What makes a person great?

This week’s film Gandhi clearly promotes its title character as a great man—but what is it that makes Gandhi unique and worthy of being recognized by multitudes as seen in the film? Well, I think his greatness stems from a few things. First, he is willing to stand up for a cause he believes in. We see this over and over in the movie. In the opening scene, British conductors throw Gandhi off a train in South Africa for insisting that as an Indian man he is also a British citizen with the rights of any other subject of the Crown—this mistreatment launches Gandhi’s peaceful campaign to earn better rights (and ideally, equality) for Indians in South Africa. Although the British respond to his policy of non-violent protest with brutality, Gandhi and his followers stand firm for their cause and are rewarded with increased rights for Indians.

Gandhi and supporters marching for Indian rights in South Africa.

Gandhi returns to his native India as a hero, where he is asked to take up another fight—that of Indian independence from Britain. Again, Gandhi passionately dedicates himself to his cause and believes he is doing what is right. However, as he tells the Indian leaders who ask him for his support, he must discover whom exactly he is working for—in other words, he needs to come to know the people of India, the real people, not just those of the upper echelons. I think the effort Gandhi and his friends and family make to learn about the land and its inhabitants, to truly come to know how the people think and feel and what they want for their country, is another thing that makes Gandhi great. He understands that political power originates with the people and that leading a nation is really all about knowing what the people need. Moreover, Gandhi begins to live as the Indian people do, adopting their dress and learning how to make his own cloth. He truly becomes one of those for whom he is fighting. And, in this fight for Indian independence, Gandhi again emphasizes non-violence and passive action—making speeches and leading demonstrations—even when British tactics involve massacre and further oppression.

Gandhi as a leader in India.

After the British grant India its independence following World War II, Gandhi faces a challenge of another kind. Whereas before he had been attempting to gain rights for his people and then separate them from a foreign power, in his later years he must figure out how to unite a country composed of individuals whose religious convictions vary. Gandhi’s solution to this dilemma is to grant concessions to different groups—oh, and he goes on hunger strikes when violence erupts, believing that the people love and honor him enough that the threat of his death (which would then be blamed on their inability to get along with each other) is enough to quell the uprisings. But while his toleration of other’s belief choices is admirable (even if his self-starvation seems childish and unwise), it also (spoiler alert) leads to his assassination by a young man who is displeased with Gandhi’s policy of peace. At the end of his life, then, Gandhi is both loved and hated, a wise man and a foolish one, an advocate of peace perhaps at war with himself over the unrest in his beloved country.

For Me Then…

It’s easy to make comparisons between Gandhi and Martin Luther King, Jr. Both men fought non-violent campaigns for people they loved and causes they believed in; and although their dreams were realized, their work and dedication cost them their lives. But in addition to their moral, social, and political achievements, Gandhi and King are also still remembered and honored today in large part because they advocated policies of love over hatred.

One particular statement about love that Gandhi makes in the film (and said in real life) really resonated with me this week: “When I despair, I remember that all through history the way of truth and love has always won. There have been tyrants, and murderers, and for a time they can seem invincible, but, in the end, they always fall. Think of it. Always.” Honestly, it’s been a rather rough day for me today, and Gandhi’s statement of confidence and hope that good always wins out in the end reminded me of the greatest Man, One who also spoke words of peace and love: Jesus. And in I Corinthians 13:8, Jesus’ message of love is presented by the Apostle Paul: “Love never fails.” People may fail. They might mistreat us or disappoint us, but violence and retaliation are not the solution. The only real way to solve the world’s problems—as well as our own personal ones—is through unconditional love. I think Gandhi’s message of love is what most made him a great person.

Thank you all for your continued support of FlicksChick.com! I will be taking a bit of a break from the blog to spend time with family (and to hopefully finish this never-ending thesis!). See you in a few weeks!

Remember cute, little Dr. Hammond, the elderly developer of one of the most famous parks in cinematic history? Here’s a hint if you can’t recall him: his park had dinosaurs in it. It’s name was Jurassic Park, of course; and what a great vision he had for it (though there were a few kinks to work out…). Idealistic to the end, though, Hammond shares with a horrified Dr. Ellie Sattler, “Creation is an act of sheer will. Next time it’ll be flawless.” This is after dinosaur rampages have killed several people. Anyway, the point in bringing up dear Dr. Hammond and his desire to achieve a seemingly impossible dream is that the actor who played the great innovator/dreamer (Richard Attenborough) was in real life a pretty spectacular creator himself—and the director of this week’s Best Picture winner, Gandhi (1982, Indo-British Film Production; Columbia).

