “New Film Curbs Loom: Censorship Movement Begun by Anti-Cruelty to Animals Group,” Los Angeles Times, August 1, 1939, 3. 161 Hays, letter to Albert Howson, March 2, 1939. Jesse James PCA files. 162 Breen, memo regarding Jesse James, April 12, 1939. Jesse James PCA files. 187 Chapter Four Richard C. Craven and the Western Regional Office, 1940-1947 One should not overlook the fact that the movie business is out to make money, like any other business. If the horse meat store failed to secure patronage it would close; so it is with movies. The idea that the picture business exists to lead humanity to grace and salvation is far from fact; however, at that, it is a far better guide than a large part of what is termed the legitimate stage, and is cleaner than much that appears in the public news sheets. Within the industry there is a self-regulating body that keeps its eyes wide open, and prohibits anything which to these average people seems to exceed the bounds of good taste […] Protecting the animals is, of course, our job. — Richard C. Craven, AHA’s first Western Regional Director, 1944 1 Written about three years after the American Humane Association had begun supervising the use of animals in MPPDA-affiliated productions through an amendment to the Motion Picture Production Code, the preceding passage illustrates just how much humanitarian views on film had changed since the 1910s. The AHA (or at least its predominant representative in the western United States) now believed that private organizations of interested citizens were more effective and efficient at initiating change than were federal or state governments. Moreover, the success of the Production Code had demonstrated that the industry was capable of self- regulation. That Richard C. Craven’s words seem as though they could have come from the pen of Joseph Breen is no accident. Craven had always been aware (perhaps more so than other reformers) that the motion pictures were, as the Supreme Court had so famously put it in 1915, a business pure and simple. Though he continued to believe that films could inspire mimetic behavior and social change, whether positive or negative, it was not his business to compel studios to make “better” movies. The Production Code would take care of that. Richard C. 188 Craven said his job was to protect the animals. While this was true, protecting the animals was not his only task as Hollywood liaison. He was equally responsible for protecting Hollywood from accusations of animal abuse. Though the Jesse James incident was the ultimate catalyst for the establishment of the American Humane Association’s Western Regional Office in late 1939, as preceding chapters have demonstrated, it was far from the first film to have sparked a response from animal welfare advocates. And, though film industry oversight was a large part of the push to put a representative in Hollywood, it was not the organization’s only goal. Humane work in the United States had originated on the East Coast, and with the possible exceptions of the San Francisco and Los Angeles SPCAs, western humane societies were considered weaker than their eastern counterparts. The director of the Western Regional Office would not just, or at first even primarily, oversee motion pictures, though eventually motion pictures would take up almost all of his time. He would also supervise and coordinate humane societies across the American West, and thus, he would serve almost as a second organizational president. Establishing such an officer in the West would help reinforce the American Humane Association’s authority as the most important umbrella organization in the nation. It is not clear how much debate went into selecting the first Western Regional Director, but probably very little was needed. Few individuals were qualified for the job, and since it necessitated relocation, probably fewer wanted it. In November of 1939, the American Humane Association board announced that by unanimous decision, its longtime Field Secretary and National Humane Review associate editor, Richard C. Craven, would go to Hollywood. (The move to Hollywood wound up being rather literal, as Craven and his wife took up residence in the area’s “southernly end,” near the Wilshire Country 189 Club. 2 ) He was honored by the assignment, which he said was “the most important position the Association has created.” 3 Little biographical information is available on Craven, but he certainly had the experience necessary to launch the California offices. He had been in the American Humane Association’s employ since World War I, when, through Red Star, he had collaborated with the military personnel who controlled horses and mules. 4 After the war ended, he began traveling, “consolidating and strengthening societies in different parts of the country.” 5 In 1920, he went to Los Angeles, but did not concern himself with the film industry on that visit. 6 However, as his address at the 1920 national convention (discussed in Chapter 1) made clear, he was acutely aware of the cruelties movies could inflict on animals, and that he understood better than most that the industry was a business first and responded better to economic than to moral pressures. Craven took a short period of time off, then returned to the AHA early in 1921 as a field organizer, to continue “his work as an organizer and humane revivalist.” 7 He would remain with the organization until his retirement in 1947. As field organizer, Craven’s primary job was to go where AHA headquarters sent him. Over the next twenty years, he would cross the country on numerous occasions, working with local societies and reporting back to the national office; he also contributed to the NHR with some regularity. Writings from and about Craven suggest that he was exceedingly competent, nearly always effective, and usually reasonable, if not entirely free from the holier-than-thou attitude stereotypical of humane reformers. He was well versed in issues of animal welfare ranging from pets in shelters to large animals laboring in oil fields, and knowledgeable about child protection. 8 His written condemnations could be brutally concise and to the point, but he was also capable of spinning a good yarn or relating a humorous anecdote. 9 190 Despite the plans Sydney Coleman had worked out with Will Hays back in 1936, and despite everything that had been discussed after Jesse James, Craven began his work as Western Regional Director without any official ties to the film industry. His 1940 to-do list was daunting. The public expected him to end movie cruelties once and for all; the AHA expected him to do this while he continued performing other, non-film related humane work. This work would strengthen the organization’s influence not only in the western United States, but also overseas. As the NHR described Craven’s mission: He will have the task of building cohesion into the work on the Pacific Coast, of aiding societies to develop into efficient units and promoting higher and better standards. We anticipate that societies will welcome this assistance. It will be part of his duty also to represent The American Humane Association in relations with the motion picture industry. This has been a burning topic too long to permit matters to remain as they are. The arrangement which has heretofore existed has been unsatisfactory to the producers, to local and other societies in this country and abroad, and to humanitarians in general. 10 And Craven was, at the outset at least, the only member of the Western Regional Office. Despite the seeming impossibility of almost single-handedly ending animal cruelty in films while irritating neither studios nor other humane societies whose support he would need, an undaunted he set about fulfilling his new role with aplomb. By the end of 1940, he had manage to accomplish the bulk of the tasks assigned him; by the end of 1942, the Western Regional Office was a well-oiled collaborative machine. As intended, the Western Regional Office’s role regarding the film industry became twofold. It protected animals from actual abuse by studios. In return—and possibly more importantly—it protected studios from accusations of abuse by other humane organizations, foreign censorship boards, and individuals whom Craven would come to categorize in the NHR as well-meaning but ill-informed. 191 Craven began his tenure by ingratiating himself with the established local California societies and precluding any resentment that an Easterner had come to tell them how to do their jobs. 11 At the 1939 year-end dinner hosted by the State Humane Association of California, the state’s umbrella organization, Craven was asked to explain why the AHA had felt it necessary to establish an outpost in Los Angeles, “and why Californians could not handle their own affairs. The answer was given, with the utmost candor, everybody seemed satisfied and hope was expressed by many that this was the beginning of a revitalization of humane activity in the West.” 12 In the same article—which read more like a gossip column—Craven also reported on the Long Beach Humane Society’s Reciprocity Meeting, at which leaders from other local clubs were invited for an informative luncheon; the rumors that San Diego might build and operate a new city pound, thus taking the work out of the local humane society’s hands (this result was not desired), and the Los Angeles SPCA’s annual Christmas party, which had been hosted by child star Jane Withers. Miss Withers made quite the favorable impression on Craven; she adopted two dogs during the party, bringing her menagerie to a total of eleven, and paid for another dog to be sent to “a crippled boy from some town in Ohio who had written that what he wanted most of all for Christmas was a dog.” 13 Craven now desired to see all of Jane’s pictures, he said. (Lengthy descriptions of kindness to animals enacted by Hollywood employees would soon become somewhat of a Craven trademark.) For the next couple of years, he would continue to publish lengthy monthly reports on West Coast humane activities, and these reports rarely had anything to do with protecting Hollywood’s animals. In March, Craven wrote about child education and praised a Columbia cartoon called A Boy, a Gun, and Birds for providing a lesson about the immorality of hunting. 14 April’s column mentioned film, as will be discussed shortly, but most of its space was given to a description of “the Mexican springtime ritual of blessing the animals” 192 that had been recently performed at the Plaza Church on Olvera Street in Los Angeles, though Craven also touched on a recently published compilation of California’s humane laws and a successful prosecution by the LASPCA in North Hollywood for a dog poisoning incident. 15 In May, the column contained not one word about motion pictures. 16 This is pointed out not to insinuate that Craven did not immediately also set about investigating the film industry for himself (he did), but rather to illustrate the full range of his activities. Twentieth Century-Fox executives had repeatedly claimed during the Jesse James fallout that their company had been collaborating with humane officers for the three years prior, inviting them on set whenever animals were used. Other studios had also asked for supervision, but since horses were still regularly thrown to the ground during action sequences (and this was perfectly visible to anyone who watched the completed motion picture), clearly something was amiss. The problem, as the AHA saw it, was that these studios had not invited humane society representatives so much as it had hired them, thus making them employees of the studios. Additionally, the ease with which one could charter a humane society in California—to do so required only the signatures of five individuals and a fee of $35—meant that “five stable hands, or hair dressers, of any movie company could form a society to give certificates that their studio’s picture was free from cruelty to animals.” 17 Thus, the NHR began discussing societies it had never mentioned before, such as the Motion Picture S.P.C.A., which Craven reported had (along with the Los Angeles-based Humane Education League) “voiced approval of The American Humane Association in sending its own man to California to handle the motion picture situation as it involves the use of animals and pledged full support.” 18 The humane officer-by-hire system was a failure for two reasons, according to the AHA: one, because studios were paying directly for services, meaning that the humane officers were 193 inherently biased towards their employers as they did not want to be fired, and two, “because it overlooked the fact that there was an international viewpoint calling for international interpretation.” 19 Virginia City (Warner Bros., dir. Michael Curtiz, 1940) was cited as a recent example of failure. The AHA claimed to have proof that horses had been injured during filming, though the production had been given “a clean bill of health by a humane officer furnished by a California society and paid by the producing company.” 20 Clearly there was some kind of discrepancy at work. “The American Humane Association alone is qualified to speak for the movement as a whole,” wrote the NHR, further noting that the State Humane Society of Washington had recently told Will Hays it would accept only the word of AHA officers on film- related matters, and that this was “the attitude of humane organizations generally.” 21 The AHA’s push to have both studios and the public at large recognize that it was the only humane organization reliable and impartial enough to be entrusted with overseeing the welfare of movie animals, and capable of doing so to international (read: British) standards was certainly a power play, but as the case of Virginia City illustrates, it was also a justified one. Virginia City and the Running W Virginia City was not an easy or pleasant production. Though set in Nevada at the end of the very end of the Civil War, most of the picture was made in Arizona. The story had Errol Flynn as Kerry Bradford, a Union spy attempting to thwart Rebel agents Vance Irby (Randolph Scott) and Julia Hayne (Miriam Hopkins) from delivering a large quantity of gold to Jefferson Davis, a task complicated by Bradford and Hayne’s love affair as well as by a gang of bandits, led by the notorious John Murrell (a mustachioed and accented Humphrey Bogart, in a somewhat inexplicable bit of casting). Knowing the war is essentially over, after Bradford helps Irby and 194 Hayne to protect the Confederate gold from Murrell’s band, he allows the gold to return to the South, that it may aid in Reconstruction. Bradford is subsequently tried and convicted by a military tribunal, and sentenced to death. Hayne intervenes with a direct appeal to President Lincoln, who appears in shadowy profile to pardon Bradford in the spirit of American unity. The story was not particularly complicated, but Curtiz and company had left for Arizona without a finished script, and unsurprisingly, the production ran over time and over budget. From his offices in Burbank, Hal Wallis fought constantly with the other producers and with Curtiz. Things were so bad that at one point, Errol Flynn wired Wallis to complain that it was “quite impossible to proceed with this picture without the middle of the script,” asking if Wallis refused to send it because he thought Flynn was the Gestapo. 22 (Wallis responded in kind, addressing his telegram to “Heinrich Himmler Flynn.” 23 ) Despite this, Virginia City opened to generally positive reviews (one detractor was Bosley Crowther, who complained that it was a “two-hour Blitzkrieg upon the human nerves”); the film performed well enough in theaters that Motion Picture Herald named it a Box Office Champion for March 1940. 24 Despite his hands-on approach, Wallis does not seem to have been particularly on top of Virginia City. Aside from the script problems, he was behind on some production matters. The Hays office, which was on top of things, strongly suggested that Warner Bros. have a humane society representative on set for the action sequences, all of which involved horses. “Be sure that this is done,” ordered Wallis; by the time he had done so, a humane officer was already in Arizona. 25 This was William R. Everitt of the Burbank Humane Society, who arrived in Flagstaff on November 3, 1939, not long after the secretary of the local humane society had complained to the town sheriff that she had been warned of “unnecessary cruelty to and killing of horses during production.” 26 There is no evidence in the production files to back up that particular claim. But 195 considering the shots included in the finished film, as well as who was in Arizona, the rumor was probably not without some merit. Practically the whole team from The Charge of the Light Brigade, including production manager Frank Mattison and location manager William Guthrie, had gone to Flagstaff. Perhaps because there was no major charge sequence to stage, Breezy Eason did not make the trip—but stuntman Cliff Lyons, who had ridden the horses over the cliff for Jesse James, did. Joining him on the stunt team was Yakima Canutt, inventor of the slightly safer breakaway Running W that even he admitted still soured horses, and Ben Corbett. 27 Among the other riders listed was an “Artie Ortego,” probably the same Rate Otsego/Arte Ortega who had been found guilty in the Light Brigade cruelty case. 28 Most of the horses were provided by Clyde Hudkins, who had owned several of the animals that perished during the Light Brigade second unit shoot—although Errol Flynn seems to have brought his own mount, charging Warner Bros. $35 per day for the privilege of renting it from him. 29 While on location in Arizona, Everitt wrote weekly reports to Nelle Holbrook, who was then the president of the State Humane Society of California. The first week of his oversight went smoothly. Two horses suffered very minor injuries (one skinned its hip and one was kicked by another horse) in transit to the location, but these were genuine accidents. A third was treated by a veterinarian for a mouth infection. Overall, Everitt’s only remark was that there was “plenty of cooperation from all involved.” 30 He dined with Guthrie one night, and Guthrie (who had apparently learned his lesson) said that “he didn’t want any pitfalls or ‘Running W’s’ or any harm come to any animal…I have found more cooperation than ever at any time I have been with the company.” 31 But Guthrie was not directing. Curtiz and second unit director Noel Smith were, and on some days, both units used horses; Everitt could not possibly have overseen every instance in which the animals were used. Even if he had, he was disinclined to stop anything 196 potentially abusive, such as running Ws. In fact, Nelle Holbrook had given Everitt explicit permission to supervise the use of “mechanical devices with falling horses,” so long as they were ridden by Corbett, Lyons, or Canutt; this was, the studio believed, the first time a permit for Running Ws had been issued by a humane society, and since it also believed that Nelle Holbrook was “the president and chief of all humane work in the state of California; and all humane work for pictures in the United States,” everyone must have thought they were in the clear. 32 The middle and end of November proved quite tumultuous for Virginia City’s equines. On November 17 th , a horse named Parker was sent down a 50-foot slide down a hill with Canutt in the saddle. 33 There was no injury suffered, according to Everitt. On the 19 th , Canutt did a running W shot for the second unit, while the first unit employed two trained falling horses. On the 20 th , Canutt repeated his 50-foot hill slide. This time, the horse lost its footing about twenty feet from the bottom of the hill, fell, and rolled the rest of the way down. Everitt said no harm had been done to the animal, and the shot was included in the finished film. November 21 st saw both units at the same location; although the two trained falling horses were back, there were also three repeats of a two-horse running W stunt. “No harm done to any horse,” Everitt reported. “Conditions were very good. Falls were done in very deep sand and horses were very small Indian ponies.” That no harm had come to any horses was confirmed by a local veterinarian, who said it had been a pleasure to be associated with Everitt and Warner Bros., and that he found the handling of stock to be “above average.” 34 Canutt and Lyons rounded out the Arizona shoot with a few more running Ws, including one on a trained falling horse, and some rider falls. Though the running Ws and hill slides had apparently come off without incident, on November 22 nd , eight horses died in a train accident (seven from the accident itself, with the 197 eighth destroyed due to injury). 35 The horses that did make it back to Los Angeles were inspected by Everitt at Clyde Hudkins’ ranch, and all were pronounced okay. 36 In December, there was some debate as to whether additional shots might convincingly be filmed at the Lasky Mesa ranch. It was decided that they could not be, and so Curtiz and company departed for Victorville, California to take scenes that included more running Ws and a breakaway wagon stunt. Everitt again accompanied and reported only one injury; this occurred when a horse somehow got its leg stuck between the fender and bumper of an automobile and received a two-inch-long cut on the leg. 37 The humane officer’s work wrapped up on January 3 rd , 1940, and he subsequently wrote a letter to Warner Bros. certifying that he had seen no “undue cruelty to the animals and poultry that were used in the making of your picture,” despite the 17 running Ws and three slide shots that had been done. 38 “One shot looked very bad,” Everitt wrote, but “I can assure you that this horse was not injured in any way,” and he thereby authorized the inclusion of “all shots and scenes” at which he was present. 39 Nelle Holbrook added a note that she had checked the daily reports and “approved the issuing of this permit that there was no undue cruelty.” 40 Everitt’s certification circled through the Warner Bros. offices for a while, and was eventually sent to London, presumably to placate the British Board of Film Censors. 