The Most Controversial
Film You’ve Never Seen: Salt of the Earth Turns Fifty
by Kim Bernstein
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Salt of the Earth NOW!
As the sun disappeared behind the desert hills of the ranch, the cold
began to muscle its way in layer by layer, through the long shadows
and into darkness. Talk among the men faded with the light, and once
the coffee had done what it could. One man stooped in a corner of
the cramped shack picking flakes of tobacco from his teeth with a
matchbook; another squatted under a window, knees folded to his chest,
nervously wiping a pair of spectacles with a handkerchief. The other
six crouched over shotguns, stiff fingers at the ready, peering into
the surrounding blackness.
The men with guns were miners, members of the Local 890 of the International
Union of Mine, Mill and Smelter Workers. Most were Mexican American.
The remaining two were Anglos, part of a company of visiting filmmakers
come to this remote corner of southwest New Mexico to shoot a movie
depicting the events of a recent protracted strike by the miners against
a large local employer, Empire Zinc.
As the situation inside the shack suggests, the film, Salt of the
Earth, was no ordinary production.
The year was 1953. Dwight Eisenhower was in the White House, sworn
in as president just six weeks earlier, the same day work on the film
began here in New Mexico. Julius and Ethel Rosenberg remained on death
row, awaiting execution for conspiracy to sell atomic secrets to the
Soviets, as the bloodletting in Korea sputtered toward stalemate.
Meanwhile, Wisconsin Senator Joseph McCarthy continued his campaign
to oust communists, real and imagined, from every sector of American
culture, government and industry.
The movie’s principals—writer, director and producer—had
all been blacklisted in Hollywood for refusing to testify before the
House Committee on Un-American Activities about their political and
professional affiliations, and two had served jail time. Independent
Film Productions, the outsider company backing the project, was likewise
headed up by political refugees, ejected from the industry for their
refusal to name names before HUAC.
For three weeks the production had gone along without a hitch. Then
a local school teacher penned a letter to the heads of the Screen
Actors Guild and the Motion Picture Association of America voicing
her concern over the communist moviemakers who’d set up shop
in Grant County and begun conning "naive" Mexican Americans into
work on a seditious film. Her correspondence opened the floodgates.
Within a week an item had run in the Hollywood Reporter announcing
that “H’wood Reds are shooting a feature-length anti-American
racial propaganda movie at Silver City,” and the press
had poured into southwest New Mexico.
Tensions quickly escalated. Rumors caught fire and surfaced in print
as fact. It was widely reported, for example, that the filmmakers
had brought in “carloads of Negroes” for a scene involving
mob violence directed at them. In reality, the three African Americans
present on set were working members of the film crew, a notable contrast
to the prevailing segregationist practices of Hollywood. Insinuations
were made in the press about the location’s proximity to the
Los Alamos Proving Grounds. “When you try to hide secret weapons,
you find concentrations of communists,” wrote notorious red-baiting
journalist Victor Riesel in his nationally syndicated column on February
12. Before long, Congressman Donald L. Jackson, a Republican from
California and a member of HUAC, was denouncing Salt of the Earth
on the floor of Congress, calling the film "deliberately designed
to inflame racial hatreds,” and “a new weapon for Russia.”
Union officer Floyd Bostick relaxed his grip on his rifle and pulled
away from the window for a moment, rubbing his chest with a free hand.
He was having a little trouble breathing. A confrontation earlier
in the day had left him battered and nursing bruised ribs. While the
filmmakers were busy getting an establishing shot of a car driving
through the town of Central, just a few miles from this shack, a dozen
local men had turned out to disrupt the scene, knocking over the camera
and beating members of the crew. Bostick had been among those who
bore the physical brunt of the attack.
And that wasn’t even the worst thing that had happened on the
shoot so far. Various members of the production company had received
threats, among them an anonymous phone call promising to send them
out of town “in black boxes” if they persisted in their
efforts to make the film. More tangibly difficult for the project,
the picture’s lead performer, Mexican actress Rosaura Revueltas,
had been arrested for illegal entry into the country and taken to
Texas, where she was being kept under house arrest in El Paso (it
seemed her passport had not been properly stamped at the border).
Soon she would be deported; the remaining portion of her scenes would
have to be shot using a less-than-convincing double and her extensive
voice-overs recorded later, secretly, in a series of hotel rooms
in Mexico.
