The Bridge on the River Kwai: An Epic Worthy of Widescreen

The 1950’s were definitely a roller coaster of a decade in terms of quality of the films to win Best Picture. 1956’s Best Picture winner, Around the World in 80 Days, was a showcase for excess, bloat, and ridiculousness (not to mention a total 180 degree turn in style from 1955’s exquisite Marty). Competition from television for America’s entertainment dollar forced films to become bigger, bolder, and more uniquely cinematic. In the worst-case scenario, a film like Around the World in 80 Days is foisted upon audiences. In the best-case scenario, we are treated to The Bridge on the River Kwai, an epic adventure film full of widescreen cinematic grandeur that retains story elements, performances and characters that provoke, challenge and above all entertain.

It has become cliché to call director David Lean’s film “the thinking man’s action picture”, but the highest praise I can give the film is that makes audiences think while being thrilled. The cliché about The Bridge on the River Kwai is 100% accurate.

As with many great films, Lean achieves maximum dramatic effect by keeping his storyline very direct and simple. A fictitious account of Japanese POW’s being forced to construct a bridge on the Burma Railway during WWII, The Bridge on the River Kwai centers on three main protagonists. First, there is the Japanese commander, Colonel Saito (Sessue Hayakawa), who has been ordered to complete the construction of a bridge spanning the river Kwai, the crucial and final link connecting Rangoon (the then Burma’s capital, for the geographically disinclined) to India. Next is Saito’s British foil, Colonel Nicholson (Best Actor-winning Alec Guinness), who fundamentally opposes Saito’s cruel and barbarous practices and eventually seeks to complete the bridge in a more efficient manner to prove the superiority of British methods. Finally, there is the wild card; American Naval “Commander” Shears (William Holden), a prisoner in the camp who eventually escapes then becomes involved in a commando mission to blow up the bridge on the river Kwai.

Even simpler is each man’s underlying motivation. For Saito, it’s about saving face. For Nicholson, it is an opportunity to demonstrate the superiority of his civilization. For Shears, it’s about survival. Inevitably, the motivations of each man lead to conflict. In adapting Pierre Boulle’s novel, screenwriters Michael Wilson and Carl Foreman wisely boil down the story to the fundamentals of character in their three leads. For Saito, Nicholson, and Shears, we know the who, the what, the where, the when, and—most importantly in film—the why and the how. Wilson and Foreman wisely, intuitively know that epic storytelling is born not out of gargantuan set pieces or spectacular events but rather from the essentials of character.

(Of course, there can’t be a 1950’s Oscar winning film without a Hollywood blacklist controversy. Both Wilson and Foreman had their names removed from the credits of The Bridge on the River Kwai by the film’s producers, a practice both men had experienced before, despite each being nominated for screenwriting Oscars during the 1950. Foreman most famously lost for High Noon, Wilson was denied an Oscar for Friendly Persuasion, a film which took home the Palme d’Or. (Wilson did win an Oscar for co-writing A Place in the Sun.) Official credit—and the Oscar win—went to the novel’s author, Pierre Boulle. The problem—Frenchman Boulle neither wrote in English nor a word of the screenplay. In 1984, after both Wilson and Foreman had died, the Academy finally gave the men the credit they deserved and awarded Oscar statuettes to their widows. Screen credit was restored to the authors when the film was restored the same year.)

The film also creates a tremendous level of suspense by making each man neither entirely right, nor entirely wrong. The opening act of the film establishes a perfect balance between the three lead characters. Each man is brought into immediate conflict with the other. Shears, the longtime POW, has grown weary and perhaps even numb to the harsh life in the prison camp. His worldview is shaped on one principle with a single goal: survive—no matter the cost—then escape. His beliefs have crystallized in a barely concealed cynicism. When Nicholson’s troops make their arrival into the camp (they whistle the unforgettable “Colonel Bogey March,” a tune which during the war, had satirical anti-Hitler lyrics associated with it. Listen to it here, but risk getting it stuck in your head: ) Shears states “Those new prisoners see us diggin’ graves, they might all run away.” He is reprimanded by his Japanese superior, “No time for jokes. Finish work. Dig! Dig!” The difference between the American and his Japanese captors can be most clearly seen in their language—the American speaks in cynicism and gallows humor, the Japanese speak solely in imperatives.

Opportunity is what separates Shears and Nicholson. As stated, Shears, with his world-weary cynicism (in many ways, Shears is akin to Humphrey Bogart’s Rick Blaine in Casablanca, minus the heartbreak), is only looking out for himself. Escape is the ultimate means of survival for Shears, and he is only waiting for his opportunity to do so. Nicholson has another agenda entirely. Eventually, it is revealed that Nicholson was ordered to be captured, which seems incredibly stupid, but he reveals his true purpose for being at the camp in his first exchange with Shears.

Shears: Oh, I'd say the odds against a successful escape are about 100 to 1...But may I add another word, Colonel...The odds against survival in this camp are even worse. You've seen the graveyard. There you realize. You give up hope of escape. To even stop thinking about it is like accepting a death sentence.
Nicholson: Why haven't you tried to escape, Commander?
Shears: Oh, I've been biding my time, waiting for the right moment, the right company.
Nicholson: I understand how you feel. Of course, it's normally the duty of a captured soldier to attempt escape. But my men and I are involved in a curious legal point of which you are unaware. In Singapore, we were ordered to surrender by Command Headquarters, ordered, mind you. Therefore, in our case, escape might well be an infraction of military law. Interesting? Shears: I'm sorry sir. I didn't quite follow you. You mean you intend to uphold the letter of the law, no matter what it costs?
Nicholson: Without law, Commander, there is no civilization.
Shears: You just took my point. Here, there is no civilization.
Nicholson: Then, we have the opportunity to introduce it. I suggest that we drop the subject of escape.

Shears and Nicholson find themselves at cross-purposes. Shears means to escape the wilderness, Nicholson means to tame it. The conversation is also interesting to unfold, because the undercurrent of Nicholson’s tone suggests that Shears is a coward for wishing to escape. When Nicholson says, “I understand how you feel. Of course, normally it’s the duty of a captured soldier to attempt escape,” he is essentially accusing Shears of cowardice. Conversely, when Shears asks “You mean you intend to uphold the letter of the law, no matter what it costs?” he barely veils his contempt. Shears thinks that Nicholson is perhaps insane. Dialogue this rich—combined with the subtle acting from Holden and Guinness—goes a long way in establishing character and conflict, while suggesting that neither man is entirely right or wrong.

The juiciest conflict in the film is between Nicholson and Saito. Willpower is what makes the opposing colonels very much alike, and neither man will fully yield until one has imposed his will upon the other. From the outset, Saito makes his rules very explicit. “You British prisoners have been chosen to build a bridge across the River Kwai. It will be pleasant work requiring skill. And officers will work as well as men. The Japanese Army cannot have idle mouths to feed. If you work hard, you will be treated well. But if you do not work hard, you will be punished.” Nicholson politely rebukes: “I can assure you, my men will carry on in the way one expects of the British soldier. And naturally, my officers and I will be responsible for their conduct. Now sir, you may have overlooked the fact that the use of officers for manual labor is expressly forbidden by the Geneva Convention.” Nicholson then proceeds to pull out an actual copy of the Geneva Convention, all the while Saito stares at him, as if he were trying to burn a hole through the document.

Saito clearly could care less about the rules Nicholson adheres to. And why should he? Saito could order all of the British soldiers shot dead with a mere gesture. The whole time, I was thinking, if they’re in the middle of nowhere—in Saito’s words “an island in the jungle” why the hell would he care about the Geneva Convention, and doesn’t Nicholson understand he is within enemy territory? Why would he expect Western doctrines to be upheld?

Of course, neither man is willing to budge. Saito commands: “All men will work. Your officers will work beside you. This is only just. For it is they who betray you by surrender. Your shame is their dishonor. It is they who told you: 'Better to live like a coolie than die like a hero.' It is they who brought you here, not I. Therefore, they will join you in useful labor. That is all.” I imagined what those words must have sounded like to a soldier under Nicholson. For me, Saito’s words—especially since he has mandated the bridge over the river Kwai be completed in less than three months—make a hell of a lot of sense. The officers are able-bodied. Why shouldn’t they work as manual laborers alongside their men? Rigidly, Nicholson continues to cite from the Geneva Convention to defend his stance. This sends Saito into a fury, as he snatches the Convention out of Nicholson’s hands and slaps him across the face with the booklet. “You speak to me of code. What code? The coward's code. What do you know of the soldier's code? Of bushido? Nothing. You are unworthy of command.” Nicholson replies: “Since you refuse to abide by the laws of the civilized world, we must consider ourselves absolved from our duty to obey you.”

The conflict between the two colonels extends far beyond a clash of wills; it has become a conflict of cultural values. The film asks its viewers: Which set of cultural values do you align with? The honorable and direct Japanese, with their code of bushido? The rigid and stoic British, who feel the need to enlighten the dark corners of civilization? There is also the third option—the rebellious and cynical American personified in Holden’s Shears, out only for his own survival. To their credit, director Lean and screenwriters Foreman and Wilson never provide the audience with an easy answer, preferring (and trusting) that the audience watching The Bridge on the River Kwai will come to their own conclusions/

As the film plays out, each of the three leads find their belief systems challenged and unraveled. Saito is the first to fall; as the more he imposes his domineering will over Nicholson, the faster Nicholson is able to usurp his authority. The Saito/Nicholson conflict reaches its crescendo as Nicholson is imprisoned in “the Oven”—a small structure constructed of corrugated steel designed to amplify the already hot and humid temperatures—where Saito expects his British counterpart to fold under the torturous heat and pressures of solitary confinement. Yet Nicholson only becomes more stoic, and his bravery only inspires the men to rebel by constructing the bridge in a lazy and shoddy manner, making it more difficult for Saito’s mission of completing the bridge by May infinitely more difficult. When Saito realizes that only Nicholson (and his superior engineers) can command the British soldiers to complete the bridge on time, he relents and releases Nicholson. The only way Saito can save face and retain his honor is to complete the bridge on time, but to do so; he must cede power to his enemy. In a very moving contrast, Saito is shown crying privately in his quarters as the British soldiers triumphantly celebrate Nicholson’s release from “the Oven”. For Saito to overcome his shame, he must commit seppuku—ritual suicide—so that his honor is restored in death.