41 When the Production Code Administration sent over the film’s MPPDA certificate, it did so with a postscript that the approval was “based upon the action set forth in the affidavit…that there was no cruel treatment of the animals shown in this picture.” 42 Frank Mattison peremptorily advised the Publicity Department not to release any stills that showed “a horse in the air falling, rolling down the cliff or at the end of a running W.” Clearly, Mattison had at least learned a valuable lesson, even if Curtiz had not: “I only mention this because of the bitter memory connected with the ‘CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE,’” he wrote, “and 198 such photographs taken on that picture which caused us a great deal of trouble afterwards. Please remember that we are still under the close eye of the Humane Society who have not entire [sic] forgotten us for the ‘CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.’” 43 By today’s standards, the Running W seems undeniably cruel. But as Virginia City demonstrates, in 1940, there were still individuals who argued that the Running W was not necessarily cruel so long as the falling horses were not actually injured by it. On top of this, some of these individuals were California-accredited humane officers and were verifying, for the sake of foreign censor boards, that “undue” cruelty had not been used. This was a very large part of the reason that the humane-officer-for-hire system unofficially in effect since 1936 had proven unsatisfactory to the American Humane Association and, indeed, most of the humane movement. Running Ws were still being used quite frequently, in westerns, historical war pictures, and any other scenario in which a falling horse might be thought to be a desirable sort of spectacle. Craven was personally and professionally disgusted by the “abominable contraption,” as he ought to have been, and set about trying to get it permanently banned. 44 According to Craven: When I arrived in California I discussed [Running Ws] and other animal phases with humane officers who had worked on picture supervision. Almost without exception they stared they were unable to find actual cruelty in the use of the Running W, and they could find no law forbidding it. Some did not like it, but what were they to do if a horse could get up immediately after being thrown and go about his business? Craven was perfectly willing to concede, by this point, that contrary to what humanitarians had argued for years, implied cruelty in the movies was not necessarily wrong. He pointed to trained falling horses and the use of dummies for dead animals as examples of movie magic that were perfectly acceptable, and that viewers would have to accept as harmless. But there was no defending the Running W. In this, Craven was certainly not alone: in addition to anonymous 199 “motion picture people” and “horse handlers” who informed him that injuries from Running Ws often took several days to manifest, and that many people believed “Injury or no injury, it is not fair to the horse,” he had the support of the “greatest horseman the movies ever had.” This was, of course, William S. Hart. Hart told Craven that he considered the Running W “the most wickedly vicious” of any of “the instruments of torture and death—ever devised to torture and kill in the making of motion pictures.” Despite Hart’s tendency towards dramatic language (it might be remembered that in 1925, he had sworn to Fred Beetson et al that he would kill any person he found being cruel to his animals), in this instance he was probably not wrong. Nothing would demonstrate Craven and the AHA’s authority as sole arbiter of animal pictures so much as the total elimination of the long-maligned device from all MPPDA productions. In April 1940, Craven visited a movie set (he declined to name the production) to see the Running W in action for himself. The ground, he noted, was impeccably groomed and manicured to make the horse’s landing as soft as possible. Once production assistants began to wire up the horse, the animal became anxious. “It was only put on when he had to be thrown, so he knew,” wrote Craven. “He was nervous, full of fear. It was not easy to hold him while he was being fixed.” After the device was attached and the unfortunate animal had been thrown for the cameras, Craven examined him. The horse did not seem to have been injured, aside from a small superficial wound. There was no bruising. But “all afternoon he was nervous, very nervous,” Craven said. “He had had a bad shock […] Dirt was in his teeth. There can be suffering without bruises, and that horse had suffered.” About a week later, Craven watched the same horse rigged up for another Running W shot. This time, the horse broke a foreleg in the fall, and “within thirty seconds a bullet put him out of his suffering.” The lead wrangler on the film cried, according to Craven, and everyone’s lunch was spoiled. Two days later, Craven watched the Running W in 200 action for a third time; this horse’s neck snapped in its fall, and the animal died instantly. “The general attitude was of men ashamed of their job,” wrote Craven. “[The Running W] is a brutal, despicable thing.” His published report in the NHR was accompanied by a large photograph of a horse, probably the sorrel mentioned, flat on its side with a broken leg and the Running W cuffs and wire still attached. “The horse was shot by a representative of the Association,” said the caption. There are no reliable records for how many horses were outfitted with Running Ws over the decades it was used, or for how many animals suffered severe injury or death from the device. If Craven and the attending veterinarian on The Charge of the Light Brigade are credible sources (and it is difficult to imagine that they were not), then such incidents would have occurred approximately two to three times in every production using a large number of horses. Since 17 Running Ws were employed on Virginia City without severe consequences, and since surely if two to three horses were injured or killed in nearly every production, owners would at some point have stopped renting them out, or spoken out more strongly against the device, Light Brigade and the production Craven saw may have been more the exception than the rule. But when the sheer number of Westerns, historical war films, and so forth made up through 1940 is considered, the overall casualties must have been astonishing. It would be easy to see the AHA’s insistence that it was the only organization capable of overseeing Hollywood as inflated self- importance, and to some extent it probably was. But given that accredited humane officers were certifying productions that had used Running Ws were free of cruelty, then it was fortunate indeed that Richard Craven showed up in Hollywood when he did. On this matter, he was incorruptible. William Everitt (the NHR did not identify him by name, only as the supervising officer on Virginia City) had also certified that the Republic film Dark Command was 201 responsible for no equine injuries though it had used seven Running Ws, two breakaway wagons, and a water jump; the certification had again been further endorsed by Nelle Holbrook. 45 Early in May, Craven convinced Holbrook and the other directors of the State Humane Society of California to sign a resolution “emphatically” condemning use of the Running W, though he did not state exactly what steps he had had to take in order to procure this resolution. 46 “In view of the factual evidence, it is useless for motion picture producers to state that the lightning falls of horses in motion pictures are always made without injury to the animals,” concluded the NHR. 47 Craven would spend the rest of the summer and fall rallying support for a Running W ban. He interviewed various studio executives; these men remained anonymous, but agreed with Craven that the Running W was cruel and unnecessary. One called the device “terrible for the horses,” another said that his company would not use Running Ws so as to avoid potential censorship or rejection in Britain, and a third noted that not only was the device cruel, it was “technically incorrect” since the tripped horses were supposed to look dead, but would often immediately stand up and exit the scene; on top of that, he said that “even if it were possible to shoot a galloping horse through the heart at that distance [100 yards] he would not drop in anything like the same manner as with the Running W.” 48 Additional statements of support were given from anonymous bit players and suppliers of horses, as well as director Wesley Ruggles. 49 Ruggles was then at work on the western Arizona for Columbia, and stated that no film of his would use a Running W or engage in any other form of animal cruelty; Craven commended Ruggles and gave Columbia “special praise” because the studio would not use Running Ws even in its Westerns. 50 By August of 1940, studios had begun to come around to the idea of collaboration with the American Humane Association. A handful had pledged to stop the use of Running Ws and 202 pitfalls; these included majors MGM, Universal, and Columbia, Poverty Row’s Monogram, and the independent Harry Sherman Productions, which like Monogram specialized in B westerns. Craven would not relent on the issue of the Running W or other practices “objectionable to the humane movement,” but he was also insistent that members of the humane movement “be fair toward all persons and companies engaged in the production of pictures,” because he wanted studios “to feel that we are not unreasonable or fanatical.” 51 (Later, Craven would claim that the Running W had effectively died in September of 1940.) He was careful to point out that in general, animals employed by the industry were treated well, and that he himself had witnessed kindness and sound treatment on locations, in transit to locations, and at various ranches where movie horses were kept. When a film came along that seemed to do right by its animals, Craven was quick to lavish praise upon it. The aforementioned Arizona was one, and not just because it was made without Running Ws. Approximately 150 dogs were obtained from a local pound to provide background for the film, and star Jean Arthur took it upon herself to see that they were well taken care of. She paid for food and veterinary care, brought sixteen of them to live with her while she was on location, and when the shooting was nearly complete, decided to host “Arizona’s first mutt show,” renting out a hotel for the occasion. 52 Six hundred children sent in applications to adopt the dogs (with their parents’ approval), and after all the mutts had been judged by local kennel club members under Arthur’s supervision, the dogs were distributed to lucky juvenile winners. Arthur sent each canine to its new home with a three-year license, a new leash, “and an ample supply of dog food.” 53 Another production worthy of merit was MGM’s Florian (dir. Edwin L. Marin, 1940), a story about the famous Lipizzaner stallions of the Spanish Riding School in Vienna, Austria. Florian was based on a book by Felix Salten, also the author 203 of Bambi and therefore a favorite of animal lovers everywhere; when the picture was complete, MGM held a special screening for humanitarians at their studios, and Craven, expressing his gratitude toward the studio for making this film, told NHR readers that they must see Florian for themselves. 54 The question of whether screen brutalities could be portrayed without actual harm to animals (and, one surmises, without encouraging mimetic behavior) was settled, for Craven at least, with a short film produced by MGM late in 1940. The Great Meddler (dir. Fred Zinneman) told the story of ASPCA founder Henry Bergh; 1941 marked the organization’s seventy-fifth anniversary. MGM made the short in cooperation with the AHA, and Craven personally supervised “every day, every minute” during which animals were used. 55 He judged the production process and the finished film to be rousing successes: there was enough consideration and tenderness shown toward animals for him to believe that it would be “easy to have formed an M-G-M humane society on the lot,” and he attended a preview screening at the Fox-Wilshire at which, he said, only one out of more than 200 response cards did not give a positive response to the short. 56 But films such as these were still considered exceptions. The most effective way for Craven to ensure they became the norm would be through an agreement with the MPPDA. The success of the Production Code Administration had proved that studios—with the aid of Joseph Breen and his assistants, of course—were capable of self-regulation. Craven saw no reason that the principles of the Production Code could not be adapted in order to standardize and regulate the treatment of animals. Such an animal code would, he noted, be “in the interests of all the producers,” if—and only if—adherence to it was supervised by the American Humane Association. 57 “In that event all the studios would be governed by the same rules and there 204 would be no discrimination,” Craven wrote in September. “Moreover the producers would have a complete answer to complaints if they recognized The Association as the arbiter in these matters. The chief cause of suspicion would no longer exist.” In effect, Craven wanted to become the Joseph Breen of the humane movement, recognized by Hays and the MPPDA-affiliated studios as the final word of authority. In return, he would provide assurance to other humane associations, foreign censor boards, and the general public that despite what they might think they had seen on screen, no animals had been harmed during production. It did not take Craven long to achieve this goal. While it seemed he might have been close to accomplishing it anyway, a possible final straw for Will Hays was provided by none other than William Randolph Hearst, who in November of 1940 published an editorial decrying the cruel treatment of animals in motion pictures in all of his newspapers. AHA president Sydney Coleman quickly responded, praising Hearst for throwing “the full force of your powerful press behind an effort to eliminate an abuse that was abhorrent to a large percentage of the movie- going public” and informing him that “the whole matter could be quickly solved” if the MPPDA would agree that its member studios be required to consult with and allow supervision by AHA representatives (and no other humane association). 58 Exactly what Will Hays thought about Hearst’s editorial was unclear, but when he visited Los Angeles at the end of the month, he met with Craven, Douglas DeCoster (who was a vice president of the State Humane Association of California), Joseph Breen, and Fred Beetson. Craven would describe this meeting as an “agreeable conference,” at which “every angle of the situation” was discussed, including the MPPDA anticruelty resolutions of 1925. 59 The matter was then brought up at an AMPP directors’ meeting on December 3 rd . At this meeting, the AMPP acquiesced to Craven’s proposed plan and the Running W was officially disallowed. The resolutions in full read: 205 1. Hereafter, in the production of motion pictures, there shall be no use by the members of the Association of the contrivance or apparatus in connection with animals which is known as the “Running W,” nor shall any picture submitted to the Production Code Administration be approved if reasonable grounds exist for believing that use of any similar device by the producer of such picture resulted in apparent cruelty to animals; and, 2. Hereafter, in the production of motion pictures by the members of the Association, such members shall, as to any picture involving the use of animals, invite on the lot during such shooting and consult with the authorized representatives of The American Humane Association; and, 3. Steps shall be taken immediately by the members of the Association and by the Production Code Administration to require compliance with these resolutions, which shall bear the same relationship to the sections of the Production Code quoted herein as the Association’s special regulation Re Crime in Motion Pictures bear to the sections of the Production Code dealing therewith. 60 On December 27 th , the Production Code was amended to include these resolutions as a section titled “Special Regulation on Cruelty to Animals,” which the MPPDA noted reaffirmed “previous resolutions of the California Association concerning brutality and possible gruesomeness, and apparent cruelty to animals.” 61 This meant that Craven and his staff had a guaranteed, official invitation to be present during shooting of all scenes involving animals. More importantly, it also meant that if an AHA representative witnessed cruelty to animals, or if they had any particular suspicion that horses had been tripped behind their backs, the film would not be given a seal by the Production Code Administration. The AHA would foot all costs, thus guaranteeing to everyone that they were a neutral party, not studio employees. “We are gratified,” reported the NHR in January 1941: These results have been obtained without vitriolic publicity or shouting from the housetops. They have been achieved in friendly conference with both sides freely expressing their views. The producers were themselves desirous of a settlement which would terminate differences of long standing, especially one which would bind all equally, as this does. 62 206 In February 1941, Craven spelled out the agreement at length for NHR readers. He summarized the three main causes of complaint as Running Ws, equine water jumps of the Jesse James variety, and staged animal combat, and guaranteed that none of these would be seen in the future. 63 Finally, completing the about-face that had been slowly underway since the 1910s—and more firmly allying himself with the beliefs and interests of the film industry—Craven argued that interference from government was not needed. “Every real advance in the treatment of animals since 1866 has been secured by private humane societies, or at their insistence, not by public authorities,” he wrote. “There is no need of any new law, especially such as would brand every motion picture company a potential criminal to be shadowed hither and yon, night and day.” 64 Craven, and the staff he would hire, would do the job just fine. At long last, the humane movement had some measure of power at the level of production. “The game of make-believe” As demonstrated by his praise of Arizona, Florian, and various other films (many of which were Gene Autry flicks), Craven had begun to emphasize Hollywood’s positive attributes in print even before he succeeded in securing the AHA’s affiliation with the MPPDA. This was important, as it demonstrated his willingness to work with the industry and give it credit where credit was due. Perhaps in part to further cement its ties with Hollywood, the AHA scheduled its 1941 annual convention to be held in Los Angeles that October, with actor Jean Hersholt promising to take part. 65 Craven invited everyone to come and see the movie animals for themselves; the firms that supplied these animals to the pictures wanted to show off their menageries. He also wanted everyone to meet young Jane Withers, and said he was personally inviting another actress, “a most glamorous decorous creature named the Duchess.” 66 The 207 Duchess was an elephant. Unfortunately, she did not get to show her glamour to the humane movement at large; the 1941 conference was eventually canceled due to the general unrest of World War II. While a large part of Craven’s job as the humane movement’s Joe Breen was to protect animals from abuse by filmmakers, another large part was to protect the studios from allegations of abuse by the general public. This was another task he had begun prior to the AMPP meeting in December. To an extent, it involved explaining movie magic. Throughout 1940, Craven informed readers of various “tricks” Hollywood used, and since the majority of recent concerns had been regarding horses, most of the insider’s knowledge he shared had to do with horses as well. These tidbits included detailed descriptions of how horses could be trained to fall from a gallop on command, without injury or fear; the use of balsa wood to make fences through which cattle could easily stampede; “lie-down” horses that would do just that, and stay down until signaled; and manufactured dummies that would play the part of dead horses onscreen. “You can no more object to them than to the hobby horse given to Junior at Christmas,” Craven wrote in September 1940; the NHR ran an accompanying picture of Craven himself on a film set, seated comfortably on a dummy horse’s haunches. 67 While it was easy to explain that dummy horses were entirely harmless, explaining some of the other tricks would prove a bit more difficult. NHR readers had to be reeducated; they now needed to assume that what looked like cruelty onscreen was in fact not. This was but one of the longstanding humane viewpoints that would have to change if collaboration with the industry was to prove fruitful. Thus, Craven explained that trained movie horses were not like other horses: “In a certain sense, they have learned the business,” he said, and were therefore not alarmed by occurrences that might spook ordinary equines, such as nearby gunfire. “They know it’s the game of make-believe.” 68 Finally, Craven 208 acknowledged that whenever animals were used, there was the possibility of accident regardless of precautions taken, though reducing such accidents was obviously one of the Western Regional Unit’s goals. He mentioned a recent production he had supervised, during which four horses were mildly injured in a two-day stretch: one had been kicked by a second horse, one tripped in a gopher hole, one suffered a rope burn, and the fourth kicked a whiffletree. 69 There was still some dissension with Hollywood, when the occasion called for it. Reservations were expressed about Twentieth Century-Fox’s plans to remake an old Rudolph Valentino film, Blood and Sand, into a new color spectacular featuring Tyrone Power, even if director Rouben Mamoulian did not slaughter any bulls onscreen: There is grave danger that…the appeal of the colorful pageantry accompanying the spectacle, the skill of the matador in avoiding the rushing animal and the excitement that always accompanies an act surrounded by danger will arouse an interest in the populace…It is our earnest belief that bullfighting has no more right on the screen than it has in an arena. 