It’s from a rhyme that was probably originally a riddle about an egg—the title of this week’s BP, I mean. We all know this famous little rhyme. It goes like this:

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king’s horses and all the king’s men
Couldn’t put Humpty together again.

My first thought regarding the group of people referred to in the title All The King’s Men was that they are the people with whom Willie Stark surrounds himself, who promote his candidacy in various political races—i.e., those who do his dirty work. At the end of the film (spoiler alert!) when Adam shoots Willie, these cronies can do nothing but sit helplessly next to Willie as he bleeds out. They cannot put Willie “together again.”

Willie Stark, aspiring small-town politician at the beginning of the film.

Yet as you probably noticed, equating Willie’s posse with the king’s men in the film’s title seemingly makes Willie out to be the king, not Humpty Dumpty, who needs “putting together.” Let’s think about that a second. At the beginning of the film, Willie is a small-town political hopeful. He sees a problem—the abuse of the common people—and he stands up to government corruption in order to give normal people like himself hope that if they all come together they can rid themselves of the stranglehold of the town’s mafia-esque, exclusive government. Willie’s courage and the growing enthusiasm he ignites in the common folk bring him to the attention of political players who need a patsy candidate to split their opponent’s vote and ensure their victory. They light on Willie as their choice for political sucker. Clearly, in the first half of the film, Willie is not the king. He is a pawn. Once Willie has gained political power, though, he does seem to hold all the authority—although, there are references to other groups that Willie has made deals with in order to achieve the political clout he wields. Those groups cannot be said to be without power. The thing is, if Willie is the king (spoiler alert!), why does he die at the end of the film? “Humpty Dumpty” does not seem to indicate any harm to the king at all. In fact, the king himself never actually enters the rhyme. He is a distant figure directing his horses and his men to fix poor Humpty.

Jack Burden, Willie Stark, and Sugar Boy during the height of Willie’s power.

So, what if Willie is Humpty Dumpty? He has a fall—he is nearly impeached and later shot. No one can save him—again, Willie’s loyal aides can only sit by while he dies. Here’s an interesting question. If Humpty Dumpty is so in danger of an accident like a fall, why does he sit on the wall in the first place? What is the temptation of parking himself on such a ledge? What benefit does it offer him? Can it have something to do with power? Prestige? Fatigue? This is probably a question we cannot answer.

But assuming Willie Stark is the metaphorical equivalent of Humpty Dumpty leaves us with a dilemma: Who’s the king? In 1957, James Ruoff wrote an essay entitled “Humpty Dumpty and All the King’s Men: A Note on Robert Penn Warren’s Teleology.” In this essay (which is definitely worth tracking down!), Ruoff addresses many of the questions we are discussing in this post, concluding that Willie must be Humpty, God must be the king, and all the rest of us are the “king’s men.” It’s a fascinating essay, but there is a problem with this analysis of All the King’s Men: If God is the only one who has enough power to be the king, how come He doesn’t enable his men to put poor Humpty back together again?

For Me Then…

In trying to come up with a satisfactory way of connecting each of the characters in All the King’s Men to the figures in the rhyme from which the film takes its name, I keep getting stuck on the phrase about the horses. “All the king’s horses…Couldn’t put Humpty together again.” Does that seem odd to anyone else? How would horses put anything back together? Their physiology doesn’t really seem to allow for this type of motor skill. Could the horses and men be in themselves a metaphor for something else?

What I’m thinking is perhaps a stretch, but here goes. What if the king’s horses represent military might, the physical power of government? What if the king’s men stood for a more intellectual power, that of debate and persuasion—in other words, politics? With that interpretation, we could let Willie Stark remain Humpty Dumpty. The king becomes an unnamed-but-realized power over all—perhaps the government itself. And the king’s men are those who play the political game of wheeling and dealing in order to get more votes than the other guys. Those intriguing horses don’t really play a role in the film character-wise, but let’s go a bit further.

The rhyme specifies that Humpty Dumpty experiences a “great fall,” not just a little slide onto the ground, but a self-shattering, irreversible catastrophe. We know Willie experiences something like this at the end of the film, but really all the film’s characters fall in some way (spoiler alert!). Jack betrays his friend the Judge. Anne cheats on Jack and has an affair with Willie. Tom’s drunkenness leads to his negligent homicide of his girlfriend. Sadie’s jealousy of Anne and liaison with Willie lead to her paranoia and further political corruption. Adam’s hatred of Willie leads him to murder and to his subsequent death. And in the end, all are helpless. Neither the physical, military might of the government (“the king’s horses”) nor the wiles and guiles of political pundits (“the king’s men”) can repair the moral and mortal deficiencies that lead to Willie’s demise.

The lack of emotion on Willie’s face at this moment in the film is indicative of his moral descent.

Taking it closer to home, this film presents us with a pretty hard-hitting glimpse of government and those who play its game. One can appear to have all the physical might of a nation and all its ingenuity completely in hand, and then—boom—out of nowhere, one’s moment of secure repose becomes one of panic and desperation. Our little nursery rhyme doesn’t relate if Humpty is pushed off the wall or experiences an accident, but what is clear is that he ultimately lacks the power to save himself. I think that quite often in our country, those with the power think they can deliver themselves from any predicament they may have gotten into through either their strength or their cleverness, but what they forget is that they are Humpty Dumpty, not the king. Like Willie Stark, their power will not save them because it is a sham. Government receives its authority from “the consent of the governed,” wrote the Founding Fathers in the Declaration of Independence. Government, therefore, is a team effort, not the weapon of one bad egg.

Not to be confused with the 1958 television movie All the King’s Men…or with the 2006 remake starring Sean Penn, Jude Law, Kate Winslet, and James Gandolfini (which, unfortunately, received less than rave reviews)…or with a 1999 film of the same name that focuses on the bizarre story of the Sandringham Company that disappeared in World War I…or with 1976’s All the President’s Men, starring Dustin Hoffman and Robert Redford, which told the story of Watergate…nope, this week’s Best Picture winner is the original adaptation of Robert Penn Warren’s Pulitzer Prize-winning novel All the King’s Men. The film All The King’s Men (1949, Robert Rossen Productions) was nominated for seven Academy Awards, including Actor in a Supporting Role for John Ireland as Jack Burden, Film Editing, Directing, and Writing (Screenplay). It won three: Best Motion Picture, Actress in a Supporting Role for Mercedes McCambridge as Sadie Burke, and Actor for Broderick Crawford as Willie Stark.