Nicholson becomes driven to prove to the Japanese that the British soldiers under his command can build a bridge far superior to one the Japanese could have constructed. Through the bridge, Nicholson will achieve his goal of establishing civilization in the wilds of the Burmese jungle, for the bridge will stand for “six hundred years” and will serve to “teach these barbarians a lesson in Western methods and efficiency that will put them to shame.” The construction of the bridge has a double purpose: it will also restore order and morale amongst his men.

On both counts Nicholson is successful—the morale and health of the POW’s vastly improves—but he becomes so obsessed with the completion of his task that he loses sight of his principles. Ultimately, he abandons the Geneva Convention and enlists both officers and the sick men to help aid in the completion of construction. When the medical officer Major Clipton (James Donald), questions if Nicholson has utterly abandoned his principles in a show of one-upsmanship, Nicholson retorts, “One day the war will be over. And I hope that the people that use this bridge in years to come will remember how it was built and who built it. Not a gang of slaves, but soldiers, British soldiers, Clipton, even in captivity.” It is also Clipton who warns Nicholson of his ultimate folly—that in building a bridge better than the Japanese could build themselves, the British soldiers are ultimately aiding their enemy by providing them with a crucial link in their railway, connecting Southeast Asia to India. When the bridge is completed, Nicholson will have committed treason.

Unbeknownst to Nicholson, Shears—after he escapes—is plotting to see that the bridge isn’t completed. Shears’ arc receives the bulk of the action in the picture. He makes his way to British Intelligence HQ in Colombo, Sri Lanka (Ceylon at the time the picture was filmed, and the country where Lean moved the production), and lives leisurely among the officers there. However, Shears quickly finds himself in another trap—this time a catch-22. Shears is brought to the attention of Major Warden of Force 316 (Jack Hawkins), who has been delegated the task of blowing up the Kwai bridge. Warden is recruiting a team of commandos to parachute into Burma and infiltrate Saito’s camp, and Shears’ knowledge of the area is invaluable. Shears—true to the cowardly form Nicholson insinuated he had—tries his best to back out of it. Shears owns up to impersonating a Navy commander, and since he is only an “ordinary swab jockey second-class” and says that his escape from the POW camp had more to do with luck than any real skill as a soldier. Warden doesn’t buy it, saying that Shears’ efforts are heroic, but that Shears can’t be returned to the American Navy. “In one sense, you're a blasted hero for making an escape through the jungle. But at the same time, they can't very well bring you home and give you the Navy Cross for impersonating an officer, can they? I suppose that's why they were so happy to hand you over to us. You see?” Warden turns Shears’ unique situation against him, and where Shears’ detached cynicism helped him survive in the POW camp, it only ends up placing him in mortal danger by being shanghaied into returning as part of the commando team. Shears’ own attitude again makes him a prisoner.

After each man—Saito, Nicholson, and Shears—has been built up and brought down to Earth, the stage is set for the finale. Lean stages an explosive (literally) and tragic final act (I won’t spoil the details entirely), with the film’s last line—spoken by Lt. Clipton (“Madness! Madness! Madness!!”)—revealing the filmmakers’ attitudes toward war in general.

The Bridge on the River Kwai is the first Best Picture-winning widescreen epic where the power of the story and the quality of the filmmaking matches the supersized frame. Not only is the picture supremely worthy of being shot in CinemaScope—with its magnificent vistas, lush Ceylon location, and a bridge that literally spans the frame of the film, The Bridge on the River Kwai is ideally suited for massive presentation—but the ideas presented in the story and its characters provoke thought long after the film is ended. The balanced direction from David Lean gives the film stems from an equally balanced script by Carl Foreman and Michael Wilson. Because the film is based on a novel, it doesn’t have to be burdened with slavish accuracy to history. Instead, the film needs only to retain fidelity to its characters. In the characters of Saito, Shears and Nicholson—three heroic, frustrating, and complicated men who are never entirely good or evil, right or wrong—audiences are allowed to derive their own conclusions instead of being spoon-fed answers.

In a decade where films often dumbed down when they went big, The Bridge on the River Kwai had faith in the intelligence of its audience. Ultimately, this faith paid off, as the film became the most popular of its year in terms of box office receipts, and when the film was first aired on television (a risky move, considering that with commercials, the film would last well over three hours—long films were usually broken up into two parts over two nights), ABC reaped the benefits of 60 million viewers tuning into the broadcast. In any age, The Bridge on the River Kwai will endure.

DETAILS

The Bridge on the River Kwai (1957)

Director: David Lean

Starring: Alec Guinness, William Holden, Sessue Hayakawa, Jack Hawkins, James Donald

Studio: Columbia Pictures

Total Oscars: 7 (Best Picture—Sam Spiegel, Best Director—David Lean, Best Actor—Alec Guinness, Best Adapted Screenplay—Carl Foreman, Michael Wilson and Pierre Boulle, Best Cinematography, Best Editing, Best Score) from 8 total nominations (Best Supporting Actor—Sessue Hayakawa)

NEXT BLOG: Gigi and the overlooked Best Picture candidates from the 1950’s

From Here to Eternity: Irresistible Forces, Immovable Objects

Part of the fun in writing these series of blogs is coming up with the subtitles. Originally, this piece was going to be subtitled From Here to Eternity: Blue Hawaii, for the sense that the overall mood of From Here to Eternity is rather blue—be forewarned, this is an awfully depressing picture—and I wanted to play ironically off the title of the 1961 Elvis Presley film, which is completely unlike the 1953 Best Picture winner aside from their setting in the fiftieth state. Frankly, I also didn’t know how to come up with an approach to reviewing the film aside from recapping it (which I think I have done too much in some postings).

Thankfully, I read Seattle’s finest alternative weekly newspaper, The Stranger.

The movie reviews in The Stranger have a reputation for being both awfully snarky and extremely negative. In fact, outright disdain is shown toward the vast majority of mainstream films released each week. One area The Stranger does cover well is the older films being revived at Seattle’s independent movie houses. In June, Seattle’s Grand Illusion theater on University Way and 50th Ave NE—which is basically a garage with a couple dozen seats and a movie screen (and where I saw Clint Eastwood’s 1992 Best Picture winner, Unforgiven, for the first time)—screened From Here to Eternity, and this is what Stranger reviewer Charles Mudede had to say:

“In the classic From Here to Eternity, we see a contrast between the lives of little people and a major historical event. The little people are prostitutes, slutty housewives, horny soldiers, alcoholic bachelors, and psychologically needy boxers. Their lives are going nowhere. Their lives are stuck on an island. Their lives are disrupted by one of the most significant events of the 20th Century, the attack on Pearl Harbor. The most famous scene of the movie—the bodies of the kiss-locked lovers on the beach washed by the foaming (spermatic) waves of the ocean—is not only erotic but also (more importantly) Thanatonic. The wave is the force of history, and the lovers are the little lives that are washed away and forgotten.”
(And hey, for those not up on their Greek Mythology, Thanatos is the daemon personification of Death—but in Mudede’s usage he is referring to the psychological concept of people who willfully participate in thrill- or death-seeking behaviors, which absolutely applies to this film. And don’t feel stupid; I had to look it up.)

What struck me about Mudede’s capsule review was the last line—“The wave is the force of history, and the lovers are the little lives that are washed away and forgotten.” That line perfectly encapsulates the theme of From Here to Eternity, where conflicts between the characters are played for maximum dramatic irony. No matter what happens in the film, we as viewers have the foreknowledge that on the morning of December 7th, 1941, all conflicts will be rendered moot. The characters in the film become the irresistible forces that draw the audience into From Here to Eternity; history becomes the immovable object that crashes unsuspectingly down upon them, turning the picture into a tragedy.

The film is made up of a series of characters and events that collide in powerful and ultimately tragic ways. Let’s start by examining that sex on the beach (and in 1953 the scene was as explicit then as graphic sex is now) kiss between Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr. First, the obvious irony. If you’ve ever seen an Oscar ceremony in the past twenty years, chances are you’ve seen this famous clip. If all you knew about From Here to Eternity was that kiss and decided, “Hey, that movie looks nice and passionate and romantic, let’s check it out,” you would be in for a surprise. For as dreamy and romantic as the scene plays out of context, the relationship between Lancaster’s Sgt. First Class Milton Warden and Kerr’s desperate military housewife Karen Holmes plays out in ways that are anything but.

Sgt. Warden is a career military man, an NCO (non-commissioned officer) that rose up through the ranks to attain his status. Warden is the “top-kick” to Captain Dana “Dynamite” Holmes (Philip Ober), a career officer who cares only about the inter-regiment boxing matches and how they can raise his profile to be considered for the rank of Major (Capt. Holmes reminds me very much of Lieutenant Scheisskopf—German for “shithead”—from Joseph Heller’s novel Catch-22, who cared only about winning parade marches and using them to rise through the ranks). Holmes is an incompetent and lazy leader (as is Scheisskopf) who heavily relies on the efficient and hard-working Holmes to run the operations of his unit. Holmes also cheats on and neglects his wife Karen (again mirroring Heller’s creation), and when Warden hears from one of Karen’s former lovers (George Reeves) stationed at Schofield Barracks, he is irresistibly drawn into an affair.

