Thou Shalt Not...:
Adventures in Movie Censorship

Moving pictures weren’t formally censored before 1907 – it was typically left to the production company or exhibitor to monitor content.^[1] When a film raised concerns, in most communities the usual course of action was to notify local police. But this was “a tricky proposition” according to Holly George, who studied municipal film censorship in Spokane. “The trouble came, in part, from the cobbled-together means the city used to regulate theaters: nonbinding requests; police action; city ordinances, often weak; certain state laws; an outdated Sunday closing rule; and, if nothing else, the threat of revoked licenses.”^[2] The existing regulatory framework wasn’t designed to address motion pictures, so local officials often made due with whatever tools they had at their disposal. But a complicating factor was that many films didn’t play long enough for action to be taken. Well into the early teens, a theatre might show a particular movie for only a few days at a time, so by the time opposition was mounted the picture may have already ended its run. Despite obstacles, however, there was a growing feeling around the country that movie content needed some sort of regulation.

Chicago led the way. In 1907, pressure from reformers spurred the city to create a police censorship board to monitor the city’s nickelodeons.^[3] And the following year, in New York, Mayor George McClellan revoked the business licenses of that city’s nickelodeons on Christmas Eve, based partly on the notion that these theatres were promoting immorality.^[4] The New York action was short-lived (exhibitors got an injunction lifting the ban), but children under the age of 16 were temporarily barred from attending picture shows.

The early production companies realized something had to be done. The New York action, along with growing calls for censorship in other cities, made clear that the industry needed a regulatory body; naturally, the movie men wanted to create their own before outside forces did it for them. So, in early 1909, the New York Board of Censorship of Programs of Motion Picture Shows was established with the goal of monitoring picture content. The bigger production companies agreed to pay $3 per reel to have their films previewed, while a handful of the smaller independent companies were allowed to submit films for free. But this entity didn’t last long, not the least because of its unwieldy name. In May 1909 the organization morphed into the National Board of Censorship, with the goal of pre-screening films before they were released on the open market. Pictures submitted to the National Board were reviewed by volunteers – some were passed without changes while others could only be released after certain cuts were made. Either way, each film passed by the Board would have a special leader attached to the release print clearly indicating it had been reviewed and approved.

In theory this satisfied concerned parties. In reality, however, the Board wasn’t designed to protect moviegoers inasmuch as it protected the manufacturers, and it was soon criticized for being too accommodating.^[5] There were also problems with process. The Board was made up of volunteer reviewers from in and around New York City, where American film production was centered at the time, so their censorship decisions tended to reflect the views of urban Northeasterners. Yet most Americans didn’t live in urban settings, and what was considered acceptable in Manhattan wasn’t necessarily acceptable in Montesano. And rarely did the Board ban a film outright, complained critics; even as late as 1914, around 95% of all films submitted were approved in some form.^[6] The criticism eventually got so thick that in 1916 the National Board of Censorship changed its name to the National Board of Review, something that better reflected the role it was actually playing.

But even with the Board in place, many communities still felt the best way to regulate movie content was to establish their own censorship bodies and customize the review process to their location. Several film releases in 1915 (The Birth of a Nation, in particular) helped emphasize the need. But the case for local censorship wasn’t hard to make, since reformers had little trouble identifying motion picture content that they deemed inappropriate.

Controversial films were not unknown in the Northwest. An early example was the 1907 film The Unwritten Law, which dramatized events around the murder of architect Stanford White. The killer was businessman Harry Thaw, whose wife, former chorus girl Evelyn Nesbit, was allegedly drugged and raped by White several years earlier – a disclosure that drove Thaw mad with rage. In 1906 he confronted Stanford White at a rooftop gathering in New York City, shooting him dead before numerous onlookers. The sordid particulars of this affair (which included detailing the private lives of all involved) were splashed across newspapers from coast to coast, and after two separate trials Harry Thaw was found not guilty by reason of insanity, though he was sentenced to a New York mental hospital just the same. The film, made by Sigmund Lubin, looked to capitalize on the public’s interest in the trial and took its name from the notion that there was an “unwritten law” compelling Thaw to avenge the attack on his wife.

The trial details were so scandalous (and so shocking when reenacted for the screen) that The Unwritten Law was banned from many jurisdictions, though Seattle was not one of them. The film was screened on at least two occasions, but if it roused any negative comment, that’s been lost to the historical record. The first of these engagements began on April 15, 1907, at the Star Theatre, a popular vaudeville house, while the second occurred nine months later, beginning January 20, 1908, at the Eden Musée.

But even if a film like The Unwritten Law played without comment, there were plenty of others to focus on. Not all warranted police or municipal action, but such incidents put the exhibitor in a tough spot, having to answer to angry patrons. This was not always his fault – nickelodeons received their films in bulk from the exchange, often had no hand in selecting individual titles and projected them sight unseen. If there were issues, they were learning that in real time, just like the audience. That left the exhibitor holding the bag, a problem so acute that in 1909, the Seattle Motion Picture Manager’s Association formally requested the establishment of a local censor. In a letter written by Association President Eugene Levy and co-signed by 13 others, he argued that a censor was needed “to weed out all motion picture shows that are objectionable.”^[7] Their concern wasn’t surprising; these were businessmen who wanted a steady supply of well-made, interesting subjects to keep their box offices humming. None of them were promoting art for art’s sake, and they were, above all, members of the communities they served. As Tacoma exhibitor H.T. Moore told Motography in 1916, offering good, clean films was always the best business model. “‘When selecting a program,’” Moore said, “‘I carefully consider this question: Is it the kind of entertainment I would wish my daughter to see?’”^[8]

Despite this 1909 request from local exhibitors, it took three years for Seattle to create a municipal censorship board.^[9] In the meantime, the city addressed concerns through police action. For a time Lieutenant Charles Dolphin was Seattle’s quasi-official censor, though he was a one-man operation who responded only to complaints, and only between his other police duties.^[10] For obvious reasons this wasn’t very effective, so in the fall of 1911 city officials began considering a formal censorship ordinance. The initial effort was aimed at Seattle’s stage venues, though the intent was to eventually include motion picture houses as well. But while few argued the need for a local censorship body, there was concern about what form it would take and how far it should reach. In an editorial entitled “Keeping the Stage Clean,” the Post-Intelligencer advocated for a limited approach, ensuring that the body “should be composed of men who are not inclined to go to extremes.” The only goal of the proposed Board of Censors should be “to see that the playhouses of the city are kept free of such things as may tend to corrupt the public morals. Beyond that it will not be necessary for the board to go.”^[11] Local stage managers were firmly against this proposal. The ordinance gave broad, arbitrary powers to the censors, with some arguing that many stage classics would fail scrutiny, given that the plays of Shakespeare, for example, frequently depicted violence and immorality.^[12] Nonetheless, the ordinance was passed by the Seattle City Council on November 20, 1911.

Though Seattle’s new Board didn’t address motion pictures, at least initially, it operated like many other municipal censorship bodies at the time. These groups were usually made up of appointees and reflected a cross-section of the local community – representatives from business, education, social committees, the clergy and entertainment. Women were key components on many censor boards; some cities even codified that their groups required female membership. Seattle’s Board of Censors, like most, was reactionary in nature. Because the members were volunteers, they did not see every production coming into town. Once motion pictures were added to the Board’s duties, films that had been approved by the National Board were usually given a free pass, with intervention only if there were complaints. When that occurred, members would view the film and vote on a response, which was usually to recommend specific cuts. Rarely did Seattle’s Board ban a film, but if they did, it was up to the exhibitor and film exchange to demonstrate, in court, that the decision had been made unfairly.