Willie Stark stirring up the masses at a political rally.

Speaking of Willie Stark…In the late 1920s and early 1930s, a lawyer named Huey Long rode the wave of Depression-era populist discontent to the governorship of Louisiana. Huey’s reign (for that was in essence what it was) was marked by notable achievements in public education, health care, and prison reform, as well as building and highway improvements and expansions. Despite accusations of corruption and misconduct (and after having narrowly avoided impeachment), Long was elected to the U.S. Senate (though still retaining control of Louisiana’s government until he could ensure a state government of his choosing) and was considered a real threat to President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s 1936 bid for reelection. An outspoken opponent of Roosevelt’s New Deal, Long proposed his own solution for America’s wealth-distribution issues. According to the Long Legacy Project, Long’s Share-Our-Wealth Program “would have eliminated personal fortunes in excess of $5 million, provided every family with $5,000 with which to buy a house, car, and radio, provided for old-age pensions, minimum annual incomes, veterans bonuses, and government-paid college educations.” In other words, Long’s recommended solution to America’s Depression struggles shared some striking similarities to the loathed communism of the 1940s and 50s. The Share-Our-Wealth Program was never implemented.

Huey Long in 1935. Photo by Harris & Ewing, photographer – Harris & Ewing Collection (Library of Congress)

On September 8, 1935, after surviving numerous assassination plots, Long was shot by Dr. Carl Weiss, a relative of an opponent, in a hallway of the State Capitol building in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Weiss himself was killed instantly by the submachine guns of Long’s bodyguards—according to legend, over 50 bullets were found in Weiss’s body after his death! Long initially survived the shooting, but doctors were unable to staunch his internal bleeding, and he succumbed to his wound two days later, his last words a plea: “God, don’t let me die. I have so much to do.”

Why is Huey Long relevant to this Weekday Warm-up? Well, Long’s political rise and violent end form the basis of Warren’s novel, All the King’s Men, and hence, for the film as well. And for me, both the historical timing of this novel and film and the timing of my viewing this BP are interesting in light of the political climates of the late 40s/early 50s as well as that of the present time. As is frequently the case during and after major world conflicts, people often turn to extremist politics—socialist/communist movements after the World Wars and, um, whatever this mess of politics is we have right now in the post-September 11 era. All the King’s Men portrays a “take that” attitude to established government norms, habits, and policies that ignore the average person and instead serve only to elevate and cater to the already wealthy and powerful. This trend was very much in vogue in the post-war politics of the late 1940s and early 1950s—again, as it is today in movements like that of the Tea Party.

Willie Stark’s campaign headquarters are a bit emblematic of just how big his britches have gotten during the span of the film.

Complicating war recovery in the United States in the 40s was the advent of the Cold War with the Soviet Union. Fear of Communism (and Russian spies!) was rampant, and politicians and political movements rose to power on the basis of this paranoia. People were hauled before the House Un-American Activities Committee and forced to give names of others who were “communists” (Robert Rossen, the producer, director, and writer of All the King’s Men, having been a member of the Communist Party himself, pleaded the Fifth Amendment before the Committee in 1951, which jeopardized his career; in 1953, he testified again before the Committee and named over 50 people who worked in Hollywood as having at some time belonged to the Communist Party.). And what do we have today? A lot of childish politicians whose loyalties are to their parties rather than to their constituents, who spend their time bickering about foibles instead of addressing the gross atrocities the mobs are clamoring to bring into the spotlight. The common people are overlooked and unhappy. In my eyes, that’s where we are now. Not too different from Huey Long’s world…or that of Willie Stark, the protagonist of this week’s BP.

For additional information about Huey Long, go here: http://www.hueylong.com/index.php. For more thoughts on All the King’s Men and its significance, please check out the full post this weekend!

In his Poetics, Aristotle defines tragedy as: “the imitation of an action that is serious and also, as having magnitude, complete in itself; in appropriate and pleasurable language;…in a dramatic rather than narrative form; with incidents arousing pity and fear, wherewith to accomplish a catharsis of these emotions.” In other words, a tragedy is a somber or thought-provoking story, an entire story, one in which the audience understands the matter from beginning to end. Furthermore, a tragedy is beautifully presented—it’s linguistically satisfying and fitting to its grave mood. But a tragedy is not simply related through words; instead, it is demonstrated through action, its events pictured for its audience by its characters. Finally, a tragedy moves its audience to “pity and fear”—two emotional reactions based on the audience’s realization that what is portrayed in the tragedy is both understandable and applicable. It is not a stretch for the audience to realize that the horrors of the tragedy could happen to them as well. Yet the pity and fear do not remain within the audience, but are purified or purged from them (this is that hotly debated “catharsis” part of Aristotle’s definition). In short, watching someone else’s pain moves something within us to feel better about ourselves–a hero can suffer like us, we can survive when the hero does not, etc.

Bolstering this reaction of pity and fear is Aristotle’s claim about the hero of such a story. In his opinion, a tragic hero is “a [great] man who is neither a paragon of virtue and justice nor undergoes the change to misfortune through any real badness or wickedness but because of some mistake.” The tragic hero possesses a fatal flaw that makes him susceptible to whatever it is that causes his fall. So, the question is raised: Is Hamlet a tragic hero? A very strong argument can be made that he is. Second question: What is Hamlet’s fatal flaw? This is where it gets tricky.

Hamlet and Ophelia

Laurence Olivier argues in his film version of Hamlet (and many others would agree) that Hamlet’s flaw is his indecision. He cannot decide what is wrong with Denmark at the beginning of the play. He cannot determine if he should kill himself or not. He cannot adopt a solid position on whether women are good or evil. He cannot settle on whether the ghost of his father is telling the truth about his murder. He cannot resolve himself to kill the king his uncle. He cannot completely refrain from wanting to kill his mother. And so on and so forth.