Now word had come that a group of vigilantes was preparing to storm
the property, to destroy the film’s outdoor sets and burn the
ranch to the ground.
Crouched on the floor of the shack, the film’s director, Herbert
Biberman, tucked his glasses behind his ears and stuffed his soiled
handkerchief in a breast pocket. He was growing more and more uneasy
as the night wore on. Back home in Los Angeles, Biberman lived in
an elegant Spanish-style hacienda with his wife, Academy Award-winning
actress Gale Sondergaard, and their two children, Joan and Danny.
The family collected art and kept horses near their Hollywood Hills
property.
The Yale- and Wharton-educated son of a well-heeled textiles family
in Philadelphia, Biberman was described by those who knew him as “a
man of principle,” one of “those great, powerful personalities”
that lends itself to leadership, a man who “would die in pieces
for what he believes in.” But on this night, “El Biberman,”
as he was known among the film’s cast and crew, was plainly
out of his element. As he stretched his stiff legs over the frigid
floor, he remarked to himself as much as to Bostick and the other
miners surrounding him, “I’m used to people destroying
others with words. Here they use rifles.”
Biberman meant what he said. As one of the Hollywood Ten, the first
of the “unfriendly” witnesses called before HUAC in October
of 1947, he had witnessed the devastation wrought by the act of naming
names. In the five and a half years since the Committee had begun
its investigation of the motion picture industry, words had destroyed
many—their careers and families, their physical and mental health—and
deprived them of basic Constitutional freedoms. Since being convicted
for contempt of Congress after his refusal to answer to the Committee,
Biberman had been barred from work in the movie industry and served
six months at the federal penitentiary in Texarkana, Texas. His passport
had been revoked. He was unable to travel outside the U.S. He had
been hounded by the FBI. His wife, Gale, also called before HUAC,
had likewise been blacklisted, her acting career halted in its tracks.
But until now, until here in Silver City, Biberman had never before
faced the threat of physical violence.
From outside the shack came the distant sound of a truck grinding
its way along the rough roads of the ranch. The men went quiet on
cue, flanking the windows, weapons poised. As the truck drew closer,
it veered uphill and away, in the direction of the film’s mine
shaft set, located across the gully.
A shot sounded somewhere in the distance. Then another. The men inside
held their positions according to plan.
Suddenly, the truck seemed to change direction. It was now moving
downhill, away from the set, and headed toward the highway.
Biberman was bathed in sweat. His heart was pounding, and he was,
by his own admission, “profoundly frightened.” This
is crazy, he thought to himself. This is the United States
of America.
Completely Un-American Propaganda
I don’t think anyone making a film in this country
ever had an experience as did the cast and company that made Salt
of the Earth,” says Jules Schwerin, the film’s assistant
director and production manager, speaking before a University of
Albany audience in 1994. Schwerin recalls the daily assaults and
attempts to shut down production during the two-month shoot in New
Mexico. These included trucks with loudspeakers “denigrating
us and telling us what fools and idiots we were,” and “airplanes
flying overhead carrying messages to us saying that we were sons
of bitches and we would be destroyed.”
Schwerin was also the recipient of the infamous “black box”
threat: “I received a telephone call from a voice I’d
never heard before saying we were all going out in black boxes if
we were not out of the county in 24 hours. Now, we’d had a
lot of attacks up to that point. But this was the first threat.”
His fear was compounded that night, when a local priest sympathetic
to the project contacted him with this warning: “There
are 150 men who a few nights ago swore on the Bible to kill you
all.”
Not wanting to wake Biberman and alarm members of the crew, who,
he feared, would flee en masse, Schwerin turned to the miners. “I
called members of Mine-Mill who were down the road a piece, and
I said, ‘You guys better get over here.’” An hour
later, a trio of union reps arrived at the film crew’s Silver
City lodgings. They listened to the assistant director’s story,
then telephoned the governor demanding action. As Schwerin tells
it,
He said, “You’ve wakened me; talk to me tomorrow
morning.” And they said, “No, sir. We’re talking
to you tonight. We want full military or police protection by
eight o’clock tomorrow morning.” And the governor
said, “Supposing I don’t agree.” They said,
“Then, Governor, we will remove all 10,000 miners from the
mines of New Mexico and arm them. If you want revolution in this
state, sir, you’re asking for it.” By eight the next
morning, we had 300 police there.