Dr. Hammond in his Jurassic Park (i.e. Gandhi’s director, Richard Attenborough).

Gandhi (the film) became Richard Attenborough’s dream project after he was contacted by a former follower of Mahatma Ghandi and had read Louis Fischer’s Life of Mahatma Gandhi (1950). “I just love biography,” Attenborough once confessed, “and I’m fascinated by people who have shifted our destinies or our points of view.” However, only after a series of setbacks delayed film production for 18 years, was Attenborough finally able to raise the money and assemble the cast and crew needed to complete the massive project. For just a taste of the challenges involved in making the film, here’s a fun fact: the funeral scene alone features more than 300,000 extras. Incredible!

Attenborough faced another challenge that had nothing to do with money or with human participants in the making of the film. He had to figure out how to deal with the legacy of a man whom many in India viewed as a deity. Years before the film actually went into production, then Indian prime minister Jawaharlal Nehru warned Attenborough to be careful not to “deify” Gandhi because he was too great a man to be given such treatment in film (sounds a bit like circular reasoning to me…). However, the Indian government funded one third of the film, and popular opinion is always a strong influence…Suffice it to say, the debate continues about whether the film portrays Gandhi in a truly historical way or whether it shows him to be more than human. But such is the struggle when making a film about a larger-than-life personality from the past (Exhibit A: Braveheart (1995), a lovely but inaccurate historical account of the life of Scotland’s William Wallace).

A shot from the funeral scene in Gandhi. Yes, those little dots are all real people.

Years later, Attenborough himself commented on the challenges of creating a film like Gandhi: “Those movies are very difficult to make, and if you’re not prepared or interested in science fiction, which in terms of movies I’m not, if you’re not interested in terms of all the CGI stuff that you can now do in the cinema which is quite remarkable compared to the time that I was making movies, 30, 40, 50 years ago, then if you’re not prepared to indulge in the pornography of violence or overt sexual matter, it’s very, very difficult. It is hard to raise the money…And if you don’t have something which they believe will reach an enormous audience, then they won’t go for it. And so you fall out.”

Despite the years of struggle, Attenborough and Gandhi were dynamically successful, garnering eleven Academy Award nominations and taking home eight Oscar statuettes for Art Direction, Cinematography, Film Editing, Costume Design, Writing (Screenplay Written Directly for the Screen), Actor in a Leading Role for Ben Kingsley as Mahatma Gandhi, Director for Richard Attenborough, and Best Picture. It did not win for Sound, Makeup, and Music (Original Score). The loss in the Music category was probably expected, for who can really compete with John Williams and the score from E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial? Ironically, Attenborough was absolutely convinced that E.T. was a better film than his own Gandhi and greatly deserving of the BP win it didn’t get. So a little over a decade later, when Steven Spielberg (E.T.’s director) requested that Attenborough return to acting after a 14-year hiatus to play the deluded, optimistic Dr. Hammond in Jurassic Park (1993), Attenborough was more than honored to work with his former competition—and the rest is cinematic history.

Steven Spielberg and Richard Attenborough at the premiere of Jurassic Park.

For more thoughts on Gandhi and its significance, please check out the full post this weekend!

“And where does the power come from, to see the race to its end? From within…If you commit yourself to the love of Christ, then that is how you run a straight race.”

~ Eric Liddell in Chariots of Fire

Chariots of Fire is essentially the story of two men and their religions: Harold Abrahams, a Jew, and Eric Liddell, a Christian. Both men see their running as an extension of those religious convictions. For Abrahams, being Jewish is a trial that he did not choose and cannot avoid, and he is convinced that success on the track is a way that he can prove his worth to non-Jews, whom he perceives as critical of his every move. In answer to his soon-to-be girlfriend Sybil’s query about whether he loves running, Abrahams replies, “I’m more of an addict. It’s a compulsion with me, a weapon I can use…[against] being Jewish.” Abrahams’ running style mirrors his goal: he attacks his races and views his competitors as if they are enemies.