I agree that Hamlet is too much in his own head. However, often what appears to be indecision is the result of a complicated rationalization that boils down to Hamlet’s struggle between doing what is right and acceptable within the religious and social norms of his culture and fulfilling what he sees as his destiny and filial obligation. Hamlet’s dilemma is presented to him when the ghost of his father reveals to him the previously unknown fact that he had been murdered by his brother (Hamlet’s uncle Claudius). As if this wasn’t enough to send Hamlet’s world spinning, Old Hamlet’s ghost then requires revenge of his son, calling for Hamlet to swear that he will kill Claudius but spare his mother Gertrude who has married the murderer. Now Hamlet has a big problem: he must choose between two sacred loyalties, his duty to avenge his deceased father and his duty to his sovereign (nevermind the fact that Hamlet probably should have been first in line to the throne when his father died…).

Hamlet before King Claudius and Queen Gertrude, his uncle and his mother respectively.

To me, Hamlet’s vacillation between his resolve to kill the king and his reluctance to actually see the bloody deed through are more a demonstration of his moral torment than a fatal flaw of indecisiveness. To kill a king was no minor offense. Kings were perceived as possessing a Divine Right, having been specifically chosen by God and given the honor and responsibility of kingship. To do away with God’s chosen leader was tantamount to an attack upon God Himself and, hence, was one of the most heinous crimes one could commit. So, regardless of the fact that Claudius himself is a king-killer, it is more than excusable that Hamlet would ponder long and hard about committing regicide himself. On the flip side, Hamlet owes loyalty to the true king, his father. It could be argued that Old Hamlet’s return in spectral form nullifies Claudius’ claim to the throne and transforms the ghost’s orders to Hamlet into royal commands that appeal to Hamlet’s religious and familial obligations to honor his father. We can boil down Hamlet’s crisis of indecision, then, to a question of whether family or kingdom requires the greater loyalty.

Such a demanding quandary leads Hamlet to doubt if the ghost is telling the truth—for certainly no loving parent would place his/her child in such a dilemma! Would Hamlet’s father really ask him to transgress everything he believes in and kill a king? This misgiving morphs Hamlet’s decision into a search for truth. Who actually has his best interest in mind? Whom can he trust? What really matters in life—Country? Family? Love? Loyalty? Revenge? Death? One’s destiny?

In the end (spoiler alert!), why does Hamlet finally kill Claudius? What is the tipping point for Hamlet in his quest to determine truth and find the appropriate way to right the wrongs of Denmark? Is it the treachery of Claudius in enlisting the mourning Laertes to diabolically murder Hamlet in what is supposed to be an “innocent” duel? Is it the accidental (or not so accidental in Olivier’s viewpoint) death of Gertrude, Hamlet’s mother? Is it pure rage at not being able to see his way out of the family vs. kingdom conundrum? Is it simply exhaustion and a longing to escape from the murderous oath he swore to the ghost of his father? Or, is it finally decisiveness after all of Hamlet’s wavering?

The morbid duel between Hamlet and Laertes.

For Me Then…

I think we most likely all agree that Claudius gets what he deserves. His death is satisfying in that it puts an end to his corruption and pays for the death of Old Hamlet. But does it really? Laertes and Hamlet both succumb to the king’s evil plan after his death (so Claudius’ evil continues post-mortem). And, can the death of a guilty man make up for the murder of an innocent one? Probably not.

Few if any of the other characters receive endings that are appropriate to how they have lived their lives. Why should we think Claudius is any different? In one scene, he even confesses his sins of covetousness, greed, and murder. But his first wrongs lead to more sins to cover up the first ones, and he cannot stop doing evil. In the play version of Hamlet, Hamlet himself is also a murderer, deceiving the King of England, which leads to the executions of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Hamlet’s killing of Claudius could be seen as an elimination of a witness to Hamlet’s crime. Plus, Hamlet’s rash stabbing of the eavesdropping Polonius is far from innocent. There are no winners in this play. All are vile in some way; all have sinned (except perhaps for Fortinbras, but he is not included in Olivier’s version).

There is no satisfactory solution to the conflict the play/film presents. It is a tragedy. As Aristotle explains, we the audience pity Hamlet’s predicament and the indecision it causes, and we fear that we could someday be asked to make a similar type of choice: family or country, revenge or forgiveness, evil or good. Hamlet’s tragic flaw, then, is that he is asked to do the impossible: make reparation for the sins of others, while being a sinner himself. His uncertainty of how to proceed stems from his knowing he is really choosing between an evil and an evil. The tragedy denies him an ethical solution.

One choice Hamlet could have made is to forgive. It is pretty wild to wonder what impact a sorrowful yet gracious and merciful Hamlet would have had on everything that is “rotten in Denmark.” But that would have potentially transformed Hamlet into a comedy instead of the brilliant tragedy that it is.

“To be, or not to be, that is the question…” Ah, how I love Shakespeare! Hope I didn’t just lose some readers with that admission! But it’s true. I don’t think I’ve ever read another writer whose language is so ingenious, so captivating, so memorable. This week’s Best Picture winner, Hamlet (1948, J. Arthur Rank-Two Cities Films), is the only Shakespearean play-turned-movie to ever win the Academy’s highest honor. And, no, Shakespeare in Love, 1998’s Best Picture, does not count as a legitimate Shakespearean work, though the bawdiness and quirky love story might have been appreciated by The Bard.

Throughout the decades of film, over 500 movies have granted Shakespeare a nod for writing in some capacity. Almost 300 of those writing credits are full adaptations of Shakespeare plays, including the one we’re discussing this week. Then there are those films with completely different titles, settings, and what not, but whose stories are based on works by Shakespeare, such as 1961’s Best Picture, West Side Story, which is based on Romeo and Juliet, and 1999’s 10 Things I Hate about You, which takes its inspiration from The Taming of the Shrew. In addition to the full adaptations and the “based on” movies, some films bear an uncanny resemblance to plays by Shakespeare without crediting him at all—which, I think, really speaks to the timelessness of his themes and storylines. One critic even noted the striking similarities between Disney’s The Lion King and Hamlet.

Laurence Olivier as the tortured Hamlet.

By far, Hamlet is the most popular of Shakespeare’s plays to be fit for the silver screen (followed by Romeo and Juliet, Macbeth, and Othello), so it isn’t super surprising that it would be the first and only Shakespeare play/movie to win Best Picture. In addition to its BP nomination, Hamlet was tapped for Music, Directing, Actress in a Supporting Role for Jean Simmons as Ophelia, Costume Design (Black-and-White), Art Direction (Black-and-White), and Actor for Laurence Olivier as Hamlet—seven total nominations, resulting in four wins (Best Motion Picture, Best Actor, Costume Design [the first year for this award], and Art Direction).

