Cold Open

It’s the evening of September 5th, 1921, at the St. Francis, a luxury hotel in San Francisco, California.

Harry Boyle knocks gently on the door of Room 1219. Harry is the assistant manager at the St. Francis, and he’s been called to the top floor of the hotel to assist with a female guest who has fallen ill.

From down the hallway, Harry can hear music, and it sounds like a party. He hopes it’s not disturbing the sick woman.

Harry knocks again.

When the door finally opens, Harry is taken aback by the man staring back at him. He knew, of course, that Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle was staying at the hotel. But coming face to face with one of the biggest stars in Hollywood still leaves Harry momentarily speechless.

But he gathers himself and, trying to remain professional, he asks Arbuckle how he can be of assistance.

Arbuckle ushers him inside. There’s a huddle of worried-looking women standing around a bed. Writhing on the mattress, covered in a bathrobe, is a young woman in obvious distress. Quietly, Arbuckle says he thinks she’s had too much to drink. He asks for Harry’s assistance, moving her to another room away from the party. Because he’s sure she just needs to sleep it off.

Eager to help such a high-profile guest, Harry informs Arbuckle that Room 1227 down the hall is currently vacant. The young woman could rest there.

Thanking him, Arbuckle clears a path through the other partygoers and hoists the woman off the bed. She moans in pain as he staggers with her over to the door.

Harry leads the way, pulling out his master key as he guides them down the hallway to room 1227.

He then opens the door and switches on the light. Then he turns and takes the young woman from Arbuckle’s arms. She’s pale and limp, her dark hair lank against her face. Gently, Harry lowers her to the bed. But when he turns around, Roscoe Arbuckle has already gone back to the party.

The woman in the bed is an actress named Virginia Rappe. And five days after this party, she will die from a ruptured bladder, and the superstar Roscoe Arbuckle will be accused of her rape and manslaughter. He will eventually be cleared of all wrongdoing, but his reputation will never recover. And it won’t just be his career that will suffer. The fallout from this affair will see the entire movie industry come under attack. Religious groups will accuse the studios of peddling sex and violence, and demand change. And their campaign will result in a new set of guidelines that will govern the way Hollywood makes movies for decades after the Hays Code is introduced on March 31st, 1930.

Introduction

From Noiser and Airship, I’m Lindsay Graham, and this is History Daily.

History is made every day. On this podcast—every day—we tell the true stories of the people and events that shaped our world.

Today is March 31st, 1930: The Introduction of the Hays Code.

Act One: The Hazy Side of LA

It’s March 1922, in Hollywood, California, eighteen months after the death of Virginia Rappe.

42-year-old Will H. Hays drives down Hollywood Boulevard in a brand new roadster. He’s barely been in town a few minutes, but Will already understands the appeal of Los Angeles—the sunshine, the clear blue sky, and the friendly faces. But Will gets an even warmer welcome than most visitors to the city.

Farther down the street, there’s a crowd waiting beneath a huge banner that reads: “WELCOME WILL HAYS TO THE MOTION PICTURE CAPITAL OF THE WORLD.”

Grinning, Will pulls the car over. Waiting on the sidewalk to shake his hand is Harold Lloyd, the star of a string of hit comedy films. Accompanying him are executives from the major studios, and they’re all eager for some face time. But despite their smiles, Will knows many are worried by what a politician’s presence in LA might mean for their industry.

Two years ago, Will was the manager of Republican Warren Harding’s successful Presidential campaign. As a reward for putting Harding in the White House, Will was made Postmaster General. But recently, Will resigned this position to take a new role in Hollywood. He’s going to be the first president of the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America, or MPPDA.

But Will has arrived on the West Coast at a bad time. The movie business is in crisis. A string of scandals has rocked the industry and horrified the nation. First, a young starlet named Olive Thomas died from a drug overdose, with her high-profile Hollywood husband at her side. Then one of the world’s highest-paid stars, Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle, was arrested and put on trial for rape and manslaughter. Then, just a month ago, the esteemed director William Desmond Taylor was murdered at his home under mysterious circumstances.

These stories have been eagerly sensationalized by newspaper reporters, and many Americans now view Hollywood as a hotbed of debauchery and vice. Some individual states already censor movies, demanding changes and cuts from the studios to remove references to sex and violence. But there are now growing calls for the federal government to intervene in the industry as well.