70 Craven had more or less promised that the AHA would not censor content, however, and the AHA allowed Blood and Sand to proceed without making any more of a fuss about it. A few months later, a casual aside in one of Craven’s columns assured readers a circulating rumor that Mexican bulls had been imported for the film was untrue; the bull, he said, was a dummy mounted on a bicycle wheel. 71 The finished film definitely contained live bulls, but this was never acknowledged by the AHA. Perhaps it was felt that continuing to complain would be detrimental to relations with Twentieth Century-Fox, particularly in light of the fact that even implied on-screen brutality was minimal, and the sport was not particularly glorified. The trend of printing gossip rag-like items about Hollywood stars and their pets continued into the 1940s. 72 Jane Withers was pictured with some of her animal friends. 73 And an 209 excerpt from George Arliss’s recent memoir was reprinted; it explained the actor’s distaste for the inclusion of animals in films unless strictly necessary to the plot, since it was all too easy to treat the beasts cruelly while they suffered in silence, unable to voice their complaints to directors. 74 In his May 1941 column, Craven did not mention film at all, focusing on other humane issues. 75 But he wrote an additional article that month that praised Hollywood’s horses, including Tom Mix’s Tony, Hopalong Cassidy’s Topper, Gene Autry’s Champion, and finally Dice, a pinto stallion co-starring under Jean Arthur in the oft-mentioned Arizona. “When we talk of movie stars it is generally believed we talk of humans, but the animal stars are none the less important, in fact they are the indispensables of many pictures,” he concluded. 76 Soon enough, Craven had become a sort of gossip columnist for the animal stars, relating humorous anecdotes: for example, Jimmy Durante had cracked wise on the set of Melody Ranch (Republic, dir. Joseph Santley, 1940), complaining that while the human actors were forced to stand outside and sweat in the brutal California sun, Autry’s mount Champion had been given a cool dressing room. 77 The studios encouraged and collaborated these reports by providing endless publicity shots of animal actors on set and behind the scenes to accompany these articles, which often covered lesser-known beasts. Craven’s favorite movie star (human or nonhuman) was Duchess the elephant, but he also became enamored with Jimmy, a raven that had appeared in over two hundred films. 78 When Paramount signed a chimpanzee to a five-year contract, Craven assured readers that he was personally acquainted with both the chimp and his owner, and the animal had already established himself as a worthy screen presence. After his owner signed the official contract, Paramount staged a photo opportunity so that the chimp (wearing glasses) could “look over” the document and sign it for himself. “Whether he actually understood it or not is immaterial,” said Craven, “but he looked as though he did, and Dorothy 210 Lamour, with whom he works in [Malaya], and to whom he has become deeply attached, was there to give him encouragement.” 79 Positioning animal actors as movie stars rather than living props encouraged readers to identify and connect with, and to support, the animals. More importantly, it helped Craven to reinforce his claims that Hollywood was no longer cruel to animals. A specially trained animal, one that was a star, would not, could not be mistreated, because it would be too expensive to replace. The logic was certainly not new; Fred Beetson of the Association of Motion Picture Producers had been using it since the mid-1920s. The logic was also shakier than it might have otherwise appeared, because animal characters were often portrayed by more than one animal actor. This applied even to the extraordinarily famous animals, such as Roy Rogers’ Trigger and Gene Autry’s Champion. 80 Occasionally Craven would acknowledge the use of doubles, but this was generally in the context of background horses, which were often swapped out between takes to prevent overwork or fatigue. There was soon a pattern to Craven’s monthly articles. He still occasionally wrote about humane issues outside of film, but nowhere near as often or as extensively as he had done when he first arrived in Los Angeles. 81 Typically, he would begin by sharing some sort of insider knowledge about animal celebrities, such as the long-term chimp contract with Paramount. He would reassure readers that stunts such as cattle crashing through fences, horse falls, and so forth were now achieved safely through a combination of trick photography, specially made props, and trained animals who knew their jobs and were not traumatized by them. He would also admonish those who still believed cruelty existed in the movies—though all complaints were still investigated, as in the case of a woman in Los Angeles who called to report that she could hear a horse “screaming” at a studio close to her home. Craven arrived at the studio and found a trick stallion irritated that well-meaning studio employees kept attempting to pet him. “No cruelty,” 211 said Craven, adding that he imagined the stallion was “concerned about the glamorous lady dapple-gray who was one of the other four horses” on the set that day. 82 Occasionally, too, pieces were published that seemed to have been cut-and-pasted from studio publicity departments; in the early 1940s, these generally took the form of publicity stills with extended captions. 83 Despite Craven’s monthly reports that cruelty had been eliminated from the movies, rumors that this was not so continued to surface. Many of them came from sources other than humane-minded individuals. In 1943, an unnamed gossip columnist had claimed that a well- known male actor had turned down a role because the script called for him to hit a dog. Craven subsequently wrote a two-page article with the rather unsubtle title “Protection of Movie Animals Guaranteed by Precautions and Agencies So Numerous that an Act of Cruelty is Practically Impossible,” in which he debunked all the fallacies contained within the gossip columnist’s anecdote. All scripts had to be submitted to the Production Code Administration, which would advise the removal of such a scene because animal abuse was “directly contrary to the Code”; if the scene had been left in the script, an AHA representative would be on set to prevent the shot from actually being taken; and, if all else failed and somehow a picture was completed in which someone was depicted abusing a dog, the finished film would not receive a PCA seal. 84 Even stock footage was inspected, and removed if necessary, as in a recent picture that had incorporated stock shots of calves being branded. Cattle branding was commonly done on ranches, Craven noted, and not at all illegal, but it was against the Code and had thus been removed from the film. 85 Finally, he observed that he was not responsible for any exaggerated publicity pieces about animals concocted by newspapers or radio hosts. Hollywood made it through the first year of full AHA supervision, 1941, without a single equine death or even grievous injury. 86 Craven was now asserting that horses were safer making 212 pictures than they were in almost any other line of work; now that none of them were being deliberately tripped, he was probably correct. “The right of the industry to make use of animals is unquestionable,” he said in his address at the 1942 national convention, during which he assured attendees that he had “no complaint against the Hays Office” 87 : Its officers have lived, and are living up to the terms of the compact […] The life of the horse…in motion picture production is much happier than the life of the horse in common use, a hundred times preferable to the life of the horse on the bridle path, or the race tracks. Injuries are rare and of minor character. There is no overwork because of the extensive preparations that must be made for every shot […] Remember, too, that motion picture animals are vastly different in schooling and disposition from average of similar species. They are chosen for their ready and easy adaptability, their general calm. One animal going hay-wire in a scene could cost the studio loss of time and money and, if not replaced, could nullify entire scenes. 88 In addition to the increased safety of movie work, it seemed that to some extent, situations that might prove difficult to shoot humanely were falling out of favor. Background and stunt riders were asked to forego spurs and whips unless they were absolutely required for the character’s costume, and cowboy stars such as Roy Rogers and Gene Autry regularly incorporated dialogue encouraging kindness to animals into their pictures. 89 Rodeo acts in movies were on the way out, Craven reported, in part because the British did not like them. This was not to suggest that the British did not have their own cruelties. “We must not overlook the fact that the Grand National steeplechase, with its broken legs and necks, is permitted in England and regarded here as much worse than anything that is done in rodeos,” he wrote. 90 (This statement turned out to be slightly ironic, as within the next few years, he would be overseeing a recreation of the Grand National for MGM’s National Velvet and thus had to insist that the steeplechase was not inherently cruel.) In short, the movies had cleaned up quickly, and Craven’s opinion of Hollywood (or at least his published opinion of Hollywood) improved immensely as the years went on. It is not an 213 exaggeration to say that by the mid-1940s, he was telling NHR readers precisely what industry folks had told Fred Beetson and his investigatory committee twenty years previously, during the American Animal Defense League scandal: Hollywood was full of animal lovers. “Any idea that Hollywood is a den of iniquitous brutality to animals can be brushed aside as unfair and not true,” he wrote in 1944. “Individually those who are employed in this industry own more domestic pets, in proportion to their numbers, than any other group in the community.” 91 Western star Johnny Mack Brown had rescued stranded cattle in Topanga Canyon during a flood the previous year. 92 When workers at Republic Studios found a litter of abandoned baby skunks, they sent for animal wrangler Curley Twiford (owner and trainer of Craven’s favorite bird, Jimmy the Raven), who found them a cat for a foster mother. 93 Movie people were thus superior to ordinary Los Angeles folks. Ordinary Los Angeles folks had recently rounded up a posse to shoot and kill a cougar reported to be terrorizing the chickens of Beverly Glen Canyon, though their hunt, described rather humorously by Craven, was unsuccessful. 94 Improving conditions: They Died with Their Boots On Yet another Warner Bros. historical war picture starring Errol Flynn, the highly fictionalized George Armstrong Custer biopic They Died with Their Boots On (1941) provides a useful illustration of changing working conditions for animal actors early in Craven’s tenure. Raoul Walsh was at the helm this time, rather than Michael Curtiz, but Breezy Eason was back as an uncredited second unit director, and Olivia deHavilland returned as Flynn’s love interest. Like Light Brigade, a significant part of the film’s outdoor scenes were taken at Lasky Mesa. These factors, combined with another plot culminating in Flynn’s self-sacrifice for the good of his army, make Boots at times seem rather like a rehash of Light Brigade (especially since either 214 the same or very similar Lasky Mesa rock outcroppings were featured). Also like Light Brigade, Boots contained a number of scenes of rough riding. Most of these were fairly typical cavalry charge sequences, though there were a few standalone stunts, such as Custer jumping his horse over a cannon at West Point. And, of course, the climax was a battle—Little Big Horn instead of Balaclava. But these scenes were approached and handled much differently than Light Brigade’s or even Virginia City’s, and with far greater consideration for the animals involved. As Jesse James’s preproduction history indicated, the Production Code Administration had been advising studios to employ humane officers before Craven arrived in Hollywood, let alone before it had amended the Code to prohibit animal cruelty. The PCA had initially rejected the script for Jesse James because it glorified a criminal. Boots was initially rejected as well, for much different reasons. One was excessive and unnecessary drunkenness, but the script was also deemed unacceptable because it contained “scenes suggestive of cruelty to animals, which could not be approved in the finished picture.” 95 Warner Bros. was directed to consult Craven so that he might furnish a certificate regarding a lack of cruelty, which would be important for the British release, though one can only imagine that by this point the studio did not need to be reminded about the British market. But now the PCA was going beyond firm reminders, stating in no uncertain terms that “you should bear in mind at all times that we cannot approve any scenes showing horses falling, nor scenes which suggest that animals have been mistreated in the making of the picture, quite aside from any certificate which Mr. Craven will give you.” 96 This was an enormous change from Breen’s repeated warnings that humane societies would get upset if Jesse James sent horses over cliffs, and illustrates precisely why the AHA was so eager for MPPDA affiliation. 215 The PCA reprimand was obviously sent through Warner Bros., because just a few days later, screenwriter Aeneas MacKenzie was protesting to producer Robert Fellows that he certainly had not intended for his script to be censored on such grounds: I wish to make a record of the fact that in writing this picture we deliberately avoided all situations which exposed a horse to injury other than through the normal risks of riding. There is nothing in our script which will not be found intact in the manual of cavalry training […] Custer’s leap over the gun is a trick shot. I repeat that there is no reason for injury to an animal in any portion of the script. The risks of polo or the hunting field far exceed anything here. 97 As will be discussed subsequently, MacKenzie’s justification for his action scenes—that polo and foxhunting were more dangerous than movie-making, and that horses in Boots would run “only the normal risks of riding”—presaged the logic that Richard Craven would later use when pictures made under his supervision seemed to go awry. (It would be some years before humanitarians put forth the radical notion that all riding might be considered abusive.) If Fellows had a response, it has not been preserved. There then ensued some measure of debate as to what kinds of spectacle might be appropriate. Most of the picture could probably do without falling horses, but the film’s climax—Little Big Horn—was precisely the kind of scene that would previously have been made with Running Ws and pit falls. Equine carnage specialist Breezy Eason was assigned to the picture before the script even got PCA approval. 98 Before shooting started, William Randolph Hearst had apparently gotten up in arms. What exactly he said or wrote was unclear, but it was alarming enough that Tenny Wright ordered Frank Mattison to make test shots of trained falling horses in the presence of humane officers, so that Raoul Walsh might himself take the footage to Hearst, though there is no evidence that this was done. 99 Once shooting had commenced, Walsh decided he did not want any falling horses in the picture, even trained ones. Apparently Jack 216 Warner found this unacceptable, because Mattison had to engineer a phone conversation between the men to straighten out the matter. 100 In September, Hal Wallis informed Walsh, Eason, Wright and Fellows that he intended to follow the Production Code amendment to the letter: I want it definitely understood that in shooting the battle stuff with the Indians and the cavalry, we do not use any so-called illegal devices; no wires, traps or anything else in order to get falls with horses. There is to be no cruelty with horses, and there should at all times be a representative of the Humane Society present. The only way in which we are to make shots of horses falling, is with the High School Horses. In other words, horses trained to fall without any device. 101 These instructions came just as Eason was shooting his part of the Little Big Horn sequence, which he did over four days in mid-September. 102 Daily production reports indicate he had at least 76 horses, 20 wranglers, and five stuntmen under his command, including Yakima Canutt and Cliff Lyons, but no humane officer was listed as present. The omission may have meant nothing, as humane officers were not listed on any of Walsh’s daily production reports either— although they definitely were present. Though by now Craven had additional humane supervisors under his employ, including two on this very production, he personally undertook to visit Lasky Mesa for at least part of Boots. Accompanying him was a visitor, Dr. W.A. Young, who was the managing director of the Anti-Cruelty Society of Chicago as well as a veterinarian. Young had a great deal of experience in the handling of horses in actual military camps, and was impressed by what he saw in General Custer’s fictional ones. After returning to Chicago, he wrote a letter of praise to Warner Bros. (which promptly sent copies of it to Geoffrey Sherlock at the PCA and Fred Beetson at the AMPP). “I saw plenty of evidence of consideration for the horses and extremely little that indicated the need for correction,” he told the company. “I can frankly say that Warner Brothers’ handling of their stock this day was less troublesome to the animals than the general use of 217 horses in any of the camps I have ever attended.” 103 Young also wrote an article for the NHR. It repeated parts of his letter to Warner Bros, but also gave NHR readers insider details that proved how things had changed: he and Craven were welcomed on the set; Warner Bros. had employed a veterinarian, who remained active throughout the day; Young personally examined some of the horses and stated that some of the rejected mounts “were better than most peddlers’ horses in the large cities.” 104 The production was still not entirely without incident. Someone, somewhere must have suspected some sort of cruelty, because Frank Mattison sent Craven a veterinary report regarding unspecified injuries to horses suffered during filming. The report (which was given before filming was completed) has not been preserved, but whatever information it contained was good enough to satisfy Craven, who told Mattison that it disproved all the rumors of cruelty, and that it was “most regrettable that your company should have been slandered under the guise of humane crusading.” 105 Perhaps this was the impetus for Young’s NHR article. Craven also wrote about Boots at some length, obviously in collaboration with the Warner Bros. studio, as the piece was accompanied by behind-the-scenes photographs of the footing at Lasky Mesa being specially prepared by heavy equipment so that it would be soft enough for the trained falling horses. 106 Craven credited Eason, not Walsh, as the director of the falling horse shots, and in watching the completed film, Eason’s touch is evident. The Battle of Little Big Horn bears more than a passing resemblance to Light Brigade’s Battle of Balaclava, though thankfully, far fewer horses fell down. Craven’s repeated insistence that no tripping devices had been used was probably necessary. A trained falling horse goes down at an angle, absorbing the blow with its hip or shoulder, and at least a couple of Boots’ falling horses appear to have fallen head over heels—the type of fall produced by the Running W. On Light Brigade, Eason had recorded the usage of 218 Running Ws. Here, if he had in fact snuck some on behind Craven’s back, he was smart enough not to write down that he had done it. A bigger problem for Warner Bros. was that, in what can only be described as a cruel irony, there were a number of injuries to humans. Two extras died from horse falls, though in both cases their mounts remained upright; these seem to have been genuinely perplexing accidents. According to Walsh, one of the men arrived to work so intoxicated that an assistant director had forbidden him to mount his horse; the extra had done so anyway, and fallen while trying to ride to the location, thus causing his death. A second extra, Jack Budlong, chose to unsheathe his saber during a scene, though none of the extras had been instructed to do so. The saber was apparently not a mere prop, but a weapon of some authenticity. When Budlong subsequently fell from his horse during the take, he managed to impale himself upon the saber, piercing several organs; he then developed peritonitis and died several days after the accident. His saddle and other equipment were found to be in good working order, and a jury returned a verdict of death by septicemia as a result of the wound, which they judged to be accidental; this exonerated Warner Bros. from any wrongdoing. 107 In addition, Warner Bros. had employed members of the Sioux Nation for the film; two of them were involved in a car accident while en route to a location, and though the studio was not responsible for the accident (an uninsured driver not involved with the film was), Warner Bros. nevertheless had to foot the men’s hospital bills until they were able to return to their home in North Dakota. 