An Access Advertising EconBrief:
Stereotypes Overturned: Race, Hollywood and the Jody Call
The doctrine often referred to as “political correctness” ostensibly aims to overturn reigning stereotypes governing matters such as race. Yet all too often it results in the substitution of new stereotypes for old. Economics relies on reason and motivation rather than political programming to provide answers to human choices. Nothing could be more subversive of stereotypes than that.
What follows is a tale of Hollywood, race and the American military. At the time, each of these elements was viewed through a stylized, stereotypical lens – as they still are to some extent. But in no case did this tale unfold according to type. The reasons for that were economic.
The Movie Battleground (1949)
In 1949, Metro Goldwyn Mayer produced one of the year’s biggest boxoffice-hit movies, Battleground. It told the story of World War II’s Battle of the Bulge as seen through the eyes of a single rifle squad in the 101st Airborne Division of the U.S. Army. In late 1944, Germany teetered on the edge of defeat. Her supreme commanders conceived the idea of a desperate mid-winter offensive to grab the initiative and rock the Allies back on their heels. The key geographic objective was the town of Bastogne, Belgium, located at the confluence of seven major roads serving the Ardennes region and Antwerp harbor. Germany launched an attack that drove such as conspicuous salient into the Allied line that the engagement acquired the title of the “Battle of the Bulge.”
The Screaming Eagles of the 101st Airborne were the chief defenders of Bastogne. This put them somewhat out of their element, since their normal role was that of attack paratroopers. Despite this, they put up an unforgettable fight even though outnumbered ten to one by the German advance. The film’s scriptwriter and associate producer, Robert Pirosh, was among those serving with the 101st and trapped at Bastogne.
Battleground accurately recounted the Battle of the Bulge, including an enlisted man’s view of the legendary German surrender demand and U.S. General McAuliffe’s immortal response: “Nuts.” But the key to the film’s huge box-office success – it was the second-leading film of the year in ticket receipts – was its continual focus on the battle as experienced by the combat soldier.
The men display the range of normal human emotions, heightened and intensified out of proportion by the context. Courage and fear struggle for supremacy. Boredom and the Germans vie for the role of chief nemesis. The film’s director, William Wellman, had flown in the Lafayette Escadrille in World War I and was one of Hollywood’s leading directors of war films, including the first film to win a Best Picture Oscar, Wings.
Some of MGM’s leading players headed up the cast, including Van Johnson, George Murphy, John Hodiak, and Ricardo Montalban. The film was nominated for six Academy Awards and won two, for Pirosh’s story and screenplay and Paul Vogel’s stark black-and-white cinematography. In his motion-picture debut, James Whitmore was nominated for Best Supporting Actor and won a Golden Globe Award as the tobacco-chewing sergeant, Kinnie.
Whitmore provides the dramatic highlight of the film. Starving and perilously low on ammunition, the men of the 101st grimly hold out. They are waiting for relief forces led by General George Patton. Overwhelming U.S. air superiority over the Germans is of no use because fog and overcast have Bastogne completely socked in, grounding U.S. planes. Whitmore’s squad is cut off, surrounded and nearly out of bullets. Advised by Whitmore to save their remaining ammo for the impending German assault, the men silently fix bayonets to their rifles and await their death. Hobbling back to his foxhole on frozen feet, Whitmore notices something odd that stops him in his tracks. Momentarily puzzled, he soon realizes what stopped him. He has seen his shadow. The sun has broken through the clouds – and right behind it come American planes to blast the attacking German troops and drop supplies to the 101st. The shadow of doom has been lifted from “the battered bastards of Bastogne.”
1949 audiences were captivated by two scenes that bookended Battleground. After the opening credits and scene-setting explanation, soldiers are seen performing close-order drill led by Whitmore. These men were not actors or extras but were actual members of the 101st Airborne. They executed Whitmore’s drill commands with precise skill and timing while vocalizing a cadence count in tandem with Whitmore. This count would eventually attain worldwide fame and universal acceptance throughout the U.S. military. It began:
You had a good home but you left
You had a good home but you left
Jody was there when you left
Your baby was there when you left
Sound Off – 1,2
Sound Off – 3,4
Cadence Count – 1,2,3,4
1,2 – 3-4!