Seattle’s Board of Censors got off to a rocky start. They did nothing when controversial songstress Anna Held played the city in early 1912, and after getting blowback for inaction, stepped up and banned The Girl From Rector’s after a single show. But that play had been performed in Seattle many times before, so the decision was viewed as a massive overcorrection.^[13] Later, after the Board took on motion picture duties, they stumbled yet again. In October 1913 exhibitor Eugene Levy booked Sapho into his Melbourne Theatre, a film based on the controversial stage play. After a handful of screenings, however, the Board ordered Levy to stop showing the film. But he ignored that directive, showed it anyway, got arrested, then obtained a restraining order preventing the Board from interfering with his shows. And he had good reason for doing so: the week before Sapho played the Melbourne, it had an extended run over at the Moore Theatre. Eugene Levy’s contention was that if the Board of Censors needed to take action, the Moore engagement was their opportunity to do so. But they didn’t, so banning Sapho from the Melbourne was an arbitrary decision.^[14]

This was the kind of 11^th-hour censorship decision that exhibitors came to fear. The reaction to Sapho and other titles eventually prompted many to pre-screen films for the Board before they opened, even when there was little reason to do so, as a type of insurance policy. Some films, of course, required some up-front buy-in, such as when The Inside of the White Slave Traffic was shown to the Board of Censors in early 1914, well in advance of its Seattle engagement. That picture was one of several at the time (Traffic in Souls being the most famous) that dramatized the issue of forced prostitution, and such films often ran into censorship issues based on the subject matter alone. Roadshowed through the Northwest by Ralph Pincus, his strategy was to bring an advance copy of the film into each host city so it could be screened for local authorities, giving them an opportunity to weigh in before it was set to open.^[15] Better safe than sorry.

Seattle was getting its feet wet with respect to motion picture censorship, but the issue wasn’t limited to urban areas. In 1913 North Yakima created their own censorship board to monitor film and vaudeville shows. This group was made up of a local pastor, a theatre owner, as well as representatives from local schools and two women’s organizations. Like Seattle’s, it was quasi-formal and investigated matters only after complaints had been registered, but the effort was abandoned after only a few months. North Yakima’s board encountered immediate problems in that the city had five motion picture theatres, some of which changed bills multiple times a week, so the volunteers couldn’t keep up – films either left town too quickly, or the censors were unable to convene for every complaint. Instead, when the North Yakima passed a new licensing ordinance that fall, city commissioners repealed the censor ordinance on the grounds that the new measure allowed the city to revoke the business license of any theatre deemed to have shown harmful material.^[16]

Walla Walla was addressing the issue of censorship a year later, in 1914, but in an entirely different way. There, city government stayed out of the fray while the Federation of Women’s Clubs took it upon themselves to inspect local photoplay houses. Representatives would convene each time there was a bill change, attend the show and then huddle to compare notes, discussing any situations or scenes that, in their opinion, were harmful to local citizens. They then took those concerns directly to the manager, in part to admonish but also to pressure him into raising the quality of his shows. The effort may not have resulted in any deleted scenes or banned films, but the message was loud and clear: shape up, we’re watching. This rabble-rousing by Walla Walla clubwomen was designed, in part, to build the case for creating a local censorship board and, it was hoped, a Sunday closing law.^[17]

Other Northwest communities took different approaches. Spokane didn’t have a censorship board and instead invested those powers in the mayor’s office. But it was problematic to have only one censor, because it increased the number of (seemingly) arbitrary decisions. In September 1914, for example, the mayor of Spokane, Reverend W.J. Hindley, proposed banning European war scenes from local theatres “as a safeguard against disorder or riots that might be caused through demonstrations of patriotic sentiment…”^[18] Hindley’s proposal had the support of the Spokane City Council, but not the proprietors of the city’s amusement houses. Their reasoning wasn’t too difficult to understand. Even if news footage of the war was banned from Spokane theatres, photographs and battle details regularly appeared in local newspapers and were even used in retail displays, neither of which were covered by the ban.^[19] Mayor Hindley eventually dropped this proposal, but his argument resonated elsewhere, with North Yakima instituting their own city-wide ban on war films based on similar logic.^[20]

The most comprehensive censorship effort during this period took place in Portland. The city already had a censorship ordinance on the books, enacted in 1911, but in 1914 decided to take a fresh look at their regulations, culminating in a report authored by William Trufant Foster, President of Reed College. Aided by a group of volunteer investigators, the goal was to assess the entertainment consumption of school children and determine whether additional protective measures were necessary.^[21] Mayor H.R. Albee named a group of 60 (the inadvertently suggestive “Committee on Commercialized Pleasure Resorts”) who inspected Portland’s stage and screen venues over a period of several weeks. These investigators were both male and female, and were drawn from the ranks of business, education, religion and social services. A total of 51 entertainment houses went under review, most of them moving picture theatres.

The Committee used standardized forms to document each visit. Each investigator captured some basic information about the theatre, while also detailing the types of entertainments viewed. For movie theatres, this included listing the title of each film, documenting the genre (comedy, western, etc.), giving a brief synopsis of the plot and commenting, subjectively, on its moral value. Finally, the investigator was asked to speculate on how the film might impact children, particularly the “sensitive and unsophisticated” ones.

William Trufant Foster’s final report doesn’t indicate how often Portland’s moving picture venues were visited, but the Committee identified several areas for additional review, including the growing number of stage and screen plays dealing with “sex problems.” (This was such a concern, in fact, that Foster created a special section at the front of his report to address the issue.) Investigators felt that some films in this genre, such as Damaged Goods and Traffic in Souls, were legitimate attempts to address the consequences of illicit behavior. Other films, however, were merely exploitive, “[t]heir evident aim…to satisfy abnormal desires.”^[22] Surprisingly, one of Mary Pickford’s early hits, Tess of the Storm Country, was lumped into the sex problem category, based (presumably) on a subplot in which the Pickford character pretends to be the mother of an illegitimate child in order to shield a rich woman from scandal. It’s interesting that Tess, with that plotline, was deemed more scandalous than Damaged Goods (which dealt with venereal disease) or Traffic in Souls (forced prostitution).

The key issue for the Committee, however, was to assess the negative impact that screen images had on impressionable minds. Pulling from a sister report completed by the Oregon Social Hygiene Society, Foster noted that “[o]ne investigator reports that the boys say that the picture films show heroes and society women smoking cigarettes, and thus lead[s] to smoking among young boys. The boys have also said that some…have been led to run away from home in search of adventure through seeing shows that represent cowboys and burglars.”^[23] Blame for this material was mostly heaped on the National Board of Censorship; it was the Committee’s belief that the Board’s review efforts were ineffectual, inefficient and borderline incompetent. Investigators noted that films screening in Portland’s movie theatres often lacked the National Board’s approval leader, indicating that the film had been reviewed and passed – in fact, as many as 50% of the films they saw fell into this category. On top of this, the Board’s decisions were made with little or no concern for how they’d be received in other parts of the country. “When, for example, not long ago, films likely to create hatred for the Japanese…were passed by the National Board,” the report noted, “and when the Portland [Censor] Committee sent a protest, the National Board replied that ‘the only action it can take is to pass on films from a moral standpoint, as is the case of all other pictures.’ The National Board can give no consideration to the fact that a film inciting hatred for the Japanese may be harmless in New York and objectionable in San Francisco.”^[24] For these reasons and others, William Trufant Foster argued that increased local censorship wasn’t just advisable, but necessary.