One thing I find super interesting about this rendition of Hamlet in particular is that Laurence Olivier both directed and starred in the film—a feat which I imagine to be infinitely difficult. In fact, Olivier is one of only two people to ever direct himself to a Best Actor Oscar win. The other man to accomplish this feat is Roberto Benigni, who stole the show at the 1999 Academy Awards when his Italian World War II film, Life is Beautiful (1998, limited release in 1997), garnered seven nominations and three wins (Foreign Language Film, Music [Original Dramatic Score], and Best Actor for Benigni). Benigni’s memorable “I want to kiss everybody” acceptance speech might ring a few bells with more recent fans of the Academy Awards, but back in the 20^th century, Laurence Olivier was the “it man” of film for a while, one of its brightest stars—renowned for his ability to perform Shakespearean roles, speaking The Bard’s words so naturally it was “as if he was thinking them.” During his career, Olivier was cast as some of the most epic of Shakespeare’s characters: Henry V, Richard III, Othello, Shylock, King Lear—and, of course, Hamlet. (Side note: Olivier’s repertoire of brilliant acting earned him a final resting place in Poet’s Corner at Westminster Abbey, an honor not often granted to actors.)

Without doubt, Hamlet is one of the most difficult characters for an actor to play—he is at various times depressed to the point of suicide, giddy enough to seem mad, murderously conniving without regard to other characters’ innocence, and uncontrollably sorrowful and vengeful. Hamlet’s notorious indecision is the focus of Olivier’s Freudian interpretation of the Danish prince as evidenced in the lines of the play seen on the screen as the film opens. In the original text, these lines read:

So, oft it chances in particular men,

That for some vicious mole of nature in them,

As in their birth—wherein they are not guilty,

Since nature cannot choose his origin—

By the o’ergrowth of some complexion,

Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason,

Or by some habit that too much o’er-leavens

The form of plausive manners, that these men—

Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect,

Being Nature’s livery, or Fortune’s star—

Their virtues else—be they as pure as grace,

As infinite as man may undergo—

Shall in the general censure take corruption

From that particular fault. (I.iv.26-39)

This introductory excerpt is next followed by a summary sentence: “This is the tragedy of a man who could not make up his mind.” In Olivier’s opinion, then, Hamlet has one flaw: his vacillation that prevents action. Like Shakespeare himself, Olivier’s take on Hamlet follows the definition of tragedy laid out by Aristotle in his Poetics. Hamlet is a tragic hero, evoking pity and fear in those who view the presentation of his story. But more about that this weekend…

For additional thoughts on Hamlet and its significance, please check out the full (and most tragic) post this weekend!

Any Mad Men fans out there? I’m not one of them. I watched the first episode once; and besides being bored out of my mind, I just couldn’t stomach the disgusting treatment the female characters received at the hands of the male ones. I’m sure part of the show’s premise is to demonstrate how women were degraded and objectified in 1960s corporate settings, but I just didn’t enjoy watching it.

I have a similar feeling toward this week’s BP, Gentleman’s Agreement. While the message of the film is that prejudice at any level is wrong and disgusting, what the film (probably unconsciously) does is discriminate against women. Setting the plot of the film aside for the moment, even the film’s characterization of its female roles portrays women as intellectually and morally inferior to their male counterparts. Protagonist Phil Green, for one, is quite taken aback that it is a woman, Kathy Lacy, who has suggested the newspaper do a series on anti-Semitism. His mother Mrs. Green replies sarcastically, “Why, women will be thinking next.” But Mrs. Green herself is consistently ga-ga eyed when Phil presents his ideas about how to approach his assignment, placing herself in an inferior rational role to his, relegating herself to cooking and cleaning and playing mother to Phil’s son Tommy. Likewise, though a member of the newspaper team, Anne Dettrey, the fashion editor, is just that. No controversial and/or mentally stimulating assignments for her. Most of the time she is on camera, Anne is either flitting around town or chilling in her office, apparently with nothing pressing to do, whereas the male characters only ever have important matters at hand. Elaine Wales, Phil’s Jewish secretary, while more than capable of performing her typing and other duties swiftly and accurately, has to have Phil spell out to her exactly how to lay out his article although she clearly has done the same work before. It’s as if because she is a woman, she needs a man to slowly enunciate her task for her again so she won’t fall into easy errors.

Anne and Phil

As far as the film’s portrayal of the morality of women, Phil’s mother is probably the only woman for whom nothing negative is implied. Then again, there honestly is a smidge of a hint of incestuous overtones between her and her son. But I think I don’t really want to get into that here. Gross. For Elaine, the secretary, she appears at first as a sympathetic character, relating how she had to change her name to something “less Jewish” in order to get her job at the newspaper. Then she proceeds to disparage her own religious community by stating that she hopes the newspaper’s revised hiring policy won’t lead to the newspaper being overrun by the “wrong Jews.” Anne, the fashion editor, although refreshingly not anti-Semitic, also fails in the morality category, giving the impression of being kind of a loose woman, often going out on the town at night with Phil’s married friend Dave Goldman. When Anne finally has a serious conversation with Phil after he has broken up with Kathy, it would seem that perhaps Anne is the best romantic match for Phil; but Phil only has feelings for Kathy, and Anne is left alone and rejected.

And now we come to Kathy Lacy, Phil Green’s love interest. Her ethics are most on display in the film. But let’s start with this interesting fact about the two lovers first: Phil is widowed and open to the possibility of love; Kathy is divorced but maintains an oddly close relationship with her former husband, practically leaping into a romantic relationship with Phil within minutes of meeting him. Hmmm…not really the typical “good woman” characterization we’re used to seeing in films of this time period. Next, Kathy is a flaming bigot—though she denies it and doesn’t realize this fact herself until late into the film. You see, Kathy’s prejudice seems to be something almost inherent—at least among the upper-class, wealthy, white people with whom Kathy likes to associate—and quite subtle. Kathy verbally supports Phil’s plan to pretend to be Jewish for his newspaper series, but in reality she is resistant to anything that will make others judge Phil to be miserly, traitorous, or any other of the negative characteristics that biased people apply to Jews in this film. Even when Kathy performs a very heartfelt act in comforting Tommy after he is bullied, her compassion is quickly reprimanded by Phil because her reassurance of Tommy is based on the bullies’ mislabeling him as Jewish, not on the fact that prejudice is wrong whether its degrading comments are accurately applied or not.