Cut to the passion contained in the famous Eternity Cove kiss, and you would think that everything works out swimmingly for Sgt. Warden and Karen. Wrong. The characters each have an immovable stubbornness that their relationship is unable to overcome. While Warden fills Karen’s emotional and sexual needs, he is unwilling to provide her stability and upward mobility. Karen will only get a divorce from her husband if Warden will enlist in an officers training program. Warden is immensely proud that he has risen through the ranks as an NCO; he despises officers, and feels that he wouldn’t be true to his soul if he became one. As an additional complication, Warden risks being sent to federal prison if the affair is discovered—an NCO sleeping with an officer’s wife is a serious offense, and if Warden becomes an officer, Karen can file for divorce without condemning him. Even after the situation becomes less complicated, and despite the fact that the pair love one another, Warden remains steadfast—he will not become an officer. Karen describes him as “being in love with the army,” and the affair ends in unhappiness and heartbreak for both of them.

The other male lead, Robert E. Lee “Prew” Prewitt, played by Montgomery Clift, is as immovably stubborn as Sgt. Warden when it comes to being “married to the Army” and upholding a deep sense of personal honor. Prew is renowned for two unique skills—his bugling and his boxing—and they both get him into trouble. His transfer to Schofield comes about via a dispute with his previous top-kick, who passed Prew over as top bugler for a friend who was inferior. He is also regarded as a sensational middleweight, and Capt. Holmes irresistibly covets his skills to capture the regimental boxing championship. Yet Prew inadvertently blinded a man in his last boxing match, and he vows to never again set foot into a boxing ring. Both episodes prove that Prew is completely willing to buck authority when his personal honor is challenged, a decision carries unfavorable consequences. Capt. Holmes warns him: “You should know that in the Army it's not the individual that counts.” Warden encourages Prew—“You gotta play ball”, but Prew tells him, “A man don't go his own way, he's nothin'.” Prew’s principle causes him to become alienated from his company, and he is assigned “The Treatment” from Holmes, where Prew receives all of the KP duties, extra laps during exercises, longer marching practice, and peer pressure and harassment from the boxers on Holmes’ team who try and manipulate Prew into joining. Again, the irresistible forces between two immovable objects—in this case Prew’s obstinate individuality and Holmes’ abuse of authority—lead to disastrous consequences for the protagonist.

Prew also engages in a doomed relationship, which plays out just as predictably as Sgt. Warden and Karen’s. Prew’s lone friend—Maggio (Frank Sinatra, in his Best Supporting Actor Oscar-winning role, which he purportedly used his mafia connections to secure), takes him out for a night of revelry in Honolulu. They make their way to the New Congress Club, a whorehouse (called, of course, a gentleman’s club where the girls are called hostesses) popular with the soldiers on Oahu. There, Prew catches the eye of Lorene (Donna Reed), dubbed “the Princess” because of her aloof manner with the soldiers. Perhaps because of their status as outsiders within their professions, Prew and Lorene begin a relationship and open up to one another, with Prew revealing his tragic past and Lorene revealing her real name as Alma.
The deeper Prew and Alma fall in love, the more complicated things become. For starters, both of their jobs are in jeopardy if their relationship is discovered, though Alma is at greater risk. Their off-island plans are discussed, and Prew says he’s “a 30-year man” with the Army, though Alma cannot fathom why Prew would love an institution which is causing him so much angst. Prew tells her that after his parents died, the Army was his only refuge and that “A man loves a thing. That don’t mean it’s gotta love him back. You love a thing, you gotta be grateful.” He later proposes marriage to Alma, but she declines, knowing full well that Prew, like Warden, loves an institution first. Yet like Karen, she also craves stability, and she tells Prew:

“I won't marry you because I don't want to be the wife of a soldier...Because nobody's gonna stop me from my plan. Nobody, nothing. Because I want to be proper...Yes, proper. In another year, I'll have enough money saved. Then, I'm gonna go back to my hometown in Oregon and I'm gonna build a house for my mother and myself, and join the country club and take up golf. And I'll meet the proper man with the proper position to make a proper wife who can run a proper home and raise proper children. And I'll be happy because when you're proper, you're safe.”

Again, an irresistible love cannot overcome immovable stubbornness in both principals.

The final—and most traditional—irresistible force/immovable object relationship in From Here to Eternity is between Maggio and his nemesis, Sgt. James R. “Fatso” Judson (Ernest Borgnine). Maggio is a traditional foil to Prew. While Prew is a stubborn individualist, he is also a model soldier. No matter how much punishment is dished his way, Prew doesn’t complain or bitch. He complies, no matter how unfair the punishments may be. Maggio is the opposite of Prew—undisciplined and without principle. Where Prew rebels as an act of individuality, Maggio rebels for kicks (though to be fair, Maggio is the only soldier who sticks up for Prew, and his loyalty sometimes earns him punishments alongside his friend).

Maggio is also prone to instigation. When in the New Congress Club, Fatso is loudly and poorly playing the piano. Maggio would do well to ignore Fatso—especially given the brutal reputation he has earned as sergeant of the stockade, not to mention Fatso outranks Maggio—but like moth to flame, he cannot help but tell him to pipe down. Fatso responds by calling Maggio “wop”, and the racial slur only incenses the situation. Maggio is bailed out by Prew, and on another occasion, Sgt. Warden, but ultimately, Fatso tells him “Tough monkey. Guys like you end up in the stockade sooner or later. Someday you'll walk in. I'll be waitin'. I'll show you a couple of things.” Maggio, unable to resist his passions for disobedience, walks off of guard duty, gets drunk, and ends up under Fatso’s tyranny in the stockade. Maggio’s actions have fatal consequences—Maggio escapes but not before suffering a beating that eventually kills him. Prew avenges his friend, and mortally wounds Fatso in a knife fight, and he is forced to also go AWOL to avoid murder charges.

Each of the subplots reaches a point where male protagonists become free to make changes. Prewitt eventually earns the unconditional respect of Sgt. Warden, who calls Prew “the best stinkin’ soldier in the whole Army.” After Fatso is killed, Warden knows that Prew took revenge, and covers up for his friend by keeping him on the rolls while he is AWOL at Alma’s cottage. At the same time, Warden leaks the abuses of power Capt. Holmes has shown towards Prew, and the Captain is forced to resign his position rather than face court-martial. This leaves Warden as a natural successor to Holmes, and with his loyalty to Prew, Prew could rejoin the ranks or abscond stateside with Alma. Of course, neither man does the sensible thing in regard to their romances, and on the day Warden and Karen break up, Director Fred Zinnemann gives the audience an establishing shot of a calendar, the date reading December 6th, 1941. Even if Warden opted to become an officer and Prew realized he could find as much comfort in Alma as he does in the Army—or conversely, if the women could learn to live with men who are mere soldiers—history awaits them all the next day, when the Japanese attack Pearl Harbor and an entire nation—not just simply the fates of four lovers—is irrevocably changed.

Zinnemann directed a film that wisely plays off the audience’s anticipation of the inevitable. This isn’t a flashy picture. Zinnemann directs From Here to Eternity with a steadfast and even hand, allowing the audience to become enraptured by the melodrama. The actors give considerable aid to the director in creating characters so alive, so palpable that you give yourself wholly to Zinnemann’s adaptation of James Jones’ praised 1951 novel of the same name. The men each play up to type—Frank Sinatra is perfect as a carefree soldier, Ernest Borgnine looks exactly like a bullying heavy, Burt Lancaster is the chameleon—at ease being a leading man but with enough of an edge to keep him interesting, and nobody in Hollywood ever played sensitive men of smoldering, aching tragedy better than Montgomery Clift. The women are cast against type. Deborah Kerr was a British actress best known for playing prim characters in musicals (her Anna in The King and I, made three years after From Here to Eternity, is a typical Kerr role), but here she is an unhappy adulteress. Donna Reed is best known as James Stewart’s wife in It’s a Wonderful Life, but she is a hooker with a heart of gold in From Here to Eternity. Of the sextet, all but Borgnine were rewarded with Oscar nominations (making From Here to Eternity one of the rare films containing a nominated performance in each of the four acting categories). The entire cast grounds their characters in reality, giving humanistic and emotional performances blending perfectly with the tone Zinnemann establishes for the picture.

By the time the Japanese planes roll in, I became so spellbound that I forgot, momentarily, that the shadow of Pearl Harbor loomed over the whole picture. Like the wave crashing down on Karen and Sgt. Warden, I was shocked to my system. History came crashing down upon me as I was watching this superb melodrama, and delivered the cruelest of ironies. No matter how at odds we may each be with our own personal conflicts, no matter how unconquerable our differences may be, history is the great leveler—an irresistible force and an immovable object rolled into one.