The Portland report included investigator comments on several of the pictures viewed. Interestingly, even though a film portrayed incidents of sex, violence or crime, that wasn’t necessarily a deal-breaker. “Picture 1, tragedy” commented one investigator. “Seducer shot. Moral value good…” And yet another volunteer, upon viewing A Stormy Ride, noted that the film showed “a train running over houses, mountains, people. Nothing offensive.” A third picture, The Lamb, the Wolf and the Woman, was described as having “[b]rigandry, love, murder, death scenes; moral good for girls: ‘Don’t marry a drinking man.’”^[25] By and large investigators were open to films that depicted crime or other moral failures, provided the character(s) faced the consequences of their actions and, ideally, reformed their ways. Even so, a few of the investigator comments seemed to indicate that regardless of what was being shown onscreen, he or she may have been the only person in the theatre who wasn’t enjoying themselves. “Two of the four [pictures] made a pretense at a moral lesson,” commented one. “The educational value to adults amounted to little or nothing. As a means of recreation the performance seemed to satisfy the audience, but one was forced to conclude that it was an audience that was easily pleased.”^[26]

Most investigators were ambivalent or slightly derogatory toward the films they viewed, but not everything in the Portland survey was gloom and doom. The Committee noted that local picture managers not only supported the survey effort but were making a genuine, good-faith effort to present quality shows. “[Managers] understand that there are and will continue to be differences of opinion on questions of morals, and that it is better to err on the side of safety than on the side of risk,” William Trufant Foster concluded.^[27] The report, which recommended revisions to the existing censorship board in Portland, even included the suggestion to create a separate “Board of Praise” that promoted films deemed to be of high quality. Investigators felt this unorthodox approach might help direct movie patrons to the kind of shows that represented the best in what motion pictures had to offer.^[28] It’s not clear whether that idea took hold in Portland, but it’s interesting to note that the Seattle Parent-Teacher Association had a motion picture committee in the early 1920s that did that very thing – curate a running list of films appropriate for children.

By Eric L. Flom – June 2025

Notes:
[1] The entire concept of censorship was viewed differently in the early 20^th century than it is today. At the time, most censorship activities were done after the fact – in other words, a book would be censored only after it was published. Film censorship was an entirely new concept in that the goal was to censor motion pictures before they were widely seen. This change put power in the hands of censors, since it limited the number of people who could judge the merits of the entire film. It also gave filmmakers little recourse, forcing them into court to argue on behalf of a movie that hadn’t yet been shown in public (at least in its original form). On top of this, Americans at the time had a slightly different view on what constituted “free speech.” Today we look at the concept in absolutes, but in the early 20^th century there was value placed on the idea that the public, or certain segments of it, should be protected from certain types of speech. Free speech as a general concept was fine, but ensuring public safety was sometimes an overriding factor – a concept that both citizens and governments didn’t necessarily question. See Laura Wittern-Keller, Freedom of the Screen: Legal Challenges and State Film Censorship, 1915-1981 (Lexington, KY: The University Press of Kentucky – 2008), Pages 3-4 and 40.
[2] Holly George, “Municipal Film Censorship in Spokane, Washington, 1910-1916,” The Pacific Northwest Quarterly, Volume 103, Number 4 (Fall 2012), Page 176.
[3] Lee Grieveson, “Not Harmless Entertainment: State Censorship and Cinema in the Transitional Era,” in Charlie Keil and Shelly Stamp (editors); American Cinema’s Transitional Era: Audiences, Institutions, Practices (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press – 2004), Pages 268-269.
[4] Lee Grieveson and Peter Krämer, “Cinema and Reform,” in Grieveson and Krämer (editors), The Silent Cinema Reader (New York: Routledge – 2004), Page 136.
[5] Kevin Brownlow, Behind the Mask of Innocence: Sex, Violence, Prejudice, Crime – Films of Social Conscience in the Silent Era (London: Jonathan Cape, Ltd. – 1990), Page 8.
[6] See Brownlow, Page 6.
[7] See “Motion Picture Men Want a Clean Shows,” Seattle Post-Intelligencer, 21 January 1909, Page 4; and “Seattle Exhibitors Ask for Censor,” The Nickelodeon, March 1909, Page 80.
[8] H.T. Moore, as quoted in A.R.M. Sutton, “Trials and Triumphs of a Successful Exhibitor,” Motography, 22 July 1916, Page 190.
[9] “In the Northwest,” Moving Picture World, 20 January 1912, Page 220.
[10] See “Dolphin Censor of Noises That Grate on Nerves,” Seattle Post-Intelligencer, 6 December 1914, Page 11.
[11] “Keeping the State Clean,” Seattle Post-Intelligencer, 10 November 1911, Page 6.
[12] See Tom Dillon, “What Can Seven Play Censors Do?,” Seattle Post-Intelligencer, 16 November 1911, Page 5.
[13] “Show at Seattle Under the Ban,” Seattle Post-Intelligencer, 14 March 1912, Page 5.
[14] See “Sapho Remains at Melbourne,” Seattle Post-Intelligencer, 26 October 1913, Page 15.
[15] “Censors View Films,” Seattle Post-Intelligencer, 22 February 1914, Page 25.
[16] See “In the Northwest,” Moving Picture World, 2 August 1913, Page 541; “City Censorship of the ‘Movies’ Fails,” Seattle Post-Intelligencer, 29 August 1913, Page 11; “In the Northwest,” Moving Picture World, 30 August 1913, Page 976; and “In the Northwest,” Moving Picture World, 8 November 1913, Page 632.
[17] See “In the Northwest,” Moving Picture World, 14 March 1914, Page 1403; “In the Northwest,” Moving Picture World, 9 May 1914, Page 840; and “Picture Supervision Throughout Northwest,” Moving Picture World, 6 February 1915, Page 857.
[18] “Spokane Mayor Bars War Films,” Motion Picture News, 3 October 1914, Page 50.
[19] “In the Northwest,” Moving Picture World, 7 November 1914, Page 808.
[20] “North Yakima Bans War Films,” Motion Picture News, 10 October 1914, Page 59.
[21] See William Trufant Foster, Vaudeville and Motion Picture Shows: A Study of Theaters in Portland, Oregon (Portland: Reed College – 1914). Foster’s study wasn’t just notable for what it found, but also because he wrote it using “[t]he simpler and briefer spellings recommended by the Simplified Spelling Board…” (For context, refer to the abbreviated spelling in your teenager’s text messages.) This stylistic decision proves so annoying that I’ve corrected it here.
[22] Ibid., Pages 10 and 11.
[23] Ibid., Pages 13-25 and 27.
[24] Ibid., Page 32.
[25] Ibid., Pages 52, 54 and 57.
[26] Ibid., Page 57.
[27] Ibid., Pages 33-34.
[28] Ibid., Page 42.

While the National Board was everyone’s first line of defense, municipal censorship bodies like those in Seattle and Portland were deemed necessary to ensure that film content toed the line with local standards. Unfortunately, there aren’t any surviving records from the Seattle Board of Censors to detail what films they reviewed, what concerns they had or what deletions they may have requested for certain titles. However, we can get a glimpse of that process by looking at censorship efforts in British Columbia.^[1]

A synopsis provided to Motion Picture News summarized the annual report submitted by British Columbia’s official censors for the year 1914. British Columbia’s censorship measure, adopted the year before, took a different approach toward regulating motion picture content – one that was far more aggressive than either Seattle or Portland. Like a handful of U.S. states, British Columbia inspected each and every film that came into the province before it was screened for the public, regardless of whether it had been reviewed and passed elsewhere. It was incumbent upon the various exchanges to submit films in advance of the initial play date and to pay a fee for that review – $1 for the first 1,100 feet of film, then 10 cents for every 100 feet thereafter. Glass slides, too, were regulated, something that applied not only to movie theatres but also to any traveling lecturers coming through the province.^[2] E.C. Thomas, Vancouver’s correspondent to Moving Picture World, was openly critical of the B.C. regulations, no doubt voicing the concerns of exhibitors and exchange men. Among his many complaints, Thomas noted that British Columbia censors collected nearly twice as much in fees as they had in operating costs, so the group was a profit center operating under the guise of serving the public good.^[3]

All told censors reviewed about 7,500 reels of film in 1914, with each reel running approximately 1,000 feet. (For context, a single person would need anywhere from 1,200-1,500 hours to watch that much film, which would not include the time needed to load the projector, change reels or document findings.) Of that amount, about 8.5% of those reels (631½ in total) were rejected – this number seems to have been films that were banned outright. This was on top of an unspecified number of movies where censors passed the film, but not before ordering scene deletions. Motion Picture News, quoting from the report, noted that “the censorship staff of the office made several thousands of exclusions of objectionable matter from reels which were approved for use following removal of the offensive material.”