Kathy and Phil

For Me Then…

For most of the film, I was hoping that Phil would break up with Kathy and end up with Anne. It was so clear to me as a viewer that Kathy’s morals were inferior to those of Phil. Yet after pondering the film for a couple of days, I began to feel sorry for Kathy. She was set up by the time in which she lived. It’s not that I’m excusing her bigotry–far from it. I’ve just come to feel that she also is a victim of prejudice; and as a woman myself, that angers me.

Even the film’s title, Gentleman’s Agreement, is exclusive of women. Though Kathy shares the narrowmindedness of the upper-class snobs portrayed in the film, she does not hold responsibility for making the decision to exclude Jews from such society. That choice was made by the men, by the “gentlemen” who are afraid of change and of interacting and mixing with people who are different. Words of wisdom from one of my favorite films, Cool Runnings (yeah, mon, the one about the Jamaican bobsled team): “People are always afraid of what’s different.” I believe this is true to some extent for all of us, and I think I would have appreciated this film more had its premise of acceptance extended to women as well as to marginalized groups of people. Take that, Mad Men.

Prejudice. How applicable is a film about prejudice these days! Once upon a time a few years back, an educated person actually told me that racism was dead. I about fell out of my chair. This week’s Best Picture winner, Gentleman’s Agreement (1947, 20th Century-Fox), also took me by surprise—except it told me that prejudice existed where I hadn’t expected it to. Set in the aftermath of World War II, the film focuses on a journalist, Philip Schuyler Green, who is asked to write a series about anti-Semitism. At first Phil struggles with just how to approach the topic since he believes everything that can be written about it has been written already. At last he has an epiphany that the only way he can really understand anti-Semitism is to tell everyone that he himself is Jewish (which isn’t true). Phil then gets to experience prejudice first-hand.

Phil struggling to find the right angle for his anti-Semitic series.

What shocked me the most about Gentleman’s Agreement is its premise that most people are at least a little prejudiced against some particular group that is “other” than themselves. The timing of the making and release of this film was also a bit disturbing. Prior to viewing this film, I never considered anti-Semitism to have been such a large and widespread problem in the United States during and after WWII. To me, this was more a Nazi-led, European-centered issue. In that sense, Gentleman’s Agreement gave me quite the wake-up call.

Based on the best-selling 1947 novel by Laura Z. Hobson, which the New York Times declared should be “required reading for every thoughtful citizen in this perilous century,” the film version of Gentleman’s Agreement garnered eight Academy Award nominations, including: Writing (Screenplay), Film Editing, Actor for Gregory Peck as Phil Green, Actress for Dorothy McGuire as Kathy Lacy, and Actress in a Supporting Role for Anne Revere as Mrs. Green. The film won three Oscars: Best Motion Picture, Actress in a Supporting Role for Celeste Holm as Anne Dettrey, and Director for Elia Kazan.

This was the first of two Oscars for Elia Kazan. He would also win for directing 1954’s Best Picture, On the Waterfront, which featured a young Marlon Brando. Kazan, who was born in 1909 in Constantinople in the Ottoman Empire (now Istanbul in Turkey)—that just blows my mind—became famous for his films about social issues, many of which were controversial and/or quite shocking to their original viewers. In addition to BPs Gentleman’s Agreement and On the Waterfront, Kazan also directed such notable films as A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (1945), A Streetcar Named Desire (1951), East of Eden (1955), and Splendor in the Grass (1961). In addition to his reputation for “issues” films, Kazan became known for his ability to draw out the best performances from his actors, directing 21 Oscar-nominated performances (9 of which won the Academy Award).

Elia Kazan raising his honorary Oscar at the 1999 Academy Awards.

What I remember about Elia Kazan (who passed away in 2003 at the age of 94) was a strange incident that took place at the Academy Awards in 1999. The media was all buzzing about whether the other Hollywood stars and big-wigs would give him a standing ovation when he was awarded an honorary Oscar that night. When Kazan finally came out on the stage, I was super confused regarding the big controversy that surrounded him. He was such a small and very old man. What could he possibly have done? Well, what Kazan did was to voluntarily testify against colleagues and acquaintances before the House Un-American Activities Committee in 1952 during the Red Scare. His words helped to ruin the careers (and, undoubtedly, the lives) of some members of Hollywood. On the flip side, he had made great movies. What was the Academy to do; for as Gregory Peck, the star of Gentleman’s Agreement, noted in 1999, shouldn’t someone’s work be considered separate from his/her life and be rewarded? Hmmm, kind of a conundrum. Anyhow, Kazan was recognized for his achievements in film. Some Hollywoodites stood and clapped; others sat and clapped; still others sat with crossed arms and tried to look grumpier than they ever had before (Look this up on YouTube; it’s fascinating!). Years later after I had studied the Red Scare and McCarthyism in more detail, I dug out my old VCR recording of the 1999 Oscars and re-watched that odd scene, fascinated by the carryover of hatred and—gulp—bigotry nearly 50 years after Kazan’s testimony. What captivated my thoughts about Gentleman’s Agreement last night, then, was how someone could direct a film that pointed a finger at anti-Semitism and then point his own finger at suspected communists. But then I realized I was pointing my own finger.

For more thoughts on Gentleman’s Agreement and its significance, please check out the full post this weekend!

Twenty movies down; sixty-nine to go! I’ve decided that every 10 weeks/10 movies, I will post an updated list of my rankings of the Best Pictures, just so anyone who so desires can squabble about it. Before anyone harasses me too much, though, let me just say that sometimes I really sit and agonize over what ranking to give a film–like the one I just watched tonight, Gentleman’s Agreement (Weekday Warm-up for that will be up tomorrow, I hope!)–so as the films percolate in my brain, they might slide up or down in the rankings! Talk about indecision! Without further ado, here’s my current list:

1. Gone with the Wind
2. You Can’t Take It with You
3. All Quiet on the Western Front
4. The Best Years of Our Lives
5. Casablanca
6. It Happened One Night
7. Rebecca
8. Mrs. Miniver
9. Mutiny on the Bounty
10. The Great Ziegfeld
11. How Green Was My Valley
12. Going My Way
13. The Life of Emile Zola
14. Cavalcade
15. Wings
16. The Lost Weekend
17. Gentleman’s Agreement
18. Cimarron
19. The Broadway Melody
20. Grand Hotel

Please feel free to leave feedback and/or include your own rankings list in the comment box below! Thanks!