At the end of the movie, surviving members of Whitmore’s squad lie exhausted beside a roadway. Upon being officially relieved and ordered to withdraw, they struggle to their feet and head toward the rear, looking as worn out and numb as they feel. They meet the relief column marching towards them, heading to the front. Not wishing for the men to seem demoralized and defeated, Van Johnson suggests that Whitmore invoke the cadence count to bring them to life. As the movie ends, the squad marches smartly off while adding two more verses to the cadence count, supported by the movie’s music score:
Your baby was lonely as lonely could be
Until he provided company
Ain’t it great to have a pal
who works so hard to keep up morale?
Sound Off – 1,2
Sound Off – 3,4
Cadence Count – 1,2,3,4
1,2 – 3-4!
You ain’t got nothing to worry about
He’ll keep her happy ’till I get out
And I won’t get out ’till the end of the war
In Nineteen Hundred and Seventy-four
Sound Off – 1,2
Sound Off – 3,4
Cadence Count – 1,2,3,4
1,2 – 3-4!
The story of this cadence count, its inclusion in Battleground, its rise to fame and the fate of its inventor and his mentor are the story-within-the-story of the movie Battleground. This inside story speaks to the power of economics to overturn stereotypes.
The Duckworth Chant
In early 1944, a black Army private named Willie Lee Duckworth, Sr., was returning to Fort Slocum, NJ, from a long, tiresome training hike with his company. To pick up the spirits of his comrades and improve their coordination, he improvised a rhythmic chant. According to Michael and Elizabeth Cavanaugh in their blog, “The Duckworth Chant, Sound Off and the Jody Call,” this was the birth of what later came to be called the Jody (or Jodie) Call.
Duckworth’s commanding officer learned of popularity of Duckworth’s chant. He encouraged Duckworth to compose additional verses for training purposes. Soldiers vocalized the words of the chant along with training commands as a means of learning and coordinating close-order drill. Duckworth’s duties exceeded those of composer – he also taught the chant to white troops at Fort Slocum. It does not seem overly imaginative to envision episodes like this as forerunners to the growth of rap music, although it would be just a logical to attribute both phenomena to a different common ancestor.
Who is Jody (or Jodie)? The likely derivation is from a character in black folklore, Joe de Grinder, whose name would have been shortened first to Jody Grinder, then simply to Jody. The word “grind” has a sexual connotation and Jody’s role in the cadence count was indeed been to symbolize the proverbial man back home and out of uniform, who threatens to take the soldier’s place with his wife or girlfriend.
Already our story has turned certain deeply ingrained racial stereotypes upside down. In 1944, America was a segregated nation, not just in the South but North, East and West as well. This was also true of our armed forces. Conventional thinking (as distinct from conventional wisdom) holds that a black Army private had no power to influence his fate and was little more than a pawn under the thumb of larger forces.
Yet against all seeming odds and expectations, a black draftee from the Georgia countryside spontaneously introduced his own refinement into military procedure – and that refinement was not only accepted but wholeheartedly embraced. The black private was even employed to train white troops – at a point when racial segregation was the status quo.
Pvt. Duckworth’s CO was not just any commanding officer. He was Col. Bernard Lentz, the senior colonel in the U.S. Army at that time. Col. Lentz was a veteran of World War I, when he had developed the Cadence System of Teaching Close-Order Drill – his own personal system of drill instruction using student vocalization of drill commands. When Lentz heard of Duckworth’s chant, he immediately recognized its close kinship with his own methods and incorporated it into Fort Slocum’s routine.
The public-choice school of economics believes that government bureaucrats do not serve the “public interest.” Partly, this is because there is no unambiguous notion of the public interest for them to follow. Consequently, bureaucrats can scarcely resist pursuing their own ends since it is easy to fill the object-function vacuum with their own personal agenda. This is a case in which the public interest was served by a bureaucrat pursuing his own interests.
Col. Lentz had a psychological property interest in the training system that he personally developed. He had a vocational property interest in that system since its success would advance his military career. And in this case, there seems to be little doubt that the Duckworth Chant improved the productivity of troop training. Its use spread quickly throughout the army. According to the Cavanaugh’s, it was being used in the European Theater of Operations (ERO) by V-E Day. Eventually, Duckworth’s name recognition faded, to be replaced by that of his chant’s eponymous character, Jody. But the Jody Call itself remains to this day as a universally recognized part of the military experience.