The reasoning behind the outright rejections in 1914 demonstrates the arbitrary nature of local censorship. For example, British Columbia censors most often rejected films that depicted infidelity (173 reels), a rate that was almost three times higher than the number two reason, seduction (65 reels). One can quibble as to why infidelity and seduction required separate categories, but anything that touched on matters of sex was flagged. “Sex,” of course, didn’t necessarily mean sex – it was a broad category that included all types of male/female relations, from flirtation all the way to rape. In British Columbia the overall header for sex films included rejections based on the depiction of harlots (42 reels), white slavery (21 reels), illegitimacy (14½ reels), cohabitation and concubinage (11 reels) and adultery (7 reels). Crime and other types of low behavior, as well, were sensitive topics, with British Columbia rejecting films showing excessive crime and gun play (19½ reels), drunkenness (12 reels), gambling (11 reels) and the glorification of criminals (7 reels). Public institutions and morals were also protected, with films rejected for showing scenes that violated public policy (7 reels) as well as ones that ridiculed the temperance movement (4 reels).

Religion was also a touchy subject, with films banned that were deemed offensive to religious orders (21½ reels), that burlesqued the clergy (9½ reels) or showed “gruesome suicide work” (4 reels). An interesting subset here was the fact that British Columbia censors rejected five reels of what they called “nauseous snake films.” The issue seems to have been the symbolism that snakes and serpents have in Christian ideology, and British Columbia officials weren’t the only ones concerned with the problem. Later, in December 1915, censors in Portland took aggressive action against a pair of films that depicted onscreen characters being menaced by snakes, including the Keystone comedy Stolen Magic and the Charlie Chaplin film A Night in the Show.^[4]

So sex, crime, government, religion and reptiles were all topics of concern for censors in British Columbia. From there, however, things became subjective. Censors banned 27 reels of film deemed generally immoral and another 26 that showed unwholesome and evil suggestions, without really identifying what censors objected to. And the list went on, with 43 reels banned for showing “gruesome and nauseous” scenes, or sequences that depicted vulgarity, lewdness, viciousness and general depravity. There were also purely national reasons that British Columbia censors rejected certain films. Canada’s historical ties to England, for one, played a role in some of their decisions. Censors banned 28½ reels of film that they deemed anti-British or that slandered Britain’s allies. This was on top of rejecting 50½ reels (the third highest total for 1914) for having an “unnecessary display of [the] United States flag.”

While some decisions made by British Columbia censors in 1914 may appear silly or arbitrary, they weren’t too different from what other censorship bodies around the United States would have been making at the time. All of this, of course, came to a head with the 1915 release of The Birth of a Nation, with its controversial racial depictions. But Birth was just the latest film to put the issue of censorship front and center, as cities and towns across the country struggled to determine what was appropriate for their communities.

The Northwest arrival of The Birth of a Nation in 1915 was a defining moment in terms of local film censorship, but there were other events around that time pushing the issue to the forefront. The year began with a flap in Portland, where their revised censor board, consisting of five unpaid women, had a good reputation when it came to working with local exhibitors. The group usually recommended minor cuts to films and up to that point no pictures, according to Motion Picture News, had been banned outright. But that was about to change. Two films, debuting in Portland at roughly the same time, provoked strong negative reactions: the Keystone feature Tillie’s Punctured Romance, starring Mabel Normand and Charlie Chaplin, and Fox’s A Fool There Was, starring Theda Bara. In both cases the volunteer board recommended the films be banned, but the exhibitors went to court and received judgments allowing the pictures to screen after certain cuts.

Portland may have revised their censorship regulations shortly before, but the city was trying to adapt to a movie industry that was fast outpacing them. They weren’t alone in this problem, as Spokane was also making censorship changes around this time. Perhaps stemming from the failed ban on European war films, in 1915 Spokane took censorship responsibility out of the mayor’s office and instead appointed Commissioner Samuel Glasgow to the role. But this wasn’t an effective change. Like the mayor, Glasgow had other duties so his policy was to rubber stamp any film that had been passed by the National Board – if additional cuts were necessary, he’d order them after the fact. In Glasgow’s mind, the public was best served when exhibitors exercised self-regulation, thereby limiting his intervention to special cases. “‘We have some good men in the picture business here who deserve to be aided by the city government, rather than hampered,’” Glasgow remarked at the time.^[5]

In other communities, however, these newer movie releases prompted a redoubling of censorship efforts. Dr. Arthur R. Proelss, appointed to Seattle’s Board of Censors a few months before, was concerned with the situation there. His tipping point was the local engagement for A Fool There Was, which opened at the Alhambra Theatre on January 25, 1915. The picture had been passed by the National Board, but Seattle censors considered banning it outright, and it was only allowed to play after extensive cuts. “‘The film was bad enough when we got through with it,’” Proelss told Moving Picture World. It may have had artistic merit, but “‘I do not understand how it got past the National Board…As a rule they are pretty careful, but several films have made their appearance lately which, in my opinion, should have been suppressed.” As such, it was becoming apparent to Dr. Proelss that “some other steps should be taken by the government to censor films.’”^[6] He wasn’t alone in that thought. Those views were echoed by Dr. Sarah Kendall, chair of the Seattle Board, who noted that the group had more difficulty with films passed by the National Board than the so-called “wildcat” (unapproved) motion pictures that snuck into Seattle from time to time.^[7] To that end, Kendall, Proelss and other members of the local Board gave a set of recommendations to the Seattle City Council on how to strengthen the existing censorship ordinance.^[8]

So officials in Seattle, like those earlier, in Portland, were critical of the National Board’s perceived failures. But not everyone saw it that way. In Spokane a reporter for The Spokesman-Review felt the problem didn’t necessarily lie with the National Board. Instead, he felt that manufacturers were deliberately selecting questionable subjects, while also neglecting to apply the National Board’s required cuts. The Olga Petrova film The Heart of a Painted Woman was cited as an example, having been passed by the National Board subject to the deletion of scenes depicting drug and alcohol use. Yet despite this, the print that turned up in Spokane not only contained those scenes but also carried the National Board’s official seal of approval.^[9] This was, in his opinion, a recurring problem, and he wasn’t alone in this criticism. In Portland, for the six-month period ending November 1, 1915, their Board of Censors had to eliminate at least 60 scenes for the same reason – the films arrived carrying the National Board’s approval leader but without the required cuts.^[10]

As Washington’s larger cities grappled with censorship issues, its smaller cities and towns had limited options. Usually without the means to establish their own censorship boards, most jurisdictions had no choice but to rely on the local exhibitor’s judgement. But that put small-town managers in a difficult position, attempting to police their film bills knowing they’d be hard-pressed to satisfy everyone in the community. Some looked to insulate themselves by piggybacking on the work of others. J.A. Hurley managed a house in Davenport, a town of 1,100 in Lincoln County. In 1917 Hurley learned of a “sponsorship” program being conducted by the Women’s Federation of Clubs in Spokane. Female volunteers were reviewing the bills of Spokane’s downtown movie theatres, then issuing a semi-weekly list of pictures deemed worthy of patronage by women and children. Hurley reached out and asked to receive copies of these lists, which he intended to use when making booking decisions for his house. “I want to be able to look my patrons in the eye after showing them a picture,” Hurley wrote, “…[and] I am confident that if I secure pictures having the approval of your committee I will get only good, wholesome pictures, and that is what the people of Davenport want.”^[11] Hurley wasn’t the only one asking for assistance; for a brief time, at least, the Women’s Federation of Clubs served as a clearinghouse for several rural movie theatres in the greater Spokane area. This arrangement didn’t last long, but it demonstrated that small-town exhibitors not only wanted a degree of additional censorship but were willing to seek it out. As scholar Kathryn Fuller-Seeley noted, “[t]he wide diversity of regional, religious, ethnic, and gender ideals among communities across the nation meant that exhibitors faced a host of challenges pleasing their audiences.”^[12]