DETAILS

From Here to Eternity (1953)

Director: Fred Zinnemann

Starring: Burt Lancaster, Montgomery Clift, Deborah Kerr, Frank Sinatra, Donna Reed, Ernest Borgnine, Philip Ober, George Reeves*

Studio: Columbia Pictures

Total Oscars: 8 (Best Picture, Best Director—Fred Zinnemann, Best Supporting Actor—Frank Sinatra**, Best Supporting Actress—Donna Reed, Best Adapted Screenplay, Best Cinematography (B&W), Best Editing, Best Sound Recording) out of 13 total nominations (Best Actor—Montgomery Clift, Best Actor—Burt Lancaster, Best Actress—Deborah Kerr, Best Costume Design (B&W), Best Score)

*According to a legendary Hollywood rumor, George Reeves, best known for playing Superman in the 1950’s, had his scenes as Sgt. Maylon Stark cut because audiences at a preview screening—too familiar with his exponentially more famous role as the Man of Steel—couldn’t buy Reeves in the part. Director Zinnemann maintained that the role of Stark remained the same throughout all drafts of the screenplay, and there was no preview screening. This controversy is depicted as truth in the 2006 film Hollywoodland, about Reeves’ life and suspicious death.
**Another famous Hollywood urban legend involves Sinatra securing the role of Maggio. By the early 1950’s Sinatra’s career had stalled to the point of isolation, and Columbia Studios head Harry Cohn favored Eli Wallach in the role. The very famous scene in The Godfather with the severed horse’s head as an “offer he can’t refuse” was based on this urban legend, with the characters of Johnny Fontaine and Jack Woltz as Sinatra and Cohn, respectively. The story has no basis in fact. More likely is that actress Ava Gardner, Sinatra’s wife at the time used her influence with Cohn to gain influence for her husband.

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The Best Years of Our Lives: Deep Focus

After achieving victory on both the European and Japanese fronts, it would seem natural that the Academy would give valediction to films that would glorify our country. As it turns out, Oscar had social consciousness on its mind. 1945’s Best Picture—The Lost Weekend—brought with it a raised awareness of social issues (in the case of that film, alcoholism) America was facing post-WWII. The Best Years of Our Lives continued that trend, and it is the first Oscar-winner to deal directly with the return of veterans from a war. In the last of my series comparing 1940’s Oscar winners to the Kübler-Ross five stages of grief, The Best Years of Our Lives is a film with acceptance as its core theme.

After winning his first Best Director Oscar for Mrs. Miniver, William Wyler, like many in Hollywood, served his country during WWII. As a major in the U.S. Army Air Forces, Wyler directed documentaries which served as morale-boosting pieces for the troops as well as illuminate the war to audiences at home. On his best known of the documentaries, Memphis Belle: A Story of a Flying Fortress, his cinematographer was shot down and perished. Wyler was no stranger to combat or the experiences of the armed forces in WWII, and undoubtedly his own experiences as a veteran informed his direction of The Best Years of Our Lives (Wyler was still on active detail while making the picture).

The film is a nice bookend to Mrs. Miniver. Where that film sought to spur a latent nation into action by provoking their anger, The Best Years of Our Lives is a sensitive and thoughtful examination of the characters of three veterans who return home from the war. Where Mrs. Miniver unabashedly propagandized, The Best Years of Our Lives uses immense depth of focus on the lives of its characters to evoke emotional responses from audiences.

Wyler collaborates with celebrated cinematographer Gregg Toland (of Citizen Kane fame) to create a realistic portraiture. More than anything, The Best Years of Our Lives is about people. Action plays out on facial expressions and emotions. Toland’s lenses and his celebrated innovations with depth of field capture every detail of the actor’s performances; he is as important to the success of the film as the script and Wyler’s direction. The film has a crisp, austere look that is never too showy. The images are far too crystalline to be considered documentary-esque, but they lend themselves toward a realistic and natural style, allowing the audience to feel like a participant in the drama.

Three actors—Frederic March, Dana Andrews, and Harold Russell—lead an ensemble cast, and they are the poles between which the film fluctuates. March plays Army Sgt. Al Stephenson, a banker returning to a wife (Myrna Loy, best known as Nora Charles from The Thin Man films, in a marvelous change of pace role—the high mark of her career), and two children—daughter Peggy (Theresa Wright, reuniting with her Mrs. Miniver director) and son Rob (Michael Hall). Andrews is Army Air Forces Captain Fred Derry, a bombardier in the Eight Air Forces who flew in Europe. Fred was married right before he joined the service, and was a soda jerk before the war. Russell lends real-life authenticity playing Homer Parrish, a sailor who lost both of his hands in an explosion on an aircraft carrier. Homer was the football hero growing up, and is returning home to Boone City (the film’s fictional stand-in for Cincinnati, Ohio) a double-amputee. Russell’s real-life prostheses—two fully functional, grasping metal hooks—are incorporated into the character of Homer.

The first scenes of the film allow the three lead actors to share scenes together. One of the themes the film explores is how difficult for veterans to readjust to life at home. Even doing something as catching a plane is a huge obstacle. Al, Fred and Homer meet at an Army Air Corps terminal, where they eventually share a ride in a B-17 bomber home to Boone City. Thrust together on a long trek home, the men form an immediate bond of friendship, though through their conversations, it is revealed that each man is of a different rank and social class (not to mention that each man is about ten years apart from the other, with Al being the elder statesman and Homer the youngest). The script is wise to point out ironies in the status of each man. Fred, as a captain, not only holds the highest rank of the men but he is also the most decorated soldier. Yet at home he is of the low socio-economic class. Al was little more than a grunt as a sergeant, but he is the wealthiest man of the trio. Homer is afforded the cruelest irony. He was a high school football hero, but having lost his hands in an explosion, he will never be able to recapture that glory. Despite that, Homer is the most affable of the three, and Fred and Al do not look down on him because of his injury. In fact, between the three men, class, rank and economic barriers dissolve—they each accept the other for who he is.

When the veterans arrive home in Boone City, they split a cab ride to their respective homes. Homer is dropped off first, though he expresses his fears to Al and Fred that his middle-class family may only look at him as an object of grotesque curiosity. His anxiety is most magnified when he thinks of how his high-school sweetheart Wilma (Cathy O’Connell) will react when she sees him. Homer suggests that the three men share a drink at Butch Engle’s (Hoagy Carmichael)—a saloon owned and operated by Homer’s uncle. Fred and Al decline, encouraging Homer to face his fears. Upon Homer’s arrival, his family reacts in different ways. His younger sister is ecstatic that her older brother is home, but his parents—while also thrilled—pity him, and his mother sobs uncontrollably when she sees Homer’s hooks, which is the exact reaction Homer most feared. When Wilma sees Homer, she runs to embrace him, but Homer stands stoically, his arms at his side. Al observes, “They [the Navy] couldn’t train him to put his arms around his girl to stroke her hair.”

Later, Homer’s fears become amplified when Wilma’s parents visit the Parrish residence. Before the war, Homer and Wilma were engaged to be married. Since Homer’s accident, he now has mixed feelings about going through with the engagement, especially since he thinks that Wilma could never love a man with hooks instead of hands. His future in-laws ask him about any employment opportunities there are for someone with his “disability”, and suggesting that Homer would make a good insurance salesman because potential customers would take pity on him. Homer drops a glass of lemonade, and then retreats to Butch’s Place to find solace.

Al is dropped off next, and he confides to Fred that he also has considerable fears and misgivings about his reunion. He describes the looming event thusly: “It feels as if I was going to hit a beach.” Once home he surprises Milly, his wife, and is equally surprised to find how much his children have grown. They have changed so much that Al hardly recognizes them. Peggy, his eldest, works as a nurse. Al has brought gifts back for his college freshman son Rob—a samurai sword and a Japanese flag—but Rob is far more interested in quizzing his father about the effects of radiation on the people of Hiroshima (Al was there). Al is flabbergasted to find himself discussing the effects of nuclear warfare with his son. He too, becomes restless, and takes Milly and Peggy on a night on the town. They go barhopping—and Al gets ridiculously drunk in the process, and wind down the evening at Butch’s.

Fred returns home last. He is dropped off at his parents’ home—a ramshackle hovel alongside railroad tracks. Unlike the swank Stephenson apartment or the modest suburban residence of the Parrish family, the Derry residence is immediately indicative of their socioeconomic status. Fred’s parents—stepmother Hortense and drunkard father Pat—admire their son as a war hero (which he most assuredly is) and especially beam at “all those beautiful ribbons” pinned to his uniform. Fred is obviously a bit embarrassed by his parents, and declines to stay for dinner. He only wants to know one thing—the whereabouts of his young bride, Marie (Virginia Mayo). Hortense tells Fred that Marie has moved downtown and supports herself with a job at a nightclub. Fred sets off to find Marie, and he eventually makes his way to Butch’s as well.

At the bar, the three men again immediately begin to feel comfortable around one another. The events I have just described cover the first third of a three hour film, brilliantly executed to show the audience that the first steps Al, Fred, and Homer must take toward their new reality must be in lockstep. These three very different men will each make a journey toward acceptance, and each faces obstacles to overcome.

For Homer, acceptance will come when he realizes that Wilma loves him despite the hooks on his hands. For Al’s readjustment, he simply needs to start accepting that his children have grown up, and when he returns to work at the bank, things are not the same (there is an excellent scene when Al defends a loan have gave to a returning serviceman who did not have sufficient collateral, followed up with a bit later when Al gives a boozy speech at a dinner in his honor decrying his institution’s valuing of profits over people). Fred has the hardest journey. He finds that the more he gets to know Marie, the more she loves the medals on his uniform and material comforts. Although Fred was respected in the military, his skills do not translate into a career that can support his family. Finally, he falls hopelessly in love with Peggy (and she reciprocates his feelings), but the relationship offends Al (who doesn’t want his daughter to accrue a reputation for wrecking marriages), and he casts his true love away. Ultimately, Fred has to look beyond his personal and professional setbacks and accept that he is the master of his own destiny.