On the flip side, Eric Liddell doesn’t really see himself as solely a runner. Instead, he is foremost a missionary, a preacher, and an example to those around him of a life completely dedicated to God. When his sister Jennie expresses concern that his running is interfering with his work for God, he tells her, “I believe God made me for a purpose, for China, but He also made me fast. And when I run, I feel His pleasure. To give it up would be to hold Him in contempt.” Like Abrahams, Liddell’s running style reflects his philosophy about the sport: he runs as fast as he can for the whole race, his arms flailing wildly and his head thrown back with an expression of awe and utter delight—like he is communing with God during the race.

Liddell (right) defeats a stunned Abrahams in their first competitive meeting.

By the end of the film (spoiler alert!), both men have become gold medalists at the 1924 Olympic Games, but how they approach those races on the world’s biggest stage—as well as how they react to their victories—could not be more different. Abrahams, true to his conviction that everyone is against him, hires a professional trainer, Sam Mussabini, in his desperation to defeat the stiff competition he’s been scouting. But their sessions and preparations become more secretive when the University of Cambridge, Abrahams’ school, objects to him (as an amateur) being trained by a paid coach. Oh, and Mussabini is also half Italian, and the recent termination of WWI didn’t leave the Italians in the most friendliest of relationships with the British…which, of course, Abrahams picks up on. Anyhow, Mussabini’s methods work for Abrahams, and he is victorious over his “enemies” in the 100-meter sprint. Yet rather than elation, Abrahams sinks into depression after his race, uncertain what to do with his life now that his one goal, his way of “justify[ing]” his “whole existence,” is over.

For Liddell, the Olympics, which were supposed to be a culminating achievement before his return to the mission field in China, turn into a test of his faith and commitment to God. Discovering that his qualifying heat for the 100-meter sprint is scheduled to be held on Sunday, a day which Liddell believes should be completely set aside for God and not for sports, Liddell is faced with the tough choice of whether to run and break what he sees as God’s law or to withdraw and lose the opportunity of a lifetime. Liddell pulls out of the race despite intense pressure from the British Olympic Committee, which includes the Prince of Wales. Liddell’s faithfulness is rewarded when Lord Lindsay, already having won a silver medal, sacrifices his place in the 400-meter race in order for Liddell to have a chance to compete. Even though the 400 meters isn’t Liddell’s strength, he wins the gold medal and is carried off the field in triumph by his teammates—including Abrahams. Liddell’s victory on the track mirrors the excerpt of the biblical verse Jackson Scholz, one of the American runners, hands him prior to the race: “He who honors Me, I will honor” (I Samuel 2:30). For Liddell, there are no regrets, no doubts about the future, no qualms that achieving a dream has crushed all the meaning out of his life. His win is simply God’s reward to a humble man who stood up for what he believed.

Liddell and his teammates rejoice over his victory in the 400.

For Me Then…

I used to believe that, in the case of athletic competitions, God would reward those who honored Him by providing them with victories. In other words, the success of a team depended on the level of their godliness. At least, that was what I had been taught when I was younger. However, as I got older, I learned from some rather difficult losses that sports victories are not necessarily the guaranteed result of living a godly life. In fact, one might even be able to say that Eric Liddell’s winning a gold medal in a race that wasn’t his forte might be in the minority of occurrences in which acts of faith resulted in (specifically) athletic victory.

But in watching Chariots of Fire again this week, I was re-contemplating this idea. Certainly, in Liddell’s case God honored someone who honored Him, but the honor Liddell received was not limited to his Olympic victory. In addition to the gold medal he won, Liddell was also honored by the attention he received by taking a stand for what he believed in. His story and his beliefs were placed before the entire world—allowing him a platform to speak the truth to those who might not otherwise pay attention. Furthermore, after his win, the notoriety of what he had said and done permitted the good news of Christianity to spread further than it would have otherwise. In short, Liddell definitely received more from God than simply a gold medal.