108 Raoul Walsh had to explain the extras’ deaths to William Randolph Hearst after the latter had obliquely criticized the production for them in his newspapers. “However, there’s one element that gives me great satisfaction, and I’m sure it will please you,” he wrote. “There was not a single horse injured in the picture. Only specially-trained trick horses were allowed to make 219 falls. Not pits or “running W’s” or wires were used, as have been used many times in the past […] No horse was hurt. I could control the horses but in two unfortunate instances, I couldn’t control the men.” 109 Hearst would later wire Jack Warner to say that he had now seen the film twice, and both he and Marion Davies thought it was “the greatest picture we had ever seen.” 110 Warner passed this praise on to Walsh. And when it began to concoct press stories to promote the film, Warner Bros.’ publicity department managed to have it both ways, simultaneously exploiting the excitement of real-life danger while reassuring audiences that the film was humane: Injuries to many of the riders were inevitable. Two ambulances, two doctors, four first-aid men and a nurse were always on the sidelines when these battle scenes were filmed. After the first day or two, inexpert riders were weeded out automatically. Percentage of injures decreased […] All of Hollywood’s stunt men worked throughout the battle scenes, some of them earning as much as $250 per day for spectacular falls from galloping horses. Highest paid were the riders of their own horses who had trained their mounts to fall, play dead as though shot. As a contrast to the riders, not one animal was so much as scratched during production. 111 The Adapted Animal The establishment of the Western Regional Office coincided with escalating tensions over World War II, in which America was soon to become involved. According to Thomas Schatz, the two most significant challenges facing Hollywood in 1940 and 1941 were the war and the antitrust suits that led to the Consent Decree of 1940 and, eventually, the Paramount Decision of 1948. 112 Studios responded by “scaling back on low-budget production and concentrating on high-end pictures geared for the first run market”; the concentration on big- budget films meant that preselling became an important strategy, which led to an increase in adaptations of popular novels. 113 Adaptation served the industry in the same way that it had done since the development of narrative films: the source text functioned as an intended guarantee of 220 cultural, critical, and ultimately financial success. Robert Sklar has identified the motivations for making such pictures as a split between financial success and cultural prestige, which carried over in a shift from adaptations of classic novels set in the past to adaptations of more recent bestsellers with contemporary settings. 114 For its part the AHA feared that the overall cutdown in productions during the war would fuel a resurgence in vaudeville, and subsequently, trained animal acts. “Even when there is no apparent cruelty it is surely not a natural existence for any of these animals and so many times the cruelty and fear in the training process leads to a miserable life,” the NHR opined, apparently oblivious to the fact that they had previously spent years arguing the same thing about movie animals, but were now regularly claiming that those animals were well treated and happy. 115 (Craven justified the apparent contradiction by arguing that since each film script called for different tricks, animals—and particularly wild animals—had to be enticed to perform, rather than trained by rote, as vaudeville animals were. 116 ) But what actually happened was that the recent bestsellers trend produced a cycle of animal narratives, generally coming-of-age stories in which a child or teenage protagonist learns valuable life lessons through his or her relationships with animals. These included Lassie Come- Home, National Velvet, My Friend Flicka, and The Yearling, and at least one adaptation of a classic, The Jungle Book. (There was also Disney’s animated Bambi in 1942, adapted from the Felix Salten novel. Craven adored Bambi, which he called “Disney’s greatest achievement,” and the AHA gave Walt Disney a gold medal and the title of “Happiness Crusader and Exponent of Humane Ideals” for his interpretation of the “sentiments of the world’s humanitarians.” 117 ) Craven was delighted by the cycle and seemed to take it almost as a personal triumph, as well he should have; in 1945, Colonel Jason S. Joy, then the director of public relations at Twentieth Century-Fox, told Sydney Coleman that while prior to Craven’s arrival, studios had been 221 “reluctant to use animals at all, his administration here has so encouraged us that many of the companies have made and are making many pictures dealing with animals.” 118 The narratives were just what humanitarians had always wanted out of Hollywood: wholesome, family-friendly stories about children and what they learned through loving, kind relationships with animals. With the Western Regional Office up and running, Craven could theoretically ensure that animals were not harmed during production, and assure NHR readers of this as well. Lassie Come-Home and the other films in the cycle would fit the bill nicely. “I see a definite trend towards a true appreciation of animals in pictures,” Craven wrote in the fall of 1942. “There is a genuine glamor in animals and the studios are just finding it out.” 119 The animal adaptations would eventually be the first films to bestow screen credit upon the AHA. In 1946, Twentieth Century-Fox even made a version of longtime humanitarian favorite Black Beauty (dir. Max Nosseck), though the only characteristics retained from Anna Sewell’s beloved novel were the title and an attractive black horse in the leading role. 120 The first of the major literary animal adaptions covered by the NHR was somewhat of an anomaly, since it was both an independent production and an adaptation of a classic rather than contemporary novel: Alexander Korda’s Jungle Book (1942), directed by Zoltan Korda and distributed by United Artists. Craven began teasing it months in advance of its release. The “jungle” was really in Los Angeles; he had taken W.A. Young to that set as well as the set of They Died with Their Boots On. 121 Craven assured readers that Jungle Book would not be a jungle film, or a “performing animal show,” but “rather the employment of Nature’s beautiful specimens in surroundings appropriate to them.” 122 (This was not strictly true, since the jungle was fake, but there were certainly less appropriate places in Southern California to place a herd of elephants than Sherwood Forest.) The same column also contained a note from Craven that 222 the upcoming Jungle Cavalcade (RKO, dir. William C. Ament, 1941) was not new footage, but had been compiled from previously existing films, including Bring ‘Em Back Alive. “So, if you don’t like it, don’t blame me,” Craven wrote. 123 Jungle Book, however, “could not have been made with more consideration for the animals […] The animals were not of the trained-to-do- tricks variety of time-past vaudeville, but animals for whom appropriate situations were developed.” 124 In the main, this meant that any clash or chase between species was accomplished through cross-cutting instead of confining the beasts to a small location and provoking them to fight. The two featured big cats, a tiger and a black panther, provided plenty of close-up snarls, but neither of them was forced to fight with the film’s elephants, monkeys, or snakes. (The film’s snakes, which speak a very hissy English, were clearly portrayed by puppets.) Craven did not attempt to conceal that there had been some difficulties with animals, but he did attempt to minimize what had happened: a minor elephant stampede occurred when his beloved Duchess became frightened by a small fire, and at one point some monkeys escaped, with one of the animals dying in what Craven said was “an accident that nobody could have foreseen and no precautions prevented,” though he did not give any details of said accident. 125 Craven’s articles were accompanied by various promotional stills supplied by Korda Films. Next up in the cycle was My Friend Flicka (Twentieth Century-Fox, dir. Harold D. Schuster, 1943), based on Mary O’Hara’s 1941 novel of the same name. Adapting the novel would present some difficulties, since the story called for such scenes as a horse dying in a trailer accident and Flicka herself laying injured in a stream. “Could such a story be made into a motion picture, using real horses and keeping them from hardship or abuse?” Craven asked rhetorically. “Nine out of ten who have read the book would say it could not be done without robbing the story, but 20 th Century-Fox was confident the resources of the studio were equal to the task.” 126 223 With the Western Regional Unit’s supervision, of course, they were, and Craven would make this clear even if it meant giving away exciting plot details: For everybody’s peace of mind let me assure you that there was no cruelty and no accident on this picture. Remember this, no matter what you may think you see on the screen. We were there all the time. You will see Flicka charge into barbed wire and hurt herself; actually she did nothing of the kind, there was no barbed wire and she did not hurt herself at any time. 127 This was backed up by the young Roddy McDowall, star of both Lassie Come Home and the Flicka series. “Let me assure you she was only acting,” he said: The fence was made of rubber and what looked like barbs could not hurt Flicka […] In the filming of motion pictures no grater care is taken to protect human actors than is devoted to animal actors […] An American Humane Association man is present on the set to advise on the proper handling of our four-footed friends. 128 Not all of Craven’s articles gave explicit information as to how the films had been made with no cruelty to animals. For My Friend Flicka’s sequel, Thunderhead, Son of Flicka (Twentieth Century-Fox, dir. Louis King, 1944), it was noted only in a sidebar that the AHA had been “present during every moment when animals were being used,” and that this was “the guarantee that there was no abuse of animals in the production.” 129 The article itself was a lengthy retelling of the plot. A later piece on the film would note that Thunderhead gave screen credit to the AHA for its oversight, “in phrasing that is a generous tribute to the Association’s staff in Hollywood.” 130 (In late 1946, Warner Bros. would become the first studio to give the AHA screen credit for “all pictures in which animals play an important part.” 131 ) Craven returned the favor by allowing the studio to retain some of its movie-making secrets: It would be possible to relate how these events were placed on film without injury or cruelty to any animal. This would be unfair to Twentieth Century-Fox who made the picture. Readers could have their curiosity 224 satisfied if they could come to Hollywood, if they could secure a contract to take part in pictures, in this type of picture, but in the face of these almost impossibilities they must concede that the movie industry is entitled to keep its own technical secrets and must be satisfied with the guarantee of The American Humane Association that its own officer oversaw all that happened and was in attendance during every moment of filming. 132 Most of his review of Lassie Come Home (MGM, dir. Fred M. Wilcox, 1943) was also devoted to recapitulating the plot, and what was left for the rest of it was more or less just praise for Lassie herself—or really himself, since as would soon become well known, the female Lassie had been portrayed by a male collie, Pal. 133 Curiously, Craven never separated the canine actor from the character, or even acknowledged that Lassie was not really the dog’s name, not even for subsequent films in the Lassie series. Given that part of his job was to help the public distinguish between movie fact and fiction, his seeming unwillingness to declare Lassie a character is somewhat baffling. He did acknowledge that Lassie was male when reporting on the preproduction of the next film in the series, Son of Lassie, in which Pal starred (as the title would indicate) as Lassie’s son Laddie. 134 Perhaps the lack of information on how Lassie Come Home had been made was a mistake, because some persisted in the belief that Lassie/Pal had been endangered during filming. This was misinformation that Craven needed to correct, and he did, although his explanation exonerated MGM of cruelty to Lassie himself more than it exonerated the studio of cruelty to dogs generally: A few imagined that Lassie was exhausted by apparently prolonged swimming, but the fact is the dog never swam more than a hundred feet at a time, and that Lassie’s double did part of the swimming. Another fear was that Lassie’s fight with the black dog must have been cruel; as a matter of fact, Lassie was not even in the scuffle. Lassie does not fight or squabble with other dogs. So another dog was substituted, one that is ready at all times for a fight, but no injury was possible because the dogs 225 wore invisible muzzles which permitted them to only partly open their mouths. 135 Certainly a muzzled dog fight was preferable to an unrestrained one, but was there no cruelty in muzzling two dogs and staging a fight between them? Craven seemed to think not. There was another small wave of accusations that Craven was ineffective, and that implied cruelty should be banned. By now, as should be clear, Craven had come to the conclusion that the best-loved animal stories all involved suffering, and that implied cruelty was necessary in order to accurately convey the story, and pointed out that longtime favorite Black Beauty would be impossible to film if the “appearance of suffering” was banned. 136 “The spirit of humanitarianism would be the loser if Lassie Come Home had never been made,” he concluded. 137 If Craven’s self-reported safety record was accurate—and for the most part, it probably was—in its first four years, the Western Regional Unit fulfilled its mission admirably. In response to a newspaper editorial that had claimed horses were still being tripped, thrown over cliffs, and ridden down overly steep banks, he said that since the AHA had begun supervising productions, only one horse had died during the making of a picture, and this was because it had run out of control and smashed headfirst into a tree. The script did not contain a runaway scene, he said, and the horse was not within camera range, “so it could not have been done for purposes of the picture.” 138 Not only had Running Ws been banned from use, it was now forbidden to include any previously shot footage of horse tripping. Horses were not permitted to be shown jumping into water, either; one director had filmed a two-foot drop into water, but the shot was not permitted in the film even though it was a “harmless bit of action.” 139 AHA president Sydney Coleman concurred, stating during his year-end summary that the Western Regional Unit had 226 “reached the point where there is a sincere effort on the part of all the producing companies to confer with the representatives of the Association before animal footage is made.” 140 The extent to which thorough preparation and rehearsal protected horses in potentially dangerous scenes would soon be heavily tested. As previously noted, Craven had once called England’s notoriously dangerous Grand National steeplechase cruel. 141 The trouble was, it was essential to the plot of Enid Bagnold’s 1935 novel National Velvet, which MGM was now determined to adapt. 142 The novel’s protagonist is the adolescent Velvet Brown, who acquires a horse (dubbed The Pie) that she believes is capable of winning the prestigious race. She trains the animal with the help of her father’s assistant, Mi, who had previously worked in racing stables. When a suitable jockey for the race cannot be found, Mi forges jockey’s papers, passing Velvet off as a non-English- speaking young man. She and the Pie win the race, but her true identity is discovered when she collapses from exhaustion after crossing the finish line. The pair are disqualified, though both Velvet and Mi feel they have accomplished what they set out to do. Velvet becomes a celebrity but rejects the attention, and goes back to her quiet life in the north of England. All existing footage of the actual Grand National was in black and white, and National Velvet was to be in Technicolor; MGM could have waited to film the next race in color, but this would have caused an unacceptable delay in release. 143 There was thus no way to get around recreating the steeplechase. Breen, back as the head of the Production Code Administration, obligingly warned Louis B. Mayer more than once that any scenes of steeplechases and falling horses would have to be made in consultation with Craven’s office, due to the “special regulation of the Board of Directors.” 144 Craven was obligingly called in, and director Clarence Brown took his crew north; what is now the Pebble Beach Golf Links stood in for rural England. 145 Elizabeth 227 Taylor had been cast as Velvet; at twelve years old, she was already a fairly accomplished equestrian, and she performed a great deal of the riding in the film. Although this involved jumping the horse over quite a lot of large obstacles, the ordinary riding seemed to go well enough, at least from the standpoint of the horse. Craven had no complaints about it. 146 But he did have complaints about the steeplechase sequence. The shooting script indicated throughout that horses would refuse jumps, and “possible spills” would be seen. 147 In mid-July, Craven wrote Joseph Breen a long letter stating all his concerns with what was going on. Brown had insisted on shooting the Grand National to make it look as much like the real thing as possible, which meant that the jumping obstacles were full height and width, or close to it. The most notorious obstacle on the Grand National course was (and still is) Becher’s Brook, a tall hedge with a wide water-filled ditch on the landing side; Mi Taylor (Mickey Rooney) repeatedly comments on the dangers of the jump throughout National Velvet. Such a jump is a fairly typical steeplechase obstacle, but the size and placement of Becher’s Brook make it particularly difficult to negotiate. According to the dimensions given by Craven, MGM’s recreation was smaller than the real thing; even so, the hedge was five feet tall and the ditch behind it four feet wide and four feet deep. 148 All the horses to be used in the scene had been in training prior to the arrival of Craven and another humane officer, Fred Wilson, and the crew assured Craven that each horse had successfully cleared the obstacle during these training sessions. Still feeling uneasy over the situation, Craven asked for a trial run. He and Wilson watched a single horse and rider negotiate the obstacle flawlessly, and “under the circumstances, though with some misgivings,” Craven “did not feel that [he] could object to the scene being attempted.” Wilson agreed, and filming of the scene commenced. 228 Jumping a single horse over a five-foot-high obstacle with a four-foot water-filled ditch on the landing side, while not easy, was at least straightforward. But in a steeplechase, many horses have to jump obstacles more or less simultaneously, and at high speeds. When “about fifteen horses” were sent out for the shot, difficulties arose. One animal refused the jump, swinging its body parallel to the obstacle so that it blocked others that were approaching, “with the result that two horses fell into the moat.” Fortunately, there were no substantial injuries to either horses or riders. But Craven’s opinion was that work on the sequence should not proceed, an opinion he claimed to share with “many persons employed on the picture,” who had apparently complained to local humane societies before Craven’s arrival. “It would be impossible to film a Grand National picture without spills and accidents,” he said, and he could not approve “any such scenes as the one in question.” Nevertheless, the scene was to be repeated. “In my opinion there is substantial risk of casualties,” he concluded. When he received Craven’s letter, Breen got right on the matter. He contacted Al Block, MGM’s in-house censor, at once, reading Craven’s entire letter over the phone and subsequently following up in print with a reminder that PCA approval was contingent on the American Humane Association’s certification. “This matter is important,” Breen wrote, “and I hope you can do something— pronto—about it.” 149 What Block did (pronto or not) is unknown, but National Velvet was a costly production that MGM would not have willingly withheld from release. Craven was unable to keep the Grand National out of the movie. There is no evidence of equine casualties, although the sequence in the finished film shows a number of horses falls aside from the one Craven described to Breen. However, it can be assumed that if a horse had died or been seriously injured during the making of a scene that Craven had objected to, he would have made much more of a fuss about it. There 229 is some evidence that a negotiation between Craven and MGM had occurred after filming, because Breen annotated the film’s PCA certification to note that it had been issued “on the understanding that the picture will be released in accordance with the agreement reached between your studio and Mr. Richard Craven.” 150 Craven continued to describe the AHA’s relationship with studios as amiable. Still, there was likely a bitter taste in his mouth as he sat down to write about National Velvet for The National Humane Review. “Many have felt that [the Grand National] is an event devoid of sportsmanship […] there have been many calls by humanitarians for its abolition,” he wrote. 151 He was then obligated to explain how recreating the event for a motion picture was a fine thing to do. This he did by emphasizing that the real race was, at a length of over four miles and with over thirty jumps, exceptionally grueling. But the movie horses did not have to run four miles or jump thirty obstacles at once. By claiming that the dangers in the Grand National were caused primarily by fatigue rather than over a dozen horses running and jumping difficult obstacles at the same time, Craven was able to justify the steeplechase sequence while also admitting that he had “had some fears as to the possibility of recreating the English classic race without serious injury to some of the horses.” 152 As he now put it, “it did not seem fair to contend that this was a picture that should not be made, seeing that it could be done as a movie with far less risk than at Aintree.” To alleviate the audience fears he anticipated, Craven stated that it was not cruel to train a horse that was “suited by training and conformation” for steeplechase or other jumping, so long as the horse was not overworked. Horses on the open range learned to clear obstacles just fine, he said, and also, it was not uncommon for steeplechasers who unseated their riders to continue running the race without them (this had also happened during National Velvet, though Craven said that in this case they had started riderless horses along with the others, which would seem to be rather unsafe). 