Having a respectable third party make censorship decisions was a great solution for small-town exhibitors – coupled with approval by the National Board, that was usually enough to mitigate trouble. But some didn’t have that luxury, so they instead took matters into their own hands. In 1918 the Northwest Film Board of Trade disciplined an unnamed rural manager in Washington state who instructed his projectionist to edit a film screening at his theatre. This may have been done from time-to-time in small towns, but in this case the pair did everything wrong. The house didn’t notify the exchange of their intention, removed (and apparently discarded) the offending footage, then did such a poor job of everything that the entire print had to be replaced. The changes were only discovered, in fact, when the picture moved to its next destination and the exhibitor there complained about receiving a mutilated print. “In the large territory covered by the exchanges of the Northwest,” the Film Board reported, “a great many circuits have to be made with the films, and those exhibitors to whom such a damaged film is next sent, without the exchange having an opportunity of inspecting it, must suffer for the action of their dishonest fellow exhibitor.”^[13] In this case the Board of Trade punished the manager in question by cutting off his film supply – he was barred from signing new exchange contracts until he paid for the damage.

On occasion censorship efforts were even launched at surprising targets. Charlie Chaplin comedies, for example, hadn’t been a concern for censorship authorities since the earliest days of his career, when he made knockabout films for the Keystone Company. But in 1923 he released The Pilgrim, which drew some of its humor from satirizing small-town religious life, something that didn’t necessarily go over well in predominantly rural (and churchgoing) America.

In Washington, for example, the picture was shown at the Strand Theatre in Seattle to big crowds and zero controversy, much like the comedian’s prior releases.^[14] But when the picture moved over to Spokane, where it played the Liberty Theatre, prominent Baptist leaders waged a protest. Still, however, the film was allowed to play and, according to manager Ray Grombacher, did fine business. But in Walla Walla, a planned engagement of The Pilgrim was scrapped by an exhibitor who caved to the demands of local ministers rather than get into a protracted fight.^[15] And both of those incidents played into how W.L. Doudlah of the Liberty Theatre in Wenatchee approached The Pilgrim. Doudlah got ahead of the game by wiring the exchange and having a preview copy shipped to him in advance, which he showed to Wenatchee censors in a private screening. Doudlah wasn’t due to show the picture for several weeks, so he set up the exclusive preview, then shipped the print right back to Seattle. Wenatchee censors passed The Pilgrim unanimously, and did so well before the public knew the film was scheduled to play. So, when Doudlah’s advertising campaign finally began, and a group of ministers rallied to protest the film, they discovered that The Pilgrim had already been approved, so their concerns were moot. Obviously, they weren’t happy with that outcome, but Doodah had done everything by the book and the picture ended up playing Wenatchee as he wanted it to – without interruption.^[16]

By Eric L. Flom – June 2025

Notes:
[1] See “British Columbia Censor Reports “Cuts” for 1914; 631.5 Reels Rejected,” Motion Picture News, 4 December 1915, Page 74.
[2] See “British Columbia Censorship,” Moving Picture World, 28 June 1913, Page 1365.
[3] E.C. Thomas, “Activity of Censors,” Moving Picture World, 29 April 1916, Page 846.
[4] See Abraham Nelson, “A Bas les Snakes,” Moving Picture World, 29 December 1915, Page 2412.
[5] See Frank H. Madison, “Censorship in Spokane,” Moving Picture World, 16 January 1915, Page 400; and S. Clark Patchin, “Spokane Brevities,” Moving Picture World, 31 July 1915, Page 856.
[6] Frank H. Madison, “Is National Censor Board Growing Careless?,” Moving Picture World, 27 February 1915, Page 1318.
[7] “Some Facts About Censoring,” Moving Picture World, 29 May 1915, Page 1461.
[8] See A.M.R. Sutton, “News from the Northwest,” Motography, 15 April 1916, Page 869; and “Seattle Exchangemen Settle Amicably with Censors,” Motion Picture World, 20 May 1916, Page 3064.
[9] S. Clark Patchin, “With Eliminated Scenes,” Moving Picture World, 3 July 1915, Page 100.
[10] Abraham Nelson, “Censors File Report,” Moving Picture World, 20 November 1915, Page 1529.
[11] S. Clark Patchin, “Sponsorship Board in Spokane Makes a Hit,” Moving Picture World, 14 April 1917, Page 314; see also “Spokane Introduces ‘Sponsorship’ of Films,” Motion Picture News, 7 April 1917, Page 2175.
[12] Kathryn H. Fuller, At the Picture Show: Small-Town Audiences and the Creation of Movie Fan Culture (Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press – 1996), Page xiii.
[13] S.J. Anderson, “Exhibitor Rebuked for Removing Scenes from Film,” Moving Picture World, 19 January 1918, Page 409.
[14] See “Northwest Shows Beginning of New Co-operative Spirit,” Moving Picture World, 31 March 1923, Page 516; and “This Seattle Eve Outspeeds Exhibitorial Adams, They Say,” Moving Picture World, 28 April 1923, Page 916.
[15] “Trade Bulletin from Spokane,” Motion Picture News, 28 April 1923, Page 2065.
[16] “This Seattle Eve Outspeeds Exhibitorial Adams, They Say,” Moving Picture World, 28 April 1923, Page 916.

A lot of pictures in the silent era were straightforward affairs – inconsequential program films designed for broad appeal, and not the kind that incurred the wrath of censors. Some filmmakers, however, took risks, particularly before World War I, and the exhibitors booking these films sometimes had to exercise some care to navigate the censorship process. A good example was the Audrey Munson feature Purity, which debuted at Seattle’s Clemmer Theatre on September 30, 1916.

Audrey Munson isn’t exactly a household name, but her impact has been widely felt. Born in 1891, she went onto the New York stage as a young girl but failed to catch on as an actress. To support herself and her mother, Munson turned to artist modeling, in which she posed nude for various sculptors and painters around New York City. At the time the New York art scene was home to some of America’s greatest talent, and with the city in the midst of a building boom, all types of public art were being commissioned. Her career as a model took off, and she eventually posed for such luminaries as Alexander Stirling Calder and Daniel Chester French, among others. Tall, with a striking look, her image can still be seen all over Manhattan. She posed for works that currently adorn the interior and exterior of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, as well as the sculpture atop the Pulitzer Fountain at 59^th Street. She can also be found in works at Columbia University, the New York Public Library, on the Manhattan Bridge and the Maine Monument in Central Park, among other places.

Audrey Munson’s fame in modeling circles, where she was lauded as having the perfect female form, eventually got the attention of moviemakers. Her first film, 1915’s Inspiration, now lost, had Munson playing (not surprisingly) an artist’s model, something that allowed her to pose in the nude. Thanhouser, the production company, was accused of making the film solely to exploit that angle, which was true on some level, but they managed to get it through the National Board of Censorship with a plotline that justified the brief modeling scene. Because it wasn’t filmed in a salacious way, and because the scene fit into the broader context of the story, Inspiration was eventually passed by the National Board, though many exhibitors were still reluctant to book the film. Audrey Munson reportedly made less than $500 for Inspiration, but it helped launch her (very brief) moving picture career.