Think back for a moment. What were the best years of your life? What made those years the best? Was it the people you knew, the places you went to or in which you lived? The activities you did?

This week’s BP could have been given many different titles—A Long Time Coming, Homecoming, Soldiers’ Return, The Long Way Back, Life after War, etc., etc. Some of those might sound lame, but they all capture the basic gist of the film. Therefore, the movie’s actual title, The Best Years of Our Lives, seems a little odd. Just what particular years does the title denote? Who are the people referred to by “Our”? The film’s three returning veterans and their families all wrestle with this concept of when their lives were/are most meaningful—i.e., what the best years of their lives were, are, or will be.

The Stephenson family reunited.

For Al Stephenson and his family, his return home to Boone City means that he needs to reacquaint himself with his wife Millie and his now-grown children Peggy and Rob, and they need to get to know Al again. The complexity of their relationships arises when they all realize how much the war years have changed each of them. Al drinks more than he used to—in fact, he is frequently drunk and not entirely cogent in much of the film. Rob is unemotional, distant, and obsessed with modern-day facts—more interested in if his dad “happen[ed] to notice any of the effects of radioactivity on the people who survived the blast” at Hiroshima than in the sentimental presents his father has brought him from the conflicts in the Pacific. Peggy has taken the place of the Stephensons’ maid/cook, which displeases her father; but she appears to thrive in the role. More practical than her brother, Peggy also works in a hospital and throughout the film demonstrates compassion for others who are suffering in various capacities. Millie, Al’s wife, is the constant in the house, but she must learn to cope with Al’s heavy drinking and continual presence after years of separation.

Al and his family, then, seem to have experienced good years prior to his years in the service. For Al, his time in the military was a success (more good years), and he has returned to a prosperous, happy home. He is even offered a promotion at his previous job as a banker, the bank owner asking him to serve as vice president of a new division approving loans for returning servicemen, a promising position in which Al can help some of his brothers-in-arms. For Al’s family, his time away from them was filled with challenges to the way of life they were used to; but they adjusted and succeeded in retaining their positivity. In the case of the Stephensons, the viewer imagines that their future years could prove to be their best.

Homer attempts to dissuade Wilma from loving him by enlightening her about the constant difficulties he faces without hands.

For Homer Parrish and his family, it is clear that the future will not be simple or easy. Returning from the war with prosthetic hooks in place of his hands, Homer will be in a constant state of adjustment for a while, having to relearn the simplest actions and activities and forever lacking some aspects of independence. While Homer’s Uncle Butch implies that Homer’s family will get used to his new hands in time, Homer’s main concern is for his girlfriend Wilma, whom he had promised to marry upon his return home from the war. For Homer, a former stand-out high school football player, it would seem that the best years are behind him. The present is frustrating and lonely, and the future looks full of challenges. Ironically, it is Wilma, the one for whom Homer experiences the most anxiety, whose love allows him to hope for a brighter future than the one he had anticipated upon his arrival home. For Wilma, the war years were not the best time of her life, for she was missing Homer. His arrival renews her hope in the future—regardless of any physical difficulties he might face. Wilma’s faithfulness and patience combined with Homer’s optimism will no doubt sustain them both in the years to come.

Fred and his war wife Marie.

What years are the best for Fred Derry is also a complicated issue. For Fred, the time before the war was one of economic and personal struggle, stuck as he was in a job for which he had no passion. The war years were glorious for Fred, transforming him from a soda jerk into a military hero, one whose heroics had earned him the Distinguished Flying Cross. Upon returning home, though, Fred finds himself in a world that doesn’t necessarily have a place for him. He struggles to find employment and has to settle for his former mediocre job. He discovers his wife Marie, whom he met and married while in training and whom he hardly knows, doesn’t actually love him now that his monthly allotment checks have stopped coming and he isn’t always wearing his flashy uniform. Instead, Marie wants to spend her time in snazzy clubs with rich, handsome men. Poor Fred finds that his affections are really for Peggy, Al’s daughter; but Fred’s marriage to the flighty, selfish Marie prevents him from marrying for real love. Oddly, it is Marie, perhaps the most unlikeable character in the movie, who mentions the film’s title when she angrily tells Fred, “I gave up the best years of my life [to marry you]”—a reference to the fact that she views the war years, a time of absence and death, as the penultimate time of her life.

Fred battles some of his war demons in the nose of a discarded war plane.

At the end of the film (spoiler alert!), Fred is in the same condition as the hundreds and hundreds of war planes that have been dragged to the junk yard outside of Boone City. No longer necessary and unwanted in society, the once-proud planes sit useless in a field until they are dismantled, never to fly again. Fred wanders the field aimlessly, biding the time until he can catch a flight out of Boone City, having agreed on a divorce with Marie and having told Peggy he couldn’t continue their relationship. He climbs into the nose of a crippled B-17, wrestling with both his past and his present—a former time that he thought was glorious and a present time that was supposed to be. Ironically, Fred is called out of the plane by a former Army veteran whose new job is to dismantle the planes and use their materials for building houses. Fred asks for a job and is given one—he himself mirroring the recycling of the old war machines, the opportunity for a hopeful (domestic) future blooming from the remnants of the war. The film’s final image of Fred and Peggy kissing at Homer and Wilma’s wedding suggests that the future, while it will include hard work and economic struggles, holds the promise of being the best years for them as well.

For Me Then…

It is interesting to ponder the film’s title again. Could it be that the instant camaraderie of Al, Homer, and Fred indicates that the best time of their lives was during the war when they were constantly included in a brotherhood of men who were bonded by a thirst for life and a familiarity with death? Is the film saying that what brings about the best time of one’s life is something relationship-based?