There is a sequence in The Best Years of Our Lives that merits extra attention. First is a scene that closes the second act of the film at Butch’s Place. Al has learned of Fred and Peggy’s relationship. By this point in the film, it is clear that Marie doesn’t love Fred, Fred doesn’t love her, and Peggy and Fred are absolutely right for one another. At the bar, Al confronts Fred, and tells him “I don't like the idea of you sneaking around corners to see Peggy, taking her love on a bootleg basis. I give you fair warning. I'm going to do everything I can to keep her away from you, to help her forget about you, and get her married to some decent guy who can make her happy.” Crestfallen, Fred “guarantees” that he will end things with Peggy, not wishing to sour the relationship with a true friend. As Fred slinks off to the phone booth in the back of the bar, Homer enters, and he shows Butch that he is skilled enough with his hooks to play “Chopsticks” on the piano. Cinematographer Toland makes excellent use of deep focus photography in this shot, with the happy faces of Homer, Al and Butch filling the foreground and the small, hunched over and pained figure of Fred in the background in clear focus as he makes the call that will break Peggy’s heart.


After a sequence where a heartbroken Peggy has received Fred’s break-up call, the film follows Fred to his job, where he reluctantly returned to work as a soda jerk. Homer follows him there, and one of Fred’s customer’s asks Homer about his hooks. Homer uses humor to diffuse the situation (“I got sick and tired of that old pair of hands I had. You know, an awful lot of trouble washing them and manicuring my nails. So I traded them in for a pair of these latest models. They work by radar.”), but the customer persists in the conversation, implying that Homer’s sacrifice was in vain, and that the country went to war for the wrong reasons. Fred will not tolerate his friend to be made a pariah, and he demands the customer leave. The argument escalates into a physical confrontation between Homer and the customer, and Fred ends it by socking the man on the jaw, sending him crashing through a glass-covered jewelry display. Fred is fired, and Homer feels responsible. Fred isn’t sorry though and offers this piece of advice: “Take [Wilma] in your arms, and kiss her. Ask her to marry you. Then marry her. Tomorrow if you can get a license that fast. If you want anybody to stand up for you at your wedding...”

This sets up the climax of Homer’s story. That evening, he is confronted by Wilma, who is being persuaded by her parents to forget about Homer. She offers Homer an ultimatum: “Tell me the truth, Homer. Do you want me to forget about you?” He replies: “I want you to be free, Wilma, to live your own life. I don’t want you tied down forever just because you’ve got a kind heart.”

He then asks Wilma to follow him upstairs, hoping to shock her by going through his difficult nightly routine—something only Homer’s father has helped him with—to simply prepare for sleep. Without assistance, he removes his robe, his harness, the halter to which it is attached, the braces, the hooks—and places them on the bed. Homer is then able to wiggle into a pajama top, but not button it. At this point, Wilma—in an act of ultimate compassion—buttons his shirt closed. Threadbare and utterly helpless Homer says:

“This is when I know I'm helpless. My hands are down there on the bed. I can't put them on again without calling to somebody for help. I can't smoke a cigarette or read a book. If that door should blow shut, I can't open it and get out of this room. I'm as dependent as a baby that doesn't know how to get anything except to cry for it. Well, now you know, Wilma. Now you have an idea of what it is. I guess you don't know what to say. It's all right. Go on home. Go away like your family said.”

Instead of recoiling, Wilma tells him, “I know what to say, Homer. I love you and I'm never going to leave you, never.” The scene is one of the most tender and intimate love scenes ever put to film, and it is made all the more potent by the compassionate acting from Russell and O’Connell.

Russell deserves special mention. He actually won two Oscars for the part of Homer Parrish, the only actor ever to be awarded two Oscars for one part. Russell was not a professional actor (which some critics have held against the picture), and was essentially playing himself. Wyler used him because he felt that no actor could bring sufficient authenticity to the role. The Best Years of Our Lives was the clear frontrunner to capture the majority of the Oscars awarded that year, and received several pre-Oscar honors. It was also the biggest box office smash since Gone With the Wind. Despite (or perhaps because of) the film’s popularity, the Academy board of Governors felt that as a non-professional, Russell had no hope of being nominated for his performance. They created a Special Oscar for him, “for bringing hope and courage to his fellow veterans”. As it turned out, Russell was not only nominated for Best Supporting Actor, but won the Oscar to rapturous approval.

The scene with O’Connell sealed his victory. Russell is no mere prop, showing off his prostheses in a robotic fashion. Instead, he draws on his own experiences to create the character of Homer Parrish. During the scene, Russell makes the humor in the scene work (“at least I got my elbows”), expresses doubts, and shows that Homer’s vulnerability comes not from removing his hooks but from the fear of Wilma rejecting him because he will be needed to be cared for like a child for the rest of his life. Yes, Russell (and Wyler) uses his real-life status as a double-amputee to ground his performance in reality, but Russell’s choices as an actor give Homer a soul. It is Russell’s probing, deep focus into character—not his disability—that gives the performance unforgettable emotional weight.

Russell’s performance is matched by the rest of the ensemble. The Best Years of Our Lives is a film where the actors are fully aware of the importance of the material, and they each rise to the occasion, delivering humane, compassionate performances. Compassion is the key to the film. It’s easy to make a film that hugs at heartstrings or goes for an easy cry. The actors here dive into the reality of their characters and uncover real emotions, be it Myrna Loy as Milly, assuaging her heartbroken daughter or Teresa Wright as Peggy, who has utmost faith in the man Fred can become. Even in the smaller parts—such as Gladys George and Roman Bohnen as Fred’s parents—are infused with compassion and humanity. I defy anyone to not feel a swell of pride when watching the scene where Pat reads to Hortense Fred’s citation for a Distinguished Flying Cross, whereupon they learn the full extent of their son’s heroism. If you aren’t fighting tears back by then, a part of your soul must be missing.

Coming to accept a new reality is often the hardest challenge a human being will ever face. At the start of WWII, director Wyler made a film that sought to provoke, to anger its audience into action. By the end of the war, Wyler knew that only through goodness, integrity and compassion could a film—and by extension, the audience—find acceptance with a new world. Values such as goodness, integrity and compassion are often seen as square or too passé to make for an entertaining subject on film. The Best Years of Our Lives is 172 minutes of proof that when done right—with unyielding focus on character and humanity—those square and passé values are rich and fertile grounds for the creation of profound art.

DETAILS

The Best Years of Our Lives (1946)

Director: William Wyler

Starring: Frederic March, Dana Andrews, Harold Russell, Myrna Loy, Teresa Wright, Cathy O’Connell, Virginia Mayo, Hoagy Carmichael, Gladys George, Roman Bohnen

Studio: RKO Radio Pictures

Total Oscars: 8 (Best Picture*, Best Director—William Wyler, Best Actor—Frederic March, Best Supporting Actor—Harold Russell, Best Adapted Screenplay—Robert E. Sherwood, Best Editing, Best Score, Dramatic or Comedy Picture**) out of 9 total nominations (Best Sound Recording)

* Producer Samuel Goldwyn was also awarded the Irving G. Thalberg Award at the 1946 Oscars. Goldwyn was a highly prolific and influential producer in Hollywood, his Oscar for The Best Years of Our Lives is his only competitive win.
** Best Score was split into two categories—Dramatic or Comedy Picture and Musical Picture

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Casablanca: You Must Remember This Film

Okay, this is the scene—a girl walks into a bar. Everyone is drinking and dancing; a good time is to be had by all. The piano player is playing songs everyone loves. The piano player sees the woman—he knows her from a time ago—and a look of worry passes over his face. The woman is accompanied by a tall and handsome man. The man looks special, important. The woman is left alone as the man tends to business. She sits down next to the piano player. He pretends not to see her. She engages him in conversation, and the piano player replies in clipped, terse answers—it is as if he is afraid someone will see whom he is speaking to. The camera closes in on the girl, the left side of her face softly lit, and a sparkle in her eye. She leans toward the piano player, touches him gently and requests a song. “Play it, Sam. Play ‘As Time Goes By.’” Although Sam has been expressly forbidden to play the song, he cannot deny the girl. The first notes of the song and the weariness in Sam’s voice flutter gently throughout the bar, the music freezing the place in time. “You must remember this; a kiss is just a kiss…” The bar owner comes out, indignant upon hearing the forbidden song—but he is stopped when he sees her radiant face. He knows now why Sam is playing “As Time Goes By”—and who has requested it. His heart is breaking all over again.

Perfection in film is witnessed when Ilsa Lund walks in with Victor Laszlo to Rick Blaine’s Café Américain and asks Sam the piano player to play “As Time Goes By.” The loneliness of the two former lovers, the way Sam appears frightened (he knows too well the heartache Ilsa has caused Rick) as Ilsa walks into the bar, the way Ingrid Bergman’s face seems to glow and calm Sam, the devastating reaction Humphrey Bogart gives Rick once he sees Ilsa, the perfect use of “As Time Goes By” and the way Dooley Wilson sings it—with such tenderness and alacrity (though he is mimicking tickling the ivories; Wilson couldn’t play a note—chalk the success of his part up to movie magic)—evokes in the audience memories of a melancholy song too personal for them to bear, even if this is the first time you have heard the Herman Hupfield standard. When you watch Casablanca, this scene is the one that I guarantee will suck viewers into the world of the film—unless, of course, you are already there. Were this the only scene filmed for the picture, Casablanca would be deserving of the Best Picture Oscar. That the rest of Casablanca is as good is a testament to the greatness of the film and one of the only times that the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences awarded the absolutely right movie.