A gold medal is still pretty spectacular, though, I must admit! But to comment on Abrahams before this post closes, let me quote another fabulous sports movie, Cool Runnings (1993), the story of the 1988 Jamaican bobsled team: “A gold medal is a wonderful thing. But if you’re not enough without it, you’ll never be enough with it.” For Abrahams—especially in contrast with Liddell—winning is personal in the sense that he needs to prove his equality as a Jew in a prejudiced society. But in protesting his need to “stick it to” everyone who is against him, Abrahams fools himself, for the person he really needs to convince about his worth is himself. He is incorrect that winning defines him; he still has value even when he loses. Plus, when his competitive running days are over and there is no more winning, where will his self-worth (and method of proving it) come from? Such is Abrahams’ crisis at the end of the film. His inability to love himself—despite what others think or say about him—prevents him from finding peace during his competitions (regardless of their outcomes) and hope after he is victorious.

To the contrary, Eric Liddell’s identity doesn’t rest on his running ability or number of victories—and he undoubtedly knows this. Win or lose, Liddell finds rest and peace before, during, and after every competition because he is a Christian. His hope is in Christ for his present and his future, and his purpose is God’s purpose. He is not without trials and difficulties, but he knows from whence comes his strength to finish each race—for the races involving running and for the race of life.

I think it’s safe to say that Chariots of Fire (1981, Enigma Productions Limited; The Ladd Company/Warner Bros.) is a pretty rare film in our stack of Best Picture winners—and it’s one of the biggest reasons I’ve been looking forward to getting to the movies of the 1980s. After a steady stream of violent, provocative, and disturbing winners, this BP, while undoubtedly viewed as ultra-conservative by some critics, is a glorious celebration of integrity. How refreshing!

Boasting one of the most recognizable soundtracks of all time with Vangelis’s iconic score, along with one of the most unforgettable opening scenes ever, Chariots of Fire is an altogether lovely film—though not necessarily the favorite at the 1982 Academy Awards, where it only received the fifth highest total number of nominations (after Ragtime and Raiders of the Lost Ark with 8 each, On Golden Pond with 10, and Reds with 12). Out of its seven nominations, Chariots of Fire took home four Oscars: Costume Design, Music (Original Score), Writing (Screenplay Written Directly for the Screen), and Best Picture. It did not win in the following categories for which it was nominated: Film Editing, Directing for Hugh Hudson, and Actor in a Supporting Role for Ian Holm as Sam Mussabini. Here’s a fun and random fact: Holm also appeared in another BP winner some 20-odd years after his Chariots of Fire nomination. He plays Bilbo in Peter Jackson’s iconic Lord of the Rings series, the last installment of which (The Return of the King) won BP for 2003 and remains tied with Ben-Hur (1959) and Titanic (1997) for most Oscars won. Sounds like a pretty successful career…

A shot from the famous opening scene of Chariots of Fire.

Sometime in 1978, a young British producer named David Puttnam was stuck in his rented Hollywood house dealing with illness. He yanked a book off a shelf—the history of the Olympics up to 1948—and while perusing it, came across a paragraph about a Scottish sprinter named Eric Liddell who had refused to compete on Sundays as this conflicted with his Christian convictions. Ironically, Puttnam, who had already experienced mild success as a producer in the U.S., had been wrestling with his soul, so to speak, regarding just what exactly he wanted to accomplish in the movie industry. He had concluded that he wanted to move and inspire people—in fact, he was looking to make a motion picture similar to 1966’s BP A Man for All Seasons, a film which focuses on someone choosing to do the right thing in a very difficult situation. Puttnam saw the potential for the story of Liddell to convey the exact meaning he wanted. Further research revealed to Puttnam the parallel story of British runner Harold Abrahams, a contemporary of Liddell’s who also competed in the 1924 Olympic Games, and who was, incidentally, Jewish. Thus, the basis was laid for the film Chariots of Fire, which develops both an athletic conflict between Liddell and Abrahams, as well as a religious one.

Ready for the Olympics: the cinematic representations of Abrahams (left) and Liddell (right).

