Joining the Communist Party in Hollywood
AFTER HIS DISCHARGE FROM THE MARINE CORPS, STERLING HAYDEN wrestled with the dilemma of what to do with his life. His initial thoughts had nothing to do with resuming his film career. He struggled internally with two forces that seemed to pull him in different directions—to return to his first love, the sea, or to pursue what he described as “the political thing.” He would later claim that in spite of his political interest, it never occurred to him to join the Communist Party during that time.1
Immediately after his discharge on Christmas Eve, Hayden traveled to New York City. Shortly after his arrival, he was contacted by Russell Holman, a local New York agent for Paramount Pictures. They wanted the budding movie star, who was now a war hero, back in the fold and were prepared to pay him well to return to the studio. Although this wasn’t in his initial plans, the pragmatist in him realized that he needed the money, and what Paramount was offering him, he couldn’t logically refuse. He signed a sweetheart deal with the studio: they would pay him $1,500 a week for the first year and $2,000 a week the second year, while guaranteeing him four months off each year, from June through September. Hayden initially envisioned using those off months to perhaps go on the lecture circuit, talking about the evils of and the fight against fascism.2 After signing the contract, he also made a personal commitment to him-self—he gave up smoking and drinking.
From New York, he next drove across the country to Reno, Nevada, as his next order of business was to obtain a divorce from Madeleine Carroll. He checked into a rooming house next to the local library. The manager of the rooming house looked on as he unloaded his pile of books from his car, mainly leftist literature by authors such as Karl Marx, Vladimir Lenin, and Eugene Debs. He was prepared to hunker down in Reno for six weeks, the minimum time required to establish residency so he could obtain the divorce. He would describe his stay in Reno as a “prison sentence.”3
He vowed that he would spend his days mirroring the hours that the Partisans kept in Yugoslavia. From sundown to sunrise, he would work; from sunrise until noon, he would rest; and from noon until sundown, he would walk in the fields and nearby mountains.4 He had good intentions, but he was soon battling with his two obsessions: women and alcohol. The tall, handsome movie star had no problem finding women to sleep with, and soon he was drinking heavily, consuming his beloved aquavit, and smoking heavily. However, with his senses dulled by alcohol, he started to think about his life, and soon his self-doubts, as well as large doses of self-hatred, began to emerge. Sitting alone on the back porch and looking up at the stars, he was already berating himself for returning to Hollywood and for what he considered his numerous personal failures. “Everything was going or gone: marriage, war, my militant future going. A big boy full of busted resolves and shattered resolutions.”5
He labeled himself a quitter, a man who was awarded a Silver Star and didn’t know why he was so honored. Perhaps, he sarcastically reasoned, it was award for “‘quitting with valor’: quitting the COI; quitting a naval commission; quitting the Spinney; quitting the ranks of enlisted men; quitting the Marine Corps and switching to the OSS, then switching from OSS-Bari to OSS First Army … Quitting the sea and the films and the ranks of men who fought for principles; then walking from Madeleine’s arms into the cold embrace of Paramount.”6
It is highly likely that his marked disappointment with the reality of what he learned about the true face of the communist Partisans was also grating at him as he struggled to retain the idealism that he initially felt for the fight against all forms of fascism. Maybe, he reasoned, the totalitarian, top-down dictatorship of communism that he has witnessed wasn’t much better than the fascist dictatorships that he opposed. Added to this conundrum were the doubts he experienced when he was drunk about his own commitment to “the cause.” “What did I care for labor? For racial discrimination? For civil liberties and the war between the classes? Oh, I cared in my own fashion. I cared just enough to embrace these things as props, flailing away night after night at semi-drunken parties.”7
The painfully long six weeks finally ended in March. He had established his Nevada state residency and could now file the divorce papers. His divorce from Madeleine Carroll would be formally granted on May 8, 1946. Meanwhile, he needed some spiritual rejuvenation. He left Reno and headed for the West Coast to see Warwick Tompkins.
• • •
Sterling Hayden arrived in Sausalito in late March and joined his friend Warwick Tompkins aboard his schooner Wander Bird. He would recount to the HUAC that this visit also lasted about six weeks. The only thing of significance he would recall about his stay was that Tompkins proposed that he write a book about his young friend. Tompkins, in addition to being a skilled sailor, was a published author. He proposed to Hayden that he write his biography. The angle that he would be using was along the line of “the development of a typical nonpolitical American youth into a militant participant in the class struggle.”8 Somewhat amused by it all, Hayden initially agreed to the project.