Just what was it about this film—a low-budget, independent
feature depicting the events of a local miners strike—that
could rouse such violent opposition?
When the House Committee on Un-American Activities opened hearings
on its investigation of Hollywood in October 1947, novelist Ayn
Rand, a Soviet exile now working as a studio-contracted writer,
was among the first of the “friendly” witnesses brought
to Washington to inaugurate the proceedings. The bulk of Rand’s
testimony, designed to justify the investigation by illustrating
the extent to which Soviet propaganda had infiltrated Hollywood
filmmaking, centered around the 1943 feature Song of Russia,
which she condemned for its saccharine portrayal of a happy Soviet
citizenry: “I have never seen so much smiling in my life.
. . . It is one of the stock propaganda tricks of the Communists,
to show these people smiling.” (It bears mentioning that the
USSR had been an ally of the United States at the time Song
of Russia was made.)
Fear that Marxist ideology was being quietly embedded into mass-marketed
American movies had been one of the driving concerns behind HUAC’s
focus on Hollywood. In fact, the presumed power of the motion-picture
medium to influence an unsuspecting population with potent, if generally
invisible, political messages was fearful bordering on the occult.
When Lela Rogers, mother of actress Ginger Rogers and another of
the friendly witnesses recruited to testify that October, was asked
for an example of such dangerous propaganda, she described the soundtrack
of 1944’s None but the Lonely Heart as “moody
and somber throughout, in the Russian manner,” as though the
musical notes themselves were imbued with political menace.
If cheerful Russian peasants and a solemn soundtrack were considered
insidious tools of the Kremlin subject to Congressional inquiry,
then Salt of the Earth was nothing short of a matter of national
security: Card-carrying Reds were shooting an overtly political
labor film, and doing so outside the systemic controls of Hollywood.
Indeed, the three principals on the film—producer Paul Jarrico,
director Herbert Biberman and Academy Award-winning screenwriter
Michael Wilson—had been active Party members for well over
a decade. To make matters worse, in the eyes of Congressman Jackson
and his constituency, these Hollywood exiles were working in tandem
with members of New Mexico’s Local 890 of the International
Union of Mine, Mill and Smelter Workers—a group considered
so politically radical that the CIO had terminated its affiliation
with Mine-Mill in 1949. The result of this collaboration, Salt
of the Earth, portrayed the struggle of Mexican American miners
from the workers’ point of view, and the picture it painted
of American industry was none too flattering.
Juan Chacon, president of the Local 890 at the time the film was
made in 1953, was recruited to play the character Ramon Quintero
after an extensive search to fill the male lead. Chacon had been
working the mines in New Mexico since he was eighteen and had served
as a tough negotiator for Mine-Mill during the Empire Zinc strike.
He was not an actor, had “never dreamed of being before a
movie camera,” he says. But “I was willing to play the
role of Ramon in Salt of the Earth because this picture would
give the world at least a little of the background of our past conditions”:
[A]lot of old timers remember the twelve hour day in the dusty
wind of the open copper pit, or the heat of the underground zinc
mine—twelve hours for two or three dollars a day. They remember
the way the companies built houses for the Anglos while we were
given shacks with water outside and no comforts inside except
what we made with our own hands. They remember the way the miners
who spoke Spanish would be put to work as “helpers”
to the “skilled” Anglos—doing the same work
for which the Anglo was paid twice as much. They remember the
separate pay windows, separate washrooms . . .
[F]or a hundred years our employers have played up the big lie
that we Mexicans are “naturally inferior” and “different,”
in order to justify paying us less and separating us from our
brothers. Salt of the Earth helps to expose that lie. It
shows that workers can get along regardless of religion, color
or politics. It shows the gains we have made through the work
of our Union.
Opponents of the film saw its message in a somewhat different light.
In an investigative report on the Salt project, the board of the
Screen Actors Guild called the movie-in-progress “completely
un-American propaganda.” Roy Brewer, head of the AFL Film
Council and one of the film’s most vehement detractors, further
charged that the picture would “foment anti-American feelings
in Latin America” and should be prevented from being completed.
“Hollywood has gotten rid of these people,” Brewer said
in an interview with the Hollywood Reporter that February. “We
want the government agencies to investigate carefully.”