Inspiration wasn’t widely seen, but Audrey Munson’s next film was. The American Film Company hired her for a new motion picture, again with a special plot that allowed her to appear nude. This film, Purity, would get a much wider release than Inspiration, and would end up being the picture for which she is known. The plot featured parallel stories, one set in modern times and the other in ancient Greece. In the modern story, taking place in New York, Munson played Purity Worth, whose boyfriend, an aspiring poet, is searching for the funds needed to self-publish his first book. When offered the opportunity to pose as an artist’s model, Purity secretly agrees to do so, but only so she can raise the necessary money. The poetry book is released to massive critical success, though Purity’s boyfriend eventually learns the truth and breaks off their engagement. It’s only later, after he reflects on her sacrifice, that the pair reconcile. The parallel storyline, set in ancient times (a popular stylistic device at the time), allowed the filmmakers to tell a secondary story that complimented the first. But this particular setup also allowed Munson to appear as a Greek goddess, often dressed in flowing (and see-through) robes.

Like most releases, Purity was shown to the National Board, which passed it after recommending several cuts. But despite this stamp of approval, it was clear that the film needed careful marketing. Several locations around the United States banned Purity outright, including Dallas, Kansas City and the District of Columbia.^[1] Not Seattle, though. There, James Clemmer – experienced with handling controversial movies – decided to book the picture, a state rights feature being shopped around the Northwest by the De Luxe Feature Film Company.

Clemmer settled on a brilliant plan. Well before Purity arrived, he oversaw an advance campaign that not only heralded the film’s arrival but looked to blunt potential criticism. He started by putting Melvin Winstock onstage at every Clemmer show, morning and evening, for two weeks before Purity opened. Each time the feature changed at the Clemmer Theatre, Winstock appeared and gave a talk to the audience, banking on the fact that many patrons were regulars. The presentations began innocuously – a speech about the human form and how it had served, for centuries, as an inspiration for art. Winstock augmented his talks with glass slides showing a variety of classical drawings, paintings and statuary, helping emphasize his points. Then, as each bill changed, he came on with a new speech and new slides, further advancing the topic and reinforcing the idea that the human form was a thing of beauty, not a source of shame. All of this led up to his final talk, just before Purity debuted, which directly addressed Audrey Munson’s work as a model, including slides that showed her likeness in various sculptures and paintings.

Thanks to Melvin Winstock (a “silver-tongued orator,” according to Motography), Clemmer audiences were being prepped with “an explanation of the real meaning of Audrey Munson’s beautiful feature…” This was an unusual promotional campaign, in that it unfolded slowly; theatre regulars were not only alerted to the film’s pending arrival, but were being trained, in speech after speech, to view Purity in the way James Clemmer wanted them to view it. They were also being baited – like The Birth of a Nation, Clemmer’s print advertising emphasized that Purity was a film the public should see and judge for themselves. “America will accept the Nude in Art after seeing the World’s Greatest Model Audrey Munson in the Seven-Act Photoplay Purity,” trumpeted one ad.^[2]

There’s no record of it, but certainly James Clemmer arranged for the Seattle Board of Censors to view Purity in advance. They passed the film and likely recommended cuts but, that aside, everything went smoothly in the run-up to the opening. “This feature brought to the Clemmer its record crowds for the year,” Motography reported, with Moving Picture World concluding that James Clemmer’s sterling reputation as an exhibitor played a key role in allaying fears about Purity’s content.^[3] According to Charles Eugene Banks, writing for the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, crowds jammed the theatre on opening weekend – a phenomenal start for a picture he considered mediocre. But Banks was also a realist. “One wonders if the public is really so fond of art,” he knowingly winked.^[4]

James Clemmer’s deft hand was an example of how careful advance work could put a film over that might have run afoul with censors or the public. But just because Purity played well in Seattle didn’t mean it would do so in other communities. About six weeks after headlining the Clemmer, Purity came to nearby Bremerton, where managers Jack Rantz and Edward Oswald had an entirely different experience.^[5]

Rantz and Oswald operated Bremerton’s only two moving picture theatres at the time, the Dream and the Rex. They booked Purity for a two-day engagement and, like James Clemmer, put a good deal of effort into promoting the film in advance. Rantz and Oswald weren’t dumb when they contracted for this feature – Bremerton is home to the Puget Sound Navy Yard, a place awash with single men. (As Moving Picture World reported of a similar engagement in Anchorage, “[c]onstruction gangs from twenty miles around quit work and walked in to see [Purity].”^[6]) Promotional efforts began smoothly, though a group of local ministers had some issues with their initial approach. This was minor – Rantz and Oswald adjusted the campaign to accommodate their concerns. But another protest was afoot. Unlike Seattle, Bremerton didn’t have a censorship board, so questionable films had to be addressed through municipal action. Quietly, some women were circulating a petition to halt the screening; this was eventually delivered to the local prosecuting attorney, who filed a motion to bar the picture altogether. Rantz and Oswald, who were tipped off to the move at the last minute, got a restraining order that protected, at the very least, the first day of screenings.

So Purity opened in Bremerton, but it didn’t stay long. Despite the restraining order, police showed up at the evening show and attempted, unsuccessfully, to shut it down. The following morning both sides were in court, with Rantz and Oswald rolling the dice on an immediate jury trial so the matter could be settled quickly. Unfortunately, that decision backfired – the jury sided with the city of Bremerton and forced Purity off the screen. Jack Rantz was furious, having the feature he promoted for more than a week torpedoed after one day of screenings. “‘If they’d have given us any warning before we’d spent a young fortune on advertising,’” Rantz bristled, “‘we should have substituted another feature for Purity so everybody would be contented, but they didn’t.’”^[7]

The Bremerton incident was by no means Purity’s only run-in with Northwest authorities; upon release it was banned in a number of cities, and in Coeur d’Alene the film lasted all of one screening. But Purity continued causing trouble years after its release, in part because it was picked up for revival engagements – obviously, the film was attractive to a certain type of (male) moviegoer. Such was the case in 1924, when it once again turned up in Seattle. Purity had been shown several times before in the smaller, less reputable movie theatres south of Yesler Way, usually with little fanfare. But suddenly the picture became controversial again when Otto Klawitter, manager of the Gem Theatre, at 115 Second Avenue South, threw it onscreen for a short engagement.

Name aside, the Gem wasn’t a first-, second- or perhaps even third-run movie house; opened in 1918, by the mid-1920s it was muddling along in a rougher section of the city. Klawitter wasn’t doing anything unusual when he booked Purity, but he also hadn’t tested Mary Green Lewis, secretary of the Seattle Board of Censors. Among Klawitter’s advertising for the engagement were picture boards he displayed on the sidewalk in front of the Gem, some of which, apparently, included production stills showing Audrey Munson in the nude (or close enough). Green Lewis got wind of this display and promptly marched down to the Gem for an unannounced visit. She was appalled with what she saw, tore the photos down and, as an official censor, ordered Klawitter to remove the display.

The manager took down the offending advertising, and the matter seemed to be over. Or it was to everyone except Mary Green Lewis. Two days later she made a surprise return visit to the Gem, marched straight into the venue and searched the premises. The offending photos were off the sidewalk but now displayed inside, prompting her to seize the materials, contact police and have Klawitter arrested.

Though Mary Green Lewis apparently made no effort to stop the screening of Purity, she nonetheless rankled Seattle exhibitors with this bit of rogue policing. In the end, however, Otto Klawitter had the last laugh. He took the matter to court, where his arrest case was dismissed because Green Lewis had, in fact, entered his theatre without a warrant and improperly seized his materials.^[8] She may have been an official censor, but she was acting on her own accord without the Board’s approval, so she couldn’t lean on her position to bolster the case.