Throughout the war, Hayden had also kept up a regular correspondence with his other mentor, Lincoln Colcord. Colcord, the former radical, was upset with the choices that Hayden was making. Specifically, he warned Hayden that he was probably being used by the Communist Party, especially in regard to the proposed biography. Using Tompkins own words—that the proposed biography would demonstrate how a former “escapist sailor,” actor, and war hero had emerged as a “leading figure in the anti-fascist struggle at home”—Colcord demanded, “Just what is the anti-fascist struggle at home?” He warned Hayden that if he agreed to have his past written up for Stalinist purposes, he would regret it for the rest of his life.9
A few weeks later, Tompkins came down to the Los Angeles area and met with Hayden over a period of about three weeks. He took copious notes on Hayden’s life and experiences, eventually writing about seventy-five thousand words. The project started to grate on Hayden’s nerves and no doubt the warning from Lincoln Colcord was also weighing on his mind. He began to have real doubts about the project. Finally, after several more weeks, he had had enough of the proposed biography. He contacted Tompkins and told him that he was calling the whole thing off.
• • •
Perhaps it was the idea of being the subject of a book that solidified his desire to become a writer. The fact that he had no background in writing was not a deterrent. After all, with absolutely no acting training or experience, he had already starred in two major Hollywood movies. Nonetheless, it was at this point that he began to seriously consider trying his hand as a writer. Shortly after returning to Hollywood, Hayden rented an apartment where his furnishings included a desk and a typewriter. He believed he was ready to begin this latest endeavor.
He quickly found that he couldn’t initiate any writing projects. He was perplexed by his inability to jump in and accomplish something that he felt was very important to him. He could become a master seaman, become a Hollywood matinee idol, join the United States Marine Corps and the OSS, and serve with distinction in World War II, yet he couldn’t face the challenge of sitting on front of a typewriter. Years later, in 1982, he would recall the situation in an interview. “But I couldn’t write,” he recalled. “Even then I was fighting something I’m still fighting, something called a depression, stress, alcoholism. Obviously I’m an alcoholic. At the time I didn’t know it, but I couldn’t figure out why I couldn’t harness myself and function. I seemed to have functioned well in ships. Why couldn’t one write?”10
• • •
One morning in early June, Hayden awakened in the home of yet another woman he had slept with but whose name he couldn’t remember. Indicative of a familiar pattern, he was hung over, struggling to get himself together for a meeting with his agent, Bert Allenberg. He would ruefully recall that at the time, his home was a dressing room at Paramount Pictures, and that he “had $13,000 in the Melrose branch of the Bank of America. I call myself a ‘progressive.’ I am one of Paramount’s stars.”11 Driving away from his latest paramour’s apartment, he instinctively headed towards Newport Beach.
It had occurred to him that his home should be a boat and he was determined to find one that morning. Prowling the bay for a while, he came upon a schooner that brought back many memories. It was a boat that he knew well—his first Schooner, Puritan. Scanning all of the boats moored at the docks, an abandoned, worn boat caught his eye. It needed a lot of work, but it would not be a challenge for Hayden to get it seaworthy again. Immediately meeting with the yacht broker on the premises, he initially offered $13,500 cash for the Wetona. Two hours later, he bought the boat for $14,000 cash.
By three o’clock, he was at Bert Allenberg’s office. Despite not having any film offers, he wanted to see what his agent’s plans were for him and if there were any prospects on the horizon. Earlier, Allenberg had informed him: “Nothing doing yet. Relax, Baby, they’re paying the money, aren’t they?”12 The receptionist immediately offered apologies as Allenberg had been delayed at Fox and was going to be late for their meeting. Not a problem, replied Hayden, as he settled down to think of a name for his new boat. Considering several possibilities, he finally settled on Quest. As he continued to peruse boating magazines, an attractive woman entered the room. “No longer a girl, but graced with a certain look. She is clinched up tight beneath a beige wool suit, a trench coat slung over her arm. We know each other well.”13
The girl was a secretary in Bert Allenberg’s office named Bea Winters. She was already one of Hayden’s many friends but she had been specifically pointed out to him by Warwick Tompkins. She and her husband were active in leftist politics, and Hayden admired them for their intellect and their ability to talk on virtually any subject affecting the world, while “all I can do is to drink three to their one and try to look intelligent.”14 After discussing commitment to “the cause,” she finally asked him, “Well, when are you going to stop talking and do something?”
“Such as?” he asked.
“Join the Party.”
