Make Believe Read Online Free

investigating Communist influence in the movie industry, particularly among scriptwriters. Hollywood folks, stunned, had been compelled to head East to testify to past or present affiliation with the Communist Party. A garish public-relations nightmare. Are you now or have you ever been a member of the Communist Party? was the nightmarish mantra.
    At first Hollywood fought back with protests and meetings, buoyed by support from the studios. But then public opinion shifted as the gossip columnists roared their disapproval, and Hollywood bigwigs ran scared. Heads tumbled. Careers died. Lives ruined. What resulted was the Hollywood Ten, now bound for prison and career suicide.
    Just this past year, with the specter of jowly and stentorian Senator Joe McCarthy waving undocumented lists of Reds in government before Republican women’s clubs in the heartland, as well as a new round of attacks from a reconstituted HUAC, Max reacted. Bothered by the spectacle, he had to say something. Of course, he knew Communists, men who’d joined when it was a party dedicated to fighting fascism in Germany and Italy, idealistic souls who’d recanted after the Stalin purges. In fact, he was a close friend of two of the Hollywood Ten: John Howard Lawson, whom I knew as a serious if windbaggish playwright, and Dalton Trumbo, a brilliant scriptwriter we all called Doc.” Good men, and loyal Americans.
    Max had penned an indignant but I thought beautifully crafted letter to the Hollywood Reporter , articulating the case for First Amendment rights of the accused, a heartfelt cry for balance and fairness and—well, it didn’t matter. That simple letter, forceful and intelligent, earned him the label of Communist, fifth columnist, fellow traveler, card-carrying Red, a betrayer of American democracy. An endless stream of glib, dismissive phrases. A brutal attack in Myron Fagan’s muckraking Red Treason in Hollywood .
    Reprinted here and there, quoted by a slap-happy, Red-baiting Walter Winchell, referred to by Jack Warner before some committee, the letter branded Max a danger. His timing was bad. The Rosenberg trial was bold-face, front-page news. The Alger Hiss debacle still sizzled. The Russian A-bomb threat frightened everyone. No matter that Max was a good man; condemned in the local press, named by Red Channels in their muckraking columns, he became estranged from both friends and foes. Clients drifted away. Phones went unanswered. Max became the unwitting poster boy of the moment: the veteran entertainment insider who supposedly answered the phone when Moscow called.
    I’d written that I’d be visiting him—to lend support.
    Max now seemed eager to change the subject. “Metro asked you to the premiere of Show Boa t?”
    I swelled up, indignant. “Not exactly a heartfelt invitation…just a courtesy. No thank you! I’ve already refused. I made a point of it. I don’t like their treatment of you, and I’ve told them so loud and clear. I came to see you . Spend time with you, go out for dinner. Show Boat has nothing to do with my visit.” The West Coast premiere was scarcely a week away, and MGM knew I was in town. I’d heard they were worried I’d make a scene. Some of the scenes I’d made over the years were the stuff of legend.
    Alice spoke up. “They’ll hound you. Their rep, a guy named Desmond Peake, the man who axed Max from the studio, called here to get information from us .”
    “I know. There are phone messages filling up my cubby hole at the Ambassador.”
    “He’s a real shark, that one,” Max noted.
    “I will see them, of course, whoever them is. They’ve scheduled a private showing of the movie.” I bristled. “Max, I simply don’t like the fact that your considerable contribution to Show Boat is going uncredited. A horrible word: ‘uncredited.’ So dismissive and unfair.”
    “It doesn’t matter to me.” Max shrugged.
    Hotly. “Oh, but it does.”
    Alice nodded. “Justice.” She wagged her finger at