Casablanca is a film where perfection looks so easy. In reality, the picture was designed to be just another movie rolled off the Warner Brothers lot. Director Michael Curtiz, a veteran director known more for his ability to work quickly rather than having a particular style (he shot over forty previous films for Warner Brothers), was the fourth-choice director on a list topped by William Wyler. Curtiz was known to have clashed with the writers over the script. The writers would point out an inaccuracy or questionable logic in the story, but Curtiz preferred to keep things moving as fast as possible, trusting that the images on screen would sweep the audience away in suspended disbelief (and Curtiz was right). The story is lauded as the best screenplay ever written—the lines are among the wittiest and funniest and most divine dialogue ever penned (on the American Film Institute’s list of 100 Years…100 Movie Quotes, lines from Casablanca occupy six positions on the list—Nos. 5, 20, 28, 32, 43, and 67—far more than any other film)—but the script was being constantly rewritten by a hodgepodge of writers, usually a sign that a film is doomed to failure. Max Steiner, who scored the film, didn’t even want to use “As Time Goes By,” originally used in Everybody Comes to Rick’s, the play from which Casablanca was adapted. Steiner wished to compose a new song, but by the time he got around to scoring the film (the score is one of the last pieces of the film to be completed, always after the final footage has been filmed) Ingrid Bergman had cut her hair for For Whom the Bell Tolls and reshoots were impossible. A much appreciated thanks goes out to Ernest Hemingway, because Casablanca is unimaginable without that song, and Steiner eventually built the score around leitmotifs from “As Time Goes By” and the French national anthem “La Marseillaise” (more on that later). A whole book could be written on how Casablanca came together in spite of itself. The film is the ultimate miracle ever created by the Hollywood studio system (the whole film, save the airport scene at the end, was shot on the Warner’s lot).

I’m not going to delve too deeply into how Casablanca was created. The special features on the DVD are the place for that. Instead, as I have done with How Green Was My Valley and Mrs. Miniver, I will analyze Casablanca as it compares to the Kübler-Ross five stages of grief—in this case, bargaining.

The entire theme of Casablanca concerns bargaining. This is a film that speaks the language of deals and compromise. Kübler-Ross defines bargaining as hope that an individual can postpone or delay dealing with death by offering an exchange of a reformed lifestyle with a higher power. In the world of Casablanca, characters must bargain to survive—in a literal and spiritual sense and often both at the same time. In the film, the city of Casablanca is represented as the last station for the waylaid. For European refugees looking to escape from the Nazi regime, Casablanca is the transfer point for those wishing to journey into America (crucially, the film is set before the events of Pearl Harbor, allowing for both the plot device and for Rick to retain his cynicism). Any refugee looking to escape Casablanca needs “letters of transit” to enter neutral Portugal then into America. Therefore, a letter of transit can fetch a considerable sum, effectively placing a price on freedom. This necessity also creates a city that attracts all sorts of vices and black market activities. Refugees are easy prey for the pickpockets, gamblers, con-men and counterfeiters who make up the permanent residents of Casablanca. The scarcity of letters of transit forces those wishing to escape to make moral compromises. How far will a person go to obtain freedom? How soon will someone turn to illegal measures? What cost will they pay? These are the conflicts the characters in the film come into contact with on a daily basis.

The plot of the film really kicks in when a petty criminal, Ugarte (finely played by character actor Peter Lorre, who will forever be remembered by his nasal, desperate, whine for “Reeeeck!”), steals two letters of transit from Nazi officials, signed by none other than General Charles de Gaulle (if you ever want to know the definition of a MacGuffin, look no further than these letters of transit—they are a classic one). It is implied that Ugarte murdered the two Nazis carrying the letters, so he is targeted by Captain Renault (an unflappable Claude Rains, who steals his every scene), a corrupt opportunist and completely amoral police official working for the Vichy-controlled government in Casablanca. Renault sums up his philosophy thusly, “I have no convictions. I blow with the wind, and the prevailing wind happens to be from Vichy,” proving himself to be one who bargains exclusively with those who have the most power and will provide him with the most opportunities to get rich (Renault is no stranger to bribes in the film). What Renault doesn’t know is that Ugarte has entrusted the letters to Rick Blaine (Bogart, in his most famous role), an American expatriate who owns a popular bar, the Café Américain. Ugarte gives Rick the letters because “somehow, just because you despise me, you are the only one I can trust.” Ugarte’s rationale perfectly encapsulates how topsy-turvy the state of bargaining has become in Casablanca: the people who hate you are the least likely to screw you over.

Though Rick appears to be as amoral as Renault—saying, with utter conviction, that “he sticks his neck out for nobody” and “I’m the only cause I’m interested in”—his cynicism masks the compromises he has made for survival. The escape Rick is looking for isn’t from Casablanca; instead Rick seeks an emotional withdrawal, and the bargain he has made with himself is this: to not care about anything is better than having your heart broken. In Café Américain, politics are a taboo topic. When asked his nationality, Rick replies “A drunkard.” (This causes Captain Renault to retort, “That makes Rick a citizen of the world.”) Rick even drives away any chance he may have at love. A scene in the first act of the film has him coolly dismiss a former flame (Madeleine LeBeau). For Rick, his bargain is all about emotional survival.

Almost immediately, Rick’s attitude is revealed as a façade. He does, in fact, stick his neck out for his employees. Emil, his bartender, sneaks drinks to women he is trying to pick up. Carl (S.Z. Sakall), his waiter, is allowed to place refugees in contact with bar patrons who will more expediently secure their escape. Rick’s croupier runs a rigged roulette game which helps refugees secure bribe money for exit visas. The doorman Abdul is a trusted confidante. Sam, in addition to being the star piano player, is Rick’s right hand man who came with him from Paris. (Of all the Best Picture winners thus far, Casablanca is the only one which treats foreigners and minorities as equals. Sam is the first black character in an Oscar winning film to really be treated as an equal to whites. The multicultural cast is one of the tricks used by Curtiz to sell the illusion of Casablanca as a truly foreign place.) Rick himself allows certain customers to pay using IOU’s, but yet refuses to allow Germans to play games in the casino. Every member of his staff is crucial to the smooth operation Rick runs at his saloon, which on the outside appears to cater to everyone equally but masks a small resistance unit to help the needy. (One of the lies the audience is willing to forgive is how this saloon, which bleeds money, can possibly continue to operate in the red and evade closure by the Vichy officials.) Rick’s balancing act becomes truly tested when freedom fighter Victor Laszlo (Paul Henreid) walks into the café with his former flame, Ilsa (“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world she walks into mine”).

Laszlo, of all the characters in the film, is the least compromising. He’s also a bit of a bore (this aspect of the character isn’t helped by Henreid’s stiff performance, easily the weakest part of an otherwise all-around strong film), and primarily functions as a foil to Rick’s cynicism. The audience is told that Laszlo is part of the Czech Resistance to the Nazis, but exactly what he does is never illuminated (and it isn’t really important). Laszlo needs to reach America to continue his work with the underground resistance, and he cannot do the work well unless Ilsa, the love of his life, is there with him (as Renault astutely observes, when Rick—before knowing he is with Ilsa—says that Laszlo needs only one exit visa, “I think not. I have seen the lady.”) Awfully convenient for Laszlo that two letters of transit are hidden in Sam’s piano, isn’t it? The only bargain Laszlo makes with Rick is to appeal directly to the better nature of his humanity.

Laszlo has some evidence that Rick is a deeper man than his bitterness suggests. Rick’s past as a freedom fighter in Spain and Ethiopia is widely known to everybody in Casablanca. Laszlo is quick to note that Rick also seems to stick his neck out for underdogs—though Rick replies that he was a mercenary in both of those fights, causing Renault to remark, “The winning side would have paid you better.” Laszlo is also aware of the bargains Rick has struck for some of the wayward refugees in Casablanca. A minor subplot involves a young Bulgarian couple trying to escape to America. The girl is offered two visas if she sleeps with Renault, but when she comes to Rick’s her husband is shown how to win at the rigged roulette wheel. Laszlo cannot help but notice Rick’s compassion. Finally, in the film’s most rousing sequence, Laszlo finds the clearest evidence yet that Rick is on his side.

Before Ilsa and Laszlo walk into Rick’s, the antagonist of the picture, Major Strasser (Conrad Veidt, a German actor who escaped Hitler’s regime and ironically made a career of playing Nazis) is also introduced. Ah, Nazis, the great bastards and villains of American cinema. Strasser is in Casablanca for one purpose: to keep Laszlo from making his escape, or better yet, kill him. Sides are immediately drawn, new allegiances are shaped. To nobody’s surprise, prevailing winds make Renault an ally of Strasser. Yvonne, Rick’s discarded girlfriend, also finds a new beau within the Nazi ranks. The day after Laszlo’s arrival, Nazi soldiers are singing “Die Wacht am Rhein (Watch on the Rhine)”, a popular patriotic German song. A furious Laszlo orders Rick to have his band play “La Marseillaise”, and Rick accedes to his request. Laszlo leads the entire saloon (save, of course, the Germans and Rick—still trying to give off the appearance that he is apolitical) in a stirring rendition of the French national anthem that sings down the Germans. Even Yvonne, there with her Nazi boyfriend, becomes so caught up in the fervor that she too joins in the singing of “La Marseillaise”, a tear in her eye. Strasser is incensed, and orders Renault to shut down the Café Américain. (This brings about my favorite line in the film. Rick asks Strasser the grounds on which the Nazis have ordered his business closed. Renault says illegal gambling. The croupier tells Renault, “Your winnings, sir.” Renault says “Oh, thank you very much,” then “Everybody out at once!”)

Rick’s act of patriotism has cost him his business. Rick sees the writing on the wall; Nazi occupation in Casablanca is only going to make things increasingly difficult for him. He has however arranged for the Café Américain to be sold to Signor Ferrari (the corpulent Sydney Greenstreet, a frequent costar of both Bogart and Lorre), who describes himself as “the leader of all illegal activities in Casablanca, I am an influential and respected man.” Although Ferrari runs an establishment—The Blue Parrot—that is the chief competitor of the Café Américain, like Ugarte, Rick trusts Ferrari precisely because he is his rival. Again, the safest negotiation one can make in Casablanca is with one’s enemy (and Rick also knows that Ferrari will look out for his staff, especially Sam, of whom Ferrari says “It wouldn’t be Rick’s without him”). The most dangerous bargain Rick has left is with the person he loves most—Ilsa.