Reaching into her purse, she pulled out several forms and Hayden impulsively signed them, indicating his willingness to join the Communist Party. Almost immediately, he began to feel awkward about joining. Once again, he asked himself, was he running, quitting, searching? He would testify to the HUAC that his initial impression after signing the form was: “This is ridiculous.”15 Perhaps his ambivalence towards his action that day was best summed up when he lay in the bunk of his newly purchased schooner that night and he wondered if there had ever been a man who bought a schooner and joined the Communist Party both on the same day.16
• • •
Shortly after signing his membership papers, Sterling Hayden attended the first meeting of his party branch or “cell,” as they were referred to. The membership of the cell consisted of people from Universal, RKO, Columbia, and Paramount studios. To “protect” Hayden, he was assigned to a cell that consisted of what he called “back workers”—carpenters, electricians, etc. There were no other movie stars in his cell. A typical meeting would consist of “from 10 to 22 or 23 people. I think they were happy if they had more than 8.”17 The meetings that he attended over the next six months were conducted exactly the same way. Only first names were used. They were held several times a month at the homes of different members. At the end of each meeting, members would be given the address of the next meeting. No drinking was allowed, although nearly everyone smoked throughout the meetings. The very first meeting was at the home of a man Hayden could only identify as Hjalmar, who was the recording secretary of the cell.
The meetings started promptly at 8 p.m. and lasted three hours. The first hour was devoted to the local Hollywood scene. Issues such as wages and labor-management relationships were discussed in detail. Hayden would recall that he rarely contributed to these discussions. The next hour was “devoted to intensive study of Marxist-Leninist principles.” The words were strange to Hayden—writing in the third person, he recalled, “‘surplus value,’ ‘proletariat,’ ‘bourgeoisie,’ and ‘deviationism.’ Why, hell, the only deviation he is familiar with has to do with a compass. His lack of knowledge appalls him. This is not what he had in mind, and not what he came to hear.”18 He began to tune out the discussion almost immediately.
During the last hour, the world situation would be discussed. He enjoyed this session at his first meeting. He felt that this was at least relevant, departing from the theoretical babbling that served only to bore him. From the situation in China to the accusations that several famous industrialists were already laying the groundwork for the next world war, Hayden felt that at least he was learning something, although he was hesitant to participate in the discussions. “Still he remains aloof;” he wrote in Wanderer, “perhaps he is the only at home these days with nonpolitical people, who know as little as he does.”19 At the end of that first meeting, he learned that Bea Winters, a member of his cell, had arranged for him to meet a man named “John,” an important person in the Communist Party hierarchy. They would meet privately later that night.
Hayden arrived at a Sunset Boulevard restaurant for the scheduled meeting. Soon after he arrived, “John” walked in. Hayden would later recognize from him subsequent newspaper reports. “John” was John Stapp, a full-time Communist Party organizer for Southern California and chairman of the Hollywood section of the state of California’s Communist Party. He was not affiliated in any way with the film industry. Stapp sat down, cigarette dangling from his lips and ordered black coffee while Hayden ordered a scotch. Hayden’s initial impression was that Stapp seemed to be the real thing, the “genuine article, not a hothouse revolutionary.” He also immediately sensed that Stapp saw right though him, “as I see through myself sometimes.”20 Stapp promptly asked him why he had joined the Party.
Hayden replied by citing his Yugoslavia experiences and the inspiration he felt fighting with the Partisans. He described the Yugoslav situation before the war as similar to what was currently occurring in the United States, with “plenty of ruthless bastards up on the top of the heap, and there were a number of intellectuals in the middle; but when the going got rough and it was time to be counted, it was the Communists who stood up and fought.”21 Probing further, Stapp solicited Hayden’s thoughts on what they thought they were fighting for.
Stapp wanted to know if Hayden had any trade union background experiences. Hayden replied that he hadn’t really—he only belonged to the Screen Actors Guild. Stapp smirked derisively, replying, “Some union.” He challenged Hayden on why he hadn’t belonged to any unions such as the Atlantic Fisherman’s Union in all the years he had gone to sea. Hayden patiently explained that Gloucester vessels were non-union. Continuing on as he dragged on his cigarette, Stapp inquired if Hayden had ever been a scab, which Hayden denied. What if the studios found out that he had joined the Communist Party and fired him in spite of his contract? asked Stapp. “To hell with it,” replied Hayden. “I’d go back to sea.” And if he was called in front of a congressional committee and forced to testify if he had ever been a member of the Communist Party? Hayden had no immediate answer, finally saying that he’d have to think about it.
After the interrogation, Stapp looked at his watch and finally cut to the heart of the matter. “Why do you suppose I wanted to talk with you this way?”
“I have no idea,” replied Hayden.