Thus, the stereotypes of racial segregation and bureaucratic inertia were overcome by the economic logic of property rights. And the morale of American troops has benefitted ever since.
Hollywood as User and Abuser – Another Myth Exploded
The name of Pvt. Willie Lee Duckworth, Sr. does not exit the pages of history with the military’s adoption of his chant as a cadence count. Far from it. To paraphrase the late Paul Harvey, we have yet to hear the best of the rest of the story.
As noted above, the Duckworth chant spread to the ETO by early 1945. It was probably there that screenwriter Robert Pirosh encountered it and germinated the idea of planting it in his retelling of the Battle of the Bulge. When Battleground went into production, MGM representative Lily Hyland wrote to Col. Lentz asking if the cadence count was copyrighted and requesting permission to use it in the film.
Col. Lentz replied, truthfully, that the cadence count was not under copyright. But he sincerely requested compensation for Pvt. Duckworth and for a half-dozen soldiers who were most responsible for conducting training exercises at Fort Slocum. The colonel suggested monetary compensation for Duckworth and free passes to the movie for the other six. MGM came through with the passes and sent Pvt. Duckworth a check for $200.
As the Cavanaugh’s point out, $200 sounds like a taken payment today. But in 1949, $200 was approximately the monthly salary of a master sergeant in the Army, so it was hardly trivial compensation. This is still another stereotype shot to pieces.
Hollywood has long been famed in song and story – and in its own movies – as a user and abuser of talent. In this case, the casual expectation would have been that a lowly black soldier with no copyright on a rhyming chant he had first made up on the spur of the moment, with no commercial intent or potential, could expect to be stiffed by the most powerful movie studio on earth. If nothing else, we would have expected that Duckworth’s employer, the Army, would have asserted a proprietary claim for any monies due for the use of the chant.
That didn’t happen because the economic interests of the respective parties favored compensating Duckworth rather than stiffing him. Col. Lentz wanted the Army represented in the best possible light in the film, but he particularly wanted the cadence count shown to best advantage. If Pvt. Duckworth came forward with a public claim against the film, that would hurt his psychological and vocational property interests. The last thing MGM wanted was a lawsuit by a soldier whose claim would inevitably resonate with the public, making him seem to be an exploited underdog and the studio look like a bunch of chiseling cheapskates – particularly when they could avoid it with a payment of significant size to him but infinitesimal as a fraction of a million-dollar movie budget.
A Hollywood Ending – Living Happily Ever After
We have still not reached the fadeout in our story of Col. Lentz and Pvt. Duckworth. Carefully observing the runaway success of Battleground, Col. Lentz engaged the firm of Shapiro, Bernstein & Co. to copyright an extended version of the Duckworth chant in 1950 under the title of “Sound Off.” Both he and Willie Lee Duckworth, Sr. were listed as copyright holders. In 1951, this was recorded commercially for the first of many versions by Vaughn Monroe. In 1952, a film titled Sound Off was released. All these commercial exploitations of “Sound Off” resulted in payments to the two men.
How much money did Pvt. Duckworth receive as compensation for the rights to his chant, you may ask? By 1952, Duckworth was apparently receiving about $1,800 per month. In current dollars, that would amount to an income well in excess of $100,000 per year. Of course, like most popular creations, the popularity of “Sound Off” rose, peaked and then fell off to a whisper. But the money was enough to enable Duckworth to buy a truck and his own small pulpwood business. That business supported him, his wife and their six children. It is fair to say that the benefits of Duckworth’s work continued for the rest of his life, which ended in 2004.
If still dubious about the value of what MGM gave Duckworth, consider this. The showcase MGM provided for Duckworth’s chant amounted to advertising worth many thousands of dollars. Without it, the subsequent success of “Sound Off” would have been highly problematic, to put it mildly. It seems unlikely that Col. Lentz would have been inspired to copyright the cadence count and any benefits received by the two would have been miniscule in comparison.