And investigate, they did.
“Mr. Speaker, I have received reports of the sequences filmed
to date during the making of the picture,” intoned Donald
Jackson, addressing Congress, “and it depicts exactly what
might be expected from a group of Communists engaged in the making
of a motion picture.” The congressman recited insinuations
already floated in the press about the project’s location
in Silver City, “near vital zinc concentration mines”
and the Los Alamos weapons cache, and he quoted columnist Victor’s
Riesel’s inflammatory assessment of the filmmakers and their
work as “part of the secret pro-Soviet apparatus in this country.”
By way of proof, Jackson described a scene from the picture-in-progress
in which the son of a Mexican American miner was pistol-whipped by
a pair of deputy sheriffs as representative of Biberman and company’s
intent to “inflame racial hatreds” and “to depict
the United States of America as the enemy of all colored peoples.”
The California congressman concluded, “If this picture is
shown in Latin America, Asia and India, it will do incalculable
harm not only to the United States but to the cause of free people
everywhere.”
“If he really believed this, why did he not have us arrested?”
Biberman later demanded in his 1965 account of the project, Salt
of the Earth: The Story of a Film. “Why did he not subpoena
our script?” Instead, Jackson solicited advice from various
sources in industry and government, firing off a series of queries
about a possible legal means of stopping the project. Among the
responses he received was a March 18 telegram from movie mogul Howard
Hughes:
Dear Congressman Jackson: In your telegram you asked the question,
“Is there any action that industry and labor in motion picture
field can take to stop completion and release of picture and to
prevent showing of film here and abroad?”
My answer is “Yes.” There is action which the industry
can take to stop completion of this motion picture in the United
States. And if the Government will act immediately to prevent
the export of the film to some other country where it can be completed,
then this picture will not be completed and disseminated throughout
the world where the United States will be judged by its content.
Hughes went on to provide a detailed sequence of post-production
resources the filmmakers would need in order to complete the film—identifying
each of them as a potential point of obstruction:
Biberman, Jarrico and their associates cannot succeed in their
scheme alone. Before they can complete the picture, they must
have the help of the following:
1. Film laboratories.
2. Suppliers of film.
3. Musicians and recording technicians necessary to record music.
4. Technicians who make dissolves, fades, etc.
5. Owners and operators of sound re-recording equipment and dubbing
rooms.
6. Positive and negative editors and cutters.
7. Laboratories that make release prints.
If the picture industry wants to prevent this motion picture from
being completed and spread all over the world as a representative
product of the United States, then the industry and particularly
that segment of the industry listed above, needs only to do the
following:
Be alert to the situation.
Investigate thoroughly each applicant for the use of services
or equipment.
Refuse to assist the Bibermans and Jarricos in the making of this
picture.
Be on guard against work submitted by dummy corporations or third
parties. Appeal to the Congress and the State Department to act
immediately to prevent the export of this film to Mexico or anywhere
else.
Film historian James Lorence has described the Hughes letter as “a
blueprint for suppression,” since it virtually catalogs the
difficulties experienced by the filmmakers from that point forward.
To Paul Jarrico, it was all part of the growing paper trail left
by the “conspiracy to destroy our property.” It seemed
the circle was complete; oppositional factions within government
and the motion picture industry had locked arms, in the words of
Biberman, “to make the United States their monopoly.”
Eight Thousand Feet of Freedom
In May of 2003, a listing appeared on eBay for a pair of
35-millimeter prints of old movies from a seller in Canada. The
description warned of the films’ terrible condition, and bidding
began at around ten dollars. One of the two prints in question was
Salt of the Earth.
“The film as I understand it was given from the owner of the
Empire Theater in Cochrane, Ontario, to the new owner of the theater,”
responded the seller when queried. “It was kept in a garage
and suffered from much inattention.” He further explained
that the owner had previously been contacted by several sources
in the United States who suggested the print was “worth a
lot of money.” Sadly, as it turned out, the film was indeed
beyond repair.
What made this discovery so remarkable in spite of that fact wasn’t
just the relative rarity of 35-millimeter prints of Salt of the
Earth (most film copies in circulation today are 16-millimeter).
