"BRIGHTON ROCK" AND THE CENSORSHIP

The banning of Brighton Rock has brought to the fore consideration not so much of the general principle of censorship but of two other important questions. The first and paramount one concerns the questionable moral standards upon which our local Censor and the Appeal Board apparently base their rulings.

It is difficult to understand how the actions of the censoring authorrities have been anything other than ill-considered, hasty and ridiculously stupid over Brighton Rock. While deliberately salacious films like Gilda, The Outlaw and Duel in the Sun are released for public consumption, it can hardly be on the grounds of protecting the public's morals that Brighton Rock has been banned. As a statement made some weeks ago on behalf of the New Zealand Film Institute said: "Not only reputable film critics in secular British papers but the Press of the Catholic Church in England have recognised the moral purpose and effectiveness of this film. Any brutal or shocking incidents in it have been introduced not to make vice attractive but to show it in its true ugliness. If Graham Greene and the directors of this film had been content to produce a story of slick sexiness and violence, they would presumably have had the film passed by the New Zealand censorship."

Despite this, it is interesting to note that the Censor, Mr. W. A. von Keisenberg, said in a recent Press interview: "I understand that American films have already been subjected to an internal censorship overhaul before export. Probably for this reason the dialogue does not often offend. They also display a more subtle angle in depicting questionable scenes". An article by a Hollywood screen writer (reproduced below) outlines some of the ruses adopted to preserve the moral tone of dialogue and to receive on O.K. after the "internal censorship overhaul".

The other question raised by the banning of Brighton Rock, is that of the censorship machinery in New  Zealand. By law, the case is now closed. For the Cinematograph Films Act of 1928 says that the decision of the Appeal Board is final. It would appear that nothing short of a legislative amendment can release the film from the ban.

Meanwhile, the New Zealand Film Institute plans to bring the question and that of other anomalies to the Act before the attention of the Government. The machinery gives to the Appeal Board moral omniscience. It seems a fruitful avenue for criticism, then, to attack not the Censor - a civil servant possessed no doubt of understandable foibles - but the constitution of the Appeal Board, which is stated to comprise a Magistrate and two married women. Some assurance that the members of the Appeal Board had the competence to perceive the intricacies of the profound moral problems with which Graham Greene and the Catholic Church are concerned would be desirable. If such an assurance is not forthcoming, some revision of the membership of an Appeal Board charged with such responsible interpretive duties should be demanded.

It is fantastic, anyway, that the public, in whose interests the ban is allegedly imposed, should only learn of the Appeal Board's decision because the directors of the film became agitated at the implied reflection of their integrity. One useful amendment that immediately springs to mind would be a provision to publish the details of films banned by the Appeal Board, together with the judgement of the Appeal Board stating the reasons for their action.

As things are, doubts are raised as to why some of the films that would in the normal course of events have been released in New Zealand by this tune have not yet been seen. Two in partioular - made well over a year ago - that have been highly praised overseas but have not been screened publicly to our knowledge are the American Gentleman's Agreement and the English Hue and Cry. Are the reasons for their failure to appear on New Zealand screens also to be found in the muddled moral-minding of the Censorship Appeal Board?

ADVICE TO SCENARIST : HOW TO THUMB YOUR NOSE AT THE CENSOR

(The article printed below appeared in the June issue of The Screen Writer, and provokes some interesting thoughts in view of recent censorship activities in New Zealand. - Ed.)

In case there is anyone who doesn't know, the Breen-Hays-Johnston Office can on occasion drive writers into nervous breakdowns. And the real problems are seldom the big, fat, really juicy censorable stuff - incest, rape, and arson in bed are items that a writer can feel quite happy suffering with, and quite satisfied in buying a Buick when he developes a new story line to circumvent them. It's the niggling little amenities that make a man sweat, curse, and wonder if the rules were made by anyone who had contact with urban life.

Let's take drinking (goody). According to the fixed law of the Production Code, a man can get blind drunk and murder his wife, and all is hotsy-totsy. But if they sit down for a quiet snort before dinner, meanwhile discussing the progress of the plot, all hell will break loose. Sure as shooting, back will come a letter from The Office, frowning on the emphasis on drinking. Since all the hysteria comes from reading the script, not from the finished picture, changes
must be made in the type. Old hands think nothing of this, dipping into their trusty Hays Office File, pre-war vintage. This consists of lines pat and unchangeable, which will get a writer out of almost any of the ordinary situations. For instance:

For "Would you like a Drink?" substitute "Here," whereupon the honeysuckle in the female lead hands a glass to the gentleman opposite her on the marquee, thus saving the morals of the nation. Ordering a drink is far more complicated, unless the character is an alcoholic and destined to suffer for it. (Alcoholics can order anything without the slightest protest, unless, of course, they give the concoction a sales talk.) "Martini" and "Whiskey" look dreadful in print, so there are all sorts of dodges to get around them. The answers to the classic question, "What'll you have?" range something like this:-
(1) "Nothing right now, thanks".  (The director shoots this with the character's back to the camera).
(2) "'Whatever you're having".
(3) "Something that tastes good". (Suitable only for comedy ingenues and Billie Burke).
(4) "The usual". (Why that one invariably gets by, I'll never know).

And in ordering a second round, God knows, the actual booze is never detailed. A sharp cry of "Waiter!" or better yet, a simple gesture, will do the trick.

The old Hays Office File comes in handy in more ways than this, however. The saving lines can be varied occasionally, though not too much, because they will miss the point. They rarely have anything much to do with character, since mostly they are flat contradictions of the situation on the screen.

Take vice (double goody). The big haunt about vice is that it cannot, specifically, be treated attractively. This means that not only must the characters suffer for their carryings-on, but they can't show a glimmer of enjoyment while actually at it. There is one really firm, classic line to get you out of this mess: "It never gave me a moment's happiness". Or, for immediacy, "Do you call this happiness?" Or the subtle but risky Lady Doth Protest Too Much technique: "Of course I'm happy: Sure I'm happy: (Sob!')"

Or retribution - there's a dilly. In cases where the sinner, by some likely freak of fate, winds up rich, famous, and admired, it is necessary to pull out the old file to show the secret maggots working within. So far as I know, the old basic line is still the best: "Whatever I've done, I'm paying for it now". This is generally said just before the waiters serve the Cherries Jubilee, and only cynics would doubt that God's punishment is done. There are many classic variations, appealing not only to the censors but to the ladies who are scheduled to play the parts. The most touching is probably the wistful Retrospect, as in: "Sometimes I wonder what happened to the little girl with the pigtails." This is usually said by a lady who has sinned her way into a very tasty life indeed and wouldn't be caught dead in a pigtail unless it was something whipped up by Antoine, but by God it shows regret. In exceptional cases, permission is granted to put the punishment in the tentative future. This leads to our dear old favourite: "Somehow I know I'll have to pay for this". One lovely thing about lines like this is that the audience has heard them so often they don't listen.

And as for sex - well, any amount of rolling in the old haystacks can be forgiven if, toward the finish, our heroine looks her leading man right in the eye and says: "I'm thankful we've done nothing to be ashaned of".  This, of course, does not apply to the picture as a whole.    

- James Gunn.