(ANALYSIS) Think back to a time well before the internet when anyone could own a little bit of property in the suburbs. “God” had just been added to the pledge and father always knew best.

Sound perfect? Great, even?  

This sepia-infused vision of mid-century America informs an entire political movement today. Make American Great Again, they say. Return to that golden era of conservative prosperity when mom was always ready with a hot meal.  

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However, that America is mostly a myth manufactured, in part, by the entertainment industry and maintained by the many beloved products its left behind. “It’s a Wonderful Life.” “Leave it to Beaver.” “Rio Bravo.”

The story of this era — seen today through the lens of the camera — was curated by a small group of devout Catholic men wanting to “save America’s soul” and an industry wanting to save itself. 

It all began in the jazz era.

A young Hollywood faced serious publicity problem. Tabloids were filled with salacious stories about wild parties and criminal activity. Ticket sales had tumbled, and state film boards increasingly censored movies.

“Oklahomans gulped at liquor, Chicagoans frowned at Keystone Kops, and Dixie abided no ruffling of Jim Crow’s feathers,” wrote historian Thomas Doherty, author of “Hollywood’s Censor.”

In 1930, the Roman Catholic League of Decency formed to warn of inappropriate film content. Federal involvement was looming. Something had to be done.

William P. Hays, the newly hired director of the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America, enlisted reporter Martin J. Quigley, an influential Catholic layman, and the Rev. Daniel A. Lord, a professor and Jesuit priest, to create standards by which every film would be judged.

Together, these two men penned a censorship code aimed at bringing “the motion picture to a higher level of wholesome entertainment,” as their words read. “No picture shall be produced which will lower the moral standards of those who see it.”

Today, their guidelines are known as the Production Code.

Recognizing the power of the image, Quigley and Lord believed that movies could contribute to “correct thinking” and “spiritual or moral progress.” In the code, the men outlined the dos and don’ts on everything from dancing and costumes to the depiction of religion, sexuality, gender and patriotism.

After taking on the project, Lord reportedly said, “Here was a chance to tie the Ten Commandments in with the newest and most widespread form of entertainment.”  

For industry moguls, this experiment in self-censorship, as Hays called it, was a financial decision; for its authors, it was a religious crusade. And they were successful. 

To enforce the code, Hays hired Joseph I. Breen, another influential Catholic layman and journalist.

“(Breen) felt a sacred duty to protect the spiritual well-being of the innocent souls who fluttered too close to the unholy attractions of the motion picture screen,” wrote Doherty. 

From 1934 to his retirement in 1954, Breen threw “a hell of a lot of celluloid in the ash-can” as he reportedly said.  And what wasn’t written into the code explicitly was left to Breen’s judgement.

In 1936, a Liberty magazine article suggested that Breen had “more influence in standardizing world thinking than Mussolini, Hitler or Stalin.” 

Never before had a single industry democratized American culture so efficiently, spreading its single Catholic-based valued system, through entertainment, across the country from east to west, north to south. 

And the industry thrived, entering its golden era.

The PCA reviewed every detail of each film, only issuing its coveted stamp of approval when all noted problems were addressed. In 1934, for example, the script for RKO’s film “Spitfire” (1934) was rejected for including the words “hussy” and “damn” and the irreverent use of the phrase “Lord God.”  “Spitfire” eventually earned its stamp and was distributed.

In 1936, Quigley reported that Pope Pius XI himself praised their work, saying, “All good citizens should contribute to the elevation of cinema as has been done by the Bishops, Catholic public and spirited citizens in the United States.”

Two years later, the pope made Breen a Knight of St. Gregory.

Hays wrote, “The motion picture public is no longer the millions … conditioned to the suggestive and sensational. It is a universal public attracted to the movie theatre by a vast variety of clean and artistic entertainment.”

To be fair, the PCA was not the lone censoring body. Political influences, such as the Nazis in Germany, Southern film exhibitors, and the U.S. federal government, also shaped what was seen on screen at times. After all, Hollywood was primarily interested in selling tickets. These outside influences affected the representation of race, foreign cultures, wartime politics and non-Christian religions. 

However, the PCA was dominant, and its influence was not limited to movies. In 1952, the National Association of Broadcasters modeled its ethics code, called the “Seal of Good Practice,” on Hollywood’s success. The seal shaped television classics like “Leave it to Beaver” or “Father Knows Best.”

Although the code was disbanded in 1968 and the seal in 1983, by that point, they had already left their mark.

Through the power of the moving image, these two codes defined what was “correct thinking” — what was right and wrong, what was normal and what was not. They defined how America should look; what roles we should each play; who should live where.

Hays chose Quigley, Lord and Breen specifically for their strong Catholic religious convictions. The three men structured and enforced their censorship around their own religious values, including concepts on marriage, gender roles, sexuality, the female body and morality. 

The code’s legacy lives on, if not through our residual expectations of happy endings, nuclear families and morally correct behaviors, then through our understanding of what our American past actually looked like and who we are as a nation.

In the end, Hays, Quigley, Lord and Breen’s most significant contribution to film was not the saving of an industry or the writing of a vital rules document. Their biggest contribution, for better or for worse, was their lasting cultural influence.

As the real story slowly fades to black, the remaining vestiges have been now immortalized in the beloved films and shows still shown today, creating a false nostalgia and mythology of a greatness that never really was.

Heather Greene is a freelance journalist, editor and author of “Lights, Camera, Witchcraft: A Critical History of Witches in American Film and Television.” Her writing has appeared in Religion News Service, Circle Magazine, The Washington Post and others. She has a master’s degree in film studies from Emory University and is a member of the Religion Newswriters Association and Covenant of the Goddess. Heather has been writing and presenting on the cross sections between belief, pop culture and alternative spirituality for over 20 years. Follow her on X @Miraselena01.