Of course, the film takes a bit of an artistic license with the true stories of Liddell and Abrahams (by the way, it is well worth one’s time to look up biographical info on both of these real-life guys). Yet, in their native U.K., the film was well-received and very much needed in the early 1980s when Britain was stumbling under the weight of economic disaster, a plethora of racially fueled riots, and unrest in Northern Ireland (among other disasters)—all while the nation attempted to adjust to the policies of its newest (and first female) prime minister, Margaret Thatcher. Oh, and they were prepping for another royal wedding, this one between Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer. Anyhow, Chariots of Fire accomplished in 1981 what David Puttnam originally intended for it to do—and still today the film continues to inspire and motivate its viewers to examine what is most important in one’s life and to stick to one’s convictions even when doing so doesn’t make one popular.

Want to read more about the creation of Chariots of Fire? Check out this article that was written around the time of the thirtieth anniversary of the film: https://rw.runnersworld.com/selects/in-chariots-they-ran.html. And, for more thoughts on Chariots of Fire and its significance, please check out the full post this weekend!

I certainly don’t think of the Jarrett family in this film as ordinary. They are definitely upper (way, way, way upper) middle class—and that might be underestimating their financial situation a bit. Furthermore, Ordinary People is perhaps a bit of a sarcastic title anyway, for no one is truly ordinary. Yet I think what the film is saying is that regardless of what each person possesses or the level of their financial success, we are all basically the same inside—and for this film, the truth of that sameness means that we all struggle to find a way to deal with tragedy when it occurs.

In Ordinary People, each of the three surviving members of the Jarrett family must cope with the death of Buck, the older of the two Jarrett boys. For Calvin, the father, Buck’s death was a terrible accident. It was no one’s fault, and he must be mourned, but then life must go on without him. For Beth, the mother, Buck’s death may have been an accident, but it is an unforgivable one. There will never be any full recovery from his loss. Still, one must keep up appearances—certainly, wealthy friends can never know how difficult life is without one’s firstborn or that any member of the Jarrett family might still be struggling mentally or emotionally with Buck’s death. For Conrad, the surviving son, Buck’s death is on his hands. He survived the boating accident when his older brother did not—hence, it must be his fault. Conrad’s survivor’s guilt builds up within him until he attempts suicide, an act unpardonable to his already distanced mother, who deserts her son in every way but physically (at least for most of the film). By far, the relationship between Beth and Conrad is the most gripping conflict in the film. To one who has not endured the loss that they have it is impossible to understand why Beth can barely speak or even look at her son. She constantly encourages Calvin to take trips with her and leave Conrad behind, and she rails at her husband about being too soft on Conrad and making him disrespectful to her.

Beth and Conrad in a rare exchange of dialogue.

The source of Beth’s repulsive and painful treatment of Conrad stems from her excessive love for Buck. The one scene in which Beth and Buck are seen together shows Beth lounging on a towel in the family’s backyard while Buck jokes around and she laughs uncontrollably—as if she were on a first date with him (honestly, the scene is that awkward). Conrad is present in the scene too. He also laughs at Buck, but Conrad himself might as well be invisible, for Beth only has eyes for Buck. Moreover, while most of the other characters remember Buck as fun-loving and popular with everyone, there are hints throughout the film that Buck was both an idiot and a jerk. Conrad notes how Buck’s lack of focus was what put the two in the path of the storm that fateful day—Buck was goofing off even up until the moment of his death. While those left behind must find a way to carry on with their lives, Buck never valued his—not even enough to save it.

For Me Then…

The most critical moment of Ordinary People comes when Calvin has a visit with Dr. Berger, the psychiatrist Conrad has been seeing. For almost the entire film, Calvin has been trying, as best he knows how, to keep his remaining family together. He has been patient and encouraging with Conrad as he re-enters everyday life after his post-suicide-attempt stay in a mental hospital, and he is devoted and loving to Beth even when her coldness toward Conrad is unwarranted and non-understandable. But seeing an improvement in Conrad since the start of his visits with Dr. Berger, Calvin begins having doubts about the family’s true state after Buck’s death. What Calvin realizes and what Beth confirms to him (spoiler alert!) is that his wife has never really loved him. She loves their social and financial status, their fancy friends, and their finery. Her affections focus on things rather than people, and she refuses to deal with (or associate with) anything (or anyone) that she views as a threat to her social position and how people view her. For her, it would have been easier socially to grieve the loss of two sons than to have to field questions about Conrad’s recovery after his discharge from the mental hospital. It would have been even better, in Beth’s opinion, if Conrad would have died and Buck would have lived.