“Well, don’t worry about it,” shot back the Party organizer as he put his hat back on and rose from his seat. He suggested that they leave separately since he was often followed. As he departed the restaurant, Hayden ordered a double scotch. He would recall that the meeting reminded him of his previous meeting with V. J. Jerome and gave him the impression that Stapp was deciding if Hayden would measure up. “He didn’t say anything to me at all. I think that he said he doubted that I’d make a good Communist, but I am not sure.”22 While there is no actual record of Stapp’s impression of Sterling Hayden that resulted from the meeting, Hayden’s description leads one to agree with his assessment. He likely appeared to Stapp as more of an uninformed amateur dilettante than a committed revolutionary. It is reasonable to assume that in Stapp’s mind, Sterling Hayden could function as another celebrity “useful idiot” in service to their cause.
Future events would prove Stapp wrong.
• • •
By the mid-1930s, the labor force in Hollywood was ripe for organization and collective bargaining through unionization. Two opposing forces would descend on Los Angeles and vie for control of the unions representing the workers who worked behind the scenes in every movie production. First was the International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees (IATSE), founded in New York City in 1893. By the 1930s, IATSE was dominated by the mob and used strong-arm tactics to keep its membership in line. A second, more militant force emerged to challenge the IATSE for control of the Hollywood unions in the mid-1940s, when the Conference of Studio Unions (CSU), led by Herbert Sorrell, was formed.
In September of 1946, the CSU went on strike for the second time in a year. About that time, Sterling Hayden was attending another cell meeting. While the location of the meetings tended to vary, by the summer they were mainly held in the home of Abe Polonsky, an acclaimed screenwriter who had written the screenplays for influential films such as Body and Soul. Polonsky had joined the Communist Party in the 1930s and served in the OSS in Europe during the war. Although Polonsky initially didn’t attend the meetings held in his home, he later became a regular at the meetings. Hayden had the impression that he was, in fact, the leader of their cell. At that meeting, Hayden was given an assignment by the cell leadership.
As previously noted, Hayden was the only actor and certainly the only recognizable celebrity in the group. He was also a member of the Screen Actors Guild (SAG) and for that reason he was uniquely qualified for the assignment. At the time, the Communist Party was sympathetic to the cause of the CSU and its cells were encouraged to foster support for Sorrell’s union. “I was told that it would be very helpful and important,” recalled Hayden, “if the Screen Actors Guild could be swung into line in support of this strike.”23 His first action in this regard was to attend a large cocktail party attended by “60 or 70 people,” all actors and actresses interested in the strike.
While there is no doubt some members of the SAG were sympathetic to the CSU cause, whether Hayden may have had any success in his efforts to steer the SAG actors to supporting the CSU strike is questionable. The SAG did have a turn towards progressivism under the presidency of James Cagney, who served as the SAG leader from 1942–44. However, by mid-October of 1946, the strike had turned violent, with five homes of IATSE members being bombed. This happened in spite of SAG efforts to mediate the dispute. The accusations were immediately directed at Sorrell’s CSU and at Sorrell, whose consistently bellicose and uncompromising behavior was losing him supporters. Many opponents of the CSU felt that their strike was part of a long range Communist strategy to control the motion picture industry.24
In a further effort to resolve the strike, a delegation led by SAG president Ronald Reagan traveled to the American Federation of Labor meeting in Chicago in September. His efforts were unsuccessful. He came away from the negotiations believing that the CSU did not want to settle the strike unless the IATSE was completely destroyed.25 The SAG membership began to shift its support to the IATSE. It was the beginning of the end of the CSU. In early 1947 the strike ended and the CSU was destroyed. In July of 1947, the United States Congress, overriding President Harry S. Truman’s veto, passed the Taft-Hartley Act. An amendment to the National Labor Relations Act of 1935, the Taft-Hartley Act, among other things, put limits on what Congress considered unfair labor practices by unions, also requiring union leaders to assert that they were not Communist Party members or acting on behalf of the Communist Party.
More importantly, the stage had been set for Washington to begin its investigation into Communist infiltration and influence in the film industry.
• • •
By the fall of 1946, Sterling Hayden was already becoming disillusioned with the Communist Party. He was increasingly disturbed at the mind-control efforts that seemed to be at the root of his cell’s philosophy. Just as he had become disgusted with the Communist style of “democracy” as he observed how the Communist leadership dealt with the common people during Operation HACIENDA, he quickly became disgusted with the direction in which his cell of the Communist Party was moving. It is also possible that the Hollywood conflicts between the studios and the labor force didn’t, in his mind, quite equal the exhilaration he felt when fighting for a people’s freedom from Nazi fascism in Yugoslavia. The issues, which were becoming murky towards the end of his tour in the Balkans, had become even murkier in his current environment. Hayden had always been too much of his own man to fit into any rigid organization. Reflecting on his reasons why he left the Party the following year, he stated: “Because I’d rather be wrong on my own terms than be right on somebody else’s say-so. Also I was scared, just a little.”26 In an interview given in 1984 he explained it more colorfully. “I decided right away it wasn’t for me. My first thought was ‘Fuck the revolution, what about my date with Charlene?’ I wasn’t committed. Also, I couldn’t read dialectic and historical materialism, though I tried.”27 In another interview, given in 1977 to talk show host Tom Snyder, Hayden stated, “I got out, I must say quite candidly, primarily because I’m not a man who can take discipline.”28 In any event, Hayden—the only film star in his Communist cell—resigned from the Party in December of 1946, only six months after he had joined.