More poignant was the very tangibility of this storied (if, for
all purposes, “worthless”) artifact resonating across
fifty years to a time when concern for the preservation of freedom
of expression has resurfaced with dreadful urgency. Despite the
organized, far-reaching campaign against Salt engineered by powerful
forces within the government, the Hollywood movie industry and big
labor, the film was completed and copies were successfully exported,
as the decaying film reels listed on eBay attest.
Furthermore, Salt of the Earth was well received by foreign
audiences and critics. It claimed the grand prize at the 1954 Czech
International Film Festival at Karlovy Vary, where Rosaura Revueltas
likewise garnered honors for best acting performance by a woman.
In 1955 it was selected for inclusion in the Edinburgh Film Festival
and won the prestigious International Grand Prize by the Academie
du Cinema de Paris for the best film shown in France that year.
Despite such enthusiasm for the film elsewhere, Salt of
the Earth could never break the choke hold of censorship and
political paranoia that surrounded its commercial exhibition in
the U.S. As it was, the film very nearly wasn’t completed.
In the wake of the Hughes letter, post-production on the project
was predictably difficult. By Paul Jarrico’s account, a process
that should have taken three or four months dragged on for almost
a year, as no one in the industry would develop the raw footage
or transfer the soundtrack to film. It took two weeks and an exhaustive
nationwide search simply to find a developer willing to stand up
to the industry-wide ban on the project. And once developed, the
footage was barred from conventional editing facilities.
Undaunted, the filmmakers undertook editing the reels in a variety
of secret locations in and around Los Angeles. Much of the film
was cut in the airless confines of a women's bathroom inside a closed
movie theater on the outskirts of town, a property on loan from
a friend of the Salt project. “There was no ventilation
whatsoever,” Biberman later wrote. “We improvised a
series of fans to stir the fetid air. We worked stripped to the
waist. From four in the morning until noon. Beyond noon our wits
would not serve us in that place.”
Each afternoon, Biberman would load the heavy reels into the trunk
of his car for safekeeping—“I had some of my jail muscles
left,” he quipped—then haul them back to the site in
the wee hours of the morning. This grueling routine went on for
months, until word spread about clandestine goings on in the old
movie house. Soon the local sheriff was at the door giving them
a week’s notice to vacate the premises. The following day,
Biberman and Jarrico learned the source of the leak: Their most
recent editor, second of the four it would take to complete the
film, was an FBI informer.
Later that summer, the pair lashed out at their tormentors in the
pages of The California Review, saying, “the would-be
censors of the picture have tried to sabotage it in every way. They
have demanded that all laboratories close their doors to us, warned
technicians not to help us—lest they find themselves blacklisted.”
In the article, titled “Breaking Ground,” Biberman and
Jarrico go on to accurately predict the next of the insurmountable
hurdles they had yet face: “Failing here, we expect they will
extend their intimidation to film exhibitors when the picture is
ready for release.”
As predicted, on word that Salt of the Earth had been completed
and was ready for exhibition, the powerful International Alliance
of Theatrical Stage Employees ordered its projectionists not to
run the film. In support of the union’s mandate, studios likewise
threatened repercussions for anyone who dared to show Salt of
the Earth, promising to withhold all future film bookings from
noncompliant theaters. But despite the veritable lock on U.S. exhibition,
Biberman and Jarrico soldiered on, pinning their hopes for a domestic
premiere on New York City, where there existed a small alternative
projectionists union.
After a tireless search and a number of discouraging near-misses,
the filmmakers finally got what they were after. The Grande Theater,
on East 86th Street in the working-class Yorkville section of Manhattan,
was a little off the beaten path for a movie premiere, which was
customarily held in one of the more elegant facilities in Midtown.
But in the end, the Grande was the only place in the borough willing
to take the considerable risks involved in screening the film. (The
New Dykman, on 207th Street, would later agree to show the film;
because it was an IATSE house, the short run was plagued by union
interference.)
Salt of the Earth opened on the evening of Sunday, March
14, 1954, to a sold-out crowd. Hundreds were turned away from the
second show, when over a thousand people filled 86th Street hoping
to make the 10:15 screening. It should have been a night to savor
for Biberman and Jarrico. But they were exhausted, broke and mentally
shell-shocked from the trials of the past two years. Biberman wrote
of his own terribly conflicted experience that night:
Throughout the evening we stood at the rear of the theater, feeling
nothing . . . I didn’t know what to do with my body and
its energies. It was a little like being paralyzed, paralyzed
by normalcy. At the end of the first performance we were all presented
and made brief speeches. We went back to our hotel quarters, received
a few guests, called our wives in California. . . . The brief
moment of victory found us all emotionally impotent. But this
we knew. We had called upon people to help us make a film. They
had responded. The film had been made. It was being exhibited.
