Let’s travel back to November 25, 1947—a time when America was gripped by Cold War paranoia, chain-smoking was a personality trait, and Joseph McCarthy strutted around Washington like the self-appointed Sheriff of Anti-Communism. And what was he hunting? Communists? Spies? Nope. Hollywood screenwriters. Apparently, nothing says “national security” like interrogating the guy who wrote Casablanca.
On this day, ten screenwriters and filmmakers—people who put words into Humphrey Bogart’s mouth—stood up to the House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC). Well, “stood up” might be generous. They mostly sat there and refused to answer the question that defined an entire era: “Are you now, or have you ever been, a member of the Communist Party?”
Their answer? Silence. Not defiance with a mic drop, not a fiery speech about the First Amendment—just… silence. And for that, they became the Hollywood Ten, icons of resistance to a government that decided the best way to protect democracy was by trampling all over it.
The Hollywood Ten: Screenwriters Without Screens
Now, let’s clear something up: these weren’t radicals whispering Marxist manifestos at coffee shops. These were guys who wrote movies that—well, you probably haven’t seen, because who under 60 is watching Roman Holiday or Spartacus? But trust me, back then, these movies were cultural blockbusters. If Netflix had existed, they’d have been trending for weeks.
The Ten were an eclectic mix: Dalton Trumbo, a screenwriting genius who could write circles around anyone; Ring Lardner Jr., whose name alone sounds like he came straight out of a Jane Austen novel; and Edward Dmytryk, a director who later pulled a 180 so fast it gave everyone else whiplash.
Their crime? Refusing to throw their colleagues under the bus. HUAC wasn’t looking for justice—they wanted names, people to blame. And the Ten, instead of complying, invoked their First Amendment rights and refused to participate in what one of them, John Howard Lawson, called “a mockery of justice.”
For their troubles, they were slapped with contempt of Congress charges, fined, and sentenced to prison terms ranging from six months to a year. Oh, and then Hollywood decided to blacklist them. And not just them—pretty much anyone with a whiff of leftist politics was booted from the industry faster than you could say “box office flop.”
Blacklisting: Cancel Culture, Old-School Edition
The MPAA—the bigwigs of the movie industry—was quick to issue a statement declaring that no communist, suspected communist, or anyone who might have accidentally hummed “The Internationale” at karaoke would work in Hollywood again. Studios, terrified of backlash, blacklisted the Ten and anyone remotely like them. Careers evaporated overnight.
Dalton Trumbo, one of the greatest screenwriters of his generation, spent years writing under fake names just to pay the bills. His work on Roman Holiday and The Brave One even won Oscars—except someone else had to accept the awards. Imagine pouring your heart into something only for some nobody to walk off with the statue. That’s like winning an Olympic gold medal and watching your cousin Barry accept it because you weren’t “politically acceptable.”
Edward Dmytryk, on the other hand, cracked under the pressure. He named names, salvaged his career, and became a poster boy for capitulation. It’s like watching someone eat a whole carton of ice cream during a diet and pretend it was a win.
The Aftermath: Hollywood Learns to Look in the Mirror
The blacklist hung around for over a decade, like an embarrassing party guest who refuses to leave. It wasn’t until the 1960s that things started to change. Kirk Douglas and Otto Preminger broke the dam when they openly credited Dalton Trumbo for Spartacus and Exodus, respectively, forcing Hollywood to face the absurdity of what it had done.
But the damage was already done. Some careers never recovered. The Hollywood Ten, once on the cutting edge of the film industry, were relegated to the margins, their names remembered more for their sacrifice than their work. The industry moved on, but the scars remained.
From Scripts to Sidelines: Enter Colin Kaepernick
Fast forward to 2016, and we’re not talking about screenwriters anymore—we’re talking about athletes. Colin Kaepernick, NFL quarterback and all-around thorn in Donald Trump’s side, knelt during the national anthem to protest police brutality. That silent act? It set off a political firestorm.
Trump, ever the uniter, called Kaepernick and others like him “sons of bitches” and demanded they be fired. What followed was a 21st-century blacklist: no NFL team would touch Kaepernick, despite his undeniable talent. It was a chilling echo of the Hollywood Ten. Different time, different stage, same playbook: dissent equals disloyalty, and if you refuse to conform, you’re out.
Trump 2.0: Now With Bonus Nationalism!
And here we are in 2024, with Trump gearing up for another term and Christian nationalism surging like it’s auditioning for the next season of Succession. The parallels to McCarthyism aren’t subtle—they’re neon signs. Then, it was communists. Now, it’s anyone who doesn’t kneel before the altar of Trumpism.
What does that mean for dissenters? Well, if history is any guide, expect a fresh round of blacklists. Teachers, journalists, athletes—anyone who steps out of line could find themselves professionally exiled. It’s McCarthyism rebranded, now with more hashtags and fewer typewriters.
The Moral of the Story: Stand, Kneel, or Get Blacklisted
The Hollywood Ten remind us that courage often comes with a cost. They lost their careers, their livelihoods, and their reputations, but they stood firm in the belief that no government had the right to police thought. Dalton Trumbo later called the blacklist “a time of evil,” and he was right. But he also showed us that even in the darkest times, resistance is possible.
Kaepernick’s story is still unfolding. He knelt for justice, lost his career, and became a symbol of something much bigger than football. Like the Hollywood Ten, he showed that silence and conformity are not the same as peace.
So as we head into another political era defined by fear and division, let’s remember the lessons of 1947 and 2016. The question isn’t whether there will be blacklists—it’s who will be brave enough to defy them. Because if we don’t stand—or kneel—for what’s right, we’re all just extras in a bad remake of history. And let’s face it: no one wants to be in that movie.