So Otto Klawitter proved victorious, but by that time, in 1924, Purity was on its last legs as a motion picture – eventually the film disappeared from circulation, much like Audrey Munson herself. After the release of Purity she made two more poorly received features, but both her modeling and movie careers were effectively over by age 30. Once out of the limelight, Munson became noted less for her beauty than for her erratic behavior. After a series of bizarre incidents over the years, in 1931 she was committed to the St. Lawrence State Hospital for the Insane in Ogdensburg, New York, where she lived quietly until her death in 1996, at the age of 104.

Today Audrey Munson is remembered as the model for any number of 20^th century artworks, and not necessarily for her work in motion pictures. Purity was far and away her biggest movie, but it was lost to history. None of her films were known to survive until 1993, when a copy of Purity was finally discovered in France. This picture, with its somewhat notorious history, was eventually sent to the Centre National du Cinéma et de l’Image Animée, France’s national film archive, where it’s been screened on a handful of occasions.^[9] That Purity was rediscovered was indeed fortunate, but the provenance of that print only underscored the controversy dogging it since 1916. Old films sometimes come to archives from private collections, the owner being unaware of their significance, which was exactly the case with the surviving print of Purity. Held in France for years, it only came to light after the owner passed away and left it to his heirs. But it didn’t exist as part of a film collection. Instead, the world’s only known copy of Purity came from, appropriately, an extensive trove of vintage pornography.

By Eric L. Flom – June 2025

Notes:
[1] James Bone, The Curse of Beauty: The Scandalous and Tragic Life of Audrey Munson, America’s First Supermodel (New York: Regan Arts – 2016), Page 146.
[2] See Clemmer Theatre advertisement, Seattle Post-Intelligencer, 30 September 1916, Page 10.
[3] See “‘Split Reel’ Notes for Theater Men,” Motography, 4 November 1916, Page 1014; and S.J. Anderson, “Clemmer Prepares Patrons for Purity,” Moving Picture World, 21 October 1916, Page 434.
[4] Charles Eugene Banks, “Beautiful Girl Draws Crowd,” Seattle Post-Intelligencer, 2 October 1916, Page 4.
[5] S.J. Anderson, “Women of Bremerton Interfere with Show,” Moving Picture World, 23 December 1916, Page 1844.
[6] S.J. Anderson, “News of the Alaska Theaters,” Moving Picture World, 16 June 1917, Page 1829.
[7] Anderson, “Women of Bremerton…,” Page 1844.
[8] See “Theatre Owner Released,” Seattle Daily Times, 17 September 1924, Page 2; “Seattle,” Moving Picture News, 27 September 1924, Page 300; and “Seattle Crowds Tax Capacity of Heilig to See America,” Moving Picture World, 11 October 1924, Page 486.
[9] Bone, Page 141.

Sometimes even the blessing of local censors wasn’t enough to prevent a motion picture from becoming a target. In the silent era, the randomness of censorship was a persistent issue – different places held different films to different standards. Complicating things were situations where local censorship rules were twisted for personal or arbitrary reasons, as in 1924 when Mary Green Lewis attacked Purity. Yet another example occurred in 1916, when the Strand Theatre in Seattle booked the preparedness film War’s Women, starring Frank Kennan and Enid Markey.

At the time the United States was officially neutral on the European war, but the public was nonetheless fascinated with events from overseas. Naturally, filmmakers wanted to capitalize, but the official U.S. position meant that they couldn’t make war films directly addressing the conflict. What they could do, however, make “preparedness” films that played on the idea that the United States should be prepared to fight, if and when the time came. Often this was done by creating fictional narratives that dealt with war in general terms, without direct reference to the conflict in Europe. Before America’s entry into World War I, an actual war film would have run into censorship trouble, but a preparedness film that dealt with similar subject matter, albeit indirectly, was something different.

Such was the case with War’s Women, partly written by Thomas Ince. The picture centered on a group of women being held hostage in an abbey by invaders who demanded financial considerations in return for their safety. According to the filmmakers, War’s Women was a fictional story, set in an imaginary country, depicting the horrors of a pretend war that in no way resembled anything going on in Europe. Which, of course, was the flimsiest of flimsy ruses – only the most clueless moviegoer would have missed the parallels. But for censors, the argument was made that the movie was just a movie, and nothing more.

War’s Women was passed by the National Board and released in mid-1916, and almost nothing leading up to its Seattle debut was out of the ordinary. The picture was distributed on a state rights basis, with the Lambson film exchange negotiating an engagement at the Strand Theatre to begin on July 16^th. A feature with great box-office potential, the print arrived in Seattle well in advance of that date, allowing Strand management to hold a special preview for the Board of Censors on July 6^th. The Board had nine members at the time, but only six could make the screening, so War’s Women would only pass if five of them approved the film. The outcome was hardly in doubt; the film sailed through with little difficulty, with only a handful of requested cuts.^[1]

So far, so good – War’s Women was on the same path that many other features took when debuting in Seattle. It opened to packed houses on July 16^th, following an extensive promotional campaign that heightened interest among local moviegoers. But then, a curveball. After the picture had been onscreen for six days, Strand employees were surprised one morning when Seattle Mayor Hiram Gill unexpectedly dropped in for the first show of the day, accompanied by his secretary and a prosecuting attorney. This was no impromptu visit; initially, Mayor Gill claimed the Board of Censors’ requested cuts had not been made, so he took it upon himself to inspect the film personally. After watching about a third of War’s Women, the viewing party suddenly got up and left the venue, returning moments later with a phalanx of policemen. The Strand was promptly closed, manager William Smyth arrested and the print of War’s Women confiscated, then locked away in a vault at City Hall. Now in possession of the film, Mayor Gill abruptly changed his thoughts on War’s Women; scene deletions weren’t the issue, but rather the entire picture was immoral and shouldn’t be shown. To that end, William Smyth was charged with “violating the city ordinance which prohibits the display of improper films.”^[2]

With the film confiscated, William Smyth and A.T. Lambson went to court to contest the charges against the exhibitor and get the print back. But despite prior approval from both the National Board and the Seattle Board of Censors, Superior Court Judge Everett C. Smith ruled that the Strand was still responsible for showing a film that was offensive to the public. Which didn’t make a lick of sense, because there hadn’t been any vocal opposition to War’s Women, despite Mayor Gill’s insistence that there was. “‘We were automatically rendered powerless,’” Lambson told Motion Picture News. “‘Our defense was based on the act of the Seattle censors in passing the picture, and not only passing it but going on record of approving it and commending it highly.’”^[3]

S.J. Anderson reported on the trial for Moving Picture World, and not surprisingly was firmly in the Smyth/Lambson camp. The film men had been railroaded, in Anderson’s opinion – they were limited in what they could present in court and pitted against a city government working overtime to justify their actions.^[4] Judge Smith ruled, for example, that because Seattle’s censors were only an advisory board, their determinations carried no weight in a court of law. This pulled the rug out from their defense, which rested on Article 3 of the local censorship ordinance, allowing Smyth and Lambson to show any film passed by the Board. But the lynchpin of the city’s argument was Article 1, which prevented an exhibitor from showing “an obscene and lascivious picture.” Judge Smith found little merit in Article 3, but he agreed wholeheartedly with the Article 1, which allowed War’s Women to be removed from the screen simply because Mayor Gill determined it should. Thus, the picture was taken out of the Strand and a $50 fine slapped on manager William Smyth.