Throughout the entire film, the three main characters struggle to resume/find their places in society, only to realize that society is eager to move on from the war—in fact, it would seem that American life has moved on and has left the returning servicemen behind. Tragically, their battlefield feats of courage and bravery along with military recognition gain nothing tangible for the returning veterans. While they attempt to block out the recurrent nightmares and relive the adrenaline-pumping heroics from the war, the rest of society stresses about veterans needing jobs and how future wars will make the losses of World War II irrelevant, leading the veterans to make the uncomfortable conclusion that they are irrelevant as well. However, while Al, Homer, and Fred flounder in society, separated from their war comrades who made the war years “the best,” they come to realize that other relationships—with their families and with the women they love—can offer a very similar type of love, a love that will sacrifice everything and continue regardless of difficulties. In that sense, we can hope the best years are ahead for Al, Homer, and Fred.

In The Greatest Generation, Tom Brokaw begins his collection of stories of World War II participants with the account of a man named Tom Broderick. Broderick was nineteen and a pre-med student when he joined the Merchant Marine in 1943. After his training and a mission to North Africa, he shocked his superiors and quit, citing boredom and lack of a challenge. He then reenlisted, this time in the Airborne, training as a paratrooper. His first jump landed him in the Battle of Arnhem in Holland in September 1944, and five days later he got too high in a foxhole and was shot through the head. A chaplain prepared to administer last rites to the Catholic Broderick; but he managed to survive, though he would never see again.

Upon returning home, Broderick was initially angry and confused. For a brief while, he believed his life might be over. Nevertheless, he threw himself into the study of braille and took courses in insurance sales, eventually starting his own insurance business. He married and had seven children, whose friends often didn’t believe that Broderick was blind because he had taught himself to do so many different things. In the Vietnam era, the local Veterans Administration office would send blinded soldiers to Broderick’s house, where he would share with them his accomplishments and encourage them to believe their lives were far from over. Brokaw writes of Broderick:

Tom Broderick in so many ways embodies the best qualities of his generation. He was so eager to get involved in the war he enlisted in two branches of service. He was gravely wounded, but once he got over the initial understandable anger, he set out to be the best husband, father, businessman, and citizen he could be—sight or no sight. He didn’t grow bitter and dependent on others. He didn’t blame the world for his condition.

This week’s Best Picture winner, The Best Years of Our Lives (1946, Samuel Goldwyn Productions), follows the stories of three veterans who return home to Boone City from serving overseas in WWII. Like Tom Broderick, they must adjust to “normal” life again—or, to the new normal. Al has a newfangled drinking problem. Fred has a wife he barely knows. Homer no longer has hands. Each man struggles to cope with the lingering horrors of war as well as the uncertainty of reentering a world that has gone on living—and changing—without him. Now separated from the rest of their brothers-in-arms (the only ones who shared their experiences and can understand their feelings), the three men form an instant camaraderie when they share a flight home on a B-17 bomber on its way to being retired in Boone City.

Homer, Fred, and Al on their trip home in the soon-to-be-retired bomber.

The Best Years of Our Lives proved to be the biggest box-office success since Gone with the Wind (1939). Nominated for eight competitive Oscars, The Best Years of Our Lives won seven: Film Editing, Music (Music Score of a Dramatic or Comedy Picture), Writing (Screenplay), Directing, Actor for Fredric March as Al Stephenson, Actor in a Supporting Role for Harold Russell as Homer Parrish, and Best Motion Picture (it failed to capture the award for Sound Recording, its eighth nomination). In addition to those seven Oscars, Samuel Goldwyn, the producer of The Best Years of Our Lives, was awarded the Irving G. Thalberg Memorial Award (For some interesting info on this award, check out the Academy’s official Thalberg page: http://www.oscars.org/governors/thalberg); and Harold Russell, Best Supporting Actor winner, was presented with a special award “for bringing hope and courage to his fellow veterans through his appearance in The Best Years of Our Lives.”

Homer’s legendary salute

Both Russell and his film character Homer linger in the minds and hearts of viewers of this film (The scene in which the handless Homer salutes Al and Fred, raising his prosthetic hook to his forehead is both brilliant and poignant). Russell himself was a bonafide WWII hero. Enlisting in the Army after the attack on Pearl Harbor, Russell became a paratrooper and also worked in demolition, excelling at both enough to become an instructor himself. On D-Day while the Allies were invading the coast of France, Russell was in North Carolina teaching demolition when defective TNT exploded in his hands. The remnants of his hands were amputated the next day, and he chose steel hooks for his prosthetic devices, becoming so adept at using them that he joked the only thing he couldn’t do with them was pick up a dinner check.

The War Department featured Russell in a short film entitled “Diary of a Sergeant,” which followed Russell around as he performed daily tasks, demonstrating to other soldiers suffering from amputation that they could still function in a relatively normal way. William Wyler, who had already been asked to direct The Best Years of Our Lives, saw the short film and asked Russell to join his cast. The rest is Oscar history. Harold Russell, a non-actor, is the only person to ever win two Academy Awards for the same performance in the same film—Actor in a Supporting Role and the Special Award that was given to him. According to legend, no one believed Russell would win Supporting Actor, so the Special Award was expected/planned to be his only honor for his role in the film! After his brief dip into the Hollywood spotlight, Russell went back to college, earning a business degree and becoming a passionate advocate for disabled veterans. He later sold one of his Oscars (against the Academy’s wishes) for $60,500 to pay his ill wife’s medical bills. He kept the Oscar he received “for bringing hope and courage to his fellow veterans,” which, I think, shows where his heart truly was.

Harold Russell with his two Oscars.

Like Tom Broderick, the undaunted veteran who lost his sight, Harold Russell’s life and traumatic war experience imbued strength and courage to those around him. Though his body was broken, his spirit was not. Instead of focusing on the negative, both Broderick and Russell made choices to see the positive. As Russell said, “It is not what you have lost but what you have left that counts.”

For more thoughts on The Best Years of Our Lives and its significance, please check out the full post this weekend! In honor of Tom Broderick and Harold Russell, you can view their obituaries, tributes to the lives of two self-less, courageous men, at the following sites: http://articles.chicagotribune.com/2006-02-14/news/0602140249_1_mr-broderick-blind-date-merchant-marine, http://www.nytimes.com/2002/02/01/arts/harold-russell-dies-at-88-veteran-and-oscar-winner.html.