The traditional Hollywood movie ending is a fadeout following a successful resolution of the conflict between protagonist and antagonist, after which each viewer inserts an individual conception of perpetual bliss as the afterlife of the main characters. In reality, as Ernest Hemingway reminds us, all true stories end in death. But Willie Lee Duckworth, Sr.’s story surely qualifies as a reasonable facsimile of “happily ever after.”
This story is not the anomaly it might seem. Although Hollywood itself was not a powerful engine of black economic progress until much later, free markets were the engine that pulled the train to a better life for 20th century black Americans. Research by economists like Thomas Sowell has established that black economic progress long preceded black political progress in the courts (through Brown vs. Topeka Board of Education) and the U.S. Congress (through legislation like the Civil Rights Act of 1964).
The Movie that Toppled a Mogul
There were larger economic implications of Battleground. These gave the film the sobriquet of “the movie that toppled a mogul.” As Chief Operating Officer of MGM, Louis B. Mayer had long been the highest-paid salaried employee in the U.S. The size of MGM’s payroll made it the largest contributor on the tax rolls of Southern California. Legend had endowed Mayer with the power to bribe police and influence politicians. Seemingly, this should have secured his job tenure completely.
Battleground was a project developed by writer and executive Dore Schary while he worked at rival studio RKO. Schary was unable to get the movie produced at RKO because his bosses there believed the public’s appetite for war movies had been surfeited by the wave of propaganda-oriented pictures released during the war. When Schary defected to MGM, he brought the project with him and worked ceaselessly to get it made.
Mayer initially opposed Battleground for the same reasons as most of his colleagues in the industry. He called it “Schary’s Folly.” Yet the movie was made over his objections. And when it became a blockbuster hit, the fallout caused Mayer to be removed as head of the studio that bore his name. To add insult to this grievous injury, Schary replaced Mayer as COO.
For roughly two decades, economists had supported the hypothesis of Adolf Berle and Gardiner Means that American corporations suffered from a separation of ownership and control. Ostensibly, corporate executives were not controlled by boards of directors who safeguarded the interests of shareholders. Instead, the executives colluded with boards to serve their joint interests. If ever there was an industry to test this hypothesis, it was the motion-picture business, dominated by a tightly knit group of large studios run by strong-willed moguls. MGM and Louis B. Mayer were the locus classicus of this arrangement.
Yet the production, success and epilogue of Battleground made it abundantly clear that it was MGM board chairman Nicholas Schenck, not Mayer, who was calling the shots. And Schenck had his eye fixed on the bottom line. Appearances to the contrary notwithstanding, Louis B. Mayer was not the King of Hollywood after all. Market logic, not market failure, reigned. Economics, not power relationships, ruled.
Thanks to Battleground, stereotypes were dropping like soldiers of the 47th Panzer Corps on the arrival of Patton’sThird Army in Bastogne.
No Happy Ending for Hollywood
Battleground came at the apex of American movies. Average weekly cinema attendance exceeded the population of the nation. The studio system was a smoothly functional, vertically integrated machine for firing the popular imagination. It employed master craftsman at every stage of the process, from script to screen.
Although it would have seemed incredible at the time, we know now that it was all downhill from that point. Two antitrust decisions in the late 1940s put an end to the Hollywood studio system. One particular abomination forbade studios from owning chains of movie theaters; another ended up transferring creative control of movies away from the studios.
The resulting deterioration of motion pictures took place in slow motion because the demand for movies was still strong and the studio system left us with a long-lived supply of people who still preserved the standards of yore. But the vertically integrated studio system has been gone for over half a century. Today, Hollywood is a pale shadow of its former self. Most movies released by major studios do not cover their costs through ticket sales. Studio profits result from sales of ancillary merchandise and rights. Theater profits are generated via concession sales. Motion-picture production is geared toward those realities and targeted predominantly toward the very young. Subsidies by local, state and national governments are propping up the industry throughout the world. And those subsidies must disappear sooner or later – probably sooner.
This has proved to be the ultimate vindication of our thesis that economics, not stereotypical power relationships, governed the movie business in Hollywood’s Golden Age. Free markets put consumers and shareholders in the driver’s seat. The result created the unique American art form of the 20th century. We still enjoy its fruits today on cable TV, VHS, DVD and the Internet. Misguided government attempts to regulate the movie business ended up killing the golden goose or, more precisely, reducing it to an enfeebled endangered species.