Curtiz uses an extended flashback to Rick and Ilsa’s time in Paris to fully flesh out the background of their relationship. The most important thing the viewer is left with is that Rick is still impossibly in love with Ilsa (“Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.”), and Ilsa, though married to Laszlo, still loves him. Ilsa tries to use the relationship to her advantage. The film has established that sex can be used to buy freedom, and the rekindling of a sexual relationship is implicit when Ilsa comes to Rick alone. When that doesn’t work, Ilsa draws a pistol on Rick, but is unable to shoot, proving to Rick her love for him. Ilsa offers him this bargain: “You have to think for both of us. For all of us.”

Rick, now holding the upper hand in negotiations (and lest the audience forget, he is still in possession of the letters of transit), is free to determine Ilsa’s fate. I think everyone who has seen Casablanca has asked themselves: Why doesn’t Rick use the letters for himself and Ilsa and leave with the love of his life? Ilsa certainly has nothing to lose. By this point in the film, it is assumed that she will receive one of the letters. She will be safe. She will leave Casablanca with a man who loves her. And why wouldn’t she want to be with Rick? After all, he’s proven himself to be capable of protecting her, she knows he truly loves her, and facetiously, Rick is the more exciting man than Laszlo—and just as noble. Who isn’t charmed by him? If Rick gives the papers to Laszlo, he will certainly be doing right for the cause of resistance, but he will be left in Casablanca a wanted man without his livelihood, his heartbreak amplified. Rick’s bargain now has life-changing consequences: leave with the woman he loves or sacrifice that love for the greater good. Which is more important—love or freedom?

The ending of Casablanca has seeped into pop-culture consciousness through osmosis. Everyone knows that Ilsa gets on the plane to Lisbon with Laszlo (and if you haven’t seen Casablanca, sorry to spoil it, but I must ask you—why the hell haven’t you seen this masterpiece yet?). The tension created in the film is phony, because ultimately the Hays Code which governed morality in films at the time would have never allowed a married woman to abscond with a single man—it is a testament to the skills of Curtiz, Bogart, and Bergman that the audience is kept on the edge of their seat when the outcome is so obvious and by now so well known. It is the new bargain Rick makes with himself that gives the ending resonance. Ultimately he knows that “the problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world” and that Ilsa will regret not boarding the plane with Laszlo. Regret becomes the emotion that Rick also does not want to feel. He knows that if he goes with her then Laszlo will likely die. Rick knows that if he takes the letters and leaves with Ilsa he will feel regret over the loss of an important life. He is also then able to reconcile his memories of their relationship. No longer will Rick’s memories of Ilsa bring him sorrow. (“We’ll always have Paris.”) Because he has sacrificed his love for the greater good, Rick is able to find happiness in his memories and his soul is at ease. In his new bargain, Rick listens to his conscience.

Appropriately, Casablanca concludes with the two craftiest bargainers—Rick and Captain Renault—walking off into the fog together. (“Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”) Renault, who in the final act is utterly played by Rick, finds a bargainer worthy of future co-conspiracy. After all, he witnesses Rick murder Major Strasser. Renault’s response—“Round up the usual suspects.” He knows that justice in Casablanca is best levied by leaving a crime unsolved, and that the prevailing winds will now blow him over to Rick. Inaction leads to a minor redemption for Captain Renault. I love that it isn’t a sunset the two men walk off into, but a fog. Their future is uncertain, but as the film fades to black the audience is left with a sense that no matter what fate awaits Rick and Renault—and since the audience has the benefit of knowing world history, it can be safely assumed that the adventures that the pair will embark on will be perilous—they will be able to bargain for both survival and a clear soul.

I think the reason Casablanca has resonated so deeply with audiences is because that despite its ultimate artifice, the film recognizes that its audience also makes bargains, deals and difficult choices on a daily basis in order to survive. The characters in the film mirror the audience watching them, and this is why the film has rooted itself so deeply in the consciousness of American popular culture. Certainly in 1943, Americans could no longer afford to be in denial about the war and the time for being angry about the rotten state of the globe had come to pass. It was now time to deal with it. As time goes by, our world continues to grow more complicated, and Casablanca will continue to resonate. Most movies—and certainly most films that win Best Picture—wish to provide audiences with a sense of grandeur, romance, and escape from reality. Undoubtedly, Casablanca succeeds on all of these fronts. Long after the lights have come up in the theater, long after the DVD has stopped playing, this film sticks with you because—like Victor Laszlo—it dares to pierce right through the masks we wear and the bargains we make and says that human beings are people of conscience, righteousness, and good. Casablanca wants everybody to be like Rick Blaine.

Readers, the bargain I will strike with you is this: you must remember Casablanca.


DETAILS

Casablanca (1943*) (The film gets an asterisk because it first premiered in New York City on November 26th, 1942. However, Academy rules state that for a picture to be considered for an Oscar within a calendar year, the film must be released in Los Angeles County by December 30th in its year of eligibility. Since Casablanca went wide the following January, it was thus eligible to compete against films released in 1943. Mrs. Miniver should consider itself lucky.)

Director: Michael Curtiz

Starring: Humphrey Bogart, Ingrid Bergman, Paul Henreid, Claude Rains, Conrad Veidt, Peter Lorre, Sydney Greenstreet, Dooley Wilson, S.Z. Sakall, Madeleine LeBeau

Studio: Warner Brothers

Total Oscars: 3 (Best Picture, Best Director—Michael Curtiz, Best Adapted Screenplay—Julius J. Epstein, Philip G. Epstein and Howard Koch) out of 8 total nominations (Best Actor—Humphrey Bogart, Best Supporting Actor—Claude Rains, Best Cinematography, Best Editing, Best Score—Max Steiner)


NEXT BLOG: Going My Way

Mrs. Miniver: Life During Wartime

In watching the Best Picture Oscar winners, it is sometimes difficult to completely shed any preconceived notions I’ve had of certain films. I thought Wings would be a chore to get through because it is a silent film, when it turned out to be captivating and delightful. Before heading into Mrs. Miniver, all I had heard of the film was that it was a “women’s weepie”—a genre I do not usually rush to see—filled with melodrama and tragedy. I discovered that melodrama is only a small part of Mrs. Miniver. The film is, in fact, a skillfully made piece of propaganda—and I mean this in the most complimentary way—that was designed, in part, to provoke America into action.

As I explained out in my last post, I am using Kübler-Ross’ five stages of grief as a basis for analysis for five successive 1940’s Best Picture winners. In 1941, the Oscar was awarded to How Green Was My Valley, a nostalgia driven drama. I argued that nostalgia was a form of denial, and the picture represented a country who would prefer to remember an idealized past instead of dealing with a complicated present. Mrs. Miniver is undoubtedly a propaganda film, the aim of which is to provoke an emotional response. I would say that any sort of provocation is an act of anger, and there was certainly anger motivating filmmaker William Wyler when he made Mrs. Miniver.

William Wyler was born Wilhelm Weiller in 1902 in the Alsace region of France, which at the time was part of Germany. His family was Jewish, and his mother was a relative of Universal Pictures founder Carl Laemmle. In 1921, Wyler immigrated to America, where he worked in the New York offices of Universal. Wyler worked his way up through the ladder to become a successful director in Hollywood. In 1928, he became a naturalized citizen of the United States, and he became known as a director with relentless passion and perfectionism. He was notorious for demanding multiple takes from his actors, with often no reason aside from he did not think the performance was good enough or that he simply wanted to see it again. Despite his reputation, throughout his career Wyler’s films were magnets for critical acclaim. Actors and crew who have participated in his films garnered more Oscar nominations than any other director in film history. Wyler himself holds the record for the most nominations received for Best Director—at twelve—and won three times. Relentless perfectionism is what motivated Wyler as a director and a human being.

The United States entered World War II on December 7th, 1941, when the Japanese bombed the U.S. Navy at Pearl Harbor. Europe was thrust into World War when Adolf Hitler invaded Poland in 1939, though the continent had dealt with the rise of fascism for much of the 1930’s. Europeans were far quicker to realize the danger this threat presented to the globe. Americans preferred to have an isolationist policy in regards to the conflicts in Europe. Although the Germans and Italians declared war on the United States only four days after Pearl Harbor, U.S. military presence was not truly established until the end of 1942. Many of the filmmakers working in Hollywood were, like Wyler, immigrants who fled to the United States and became citizens. Wyler openly despised the Nazis, and fully admitted he made Mrs. Miniver to show that an isolationist policy would cause more harm than it prevented. The film is rooted in righteous indignation. Wyler was able to channel his anger into art.

Yet as the film begins in the summer of 1939, it is more concerned with the banalities of everyday life for the British upper middle class than it is with spurring a nation to war. Mrs. Fay Miniver—magnificently played by Greer Garson, the Meryl Streep of the 1940’s with five consecutive Best Actress nominations in the decade (she also received a nomination in 1939 and another in 1960)—is first seen in the film going on a shopping trip. She is well known in her neighborhood, and she buys a fancy hat. Mr. Clem Miniver (Walter Pidgeon, who would co-star with Garson in eight films), her architect husband, also makes an impetuous purchase—a new car. The Minivers return home to their two young children, Judy and Toby. After their kids are asleep, husband and wife question if they are spending their money unwisely, but they come to the conclusion that they are in a position to afford the little luxuries. I found it difficult to fully empathize with this family at the beginning of the film. After all, these are people who can afford cooks and servants and also have a private boat launch along the Thames.