A disillusioned Calvin in Dr. Berger’s office.

Beth’s exit at the end of the film would make her a good comparison to Joanna Kramer from Kramer vs. Kramer—were it not for the fact that Beth never claims to possess love for either Calvin or Conrad. Calvin, broken by the realization that his love for Beth has died and hers for him never really existed, truly sees his recovering son for the first time and identifies with his pain. As the two Jarrett men embrace in the backyard, it appears that Conrad, having been able to work through his feelings with Dr. Berger and with Jeannine, his new girlfriend, has become the strong one and will now support his father in processing his own pain. In the end, then, Ordinary People does demonstrate that love can transcend pain—but although there’s enough heartbreak in the film to downplay any hope it offers, no one could say that the story is unbelievable. After all, we all experience suffering at some point in our lives, and we often deal with it in unhealthy ways. I guess, in that sense, we are all ordinary people.

Welcome to the 1980s, a decade that is often remembered for its return to conservatism under the leadership of the Reagan administration. In addition to dealing with the effects of the rise of the New Right, the migration of people from the Rust Belt to the Sunbelt, and the ups and downs of “trickle-down” economics, folks in the 1980s still lived under the fears and anxieties of the Cold War and instability in the Middle East and elsewhere. Yet the 1980s also saw the birth of such cultural staples as CNN in 1980 and MTV in 1981, along with the rise of superstars such as Michael Jackson (as a solo artist) and Madonna. The movie industry thrived during this decade as studios churned out huge blockbusters like Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981), E.T. the Extra Terrestrial (1982), Back to the Future (1985), and Top Gun (1986)—which people could now enjoy at home on their VCRs.

E. T., the world’s most adorable alien.

One other notable aspect of the 1980s is what came to be called a “yuppie,” a college-educated baby boomer with a good job and a tendency to spend money. Yuppies were often seen as “self-centered,” “shallow,” and only focused on how much money they could make. Thus, consumerism and materialism also dominated the decade too. However, yuppies themselves, even with all their worldly goods, often questioned if they were really happy; and the 1980s became a time when a lot of younger people were “plagued with anxiety and self-doubt.”

And so we start off the decade of the 1980s this week with another film that delves into the human psyche and finds some pretty dark stuff there—some of which is the aforementioned materialism, anxiety, and self-doubt. Ordinary People (1980, Wildwood Enterprises Inc. Production; Paramount) gives us a glimpse into the lives of three very well-to-do members of a Midwestern family who are each trying to cope with the sudden death of their fourth member. Like Kramer vs. Kramer last week, Ordinary People makes us see the truth of what we don’t want to see in our family lives as it addresses issues such as grief, guilt, truth, and unconditional love.

Ordinary People’s Jarrett Family: Mary Tyler Moore, Donald Sutherland, and Timothy Hutton.

Ordinary People faced some pretty stiff competition in 1980 from fellow Oscar nominees Coal Miner’s Daughter, The Elephant Man, The Empire Strikes Back, Fame, Raging Bull, and Tess. With only six nominations and four wins, Ordinary People was the most successful film on an Oscar night that was delayed 24 hours due to the assassination attempt on President Reagan. The film took home statuettes for Writing (Screenplay Based on Material from Another Medium), Directing for Robert Redford (in his directorial debut), Actor in a Supporting Role for Timothy Hutton as Conrad Jarrett, and Best Picture. It did not win for Actor in a Supporting Role for Judd Hirsch as Dr. Berger or for Actress in a Leading Role for Mary Tyler Moore as Beth Jarrett.

Moore brilliantly plays a character very much unlike her typical comedic roles, but tragically similar to what her real-life situation would shortly become when her only son died unexpectedly at the age of 24 less than a year after filming wrapped on Ordinary People. The terrible irony of Moore’s loss amidst her success as an actress echoes the general situation of the 1980s discussed above—it was a time of prosperity, but not an era without pain and confusion and heartache. People may have had more stuff, but those material goods and/or successes did not necessarily guarantee ease or happiness.

For more thoughts on Ordinary People and its significance, please check out the full post this weekend!