We had created eight thousand feet of freedom in America.
Those “eight thousand feet of freedom” may have been
made in America, but it was footage that went virtually unseen domestically.
Despite Biberman and Jarrico’s momentary success in New York,
and despite their best efforts to exhibit the film in other major
markets in the U.S., by the end of 1954, Salt of the Earth
had appeared in just 13 commercial theaters across the country.
In June of 1956, Biberman and company filed a $7.5 million antitrust
suit against 68 parties, including the MPAA, the Association of
Motion Picture Producers, IATSE, Roy Brewer, Howard Hughes, Senator
Jackson, all the major film studios and several distributors, for
engaging in a conspiracy to suppress their film. The case, which
would drag on for another eight agonizing years in the courts, did
not come to trial until the fall of 1964. Two months later, on November
12, it was over—the jury returned with a verdict of “not
guilty,” and the long battle over Salt of the Earth
was suddenly and irrevocably at an end. The movie would never achieve
commercial distribution in the U.S.
But the reels of film found rotting in a garage in northern Ontario
tell only a part of the story of the movie’s fate. A year
after the trial, Salt was reissued in 16-millimeter and
went on to enjoy another kind of popular distribution over the next
several decades—via screenings on college campuses throughout
the country. In subsequent years, Salt of the Earth has become
“respectable,” in the words of Paul Jarrico; “part
of the iconography of the Left,” according to James Lorence.
The film has played on public television and the American Movie
Channel; it has been released on VHS and, more recently, on DVD.
In 2003, a conference was convened at the University of New Mexico
in honor of the film’s fiftieth anniversary, and there is
currently a remake in the works, to be directed by David Riker (La
Ciudad).
What is it about the film that has kept its story alive and compelling
to audiences for fifty years and counting? Just as Howard Hughes’
memo to Senator Jackson served in the era of the blacklist as a
“blueprint for suppression” of the film, so Salt
of the Earth stands today as a blueprint for our common struggle
to maintain the civic freedoms American democracy was designed
to
secure. As Deborah Silverton Rosenfelt has written, “the
story of Salt of the Earth—the strike, the film,
the people—is
an integral part of progressive belief and action in our politics
and in our culture, a heritage that did not completely disappear
in the ‘haunted decade’ of the fifties.” Half
a century later, it is a story conspicuously in need of retelling.
____________________________
PARTIAL
FILMOGRAPHY
Films directed by Herbert Biberman
Slaves (1969)
Salt of the Earth (1954)
The Master Race (1944)
Meet Nero Wolfe (1936)
One-Way Ticket (1935)
Films featuring Gale Sondergaard
Echoes (1983)
Pleasantville (1976)
Return of a Man Called Horse (1976)
East Side, West Side (1949)
Road to Rio (1947)
The Spider Woman Strikes Back (1946)
The Time of Their Lives (1946)
Anna and the King of Siam (1946)
A Night in Paradise (1946)
The Climax (1944)
The Invisible Man's Revenge (1944)
Christmas Holiday (1944)
The Spider Woman (1944)
Appointment in Berlin (1943)
Monsoon (aka Isle of Forgotten Sins) (1943)
The Strange Death of Adolf Hitler (1943)
A Night to Remember (1942)
My Favorite Blonde (1942)
The Black Cat (1941)
The Letter (1940)
The Mark of Zorro (1940)
The Blue Bird (1940)
The Cat and the Canary (1939)
Juarez (1939)
Never Say Die (1939)
Lord Jeff (1938)
The Life of Emile Zola (1937)
Anthony Adverse (1936)
Films written by Paul Jarrico
Song of Russia (1943)
Films about the Hollywood blacklist
DOCUMENTARIES:
Hollywood on Trial (1976)
The Hollywood Ten (1951)
DRAMAS:
One of the Hollywood Ten (2000)
Guilty by Suspicion (1991)
The Front (1976)
____________________________
Kim Bernstein is a poet and editor in New York. She is currently
working on a biography of Herbert Biberman and Gale Sondergaard.
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