The Lost Weekend debates whether or not Don Birnam, the film’s alcoholic protagonist, is able to be “cured” of his “disease” by presenting the “alcohol philosophies” of several characters. Helen, Don’s girlfriend, views alcohol addiction as a medical problem that a good doctor could cure. Wick, Don’s brother, sees it as a physical weakness, a lack of restraint, self-control, and self-respect. Bim, the male nurse in the detox ward of the hospital, tells Don that alcoholism is a historical problem that can be blamed mostly on Prohibition. But perhaps what Don, the one who suffers the most in the film, thinks about alcoholism is most important—and most accurate (in the film’s opinion). Don seems to think that his addiction is a psychological issue. He cites failures in the past (the squelching of a promising writing career) as the start of his dependence on the bottle and difficulties in the present (his current writer’s block) as the reason why he can’t escape from his need for liquor. Yet, alcohol is still the salvation Don turns to in order to assuage the psychological pain he feels from rejection and failure and the hope he looks to for inspiration to turn his life around.

Admittedly, alcohol has split Don into two people, “Don the Drunk and Don the Writer.” For most of film, Don (in his “Drunk” identity) displays immoral and godless traits such as stealing, lying, and disregarding the feelings of others. Don sums up his irreligious way of life in a metaphor to Nat, the bartender, when instructing him not to wipe up the wet circles left behind by Don’s shot glass: “Don’t wipe it away, Nat. Let me have my little vicious circle. You know, the circle is the perfect geometric figure. No end, no beginning.” It’s a thought-provoking metaphor—and an appropriate one (mostly)—for Don’s story is like a circle itself (as is the film with its similar opening and closing sequences). There is no start and no finish to his drinking. It is constant.

Don and Nat–and the ever-present bottle–at Nat’s bar

But Don’s comparison is notable in a couple of other ways too. First, he calls the circle “vicious.” Vicious can mean “deliberately cruel or violent” or “immoral.” In using the first definition of the word vicious, power is assigned to the liquor—or, more specifically, to the entrapment caused by the spirits. What Don physically consumes rules his life and eliminates his choices. He only steals and lies because the alcohol makes him. Or so Don believes. It is interesting to note that, while blaming the alcohol for his messed-up life, Don also expresses possession of his ring of addiction: “my vicious little circle.” Even as he drinks himself senseless, Don realizes his weakness for liquor; can remember the events that led to his choosing to rely on the bottle; and is able to anticipate how each drink will affect his body, mind, and actions. So, in his philosophy of alcoholism, Don is confused. Who has the power, Don or the drink?

Don completes his circle metaphor by emphasizing that the ring of addiction has no beginning and no end. This reminds me of several Bible references in which God is called the Beginning and the End. In Revelation 21:6, God declares, “I am the Alpha and the Omega, the Beginning and the End.” A little later in Revelation 22:13, He repeats again, “I am the Alpha and the Omega, the First and the Last, the Beginning and the End.” From Don’s viewpoint, the circle of alcoholism has no beginning and end—no god/God—but that is not completely true, is it? In Don Birnam’s life, alcohol is the Beginning and the End. Drink is his god— he worships it, and it guides the decisions he makes.

The circles from Don’s shot glass–demonstrating his captivity to his god, alcohol.

Ironically, toward the end of the film, the craving for alcohol leads Don to the decision to pawn the beloved typewriter his mother gave him. This typewriter is the most significant item Don owns as it is symbolic of his hopes and dreams of becoming a successful writer. Pawning the typewriter is synonymous with Don’s complete and final surrender to alcohol. Desperate and disheveled, Don stumbles down the streets of New York searching for a pawn shop that will buy the typewriter. In what Helen would term a miracle, all the pawn shops are closed to observe the Jewish holiday of Yom Kippur (more than a few racial overtones there…). The funny thing is, Yom Kippur means “Day of Atonement,” and its purpose is to allow people one last chance to “afflict their souls” and atone for the sins they have committed in the past year—the sins between themselves and God. As he painfully lurches down one street after another, simultaneously seeking his god (a drink) and listening to what his god tells him to do (pawn the typewriter), Don poignantly participates in this idea of atonement, wrestling with his god and afflicting his soul.

This tormenting scene thick with religious implications does not lead to Don’s salvation, though (spoiler alert!). What ultimately saves Don (so we think/hope) is another religious concept—the greatest of all—love. According to Don, love is “so simple,” and yet it is “the hardest thing in the world to write about.” Don finds love in Helen, his girlfriend—but the love that changes Don, that saves his life and renews his passion for writing, isn’t a gushy romantic love but a deep, longsuffering, self-sacrificial love that picks Don up every time he falls down, believes in him even while he is failing, and waits for him regardless of how long it takes him to grapple with his demons. Where Don’s alcoholic philosophy and circle-like life are complicated and infinitely repressive, the simplicity of faithful love shatters his reverence toward his addiction and introduces hope into the end of a pretty dark film.

A desperate Don lugs his typewriter around in search of a pawn shop during Yom Kippur.

For Me Then…

Let’s just be honest here. We all struggle with something. Whether its alcohol or drugs or pornography—or what we often view as less toxic: work or television or food. There are memories we’d like to forget, insecurities we want to block out, needs we try to meet in the wrong ways or at the wrong times or in the wrong amounts—as a whole, we can potentially be a very messed-up, broken-down bunch of people. And any one of us can easily become Don Birnam, regardless of if his/her struggle is alcohol-related or not. There is a void in the lives of each of us; and, speaking from experience here, we so often try to fill the void by plugging the proverbial square peg into the round hole, which just makes the hurt that much worse, the emptiness that much deeper.

Enter that “simple” little thing called love—the round peg for the round hole. In The Lost Weekend, religion doesn’t do anything for Don. Although he doesn’t specifically seek out help from any religious institutions, the representations of religion (holidays, churches) are all around him—and they’re not super active in lending him a hand up from where he wallows on the sidewalk. But that’s not true religion like we talked about last week with Going My Way. True religion is about love. The same God who said He is the Beginning and the End also says He is love and that love comes from Him (I John 4:7). Love gives hope to Don, a worst-case scenario of drunken despair, and it can give hope to the rest of us as well.