Being Rescued by the Morality Cops (April/May 2003 | Volume: 54, Issue: 2)

Being Rescued by the Morality Cops

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Authors: Thomas A. Fitzgerald Jr.

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April/May 2003 | Volume 54, Issue 2

One of the benefits of having a grandfather who was a former mayor of Boston, John F. (“Honey Fitz”) Fitzgerald, was that he had free passes to interesting events. Just by paying the tax on a baseball ticket, I could get into a Red Sox or a Braves game. Even better was the pass he had to the RKO theaters, which allowed the bearer and up to five guests to go to the movies for free.
 
In 1949, when I was in junior high school, The Outlaw came to the RKO Keith Memorial Theater. A sexy Western involving Billy the Kid, Sheriff Pat Garrett, and Doc Holliday, it featured a new star, Jane Russell, as the “half-breed” Rio. Howard Hughes had produced the movie with the idea of displaying Jane’s physical attributes, especially her 38-inch bust. In the many advertisements for the movie, she appeared in a low-cut peasant blouse as she chewed on a piece of straw - a pose that filled my adolescent mind with all sorts of thoughts, or as many as Catholic guilt would allow to sneak in.
As Jane Russell bent over to minister to Billy the Kid, the screen suddenly went dark. The decency police had struck again.

At the time, the city of Boston had two watchdog organizations dedicated to guarding its citizens from moral harm. The Watch and Ward Society, organized in 1878, had given birth to the phrase Banned in Boston; before long, the authors of books, plays, and other entertainments actively sought the designation to draw audiences in other towns. The second group was the Legion of Decency, organized by Roman Catholics in the 1930s. People would stand up in church and pledge never to go to morally objectionable movies or to theaters that showed such films.

When The Outlaw arrived, with all its hype and promise, I couldn’t wait to see it. So, one Sunday afternoon, Moosie Molloy, Bimbo Morrissey, Tootsie O’Toole, and I headed into Boston to get my grandfather’s pass.

My grandfather lived in the Bellevue Hotel, right next to the State House. He was always glad to see my friends and me, and, after some small talk, we got the pass and headed for the door, full of ourselves and our good fortune. When we got on the elevator, we saw in it a tall man wearing a cowboy hat. A cowboy hat in Boston invited staring, and when I looked closely, I recognized the face under the hat. It was that of the Reverend Billy Graham. His steely blue eyes locked onto mine, and, by the way he set his jaw, I knew he knew what we were about to do. Guilt welled up in me. Fortunately, my grandfather lived on a low floor, and, in a matter of seconds, we were off the elevator, released from the reverend’s gaze.

The RKO Keith Memorial was an opulent theater with