153 An 230 example of extras booing a jockey who had become too rough with his mount was given as evidence that “the rank and file of movie personnel is that of the average crowd, and just as resentful of anything that resembles cruelty.” It was, on the whole, a remarkable job of damage control. The film was released to excellent reviews. Several critics commented on the exciting Grand National sequence; if any NHR readers made unfavorable comments about it to Craven, he never gave them the satisfaction of individual responses. 154 Instead, he continued on his now- usual tack of reminding readers that the movies were not real life. “Let it be understood that the motion picture industry is not out to reform the world, but to engage in the entertainment business,” he wrote later: If the Grand National can be staged in England as its top sporting event without interference by lawful authorities, why should a motion picture company face objection for doing a Grand National on a much reduced scale and under conditions which assure practically no danger for horses or riders? […] no horse was injured in the making of “National Velvet.” There were riders that fell off and horses that fell to the ground, but the course was over soft turf on sandy soil and with the care that was taken there was no reason why any horse should have been hurt. 155 He rounded out his coverage of National Velvet with an article about Elizabeth Taylor, who had become something of an animal lovers’ favorite, between Velvet and her roles in two of the first three Lassie films. 156 The remainder of the animal adaptations went well, including another Clarence Brown picture, The Yearling (MGM, 1946). Craven called it “the best film of 1946”; it employed a reported “469 animals, including 126 deer, nine black bear [sic], 37 dogs, 53 wild birds, 17 buzzards, an owl, 83 chickens, 36 pigs, eight rattlesnakes, 18 squirrels, four horses and 17 raccoons.” 157 The film also followed Thunderhead in bestowing screen credit upon the AHA for its cooperation—perhaps a necessary disclaimer, given that in addition to all the deer, there was 231 a lengthy fight between dogs and a bear. Craven assured NHR readers that they should not worry about the animals, because “we who represent The American Humane Association in all matters connected with the use of animals in motion pictures do all the worrying for you.” 158 He spent the majority of his review praising young star Claude Jarman’s natural familiarity and friendship with members of the film’s menagerie. 159 There was also the third Lassie entry, Courage of Lassie (MGM, dir. Fred M. Wilcox, 1946). It had nothing to do with the first two Lassie films (in fact, in this film, the collie character’s name is Bill), but reunited Elizabeth Taylor with Lassie/Pal in a story that Craven said “reveals Hollywood as definitely animal conscious.” 160 National Velvet revealed that workings between studios, the AHA, and the PCA were not always as harmonious as Craven often made them out to be. However, this should not be taken as a serious indictment of his regime. Undoubtedly, working conditions for animals improved during his tenure in Hollywood, if for no other reason than he had excised Running Ws, pits, and tilt chutes. If it was true that only one horse died and none suffered grievous injuries on film sets between 1941 and 1944, the number is remarkable, considering how frequently they had been harmed before. Moreover, the Western Regional Unit had also established a set of practices by which the potential for genuine accident was greatly reduced (though of course it was impossible to completely eliminate accidents, unless live animals were to be eliminated from motion pictures). Craven’s regime had managed to convince producers and directors that animals could suffer mentally even if they had not been physically harmed, as in the cases of all the horses that became upset when outfitted with a Running W for a second time. He achieved smaller triumphs; for instance, as part of a general humanitarian campaign to eliminate the cropping of dogs’ ears and tails, Craven successfully lobbied to keep cropped dogs out of the movies. 161 232 However, National Velvet also gave weight to what was, and is still to this day, the most common criticism of the American Humane Association’s motion picture activities: that the organization protected the studios from accusations of abuse just as much, or more, than it protected animals from abuse by studios. Craven’s repeated attempts at explaining trick photography helped, but some suspicions would always remain, perhaps bolstered by the fact that some contradictory claims came out of the Western Regional Office in the AHA’s constant attempts to bolster its own importance. In a 1945 article summarizing five years of work in Hollywood, the NHR claimed that “It was not believed that conscious cruelty was generally practiced but that on occasion sufferings and damages to animals in films was simply ignored.” 162 Despite use of the qualifier “generally,” this does not seem an accurate description of how humanitarians had described the jungle film cycle or the Running W. Craven was quoted as saying that “the producers needed only to be shown what to do,” a statement that does not account for the studios’ use of Running Ws between 1936, when Hays and Coleman had written the oversight agreement that never worked out, and 1940, when Craven finally got them banned outright. It was true that Hollywood needed the AHA for foreign censorship purposes, but the fact that Jesse James was released in Great Britain (albeit with heavy cuts) suggests that the Cinematograph Act of 1937 did not have the teeth that the MPPDA initially feared. Perhaps the ultimate commendation of Craven’s work came from Colonel Jason S. Joy, then the director of public relations at Twentieth Century-Fox, who wrote Sydney Coleman in June of 1945. Craven had recently dropped hints that he would like to retire soon, and Joy was anxious that he should remain in Hollywood at least until the war was over and things were back to normal in Hollywood. “I do not need to remind you of the complete change in attitude and practice which has occurred under Mr. Craven’s leadership,” wrote Joy: 233 His fine personality, his cooperative spirit, and above all his intimate knowledge of the manner in which animals may and may not be used has made it possible for him to render a very great service to the motion picture industry and through it to the cause which you and your associates are so ably espousing. This must have become evident to you by the almost complete absence of critical comment. In any event, at our studio we have received almost no communications of criticism except maybe one or two which have come from obvious cranks. 163 The last few years of Craven’s Hollywood career proceeded apace, with no major incidents reported in the NHR. Both before and after National Velvet, the majority of Hollywood coverage was the same mixture it had been since 1941, part behind-the-scenes gossip slanted for humane interests (this was increasingly focused on the best-known animal stars, such as Dice, Champion, and Lassie/Pal), part endless reassurances that horses were now trained to fall on command and were never tripped, and part pieces that seemed to have been concocted by studio publicity departments. 164 By 1945, Craven was claiming that “Hollywood has done more to develop animal intelligence than all the circus and trick vaudeville acts combined,” as movie animals had to adapt to different scenarios for each new picture. 165 In 1946, he was accompanied to the AHA’s national convention in Cleveland, Ohio by one of the two equine stars of MGM’s Gallant Bess (dir. Andrew Marton, 1946), who was being billed as “The Horse with the Humane Mind.” 166 The American Humane Association even got into the production end of the business for itself, albeit on the East Coast. In 1944, it coproduced a 22-minute, 16 millimeter color short in conjunction with the United Specialists film company and the Richmond Humane Society entitled Animals in the Service of Man. 167 (Craven was not involved in its production.) On July 1, 1947, Richard C. Craven finally retired after more than 30 years with the American Humane Association. 168 He passed the reins of the Western Regional Unit to Mel Morse, a much younger Los Angeles native. Morse had been engaged in humane work prior to 234 the establishment of the Western Regional Office (his father was also a humane officer) and had impressed Craven with his abilities. With the exception of a stint in the military during World War II, he had been with Craven since the latter’s arrival in California. 169 Craven continued to write the occasional article after his retirement, but he was sorely missed in the Western Regional Office. 170 Not long after his departure, the AHA reported that the office was so successful that the subsequent increase in animal pictures meant they would need to hire not one, but two new representatives to adequately keep up with the work. 171 1 Richard C. Craven, “Around Hollywood,” NHR, June 1944, 7. 2 Craven, “R.C. Craven to Go to California: Program to Cover Movie Problem and Humane Revival in the West,” NHR, November 1939, 9. 3 Ibid. 4 Ibid. 5 “Building up the Movement,” NHR, January 1920, 20. 6 Craven, “The Los Angeles S.P.C.A.: A Record of Remarkable Recent Development,” NHR, August 1920, 147- 158. 7 “Mr. Craven Again with AHA,” NHR, February 1921, 31. 8 Among other NHR articles, see “Mr. R.C. Craven Appreciated,” June 1921, 104; “An Appreciation,” December 1926, 22. Among Craven’s numerous personal contributions to the NHR, see “The Pioneer American Animal Protection Society,” October 1921, 183-8; “Kentucky Mountaineers and the Humane Missionary,” October 1921, 196-7; “More Facts on Livestock Transportation,” January 1922, 5, 15; “Police Unfitted for Pound Work,” January 1922, 18; “Legislation Needed for Humane Livestock Transportation,” February 1922, 26-7, 40; “Animal Sufferings in Arkansas Oilfields,” 183-4, 192; “Financing Humane Societies (Illustrated),” December 1922, 226-7; “Humane Awakening in Southern Oilfields,” February 1923, 23-4, 33; “Why Boys go Wrong,” February 1923, 40; “Child Protection in the United States,” November 1923, 207, 211; “High Lights of the Second World Humane Conference,” December 1923, 223-4, 231; “The Work of the American Humane Association,” April 1924, 67, 73; “Modern Reformatories Do Not Make Criminals,” June 1924, 103-4, 117; “Hospitals for Sick Pets,” September 1924, 163-5; “Humane Work Well Done,” October 1924, 183-4, 198; “The Animals’ Inferno,” May 1926, 3-5, 10- 11, 15; “Cats, Hunters, and Licenses,” February 1933, 3-4; “Cats and the Humane Societies,” April 1933, 6-7; “Germs, Dogs, Children and So Forth,” May 1933, 3-4; “The Monkey’s Punishment,” June 1934, 9; “What War Means to the Children,” October 1935, 3; “Ten Years of Trap Reform,” July 1937, 3-5; “About Shelters: An Attractive Shelter Will Pay Dividends,” December 1939, 21-2; “Humane Officer: His Selection and Duties,” January 1940, 5-6. 9 “Everything was settled to our satisfaction […] have no fear about the dog,” he wrote regarding The Invisible Man’s Revenge (Universal, dir. Ford Beebe, 1944). The Invisible Man’s dog—played by Grey Shadow, reportedly a great-grandson of canine silent star Strongheart—was also invisible. Craven, “Around Hollywood,” 7-8. Craven was also fond of pointing out that animal stars were more glamourous than their human counterparts, as they did not require makeup “and, better still, they look glamorous when they wake up in the morning.” James M. Ross, “Every Precaution Taken to Protect Animals and Birds in Movies,” NHR, February 1946, 7. 10 “Our Frank Opinion: The Movies and Other Problems,” NHR, November 1939, 14. 11 Actually, Craven was British by birth. It is not clear when he moved to America, aside from the fact that it was sometime prior to World War I. 12 Craven, “Doings in the West,” NHR, February 1940, 4. 13 Ibid. 14 Craven, “What’s Doing in the Golden West,” NHR, March 1940, 8-9. 15 Craven, “Notable Events on the West Coast,” NHR, April 1940, 23. 235 16 Craven, “In the California Sunshine,” NHR, May 1940, 17. 17 “Our Frank Opinion: How Many More, and for What?” NHR, July 1940, 14. 18 Craven, “Notable Events on the West Coast.” 19 “Our Frank Opinion: Animals in Motion Pictures,” NHR, May 1940, 14; Craven, “The Cruelty Angle in Motion Pictures,” NHR, December 1940, 5. 20 “Our Frank Opinion: Animals in Motion Pictures.” 21 “Our Frank Opinion: How Many More, and for What?” 22 Errol Flynn, telegram to Hal Wallis, November 10, 1939. Virginia City production files, Warner Bros. Archives, University of Southern California, Los Angeles, CA; subsequently cited as Virginia City production files. 23 Hal Wallis, telegram to Errol Flynn, November 11, 1939. Virginia City production files. 24 Bosley Crowther, review of Virginia City, The New York Times, March 23, 1940, 16; Boone Mancall, letter to Wallis, April 23, 1940; Frank Conniff, “‘Virginia City,’ Boom Town Story, Premieres at Strand Theatre.” New York Journal and American, March 23, 1940, 17; Review, NY Post, March 23, 1940, page number cut off; Leo Mishkin, “Screen’s Presentations,” The Morning Telegraph, March 23, 1940, 2; H.B, review of Virginia City, New York Herald Tribune, March 23, 1940, page number cut off; review of Virginia City, New York Mirror, March 23, 1940; Eileen Creelman, “The New Movies: ‘Virginia City,’ a Good Western, and the Tender, Comic ‘Primrose Path’,” The Sun, March 23, 1940, page number cut off; Review of Virginia City, New York World-Telegram, March 23, 1940, 7; all items are in the Virginia City production files. 25 Wallis, memo to Tennant C. Wright, November 7, 1939. Virginia City production files. 26 Lou Ella Archer, telegram to Sheriff Arthur Vandivier, October 31, 1939. Virginia City production files. 27 Mitchum with Pavia, Hollywood Hoofbeats, 64. 28 Virginia City daily production report, November 17, 1939 (among others). Virginia City production files. 29 Frank Mattison, memo to Wright, October 23, 1939. 30 William R. Everitt, letter to Nelle Holbrook, November 13, 1939. Virginia City production files. 31 Ibid. 32 Holbrook, telegram to Everitt (copy), November 7, 1939. The telegram was mimeographed, and someone at Warner Bros. appended it with the information about Holbrook. 33 Everitt, letter to Holbrook, November 27, 1939. Unless otherwise cited, subsequent information and quotations in this paragraph are taken from this citation. 34 Roy Scanlon, letter to Everitt, November 22, 1930. Virginia City production files. 35 Everitt, letter to Holbrook, November 27. Everitt was not a skilled writer and his report of the incident is confusing. Elsewhere in this letter, he reported that eight horses were also killed in a train accident on November 25 th , though a second train accident resulting in the deaths of eight horses seems extraordinarily unlikely. That there was indeed a train accident on the 22 nd is confirmed by a handwritten note in the production files indicating that on the 23 rd , eight horse carcasses were burned at a city dump. None of Frank Mattison’s daily reports mention any train accidents, and unlike Light Brigade, the production files do not include horse rental contracts. One Warner Bros. employee, George Nelson, also perished in the train crash. See Bertha Nelson, power of attorney document (copy), undated, Virginia City production files. 36 Everitt, letter to Holbrook, December 9, 1939. Virginia City production files. 37 Everitt, letter to Holbrook, Dcember 19, 1939. Virginia City production files. 38 Everitt, letter to Warner Bros. (copy), January 5, 1940. Virginia City production files. 39 Ibid. 40 Ibid. 41 Wright, memo to Roy Obringer, January 6, 1940; Obringer, letter to Sam Morris, January 10, 1940; Karl G. Macdonald, letter to Obringer, January 18, 1940. Virginia City production files. 42 MPPDA certificate for Virginia City, February 14, 1940. Virginia City production files. 43 Mattison, memo to Wright, December 6, 1939. Virginia City production files. 44 Craven, “Battle Scenes in Motion Pictures: Gross Cruelty in Device for Throwing Horses,” NHR, June 1940, 3-4. Subsequent quotations are taken from this citation. 45 “Seven Running W’s,” NHR, June 1940, 5. 46 “Condemns Running W,” NHR, June 1940, 5. 47 “Our Frank Opinion: It Must Stop,” NHR, June 1940, 14. 48 Craven, “More About Animals in the Movies,” NHR, July 1940, 18-19. 49 Ruggles was probably best known for directing Cimarron (RKO, 1931), the first Western to win an Academy Award for Best Picture. 50 Craven, “More About Animals in the Movies.” 236 51 Craven, “Movies Can Be Made Without Cruelty,” NHR, August 1940, 7. 52 “Friend of Animals,” NHR, April 1941, 22. 53 Ibid. 54 Craven, “A Horse Stars in a Movie: ‘Florian,’ by Felix Salten, Is a Triumph of the Screen,” NHR, May 1940, 7. He did in fact emphasize the must. 55 Craven, “Henry Bergh: The Great Meddler,” NHR, January 1941, 4. 56 Craven. “Henry Bergh,” 4-5. 57 Craven, “Animal Scenes in Motion Pictures,” NHR, September 1940, 6. 58 Sydney H. Coleman, “Message to Mr. Hearst,” NHR, December 1940, 9. 59 Craven, “Animals in Motion Pictures: Complete Accord Reached with Producers Association,” NHR, January 1941, 3. 60 Ibid. 61 Motion Picture Association of America, “A Code to Govern the Making of Motion Pictures: The Reasons Supporting It and the Resolution for Uniform Interpretation” (Washington: MPAA, 1955), 9, Margaret Herrick Library Core Collection (PAM 761). 62 “Our Frank Opinion: An Amicable Understanding,” NHR, January 1941, 16. 63 Craven, “Taking Cruelty from the Screen,” NHR, February 1941, 9. “Many of the objectionable shots in pictures of the past have resulted from a desire on the part of an assistant director to make a name for himself by doing something sensational which is not indicated in the script,” Craven noted, a somewhat incongruous statement that seemed to implicate Breezy Eason. 64 Ibid. 65 “Hollywood, Ahoy!” NHR, June 1941, 3. See also “Our Frank Opinion: Don’t Miss It,” NHR, July 1941, 16. 66 Craven, “Hollywood Wins 1941 Convention,” NHR, November 1940, 9; Craven, “Hollywood Merry-go-round,” NHR, December 1940. 67 Craven, “Animal Scenes in Motion Pictures,” 7. 68 Ibid. 69 Craven, “Hollywood Merry-go-round.” A whiffletree (also known as a whippletree) is part of the harness worn by a horse pulling a carriage or plow; it is a bar used to stabilize and equalize the load being pulled. 70 “Our Frank Opinion: Bullfights on the Screen,” NHR, April 1941, 16. 71 Craven, “Movie Animals at Work,” NHR, July 1941, 6. 72 In addition to the examples listed below, see, for instance, “Drawing Dogs of Filmland,” a photograph of Ann Sothern and her dog Buttons with illustrator Morgan Dennis. NHR, October 1941, 25. 73 Craven, “Movie Animals at Work”; see also a photograph captioned “Ever Busy and Ever Popular Jane Withers,” NHR, September 1943, 7. 74 “George Arliss Speaks,” NHR, December 1940, 16. The memoir in question was My Ten Years in the Studio (Boston: Little, Brown & Company, 1940). “The introduction of animals is, more often than not, resorted to production value; it is seldom that animals are necessary to the story; more often than not they are an interruption,” Arliss wrote. “If the hero is to be shipwrecked, by all means let us have a thrilling shipwreck, with real water. But if the heroine is to be kidnapped, don’t introduce a number of elephants unless elephants are really needed.” 75 Craven, “Storm Clouds over the Pacific,” NHR, May 1941, 5. 76 Craven, “Famous Horses of the Screen,” NHR, May 1941, 22-3. 77 Craven, “Movie Animals at Work.” 78 Craven, “Glamorous Animals and Unhappy Children,” NHR, December 1941, 7. 79 Craven, “Around Hollywood,” February 1942, 8-9. (The photograph of Lamour and the chimp is on page 9.) 80 Contemporary fans have devoted an extraordinary amount of time and effort to parsing out the various Triggers. See Leo Pando, An Illustrated History of Trigger: The Lives and Legends of Roy Rogers’ Palomino (Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2007), in particular pp. 87-98. Marva Felchlin, Director of the Libraries and Archives at the Autry Library, has concluded that during Gene Autry’s heyday, five different horses portrayed Champion. Personal conversation, October 16, 2009. 81 See, for instance, Craven, “Animal Problems are Chronic,” NHR, October 1942, 25-6, which focuses on war- adjacent issues and mentions movies not at all, except for a suggestion that those who have the impulse to go hunting either join the military—“May I, with all respect, inform hunters of every kind of an open season on vermin where they can shoot all they like without let or hindrance”—and watch Bambi. 82 Craven, “Glamorous Animals and Unhappy Children,” 8. In addition to this and Craven’s 1941-1942 NHR articles cited elsewhere in this chapter, see “Here and There on the Coast,” April 1942, 8-9; “Movies and Other Things,” June 1942, 21; “Events in the Movie Capital,” July 1942, 14-15; “Children and Animals in Movieland,” August 237 1942, 8-9; “Animal Trend in Motion Pictures,” September 1942, 15; “Pep: True Story of a Movie Horse,” October 1942, 26; “Schooling Movie Animals,” January 1943, 22-23; “Animal Stars in Hollywood,” February 1943, 26. “Lesson in Love,” April 1943, 8-9; “Are They Vicious? Answers to Questions often asked about Movie Animals,” September 1943, 6-7; “Making Movies with Animals: Feature Films Run Off in 60 Minutes Sometimes Take 6 Months to Produce,” December 1943, 6-7. 83 See, for instance, “‘Dog House’: An Entertaining Movie,” NHR, July 1943, 9, regarding a Pete Smith short film produced by MGM. Craven was credited as the author of a heavily illustrated article on RKO’s My Pal Wolf, though only the introduction and conclusion read as though written by him; the rest of it is merely a detailed recapitulation of the plot. Craven, “‘My Pal Wolf’ a MUST in Pictures: As Adult as It Is Juvenile—a Movie for the Entire Family,” NHR, November 1944, 8-9, 26. 84 Craven, “Protection of Movie Animals Guaranteed by Precautions and Agencies So Numerous that an Act of Cruelty is Practically Impossible,” NHR, October 1943, 8-9. 