Another subplot introduced early on in the film is an annual flower show, where for the past 30 years the top prize in the rose competition is always won by aristocratic Lady Beldon (Dame May Whitty). Lady Beldon has some serious competition in the rose grown by Mr. Ballard (Henry Travers, best known for playing the angel Clarence in It’s a Wonderful Life). The stationmaster names his rose after Mrs. Miniver because he admires her beauty, and anyone who sees the flower agrees that not only is it aptly named, but it also has the best chance in years to unseat Lady Beldon from her domination of the rose competition. The day after the Minivers made their extravagant purchases, they meet their eldest son Vin (Richard Ney, whom Garson married after the film, and although he plays her son Ney was only eleven years younger than Garson), who is returning home from Oxford for the summer holiday. Kay, Vin and Clem all attend a dance later that evening, where Lady Beldon’s granddaughter, Carol (Teresa Wright), asks Kay to dissuade Mr. Ballard from entering his rose in the competition. Vin is quick to judge Carol as pompous, but Carol ends up being rather well grounded. Vin, in contrast, is the arrogant one, having returned to the village from Oxford with a know-it-all-attitude. However, Vin and Carol do recognize a mutual attraction, and they soon fall in love.

For the first half of the film, Wyler creates a world of banalities. Shopping trips, flower competitions, young love—these are hardly the subjects of a wartime propaganda film. As the film plays out, these details become crucial in establishing the world the characters live in. The audience has the foreknowledge that this perfect world will soon be thrust into chaos, and drama is created by seeing how these people will react in the story. Soon enough, news of the Hitler’s invasion of Poland reaches Britain. Later, at Sunday services, the sermon of the vicar (Henry Wilcoxon) is interrupted by the news that England is now officially at war with Germany. Vin decides to join the RAF. The villagers are encouraged to make preparations to defend themselves against air raids. Some, like Lady Beldon, don’t take these warnings seriously, but soon enough, all the homes have bomb shelters, emergency kits, and evacuation plans. Despite the chaos of the war looming, Vin does propose to Carol, and everyone tries to live as normally as possible.

The night of Vin’s proposal to Carol, he is summoned back to his airbase. Because the Minivers own a boat, Clem—along with thousands of other Britons who own private vessels—is ordered to help with the evacuation of British soldiers in Dunkirk, France. Rumors abound of a German soldier who parachuted out of his plane and landed in the village. Sure enough, Kay—alone in her home—is approached by the injured German. He holds her at gunpoint in her own kitchen, demanding to be fed. His injuries catch up to him and Kay is able to subdue the soldier and confiscate his revolver. As the police come to take him away, the German soldier rants about how England will fall to the might of Germany, just as Poland and Holland did. Kay responds by slapping him. Thereafter, Clem returns from Dunkirk and the family learns that Vin is also safe. When Vin returns home, Kay secures Lady Beldon’s approval for Vin and Carol’s marriage and the do so.

While the young couple are away for their honeymoon, the stage is set for the most harrowing and effective sequence in Mrs. Miniver. Air raid horns have sounded and the Miniver family is spending the night in their bomb shelter. It is hardly larger than a tool shed, and one gets the impression that if the shelter were to take a direct hit, everyone inside would perish. More than anything, Kay and Clem want to preserve a sense of normalcy for their youngest children, Toby and Judy. As the children are put to bed, Kay knits and Clem reads a passage from Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland pertaining to the joys of childhood. The passage lulls the children to sleep, and Kay then wonders if Carroll would have ever figured that his novel would become so beloved decades after it was written. I found this to be tremendously effective, because at their core, despite their many blessings, Kay and Clem are simply two people reading a bedtime story to their children and marveling over its enchanting power. What parent hasn’t wondered this?

It is at that point that the bombing intensifies. At first, Kay and Clem do their best to ignore the buzzing of planes flying overhead and the cacophony of the explosions, but the shelter becomes shaken and the children awaken frightened. The power in the bomb shelter is soon cut off, and the family huddles together, desperately clinging to one another, knowing full well that the only chance they have to make it through the night is to pray that a bomb does fall anywhere near them. Random luck will determine if the family survives; they have no choice but to hold one another. Wyler films the entire bomb shelter sequence in one incredible take, and the sound effects really hold center stage and seem to shake the frame apart. When the family is clinging together only the whites of Garson’s eyes illuminate the screen. It is the most desperate moment for the family in the film, and Wyler does an incredibly effective job of placing them alone, in the dark, with utter chaos enveloping them.

I was not prepared for the visceral reaction I had to watching the bombing sequence. I watched the film late at night, in my darkened living room, while my wife and daughter slept. The power of the scene shook me to tears. I think because now that I am both a husband and father, it was easy for me to feel as vulnerable as Kay and Clem Miniver. I have no doubt that audiences in 1942 felt the same, and we have the brilliance of William Wyler, Greer Garson and Walter Pidgeon to thank for it (not to mention the two fine young actors playing Toby and Judy). With the bomb shelter sequence, Wyler succeeds in placing his audience inside the film, and the emotions the characters experience become our own.

Despite that harrowing sequence, the final act of the film does find time for levity. The flower competition gathers the entire village together, and the climax of the show pits Mr. Ballard’s Mrs. Miniver rose against Lady Beldon’s championship flower. The judges, each terrified of Lady Beldon and the power she wields in the community, have again awarded the top prize to her. Kay convinces Lady Beldon that the judges are only choosing her rose because of her status, not because her rose is indeed better. Lady Beldon announces that the Mrs. Miniver rose has won the top prize, and an extraordinarily humbled Mr. Ballard tearfully accepts. With his victory, the entire village finds cause to celebrate, but it is short-lived, as the air raid sirens have again sounded. On the way home, Kay and Carol are driving together when a plane falls from the sky. It glances off the car and fatally wounds Carol.
The final scene in the film has the entire community attending service in their bombarded and hollowed out church. The vicar delivers a memorable and stirring speech that I will reprint in its entirety:

“We, in this quiet corner of England, have suffered the loss of friends very dear to us—some close to this church: George West, choir boy; James Ballard, station master and bell ringer and a proud winner, only one hour before his death, of the Belding Cup for his beautiful Miniver rose; and our hearts go out in sympathy to the two families who share the cruel loss of a young girl who was married at this altar only two weeks ago. The homes of many of us have been destroyed, and the lives of young and old have been taken. There is scarcely a household that hasn't been struck to the heart. And why? Surely you must have asked yourself this question. Why in all conscience should these be the ones to suffer? Children, old people, a young girl at the height of her loveliness. Why these? Are these our soldiers? Are these our fighters? Why should they be sacrificed? I shall tell you why. Because this is not only a war of soldiers in uniform. It is a war of the people, of all the people, and it must be fought not only on the battlefield, but in the cities and in the villages, in the factories and on the farms, in the home, and in the heart of every man, woman, and child who loves freedom! Well, we have buried our dead, but we shall not forget them. Instead they will inspire us with an unbreakable determination to free ourselves and those who come after us from the tyranny and terror that threaten to strike us down. This is the people's war! It is our war! We are the fighters! Fight it then! Fight it with all that is in us, and may God defend the right.”

The congregation then rises to sing, “Onward, Christian Soldiers,” and a formation of RAF planes can be seen flying in a V formation through the bombed-out hole in the roof of the church. Propaganda? Certainly, and so highly effective that Winston Churchill declared the film did more for the war effort than a “flotilla of destroyers”. President Franklin D. Roosevelt incorporated the vicar’s sermon into leaflets about morale building and was translated into many languages and dropped over enemy lines. The public was also captivated by the film. Mrs. Miniver became the highest grossing picture for MGM, it was a hit on both sides of the Atlantic, and it was easily the highest grossing picture of 1942. The American magazine Film Daily polled 592 critics as to the best film of 1942, and 555 named Mrs. Miniver. By November of that year, the United States was wholly involved with on the European front of WWII.

One of the main criticisms Mrs. Miniver has faced is that its propaganda is too slick; that the film exists solely for purposes of manipulation. My response is to say film is manipulation. We enter a dark auditorium with the purpose of allowing a story to carry us away. Audiences yearn to feel emotional. We want to laugh. We want to cry. We want to be inspired. Wyler—who made Mrs. Miniver fully intent as a way to funnel his anger at America’s isolationist policy into the viewing audience—made a film that slowly sneaks up on its viewers, drawing them into an England concerned with dance parties, flower shows and above all keeping up appearances. When each of these comforts are taken away, Mrs. Miniver shows us characters that react with dignity, pride, and grace while also leaving them with a call to arms, that the true battles and tests of character were yet to come.

Sixty-eight years later, a lone viewer in a small apartment—one fully aware of the outcome of history—was also manipulated. The potency of the propaganda within Mrs. Miniver has not waned. The genius of Wyler’s direction and the artistry of the acting (the film was the first for receive five acting nominations, one in each category)—especially from the magnificent Greer Garson—will keep the fires contained within the film well stoked.


DETAILS:

Mrs. Miniver (1942)

Director: William Wyler

Starring: Greer Garson, Walter Pidgeon, Teresa Wright, Dame May Whitty, Henry Travers, Richard Ney, Henry Wilcoxon

Studio: Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer

Total Oscars: 6 (Best Picture; Best Director—William Wyler; Best Actress—Greer Garson (*an interesting sidebar: Garson’s acceptance speech was the longest in the history of the Oscar ceremony, clocking in at over 5½ minutes); Best Supporting Actress—Teresa Wright; Best Adapted Screenplay—George Froeschel, James Hilton, Claudine West, and Arthur Wimperis; Best Cinematography, B&W) out of 12 nominations (Best Actor—Walter Pidgeon, Best Supporting Actor—Henry Travers, Best Supporting Actress—Dame May Whitty, Best Editing, Best Sound Recording, Best Special Effects)


NEXT: Casablanca