• • •
The next year, 1947, would prove to be a pivotal year in Sterling Hayden’s life. A series of events were converging that would entangle him in both personal and professional crises. Once again, these events centered around women and politics. Both would nearly destroy him.
Shortly after his divorce from Madeleine Carroll, Hayden met Betty Anne De Noon, a beautiful blonde divorcee and they soon became smitten with each other. Like Hayden, the twenty-three-year-old De Noon shared a passion for sailing. They were soon inseparable and married in May of 1947. Hayden would describe the first ten months of their relationship as truly wonderful, giving him “the peace I’ve never known before.”29 Beginning in January 1947, they lived aboard Hayden’s boat moored in Santa Barbara’s harbor.
At first they each became the entire world for each other as they appeared to turn their backs on the rest of the world. “No parties no politics no meetings, just work on the ship all day and read and dream all night. The feel and smell of the sea, and the cries of the birds. What more could any man want?”30 With his new sense of contentment, Hayden also curbed his drinking. But even this new sense of fulfillment with a beautiful, strong-willed wife seemed to bring him only temporary relief from his constant search for something in which to believe. By the time they left on their honeymoon in June, the marriage was already starting to come undone.
They drove across the country from Nevada to Gloucester, Massachusetts, where they planned to spend time with his old colleague Larry O’Toole and his wife. They spent the entire journey fighting with each other. By the time they checked into the Yankee Clipper Inn on the Gloucester waterfront, the Haydens were barely speaking to each other. As they silently checked into their room, Betty finally spoke, insisting that they cancel their plans for the evening’s get-together with the O’Tooles. She did not want to watch the movies that Hayden and O’Toole had taken of a hula dancer in Tahiti, chiding her husband that he was so insecure that he had to “show old movies to his friends of a dame dancing the hula—some broad he laid in Tahiti.”31 Hayden promised there would be no movies that night.
The night evolved just as Betty had feared it would. Despite the efforts of the extremely extroverted O’Toole and his wife Ida to engage their friend’s new wife, Hayden realized that she showed no warmth at all to the O’Tooles. No doubt the movie projector that O’Toole had set up had fueled her anger from the moment they arrived. Hayden had brought a bottle of his favorite aquavit and, as Betty knew they would, Hayden and O’Toole proceeded to get drunk. Finally, it was Hayden who called for the light to be extinguished so they could begin the movie. Making matters worse, a very drunk O’Toole walked over to Betty as the film flickered on the screen and planted a kiss on her forehead, exclaiming, “Hiyah, Mommy, having a good time?”32
As the image of the sailors and the boat approaching Tahiti appeared, Betty’s anger grew. By the time the topless hula dancer appeared, she had had enough. As Hayden and O’Toole leered at the dancer, Betty got up and left to go back to the Yankee Clipper Inn. Hayden remained to finish the entire film with his friend. When the confused O’Toole asked what happened to his friend’s wife, Hayden covered for her, saying she was tired from the drive.
Driving back to his hotel, Hayden contemplated why he had done exactly what his wife had insisted he not do. He had no real answers, but the thoughts he expressed that night spoke volumes about the true love of his life. “Nothing too bad can happen,” he reasoned, “as long as the ships last and the sea doesn’t disappear.” If his marriage failed, he could always sell the Quest, go to Europe and buy a large vessel and return to sea.33 He arrived back at their hotel room to find Betty was awake.
“Sterling, I want you to drive me to Boston in the morning, I’m flying back to the coast.”
“Very well,” he replied.
“And mark my words,” she ominously threatened, “I’ll get even with you if it’s the last thing I do.”
“Have it your way,” was his only response.34
Their honeymoon in Gloucester lasted exactly one day. It would serve as a harbinger of what was to come in their turbulent marriage.
However, in 1947 even more trouble was coming to Sterling Hayden, this time on a professional level that would potentially ruin his film career. The House Committee on Un-American Activities was coming to Hollywood. Its target: Communist infiltration into the film industry.