85 Ibid. 86 Craven, “Movie Animals in 1941,” NHR, January 1942, 24-25. 87 Craven, “Report on Motion Pictures,” NHR, December 1942, 6. 88 Ibid. 89 See, for instance, Craven, “Animal Stars of the Movies,” NHR, March 1942, 8-9. 90 Ibid. 91 Craven, “Imagination and Cruelty,” NHR, May 1944, 7. 92 Ibid. 93 Craven, “Animals in the Headlines,” NHR, July 1944, 5. 94 Ibid. 95 Production Code Administration, letter to Jack Warner, June 20, 1941. They Died with Their Boots On production files, Warner Bros. Archives, University of Southern California, Los Angeles, CA, hereafter cited as Boots production files. 96 Ibid. 97 Aeneas MacKenzie, memo to Robert Fellows, June 23, 1941. Boots production files. 98 Production budget, June 21, 1941. Boots production files. 99 Mattison, memo to Wright, July 17, 1941. Boots production files. 100 Mattison, memo to Wright, August 1, 1941. Boots production files. 101 Wallis, memo to Walsh (Wright, Eason, and Fellows cc’d), September 12, 1941. Boots production files. 102 Daily production reports, Eason unit, September 11, 1941 through September 15, 1941. Boots production files. 103 Memo from Wright to Obringer, October 6, 1941; this memo includes a copy of Young’s letter. Boots production files. 104 Dr. W.A. Young, “Hollywood Sojourn,” NHR, November 1941, 5. 105 Craven, letter to Mattison, August 23, 1941. 106 Craven, “How Battles Are Fought in the Movies,” NHR, Nov. 1941, 4, 17. 107 Walsh, letter to William Randolph Hearst (copy), undated; Ralph E. Lewis, memo regarding Jack Budlong Inquest, August 8, 1941. Boots production files. 108 Obringer, letter to Arthur Freston, September 23, 1941. Boots production files. 109 Walsh, letter to Hearst. Boots production files. 110 William Randolph Hearst, telegram to Jack Warner, December 12, 1941. Boots production files. 111 Robert S. Taplinger, “Production Notes,” undated publicity material. Boots production files. 112 Thomas Schatz, Boom and Bust: American Cinema in the 1940s (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1997), 65. 113 Schatz, Boom and Bust, 65-66. 114 Robert Sklar, Movie-Made America: A Cultural History of American Movies (New York: Vintage Books, 1994), 189-191, 194. 115 “Our Frank Opinion: Trained Animals,” NHR, July 1941, 16. 116 Craven, “Animals Hold Their Own in Movies,” NHR, October 1941, 7-8. 117 Craven, “Bambi—Comes to the Screen,” NHR, September 1942, 7; Craven, “Walt Disney, ‘Happiness Crusader,’” NHR, December 1942, 25. Salten’s novel was published in German in 1923 and translated to English in 1928. 118 Ross, “Every Precaution Taken to Protect Birds and Animals in Movies,” 9. 119 Craven, “Animal Trend in Motion Pictures,” 15. 238 120 The March 1946 issue of the NHR featured Black Beauty and human actress Mona Freeman on its cover. Inside, the article “Black Beauty on the Screen” allowed equine star Highland Dale to explain, in his own words, how it felt to have been cast as Black Beauty, and to be portraying a horse from the past: “There is a strange excitement in it for me because I feel that I am Black Beauty,” Highland Dale “wrote,” later explaining how he had been taught the tricks necessary to be a movie horse. NHR, March 1946, 2, 24. 121 Young, “Hollywood Sojourn.” 122 Craven, “Animals Hold Their Own in Movies,” 7. 123 Craven, “Animals Hold Their Own in Movies,” 8. 124 Craven, “Animals in Epic Movies,” NHR, May 1942, 15. 125 Ibid. 126 Craven, “My Friend Flicka: Horse Story Comes to Life,” NHR, November 1942, 8. 127 Craven, “My Friend Flicka,” 9. 128 Roddy McDowall, “Be Kind ALL the Time,” NHR, May 1944, 5. It should be noted that McDowall was but 15 years old at this time, and that the unusually articulate essay rather echoes Craven’s writing style. 129 Craven, “Birth of a Baby,” NHR, December 1944, 6-7, 21. 130 Craven, “The American Humane Association Staff Supervised Animal Scenes in Life and Adventures of a Horse: A Triumph of Motion Pictures,” NHR, April 1945, 8. 131 “Warner Bros. To Give Screen Credit To The American Humane Association,” NHR, January 1947, 32. 132 Craven, “The American Humane Association Staff Supervised Animal Scenes,” 9. 133 Craven, “Lassie Come-Home: Delightful Movie of Famous Dog Story,” NHR, June 1943, 5. The novel on which it was based, Eric Knight’s Lassie Come-Home, was released in 1938. 134 Craven, “Around Hollywood,” NHR, June 1944, 8. Also on Lassie, see “More About Lassie,” NHR, January 1944, 9; Craven, “Canine Congress Welcomes Lassie Home,” NHR, February 1944, 6-7; “Lassie Knows a Good Thing” (photograph), NHR, June 1945, 28; Craven, “Lassie Returns,” NHR, June 1945, 6-7. 135 Craven, “Imagination and Cruelty,” NHR, May 1944, 6. 136 Ibid. 137 Ibid. 138 Craven, “Stick to the Facts,” NHR, June 1944, 2. 139 Ibid. 140 Sydney H. Coleman, “A Resume of the Year’s Activities,” NHR, November 1944, 6. 141 The race is still quite cruel. The course has been altered to make it safer over the years, but still, twenty horses died on the Grand National course between 2000 and 2011. One British animal welfare group has called the Grand National “straightforward animal abuse that is on a par with Spanish bullfighting.” Sam Jones, “Grand National ‘on par with bullfighting’ after deaths,” The Guardian, April 10, 2011. <http://www.theguardian.com/sport/2011/apr/10/grand-national-bullfighting-deaths.> Accessed October 2, 2014. 142 Paramount had made a stab at adapting the novel in 1936, but the project never made it past the script stage. Breen noted that “In all scenes showing spills of horses, and jockeys, care should be taken to avoid unnecessary, and offensive, gruesomeness and brutality,” but did not go so far as to suggest a humane officer should be present. Joseph Breen, letter to John Hammell, November 19, 1936. National Velvet Production Code Administration files, Margaret Herrick Library, Los Angeles, CA (hereafter cited as National Velvet PCA files). 143 Craven, “Movie Steeplechase: ‘National Velvet,’ Hollywood Version of the English Grand National,” NHR, September 1944, 9. 144 Breen, letter to Louis B. Mayer, February 11, 1943; Breen, letter to Mayer, November 9, 1943. One wonders how seriously the PCA was taking the whole enterprise at this point. Certainly Breen kept insisting that Craven’s cooperation was necessary, but one letter incorrectly gives Craven’s first name as Frank and the other incorrectly identifies him as a representative of the SPCA. 145 Pebble Beach Company informational card, June 1999. National Velvet clipping files, Margaret Herrick Library, Los Angeles, CA. 146 Laurian, Comtesse d’Harcourt—Enid Bagnold’s daughter, on whom Velvet Brown was based—was not impressed with Taylor’s equestrian skills, saying, “I really didn’t think much of the way she rode—it was a shame. She rode so badly.” It has been claimed that “the falls that Taylor took during filming were the cause of back problems that plagued her later in life and led to a dependency on painkilling drugs.” See Liz Hunt, “Laurian, Comtesse d’Harcourt—the original National Velvet girl,” The Telegraph, December 27, 2011. Accessed October 9, 2014. <http://telegraph.co.uk/culture/film/8971261/Laurian-Comtesse-dHarcourt-the-original-National-Velvet- girl.html> 239 147 National Velvet shooting script, March 18, 1944. National Velvet production files, Margaret Herrick Library, Los Angeles, CA. 148 Craven, letter to Breen, undated. National Velvet PCA files. Subsequent quotations and information come from this citation. It can be safely assumed the letter was written in early July of 1944, because Breen sent a copy to Al Block of MGM on July 14. Craven does not specifically state that the jump he described was Becher’s Brook in this letter, but does so in “Movie Steeplechase.” 149 Breen, letter to Al Block, July 14, 1944. National Velvet PCA files. 150 Breen, PCA certificate for National Velvet, October 10, 1944. National Velvet PCA files. 151 Craven, “Movie Steeplechase,” 8. 152 Craven, “Movie Steeplechase,” 9. 153 Craven, “Movie Steeplechase,” 21. 154 Bosley Crowther, review of National Velvet, New York Times, December 15, 1944; Merr., review of National Velvet, Variety, December 6, 1944; W.R.W., review of National Velvet, Motion Picture Herald, December 9, 1944; all in National Velvet clipping files; see also “Brown’s ‘National Velvet’ Monumental Achievement,” Hollywood Reporter, December 6, 1944. National Velvet PCA files. 155 Craven, “On and Off the Movie Lots,” NHR, March 1945, 9. 156 In addition to Taylor’s affinity for horses and dogs, “her instinctive love of animals is shown in the variety of creatures she has had or now has. Among these are fish, rabbits, turtles, an owl, ducks, snakes, and mice,” Craven reported. Craven, “To Stardom on a Horse,” NHR, May 1945, 6-7. 157 Craven, “THE YEARLING, ‘Best Film of 1946’: So Votes Richard C. Craven, Our Western Regional Director; His Story Gives Reasons for This High Praise,” NHR, February 1947, 12. 158 Craven, “THE YEARLING,” 34. 159 Gregory Peck also received praise, as he had “made friends with the 17 raccoons,” and was pictured holding one. “This one with Peck seems contented,” assures a photo caption, though the raccoon appears to be attempting to escape. Craven, “THE YEARLING,” 13. 160 Craven, “Lassie Returns to the Screen,” NHR, July 1946, 15. Also appearing in the film was Frank Morgan, who had appeared as a dog lover in 1942’s Tortilla Flat (MGM, dir. Victor Fleming), a film Craven greatly admired. It was this role of Morgan’s that Craven always acknowledged, rather than his better-known role as the Wizard of Oz. 161 “No Cropped Dogs in Pictures,” NHR, August 1945, 26. 162 James M. Ross, “Arbiter of Pictures Protects Animals: Work of Western Regional Director of The American Humane Association,” NHR, December 1945, 8. 163 Joy’s letter, dated June 25, 1945, was reprinted in the NHR in Ross, “Every Precaution Taken to Protect Birds and Animals in Movies,” 9. 164 In addition to articles cited elsewhere, see also “A Dog Steals the Scene,” NHR, January 1944, 8; Craven, “Domesticated Movie Horse,” NHR, March 1944, 4-5, 26; Craven, “Movie Makes Plea for Wildlife,” NHR, November 1945, 6-7; Craven, “A Boy and a Dog,” NHR, April 1947, 6-7; Craven, “Animal Marvels of Movieland,” NHR, June 1947, 5-6, 31; Craven, “The Tender Years,” NHR, March 1948, 5, 8. 165 Craven, “Hollywood Takes Leading Place in Developing Intelligence in Animals; Rabies Still a Problem in Southern California,” NHR, August 1945, 9-10, 22. 166 “Gallant Bess, ‘Horse with Human Mind,’” NHR, February 1947, 35. Bess was in reality a gelding named Silvernip. MGM also made a short film starring the animal, entitled The Horse with the Human Mind (dir. Harry Loud, 1946), which not only positioned the horse as a glamorous leading lady (including slow-motion shots of Bess’s shapely legs) but showed a fictional MGM zoo, in which animals such as Flag (the deer from The Yearling) and Leo the Lion supposedly lived in harmony. Bess/Silvernip’s career did not take off; there was only one more leading role, in a B western, The Adventures of Gallant Bess (Eagle Lion Films, dir. Lew Landers, 1948). 167 “Animals in the Service of Man,” NHR, April 1944, 20-21. 168 “Richard C. Craven Resigns as Western Regional Director; Mel Morse Acting Regional Director,” NHR, May 1947, 5. 169 Craven, “Around Hollywood,” NHR, June 144, 7. 170 See, for instance, Craven, “Aristocracy of the Animal World,” NHR, February 1951, 20-22, in which Craven waxed poetic about Trigger and other movie animals. 171 “Animals in Motion Pictures,” NHR, October 1947, 16-17. 240 Conclusion Protecting Your Ass: 1950 and Beyond The Western Regional Office functioned smoothly for the first few years of Mel Morse’s regime. Though he was not as prolific a writer as Craven had been, Morse kept up the tradition of animal celebrity gossip and assurances that animals were never treated cruelly in the making of pictures in his regular “Animals in the Movies” column, and The National Humane Review continued to publish publicity pieces about animal-themed films. 1 In 1949, the Western Regional Office supervised the use of over 8,500 animals in 144 films, in addition to reading over 100 scripts that had been submitted for review. 2 “When you realize that we are responsible for the picture companies working throughout the United States, Mexico and Canada, that we check the film being brought back from farther fields abroad, and that these pictures are shown in theaters throughout the world, you can see that we are operating on an international basis,” Morse told the assembly at that year’s National Convention, adding that he found the motion picture industry to be “most cooperative.” 3 In 1950, MGM vice president Dore Schary addressed the National Convention and stated almost exactly the overall thesis of the previous chapter: Any time an animal or animals appear in a film, there is always a representative of the A.H.A. on hand. The advantage of having this A.H.A. representative present is twofold. It protects the animal and at the same time protects the studio using the animal. People realize that with the A.H.A. man present, the studio is not going to permit cruelty for the sake of getting a scene, even if it had the inclination to, which it doesn’t. And, with the A.H.A. man on the set, the public knows the studio is acting in accordance with humane principles. 4 Schary also managed to hit upon the economic rationalization argument against cruelty, noting that “maltreatment of animals is very bad business” because “intelligent, trained animals are very 241 favorable assets to a studio.” 5 (He said that this was a rather cynical viewpoint, but nevertheless, it was worth a mention.) The AHA’s penchant for glamorizing animal performers eventually culminated in the establishment of the Picture Animal Top Star of the Year Awards, better known as the PATSYs, in 1951. The first PATSYs were co-sponsored by the Los Angeles SPCA and by Universal- International, which would premiere its film Bedtime for Bonzo (dir. Frederick De Cordova) at the ceremony, held at the Carthay Circle Theater. Billed as “Hollywood’s animal Oscars,” the PATSYs were intended to demonstrate, as the AHA put it, “the importance of animals in motion picture production.” 6 The winning animal would receive The Richard C. Craven Annual Award, though by the very next year, the annual trophy was simply called the PATSY and the Craven Award was awarded for lifetime achievement. The PATSYs were, of course, a chance for positive public relations—a strategy that very nearly backfired. Bonzo, the chimpanzee whose bedtime it was, had been intended to “host,” with help from human friends such as James Stewart, Leo Carillo, Rex Allen, and others. But Bonzo (whose real name was Tamba) died in a fire two days before the ceremony and was replaced at the last minute by human co-star Ronald Reagan. 7 Top honors that year went to Francis, the talking mule, with the stallion Palomino (star of Columbia’s The Palomino) coming in second and the chimpanzee Pierre (featured in Warner Bros.’ My Friend Irma Goes West) coming in third. 8 The PATSYs were popular enough that an award for the best animal in a television performance was added to the 1958 proceedings; the awards were eventually discontinued in 1986 and resurrected (more or less) in 2011 as the “PAWSCARs.” 9 In addition to the PATSYs, 1951 brought the first real breach in the contract that had served both the AHA and the studios well for the previous eleven years. This was The Brave 242 Bulls (Columbia, dir. Robert Rossen, 1951), based on the 1949 novel of the same name by Tom Lea. It was, as its title would indicate, about bullfighting. Upon the book’s publication, AHA headquarters had immediately alerted the Western Regional Office; it was the organization’s opinion that there would be “insurmountable objections” if the Production Code provisions regarding cruelty to animals were taken literally. 10 But Columbia, which had purchased the property, was determined to proceed with the adaptation despite lengthy negotiations with the AHA, which still strongly opposed even fictional bullfighting. Rossen came up with a solution— not a novel one, but a legal loophole that had not been used since the heyday of jungle films. He took the production to Mexico and filmed the bullfights there, which enabled him to say that “the whole affair was outside the province of the AHA because the film was being made outside the United States.” The AHA protested to MPAA president Eric Johnston and second-in-command Francis Harmon, but to no avail. Prior to the film’s release, three staff members from the Albany offices watched the film and found “that it not only violated all of the Association’s standards for animal welfare but also was in contradiction of the canons of good taste.” 11 Other bullfight films were looming on the horizon, and it seemed likely that these, too, would be filmed in Mexico. The Brave Bulls thus demonstrated two predominant characteristics of the studio system in the 1950s that would particularly affect the Western Regional Office’s power: a decrease of the Production Code Administration’s power (which had been steadily declining since the late 1930s) and runaway productions. 12 Regarding censorship, the first waves of films to challenge the PCA and be released without seals were not the types of films that were likely to wire-trip horses or stage monkey/giant crab fights, and so runaway productions posed the larger threat to animals’ well-being. The American Humane Association simply did not have legal jurisdiction outside the United States. Of course, there was no provision against a studio inviting humane 243 officers to come along to supervise in foreign locales, but because the AHA funded its operations through donations and would not accept money from studios, the proposition would have been extremely cost-prohibitive. It seems likely, then, that most runaway productions went unsupervised in their use of animals even if the filmmakers had traveled abroad for unrelated reasons. This became a particular problem for the historical epics. It is impossible to watch the famous chariot race sequence in Ben-Hur (MGM, dir. William Wyler, 1959) and imagine that the AHA would have found it acceptable—and, in fact, they did not. The Western Regional Office was then being supervised by a man named James Jack, Jr., and Jack tried to have a portion of the chariot race, in which four horses fell, excised from the film. 13 Director William Wyler, described as “sympathetic with the aims of the AHA,” agreed to cut three seconds, but insisted more could not be removed because “the suggestion of a fall” was necessary, from a narrative standpoint, to explain why Ben-Hur “ran into a falling chariot” in a subsequent shot. 14 Of course, both protest and concession circumvented the site-of-production issue, instead focusing on exhibition, since by that point cutting offensive material was all that could be done. The AHA would later condemn Lawrence of Arabia (Columbia, dir. David Lean, 1962) upon its 1989 re-release, putting the film on its Unacceptable Film List for its “harsh treatment of horses & camels.” 15 Other films were reported to do slightly better by their animals, supervised for the AHA by various foreign humane societies: the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals’ executive director in Tanganyika vouched for Howard Hawks’ treatment of the wildlife in Hatari! (Paramount, 1962), and the Tobago Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals verified that they had worked “in close association” with Walt Disney Productions for Swiss Family Robinson (dir. Ken Annakin, 1960). 16 244 Directions for further study My analysis ends in 1950, the last year in which the Production Code amendment that prohibited cruelty to animals in MPPDA films remained unbroken. Among ways in which this study might be expanded, the most self-evident is a continuation of the history of collaboration between the AHA and Hollywood studios. Runaway productions would form a large part of this analysis. In 1960, Mel Morse (who had by then left the AHA and was the executive secretary- manager of Marin County Humane Society in San Rafael, California) was “appointed by the World Federation for the Protection of Animals and by Humane Society of the U.S. to represent both organizations internationally in protecting animals used in motion pictures and TV,” but although these federations had over 400 branches in 41 countries, it is not clear what sort of authority and influence Morse actually had over productions. 17 This demonstrates growing rifts among the humane ranks. As noted in a previous chapter, HSUS had split from the AHA when certain members felt the AHA had become too concerned with pet-keeping and not concerned enough with other welfare issues; the organizations were perhaps not on the best of terms, as demonstrated by then-AHA president Rutherford T. Phillips’ immediate issuance of a statement to the heads of the motion picture studios, reminding them that his organization was not connected with the World Federation for the Protection of Animals, and that it had been “the sole agency empowered to supervise and accept animal action in productions of members of the MPAA.” 18 Later that year, the AHA would coordinate efforts with a different group, the newly formed International Society for the Protection of Animals—though again, the exact nature of the relationship is not currently known. 19 A continuation of this timeline would also include the beginnings of the AHA’s supervision of television, which they were definitely doing by the mid-1950s (undoubtedly a 245 good thing, given the proliferation of Westerns), and the breakdown of the Production Code Administration. 