The MPPDA has been founded by motion picture companies to help clean up their image. They’ve recruited Will Hays because he’s well-connected in Washington and with conservative groups who are skeptical of the industry. It’s hoped that these ties mean he’ll be able to act as a go-between or a buffer for Hollywood. But for many in Los Angeles, those political connections are also a source of anxiety.

Some in Hollywood are nervous about exactly what Will intends to do in his new job. His ambiguous public statements don’t help matters. In early conversations with the press, he seems to defend the industry and distance it from recent scandals. But at the same time, he also emphasizes his Christian faith and insists that he will make sure moviemakers know the importance of what he calls “moral standards in production.”

This rhetoric leaves many in Hollywood unsure whether Will is for or against government intervention. Eager to get a definitive answer, they invite Will to a party held at the home of the influential writer and director Rupert Hughes. There, Will is cornered and asked to explain exactly what he means by “moral standards”.

Will assures his audience that he has no intention of enforcing outside regulation on the movie industry. What he wants to do instead is develop content guidelines everyone can follow to stop movies from falling foul of individual state regulators. The relieved studio heads are all too happy to work with Will on this compromise. After all, they are the ones who are left with the bill when state censors demand edits or ban movies entirely.

So over the next two years, Will works on a “formula” for what should and shouldn’t be shown in movies. Topics like homosexuality, nudity, and drugs will certainly be off the table. Crime and references to sex will be limited, too.

This leaves some directors and writers to find the guidelines too restrictive, while some moral crusaders complain that Will’s formula doesn’t go far enough. But for a time, an uneasy truce seems to reign, with the studios just happy that they’ve avoided direct government regulation.

But then the “talkies” bring an end to the Silent Era, and motion pictures explode in popularity. More and more people will flock to the theaters—and the battle over what can and can’t be shown on the big screen will erupt once again.

Act Two: Needling a Hays Tactic

It’s October 1929, in a movie theater in Chicago, Illinois, five years after Will H. Hays introduced his “formula” to clean up Hollywood.

In the front row, 39-year-old publisher Martin Quigley shakes his head in disgust. He’s watching a bawdy comedy titled The Cock-Eyed World. The plot centers on two men vying for the affections of the same young woman. Around him, the rest of the audience is roaring with laughter, but Martin doesn’t find the movie funny at all. In his hands is a notepad, and as he watches, he scribbles down words like “vulgar”, “offensive”, and “lustful”.

Even before Martin sat down for the movie, he’d been angry. Its poster was a disgrace, featuring a large image of the leading actress provocatively hitching up her short skirt as two men pulled at her bare arms. In Martin’s eyes, such obvious smut and innuendo should never be displayed in public. But now that he's seen the movie itself, he is even madder than before. And he’s going to do something about it.

As the publisher of the film journal Exhibitors Herald and Moving Picture World, Martin is an influential voice in Hollywood. He is also a religious man and determined to put his power to good use. He believes that movies can be effective tools for spreading good morals. But equally, he fears that, in the wrong hands, they can promote vulgarity and dishonesty. And right now, he’s especially concerned by the pictures being made in America.

Since the advent of the talkie, the movie industry in the United States has boomed. In less than two years, theater attendances have doubled, skyrocketing from 60 million visits in 1927 to approximately 110 million by 1929. But that enormous increase has only deepened Martin’s conviction that Hollywood has a duty to impart good, Christian morality to its audience. The arrival of Will H. Hays as President of the MPPDA and the voluntary guidelines he agreed to with the studios were meant to introduce some decorum and decency to the industry. But now it seems clear to Martin that those efforts have failed. If The Cock-Eyed World is anything to go by, things are worse than ever.

Martin is far from alone in his outrage, and when he leaves the theater after the movie, he immediately gets in touch with a like-minded campaigner to discuss what to do about it. Father Daniel Lord is a prominent and influential Jesuit Priest. He’s previously worked in Hollywood, serving as an advisor on a big-screen retelling of the story of Jesus. But he shares Martin’s concerns about the industry’s influence, especially on impressionable younger audiences.

So through their combined connections, Martin secures a meeting with Will Hays himself. There, he puts pressure on Will to do more to stop movies like The Cock-Eyed World making it into theaters.