Smyth and Lambson wanted to appeal this decision, but that request was denied; they chose not to pursue the matter with the Washington State Supreme Court.^[5] Particularly stinging for William Smyth was the fact that he helped produce a campaign film for Hiram Gill just a few months earlier, which was distributed to local picture houses during election season. A.T. Lambson, on the other hand, was getting hit in the pocketbook. He had to launch an entirely separate court proceeding to get his print of War’s Women back from the city, then had to contend with the fact that he was barred from showing it in the state’s top film market.

So why did Mayor Hiram Gill go after War’s Women? Two years passed before that question was answered – in this case, the action was motivated by the mayor’s personal interests. In 1918 S.J. Anderson learned that Gill had received word from prominent Seattleites (of German descent, he noted) that they opposed the picture and wanted it off the screen. Because Mayor Gill needed their political and financial support, he yanked the film from the Strand in the name of protecting the public.^[6]

The post-script to the War’s Women saga didn’t occur until the summer of 1918, well after Hiram Gill lost his reelection bid. That’s when Josephine P. Donnelly, representing the Lambson exchange, took a print of the film directly to newly elected Mayor Ole Hanson, offering him a private screening. The Lambson exchange was marketing War’s Women once again, and wanted to ensure they wouldn’t have a repeat of their earlier trouble. Mayor Hanson viewed the picture and, unlike his predecessor, loved every second of it. And by securing his personal endorsement, the door was thrown open for War’s Women to be screened in Seattle, once again, this time without controversy.

Of course, the national mood in 1918 was more conducive to a film like War’s Women. By then America had entered World War I, and the print that the Lamson exchange was shopping around wasn’t the 1916 version – this one had been recut and rereleased. In the original, the invading armies wore helmets with spikes, had grand mustaches and liked to dine on sausages and sauerkraut, as was customary in the fictional country of Balkania. Two years later, however, the film titles were rewritten and all references to Balkania were dropped – there was no reason to ignore the obvious. In addition, the 1916 version depicted certain atrocities as part of a dream sequence, which made them more palatable for viewers (and censors) because they weren’t real. The 1918 version, however, was edited to drop that framing, making them part of the actual plot. New material was also added to the end of War’s Women. A title card was tacked onto the end of the picture emphasizing that the film was a realistic depiction of how Germany fought, which was followed by a second title (“This is the way we are going to beat them”) and some documentary footage showing U.S. soldiers preparing for war. A third title card directly challenged the audience: “These boys of ours are ready to give their lives to stop such barbarism. What are you giving?” This was followed by an appeal to buy Liberty Bonds, War Savings Stamps and to donate to the Red Cross.^[7]

War’s Women was originally released in 1916, the same year Woodrow Wilson, the President who kept us out of war, won a second term in office. Within months, however, Wilson’s campaign slogan was largely forgotten, and the United States formally entered World War I. By the same token, War’s Women, the fictional story from 1916, remained fiction for only as long as necessary.

By Eric L. Flom – June 2025

Notes:
[1] See “Local Picture Censors Made Powerless in Seattle,” Motion Picture News, 3 February 1917, Page 711.
[2] “Film Suppressed by Authorities,” Seattle Post-Intelligencer, 22 July 1916, Page 4.
[3] “Local Picture Censors Made Powerless in Seattle,” Motion Picture News, 3 February 1917, Page 711.
[4] S.J. Anderson, “Seattle Exhibitor Loses Appeal Case,” Moving Picture World, 20 January 1917, Page 409; see also “Judgment of Censors Overruled by Courts, Seattle Daily Times, 7 January 1917, Page 35.
[5] “New Trial Refused, Manager Smyth [sic] Will Appeal,” Moving Picture World, 27 January 1917, Page 575.
[6] See S.J. Anderson, “War’s Women Doing Big Business,” Moving Picture World, 20 July 1918, Page 428.
[7] See “Here and There,” Motography, 6 July 1918, Page 44; and S.J. Anderson, “War’s Women Doing Big Business,” Moving Picture World, 20 July 1918, Page 428.

Following World War I and the Spanish Flu pandemic, the American public was, to a degree, hardened by these experiences. They had been through back-to-back catastrophic events, seen a Communist revolution in Russia, growing labor unrest at home, and were suffering through the rocky transition back to a peacetime economy. In the span of a few years, starting in the late teens, Americans experienced enough trauma in their everyday lives that the harmful impacts of movie content seemed much less pressing. Film censorship continued to be an issue in communities across the country, but these events, and the need for entertainment to distract from certain post-war realities, made the issue seem less imperative than it had been five or 10 years previous.

Still, the push to regulate film content continued throughout the 1920s and beyond, and was partly behind the creation of the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America (MPPDA). Like 1909’s National Board of Censorship, a series of industry-related events in the early twenties (the Fatty Arbuckle and William Desmond Taylor murder trials, among them) prompted another industry-backed effort to regulate itself. Will Hays stepped in as chair of the MPPDA, which eventually became known as the Hays Office. The MPPDA was new, but the criticism it received wasn’t. Hays instituted several reforms, but over time both he and the MPPDA were viewed as creatures of the industry they were supposed to regulate. And once again, with respect to issues of motion picture content, communities across the United States had to fall back on local censorship measures as a way to close the gap.

Throughout the 1920s, hardly a legislative session went by in Olympia without a new proposal impacting moving picture exhibition in some shape or form. Censorship bills, revised building or fire codes or any number of tax proposals were rolled out year after year, and almost every time exhibitors, unions and other industry groups organized to beat back these measures before they got traction. In 1925, for example, there was a proposal to create a formal censorship board for all of Washington state, to be paid for with a fee structure levied on Seattle’s film exchanges. Industry groups promptly mobilized and killed the measure before it got out of committee.^[1] Many of these state-level proposals weren’t very serious, since they were obvious cash grabs – the movie business was a rich one, and there were any number of politicians who wanted to tap those funds via legislative proposals that were an easy sell to the public. Locally, as well, groups continued to agitate for increased censorship. In Bellingham, the Women’s Christian Temperance Union began a push in 1927 for enacting a local censorship ordinance there, an effort that went on for more than two years without resulting in substantial changes.^[2]

Motion pictures would continue to be plagued by content issues into the sound era – from Mae West’s double-entendres to Jane Russell’s cleavage in 1943’s The Outlaw, and beyond. The rating system we know today didn’t come about until the 1960s; it was the latest attempt to deal with controversial subject matter, but the only solution that managed to stick. Of course, there have been any number of films since its implementation that were still deemed controversial, either because the rating was too strict or (more often the case) because it was too lax. The addition of the PG-13 rating in the 1980s, in fact, was partly in response to films that contained varying amounts of mature content, although it also protected certain studio films from receiving a dreaded R rating, which impacted box-office returns. Nowadays, in the streaming era, the ratings system is almost pointless. It’s still used to regulate content in movie theatres, but that distinction barely matters when it comes to streaming. Films can be seen in rated and unrated versions, and the whole idea of a “director’s cut” bypasses ratings altogether to give the viewer a sense of what the artist envisioned – before the studio (and the censors) began chopping it up. In a sense, we’re right back to where the movies began: films are created for, and consumed by, the viewing public, who can choose to be delighted or appalled by what they see. While the studios and filmmakers control what gets made, to a degree the audience controls what they see, and in what form.

As long as there are films, there will be continued questions around content – something that speaks to the power of the moving image and its ability to impact and influence the viewer.

By Eric L. Flom – June 2025

Notes:
[1] “Washington State Gets Censor Bill,” Motion Picture News, 2 January 1926, Page 32.
[2] See “Bellingham Censorship Ordinance Comes Up Before Officials August 1,” Motion Picture Record, 30 July 1927 (Vol. 4, No. 31), Page 8; “Northwest,” Moving Picture World, 6 August 1927, Page 405; “Northwest,” Moving Picture World, 3 September 1927, Page 42; and “Seattle,” Motion Picture Record, 23 November 1929 (Vol. 6, No. 47), Page 4.