20 When the Production Code was finally done away with in 1968, the studios’ agreement with the AHA went with it. Productions were officially unsupervised until 1980, when horses were wire-tripped for Heaven’s Gate (United Artists, dir. Michael Cimino, 1980) and the AHA subsequently reached a new agreement with the Screen Actors’ Guild. What happened in the years in between is not well known, save for some famous examples such as the water buffalo decapitation in Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now (United Artists, 1979). The project should also continue to be contextualized with ongoing changes in human/animal relations and especially the rise of the animal rights movement and the increased radicalness of certain animal protection groups. I refer in particular to Peter Singer’s seminal 1975 Animal Liberation, which posits that humans are generally guilty of “speciesism”: “a prejudice or attitude of bias in favor of one’s own species and against those of members of other species,” 21 and to the rise of organizations such as People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, whose tactics—although they too rely on Hollywood celebrity connections—are far more extreme than the AHA’s ever were. 22 The most radical position—that nonhuman animals have rights and autonomy, and humans should not have dominion over them—would eliminate the use of live animals from film or television, unless they happened to wander in front of cameras of their own accord. The prospect of animal films without real animals is no longer impossible to imagine, thanks to the rise of computer-generated imagery and other special effects, and the development of such technologies to represent or replace live animals should also be studied. The AHA itself encourages CGI replacement (or other animal substitutes) for potentially dangerous situations. 23 (Within this, of course, there is ample room for theoretical and practical 246 exploration of what we might call the disappearing postmodern animal, in which the photographic referent to the real is further removed.) In 2012, I visited the offices of what is now the AHA’s Film and Television Unit in Studio City to discuss this project. The staff members with whom I met ranged from politely intrigued to confused but enthusiastic, and offered their assistance, mostly in the form of pamphlets and other promotional or informational materials. However, the very first thing I was told—almost as soon as I walked in the door—was that the single biggest problem facing the Film and Television Unit was not, as might be expected, preventing directors from undertaking potentially hazardous scenes that could harm animals. By now, it seemed taken for granted that filmmakers generally did not want to do this. Rather, the hardest part of the job was defending their own organization against what they believe to be false accusations from other animal welfare societies, the predominant criticism being that the AHA is more concerned with maintaining its image and reassuring audiences that filmmakers no longer practice cruelties on animals. 24 It is true that every so often, a new exposé of the Film and Television Unit revisits the claim that the organization’s primary job is to protect the industry, not the animals. The most recent condemnation, published by The Hollywood Reporter in November 2013, is lengthy and damning. Among its many salient points: contrary to the early days of the Western Regional Office, when Richard C. Craven and Sydney H. Coleman insisted that the AHA could not accept payment from studios, the Film and Television Unit is currently bankrolled by SAG-AFTRA and the Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers; because the AHA is a nonprofit organization, it is “not subject to public disclosure laws, allowing its work to mostly remain shrouded in secrecy” and thus “the AHA is accountable only to Hollywood itself.” 25 Thus, the 247 AHA was able to explain away—or at least attempt to explain away—the four horse deaths on HBO’s 2011 series Luck (which was eventually canceled because of these deaths and other accusations of mistreatment) as well as two incidents that came to light after my visit, the reported near-drowning of a tiger during Ang Lee’s Life of Pi (2012) and the deaths of 27 animals that were housed in unsafe facilities during the making of Peter Jackson’s The Hobbit trilogy. 26 When I attempted to enquire about Luck, the AHA representative with whom I met quickly changed the subject. At the time of my visit, one of slogans of the Film and Television Unit was “Protect Your Ass,” a motto accompanied by a drawing of a donkey. It certainly seems that in the present moment, the AHA is preoccupied with protecting their own. 1 See, for instance, Mel Morse, “Animals in the Movies,” NHR, February 1948, 28-29; Morse, “Animals in the Movies,” NHR, June 1948, 26-27; Morse,“Movieland’s Solution to Transportation Problem” (about Twentieth Century-Fox’s newly purchased horse trailer), NHR, August 1948, 8;“New Movie for Local Societies: ‘Friend of the Family’ by RKO Pathe on 16mm sound film,” NHR, February 1949, 9; Morse, “Animal Stars of Hollywood,” NHR, February 1949, 21-22; “Movie Star Horses Travel in Comfort,” NHR, June 1950, 25; “A Dog Can Succeed in Hollywood,” NHR, February 1951, 16-17. 2 “Mel Morse and Staff Supervise 144 Films,” NHR, July 1949, 27. 3 Ibid. 4 Dore Schary, “Children and Animals in the Movies,” NHR, March 1931, 7. 5 Schary, “Children and Animals in the Movies,” 8. 6 “Animal Oscar Awards to Be Made March 6,” Los Angeles Times, February 9, 1951; “Animals Take the Spotlight in Hollywood,” NHR, May 1951, 4-6, 25 (quotation taken from page 25); “Patsy Award Night Will Be Doggy Affair,” Los Angeles Times, February 22, 1951, 23. 7 “Animals Take the Spotlight in Hollywood,” 6. See also Claire Molloy, Popular Media and Animals, pp. 40-63, for a discussion of Bonzo/Tamba’s career and the construction of the chimpanzee’s stardom. 8 The placements were determined by a vague “popularity vote from all parts of the country.” “Animals Take the Spotlight in Hollywood,” 5. 9 Winners of the PATSYs included: Rhubarb the cat in 1952, with the Craven Award going to Smoky, a fighting stallion; Jackie the lion in 1953 (he attended the ceremony and reportedly “appeared somewhat bored at the honor); in 1954, Laddie the collie for his work in Hondo, with the Craven Award going to a falling horse named Cocaine and a special appreciation award given to Walter Lantz for a Woody Woodpecker cartoon; Gypsy the stallion in 1955; Wildfire the bull terrier in 1956; and Samantha the goose in 1957. 1958 went to the dogs, as Spike, star of Old Yeller, took the film PATSY, and Lassie took the TV award. There was almost a scandal at the 1959 Awards: the top prize almost went to a lobster named Sam, who appeared in the Doris Day picture It Happened to Jane, until it was discovered at the last minute that Sam was a mechanical lobster. He was summarily “disqualified and banished to the Columbia Pictures props department,” and the award went to Pyewacket, the cat from Bell, Book and Candle, with Lassie repeating in the TV category. See “Animals Get Their Oscars,” The Austin Statesman, March 29, 1952, 2; “Jackie the Lion Wins Year’s ‘Patsy’ Award,” The Baltimore Sun, March 23, 1953, 3; “Collie and Mule Win Top Patsys for Best Film Performances of the Year,” Los Angeles Times, March 29, 1954, 2; “Horse Prances Off With Top Animal Film Award,” Los Angeles Times, March 21, 1955, 2; “Terrier Wins Animal Oscar,” The Austin Statesman, April 3, 1956, 15; “Hollywood Parade,” Chicago Daily Tribune, May 6, 1957, B16; “Dogs Have A Day Out in Hollywood; Win Patsy Awards,” Chicago Daily Tribune, March 30, 1958, 3; Vernon Scott, “Lobster Sam Almost Tops Legit Picks,” Daily Defender, March 18, 1959, 18; “Cat Chosen as Top Motion Picture 248 Animal,” Los Angeles Times, March 22, 1959, 21. On the PAWSCARs, see American Humane Association, “PAWSCAR Awards,” < http://www.americanhumane.org/animals/programs/no-animals-were-harmed/pawscar- awards.html>. Accessed October 10, 2014. 10 “Bullfight Scenes in the Movies,” NHR, July 1951, 6. Subsequent information and quotations are taken from this citation. 11 “Bullfight Scenes in the Movies,” 28. 12 Peter Lev, The Fifties: Transforming the Screen, 1950-1959 (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2003), pp. 87-105; 149-155. 13 According to the American Film Institute, stuntman Yakima Canutt is believed to have been responsible for directing the majority of the chariot race, with some duties also falling to second unit director Andrew Merton, who had directed Gallant Bess for MGM back in 1946. < http://gateway.proquest.com.libproxy.usc.edu/openurl?ctx_ver=Z39.88-2003&xri:pqil:res_ver=0.2&res_id=xri:afi- us&rft_id=xri:afi:film:52827>. Accessed October 2, 2014. 14 John C. Waugh, “Cooperation Solves ‘Ben-Hur’ Dilemma,” The Christian Science Monitor, January 6, 1960, 7. 15 “Unacceptable Film List, 1975-2005,” American Humane Association, unpublished, courtesy of the American Humane Association. An updated, searchable database of AHA-rated films can be found at < http://humanehollywood.org/index.php/movie-reviews>. Accessed October 12, 2014. 16 Letter from the RSPCA to Rutherford T. Phillips (sender’s signature indecipherable), November 9, 1960; A.C. McFarlane, letter to Rutherford T. Phillips, November 9, 1960. American Humane Association 1960, Warner Bros. Archives, University of Southern California, Los Angeles, CA. 17 “Mel L. Morse Appointed Rep for Humane Societies,” Hollywood Reporter, August 15, 1960, 4. 18 “A Statement Regarding Supervision of Animal Use in Motion Pictures and Television,” The American Humane Association, August 17, 1960. American Humane Association 1960, Warner Bros. Archives. 19 Rutherford T. Phillips, letter to Charles Boren, November 25, 1960. 20 Records are particularly spotty in this regard, but an AHA officer was listed as present on the set of the TV series Cheyenne in 1956, at least. Letter from Charles F. Greenlaw to James S. Howie, August 31, 1956. American Humane Association 1956, Warner Bros. Archives. 21 Peter Singer, Animal Liberation: The Definitive Classic of the Animal Movement (New York: Harper Perennial, 2009), 6. 22 That the AHA remains extraordinarily moderate, if not downright conservative, can be confirmed by a visit to any Ralphs supermarket, where one may purchase AHA-certified chicken for human consumption. On PETA, see, for instance, Peter Simonson, “Social Noise and Segmented Rhythms: News, Entertainment, and Celebrity in the Crusade for Animal Rights,” The Communication Review 4.3 (2001): 399-420 and Constance Holden, “Random Samples,” Science 287.5460 (2000): 1917. On some of PETA’s issues with the AHA, see PETA, “Animal Actors,” < http://www.peta.org/issues/animals-in-entertainment/animal-actors/>, accessed July 8, 2014. On celebrity in contemporary animal welfare (and other) issues, see Theresa M. Winge, “‘Green Is the New Black”: Celebrity Chic and the ‘Green’ Commodity Fetish,” Fashion Theory 12.4 (2008): 511-524. 23 “Guidelines for the Safe Use of Animals in Filmed Media,” American Humane Association (2009), 19. The Guidelines can be downloaded from <http://www.hollywoodreporter.com/feature/wp- content/uploads/2013/11/GuidelinesfortheSafe-UseofAnimalsin-FilmedMedia.pdf>. Accessed November 26, 2013. Immediately following the note regarding animal substitutions is the somewhat bizarre guideline that dead animals obtained from sources such as taxidermists, slaughterhouses, and animal shelters may be included in a production so long as it can be documented that the animals were “destroyed in the normal course of the source’s operations and were not killed for the production.” 24 I have had to explain to a number of people that I could not title this dissertation “No Animals Were Harmed” because that phrase is a registered trademark of American Humane Association. 25 Gary Baum, “Animals Were Harmed,” The Hollywood Reporter, November 25, 2013. < http://www.hollywoodreporter.com/feature/>. Accessed November 26, 2013. 26 In addition to the Hollywood Reporter article cited above, see Gary Baum, “What Really Happened on HBO’s ‘Luck’—and Why Nobody Was Held Accountable,” The Hollywood Reporter, November 25, 2013, < http://www.hollywoodreporter.com/feature/what-really-happened-on-hbos-luck-and-why-nobody-was-held- accountable.html>; Noah Gitell, “A Watershed Moment for Hollywood’s Animal-Rights Movement?” The Atlantic, August 14, 2013, < http://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2013/08/a-watershed-moment-for- hollywoods-animal-rights-movement/278687/>; Associated Press, “Animal Wranglers say ‘The Hobbit’ Production Company Responsible For Deaths of 27 Animals,” November 9, 2012. < 249 http://www.foxnews.com/entertainment/2012/11/19/animal-wranglers-say-hobbit-production-compandy- responsible-for-deaths-27/>, all accessed July 10, 2014. 250 Bibliography Amaral, Anthony. Movie Horses: Their Treatment and Training. Indianapolis and New York: The Bobbs-Merrill Company, Inc., 1967. Baker, Steve. The Postmodern Animal. London: Reaktion Books, 2000. Balio, Tino. Grand Design: Hollywood as a Modern Business Enterprise, 1930-39. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1993. Bean, Jennifer M. “Technologies of Stardom and the Extraordinary Body.” Camera Obscura 16.3 (2001): 8-57. Beers, Diane L. For the Prevention of Cruelty: The History and Legacy of Animal Rights Activism in the United States. Athens, OH: Swallow Press/Ohio University Press, 2006. Berger, John. “Why Look at Animals?” In The Animals Reader: The Essential Classic and Contemporary Writings, edited by Linda Kalof and Amy Fitzgerald, 252-261. Oxford and New York: Berg, 2007. Bousé, Derek. Wildlife Films. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2000. Braudy, Leo. The Frenzy of Renown: Fame and its History. New York: Vintage, 1997. Brownlow, Kevin. The War, the West, and the Wilderness. New York: Alfred P. Knopf, 1979. Burns, Walter Noble. The Robin Hood of El Dorado: The Saga of Joaquin Murrieta, Famous Outlaw of California’s Age of Gold. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1999. Electronic version. Burt, Jonathan. “John Berger’s ‘Why Look at Animals?’ A Close Reading.” Worldviews: Global Religions, Cultures, and Ecology 9.2 (2005): 203-218. Cameron, Kenneth M. Africa on Film: Beyond Black and White. New York: Continuum, 1994. 251 Cannom, Robert C. Van Dyke and The Mythical City of Hollywood. New York and London: Garland Publishing, 1977. Christeson, H.M. and F.M. Christeson. Tony and his Pals (With a Chapter by Tom Mix). Chicago: Albert Whitman and Company, 1934. Couvares, Francis G. “Hollywood, Main Street, and the Church: Trying to Censor Movies Before the Production Code.” In Movie Censorship and American Culture, 2 nd Edition, edited by Francis G. Couvares, 129-158. Amherst and Boston: University of Massachusetts Press, 2006. Crafton, Donald. The Talkies: America’s Transition to Sound, 1926-1931. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1997. Crowther, Bosley. The Lion’s Share: The Story of an Entertainment Empire. New York: E.P. Dutton and Company, Inc., 197. deCordova, Richard. Picture Personalities: The Emergence of the Star System in America. Champaign: University of Illinois Press, 1990. Doherty, Thomas. Pre-Code Hollywood: Sex, Immorality, and Insurrection in American Cinema, 1930-1934. New York: Columbia University Press, 1999. ---. Hollywood’s Censor: Joseph I. Breen and the Production Code Administration. New York: Columbia University Press, 2007. Dyer, Richard. Heavenly Bodies: Film Stars and Society, 2 nd Edition. New York: Routledge, 2005. Dyer, Richard with Paul McDonald. Stars, New Edition. London: BFI, 1998. 252 Fudge, Erica. “A Left-Handed Blow: Writing the History of Animals.” In Representing Animals, edited by Nigel Rothfels, 3-18. Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2002. Ganzert, Robin, PhD and Allen & Linda Anderson. Animal Stars: Behind the Scenes with Your Favorite Animal Actors. Novato, CA: New World Library, 2014. Gledhill, Christine. “Introduction.” In Stardom: Industry of Desire, edited by Christine Gledhill. London and New York: Routledge, 1991. Gomery, Douglas. The Hollywood Studio System: A History. London: BFI, 2005. Grieveson, Lee. Policing Cinema: Movies and Censorship in Early Twentieth-Century America. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2004. Holden, Constance. “Random Samples,” Science 287.5460 (2000): 1917. Jewell, Richard B. The Golden Age of Cinema: Hollywood 1929-1945. Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing, 2007. ---. RKO Radio Pictures: A Titan is Born. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2012. Jowett, Garth S. “‘A Capacity for Evil’: The 1915 Supreme Court Mutual Decision.” Historical Journal of Radio, Film, and Television 9.1 (1989): 59-62. Koszarski, Richard. An Evening’s Entertainment: The Age of the Single Feature Picture, 1915- 1928. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1990. Lev, Peter. Twentieth Century-Fox: The Zanuck-Skouras Years, 1935-1965. Austin: University of Texas Press, 2013. ---. The Fifties: Transforming the Screen, 1950-1959. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2003. 253 Lippit, Akira Mizuta. Electric Animal: Toward a Rhetoric of Wildlife. Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press, 2000. Maltby, Richard. “The Production Code and the Hays Office.” In Grand Design: Hollywood as a Modern Business Enterprise, 1930-39, by Tino Balio, 37-72. Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1993. Marshall, P. David. Celebrity and Power: Fame and Contemporary Culture. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1997. Mason, Jennifer. Civilized Creatures: Urban Animals, Sentimental Culture, and American Literature, 1850-1900. Baltimore and London: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2005. McShane, Clay and Joel A. Tarr. The Horse in the City: Living Machines in the Nineteenth Century. Baltimore and London: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2007. Miller, Blair. American Silent Film Comedies: An Illustrated Encyclopedia of Persons, Studios, and Terminology. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 1995. Mitchum, Petrine Day with Audrey Pavia. Hollywood Hoofbeats: Trails Blazed Across the Silver Screen. Irvine, CA: Bow Tie Press, 2005. Mittman, Gregg. Reel Nature: America’s Romance with Wildlife on Film. Cambridge, MA and London: Harvard University Press, 1999. Molloy, Claire. Popular Media and Animals. New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2011. Negra, Diane. “Female Stardom and Early Film History.” Camera Obscura 48 (2001): 1-7. Nicholas, John T. with an introduction by Gene Autry. Tom Mix: Riding Up to Glory. Oklahoma City: Persimmon Hill/National Cowboy Hall of Fame and Western Heritage Center, 1980. 254 Norris, M.G. “Bud.” The Tom Mix Book. Waynesville, NC: The World of Yesterday, 1989. Pando, Leo. An Illustrated History of Trigger: The Lives and Legends of Roy Rogers’ Palomino. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2007. Parker, Alison M. “Mothering the Movies: Women Reformers and Popular Culture.” In Movie Censorship and American Culture, 2 nd Edition, edited by Francis G. Couvares, 73-96. Amherst and Boston: University of Massachusetts Press, 2006. Peterson, Michael. “The Animal Apparatus: From a Theory of Animal Acting to an Ethics of Animal Acts.” TDR: The Drama Review 51.1 (Spring 2007): 33-48. Porter, Pete. “Engaging the Animal in the Moving Image.” Society & Animals 14.4 (2006): 399- 416. Ritvo, Harriet. The Animal Estate: The English and Other Creatures in the Victorian Age. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1987. Robertson, James C. The Hidden Camera: British Film Censorship in Action, 1913-1972. Florence, KY: Routledge, 1993. Rojek, Chris. Celebrity. London: Reaktion Books, 2004. Rony, Fatimah Tobing. The Third Eye: Race, Cinema, and Ethnographic Spectacle. Durham, NC and London: Duke University Press, 1996. Sarris, Andrew. The American Cinema: Directors and Directions, 1926-1928. Cambridge, MA: DaCapo Press, 1994. Saunders, Marshall. Beautiful Joe: An Autobiography of a Dog. Amazon Kindle Edition, 2012. Schaefer, Eric. Bold! Daring! Shocking! True!: A History of Exploitation Films, 1919-1959. Durham, NC and London: Duke University Press, 1999. 255 Schatz, Thomas. Boom and Bust: American Cinema in the 1940s. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1997. Schwartz, Vanessa. It’s So French! Hollywood, Paris, and the Making of Cosmopolitan Film Culture. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007. Sewell, Anna. Black Beauty: The Autobiography of a Horse. Amazon Kindle Edition, 2012. Shevelow, Kathryn. For the Love of Animals: The Rise of the Animal Protection Movement. New York: Henry Holt and Company, 2008. Sieverling, Richard. Tom Mix and Tony: A Partnership Remembered. Hershey, PA: Keystone Entertainment Educational Publishing, 1980. ---. Tom Mix: Portrait of a Superstar. Hershey, PA: Keystone Enterprises Educational Publishing, 1991. Simonson, Peter. “Social Noise and Segmented Rhythms: News, Entertainment, and Celebrity in the Crusade for Animal Rights,” The Communication Review 4.3 (2001): 399-420. Singer, Peter. Animal Liberation: The Definitive Classic of the Animal Movement. New York: Harper Perennial, 2009. Sklar, Robert. Movie-Made America: A Cultural History of American Movies. New York: Vintage Books, 1994. Slide, Anthony. Silent Players: A Biographical and Autobiographical Study of 100 Silent Film Actors and Actresses. Lexington, KY: University of Kentucky Press, 2010. Electronic version. Smith, Jacob. The Thrill Makers: Celebrity, Masculinity, and Stunt Performance. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2012. 256 Tuska, Jon. A Variable Harvest: Essays and Reviews of Film and Literature. Jefferson, NC and London: McFarland and Company, 1990. Unti, Bernard. “The Quality of Mercy: Organized Animal Protection in the United States Before World War Two.” Ph.D. diss, American University, 2002. ---. Protecting All Animals: A Fifty-Year History of the Humane Society of the United States. Washington, DC: Humane Society Press, 2004. Vasey, Ruth. “Beyond Sex and Violence: ‘Industry Policy’ and the Regulation of Hollywood Movies, 1922-1939.” In Controlling Hollywood: Censorship and Regulation in the Studio Era, edited by Matthew Bernstein, 102-129. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1999. Velez, Angela N., “Olé, Olé, Olé, Oh No!: Bullfighting in the United States and Reconciling Constitutional Rights with Animal Cruelty Statutes,” Penn State Law Review 115.2 (2010): 497-516. Vieira, Mark A. Irving Thalberg: Boy Wonder to Producer Prince. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2010. Waldman, Harry. Beyond Hollywood’s Grasp: American Filmmakers Abroad, 1914-1945. Metuchen, NJ and London: Scarecrow Press, Inc., 1994. Ward, Richard Lewis. A History of the Hal Roach Studios. Carbondale, IL: Southern Illinois University Press, 2005. Winge, Theresa M. “‘Green Is the New Black”: Celebrity Chic and the ‘Green’ Commodity Fetish,” Fashion Theory 12.4 (2008): 511-524.