He tells Will that his “formula” to improve standards in movies doesn’t go anywhere near far enough. He suggests that he and Father Daniel Lord compile their own list of Do’s and Don’ts for the industry. And if Will doesn’t agree, Martin makes it clear that they’ll lead a national boycott. They’re sure that millions of ordinary Americans will join them in making a stand against Hollywood’s filth.

Eager to avoid a confrontation with such powerful campaigners, Will agrees to take another look at the guidelines. But when he meets with the studios to discuss the issue, the bosses are dismissive. If Americans were really that sickened by sex and violence in the movies, they wouldn’t buy tickets, but they do. Box office returns are higher than ever. So, the studios see no reason to change, and they call Martin and his fellow campaigners’ bluff. There will be no changes to the guidelines.

But the box office boom does not last forever. In October 1929, the Wall Street Crash unleashes an economic crisis that brings the Hollywood juggernaut to a halt. Citizens across the country tighten their belts. And as businesses collapse and millions of jobs disappear almost overnight, little luxuries like a trip to the theater will be sacrificed. With the movie industry’s profits tumbling, the mighty Hollywood studios will suddenly feel vulnerable. And moral crusaders like Martin Quigley and Father Daniel Lord will spy an opportunity to finally get what they want.

Act Three: Man’s Gotta Have A Code

It’s March 31st, 1930, in New York City, five months after the Wall Street Crash.

50-year-old Will H. Hays smiles to the assembled reporters after the culmination of the annual meeting of the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America. In front of him, eager journalists fire questions. But the only topic they seem to care about is stricter regulation on Hollywood.

Flanked by prominent studio heads, Will explains that the industry has just agreed to a brand-new “Production Code.” Over twenty major motion picture companies have signed up to the guidelines, which will ensure that audiences only see clean and wholesome entertainment in theaters.

Under pressure by falling box office receipts, the movie industry has bowed to campaigners like Martin Quigley. This new Production Code is mostly written by the Jesuit Priest, Father Daniel Lord. And it covers everything from foul language and sex on screen, to depictions of violence and mixed-race couples.

The executives sitting beside Will in New York nod and smile for the cameras. But despite their grins, Will knows that many of them don’t fully back this Production Code. He’s only been able to get them on board by privately reassuring them that they will still have the final say. A panel of studio insiders will judge new movies against the code. And if those on the panel deem the content fit for the general public, then no cuts will have to be made.

Quickly, this new Production Code becomes known as the Hays Code. But many campaigners still think Will isn’t doing enough to enforce it. So in 1934, an alliance of church groups announces that it will mount a mass boycott of theaters unless real censorship is implemented. Facing a revolt from a large portion of moviegoers, Will Hays relents once again. He forms the Production Code Administration, or PCA, a more formal and independent body. All new movies will now require an official seal of approval from the PCA before they can be released to the United States.

And for the next three decades, the Hays Code will be rigidly enforced. On the PCA's say-so, scripts will be rewritten, scenes will be recut, and entire movies will be suppressed.

It’s only in the 1950s that things will begin to change. Studios will be banned from owning movie theaters or dictating what they show. And this will open the door to foreign movies not covered by the Hays Code. For a time, state censors will try to crack down on these imports, but in 1952, the Supreme Court will unanimously rule that movies are covered by the First Amendment. And almost overnight, the power of the PCA will crumble. The Hays Code will remain officially in force for another 16 years, but its influence will steadily wane until it's abandoned entirely in 1968. The code's strict rules will be replaced by the film rating system, and from that moment on, the individual viewer will have the freedom to decide what they watch, almost four decades after that power was taken away with the introduction of the Hays Code on March 31st, 1930.

Outro

Next on History Daily. April 1st, 1572. A group of Dutch privateers known as the “Sea Beggars” accidentally capture a port and kickstart a revolution.

From Noiser and Airship, this is History Daily, hosted, edited, and executive produced by me, Lindsay Graham.

Audio editing by Muhammad Shahzaib.

Sound design by Mollie Baack.

Music by Thrumm.

This episode is written and researched by Owen Paul Nicholls.

Edited by William Simpson.

Managing producer Emily Burke.

Executive Producers are William Simpson for Airship and Pascal Hughes for Noiser.