Abstract (if available)

Linked assets

University of Southern California Dissertations and Theses

Conceptually similar

PDF

Performance unleashed: multispecies stardom and companion animal media

PDF

¡Que naco! Border cinema and Mexican migrant audiences

PDF

Riddles of representation in fantastic media

PDF

Hollywood vault: the business of film libraries, 1915-1960

PDF

Japan in transnational Hollywood: industry and identity, 1985-1995

PDF

Co-producing the Asia Pacific: travels in technology, space, time and gender

PDF

Animating documentary

PDF

Animation before the war: nation, identity, and modernity in Japan from 1914-1945

PDF

The vicissitudes of postnational affects: visuality, temporality, and corporeality in global east Asian films

PDF

Yellow Hollywood: Asian martial arts in U.S. global cinema

PDF

Shake your assets: dance and the performance of Latina sexuality in Hollywood film

PDF

A taste for trash: the persistence of exploitation in American cinema, 1960-1975

PDF

Special cultural zones: provincializing global media in neoliberal China

PDF

Channeling Shirley MacLaine: stardom, travel, politics, and beyond

PDF

Shadows of stardom: Latina actresses in the 1930's Hollywood produced Spanish language films

PDF

Existential surplus: affect and labor in Asian diasporic video cultures

PDF

Screens on the move: media convergence and mobile culture in Korea

PDF

Dead zones: human mobility and the making of media nationalism

PDF

Caution children crossing: home, integration narratives, and the gentle warrior, 1950-1965

PDF

Sick cinema: illness, disability and the moving image

Asset Metadata

Creator White, Courtney Elisabeth (author)

Core Title What looked like cruelty: animal welfare in Hollywood, 1916-1950

School School of Cinematic Arts

Degree Doctor of Philosophy

Degree Program Cinema-Television (Cinema Critical Studies)

Publication Date 01/26/2015

Defense Date 10/21/2014

Publisher University of Southern California (original), University of Southern California. Libraries (digital)

Tag animal cruelty,animal welfare,film history,Hollywood studio system,motion picture history,Motion pictures,OAI-PMH Harvest

Format application/pdf (imt)

Language English

Contributor Electronically uploaded by the author (provenance)

Advisor Jewell, Richard B. (committee chair), Lippit, Akira Mizuta (committee member), McPherson, Tara (committee member)

Creator Email courtneyewhite@gmail.com,whitece@usc.edu

Permanent Link (DOI) https://doi.org/10.25549/usctheses-c3-526365

Unique identifier UC11298656

Identifier etd-WhiteCourt-3132.pdf (filename),usctheses-c3-526365 (legacy record id)

Legacy Identifier etd-WhiteCourt-3132.pdf

Dmrecord 526365

Document Type Dissertation

Format application/pdf (imt)

Rights White, Courtney Elisabeth

Type texts

Source University of Southern California (contributing entity), University of Southern California Dissertations and Theses (collection)

Access Conditions The author retains rights to his/her dissertation, thesis or other graduate work according to U.S. copyright law. Electronic access is being provided by the USC Libraries in agreement with the a...

Repository Name University of Southern California Digital Library

Repository Location USC Digital Library, University of Southern California, University Park Campus MC 2810, 3434 South Grand Avenue, 2nd Floor, Los Angeles, California 90089-2810, USA