It can be assumed that the two Kramers referred to in this film’s title are Ted (the dad) and Joanna (the mom). After all, the film revolves around their inability to work through the issues in their marriage and culminates in their vicious court battle for custody of their young son Billy. However, a large chunk of the film focuses on Ted and Billy trying to cope with Joanna’s abandonment of them and discovering their self-sufficiency as well as a new and much deeper love for each other. In this sense, the title of the movie might be applied just as much to the Kramer males—at least until they are no longer at odds with one another. Speaking of males, the two Kramer boys’ determination to stick together and make the best of their new life without Joanna introduces a very strong underlying theme in Kramer vs. Kramer, one that deals with the fundamental/traditional differences between men and women (who the film seems to say are not as dissimilar as people may think).

It is interesting to note that in the case of the Kramers it is the mother who leaves, not the father, which is a bit non-stereotypical. Although Ted is an uninformed, uninvolved, more than slightly chauvinistic husband and father at the opening of the film, by the end (spoiler alert!) he is nearly the complete opposite. When he’s not at work, Ted spends all his time with Billy. When he is away from Billy, he only wants to talk about his son. He even goes so far as to admit to Billy that he blames himself for Joanna’s exit from their lives: “I kept trying to make her be a certain kind of person. A certain kind of wife that I thought she was supposed to be. And she just wasn’t like that…I think that she tried for so long to make me happy… and when she couldn’t, she tried to talk to me about it. But I wasn’t listening. I was too busy, too wrapped up… just thinking about myself. And I thought that anytime I was happy, she was happy. But I think underneath she was very sad.” Ted had not noticed Joanna’s unhappiness, had not made it his goal to ensure that she felt her life had as much significance as his.

Joanna’s tearful plea for custody of Billy.

On the flip side, Joanna doesn’t seem to change much over the course of the film. In the opening moments, she tells Billy she loves him, but minutes later she leaves him. In the courtroom scene near the end (spoiler alert!), Joanna seems to overlook the fact that the purpose of the hearing is to decide what is best for Billy, not what is best for her. Almost to the close of the film, Joanna is concerned with only herself. Personally, I didn’t feel confident that, should Joanna regain custody of Billy, she would not drop him off on Ted’s doorstep someday when she again decided that her life wasn’t “interesting” enough when she was “just” Billy’s mom.

But, spoiler alert again, Joanna—the abandoner—is granted custody of Billy, a child she has only watched from café windows and spent one afternoon with in nearly two years. Disgusting. The film’s point with this shocking turn of events seems to be to draw attention to the preference given to the traditional belief that women are better parents and caretakers than men. Ted brings up this issue when he takes the stand during the hearing: “My wife used to always say to me, ‘Why can’t a woman have the same ambitions as a man?’ I think you’re right, and maybe I learned that much. But by the same token, I’d like to know what law is it that says that a woman is a better parent simply by virtue of her sex…What is it makes somebody a good parent? You know, it has to do with constancy. It has to do with…with, with patience. It has to do with listening to him. It has to do with pretending to listen to him when you can’t even listen anymore. It has to do with love…and I don’t know where it’s written that says that a woman has, has a corner on that market, that, that a man has any less of those emotions than, than a woman does.” I think Ted’s right. Parenting is an effort, one which Joanna neglected. It shouldn’t matter that Joanna is female and Ted is male. Ted stayed, and Joanna left.

For Me Then…

Billy and Ted making life work.

To sum up Ted’s remarks on what makes a successful parent: a good parent is not perfect, but is present. Sure, Joanna’s life was marked with struggles—she wanted to enjoy professional success and personal independence—but she chose to marry, just like she chose to have a child with Ted. Success and independence are just lovely, but there’s also this thing called responsibility. And one would think that love would have a say somewhere as well. True love is a choice to yield to the best interest of others. Ted does not demonstrate this kind of love to Joanna in their marriage, so she leaves him. Joanna does not show this type of love to Billy when she abandons him and when she selfishly wants to snatch him from the patched-up stability of his life with his father. What a mess.

I think Kramer vs. Kramer offers its viewers the best solution to its conflict that it can for the worldview to which it subscribes. Joanna’s sacrificing her renewed desire to raise her son in order for him to be able to grow up in his home with his father hints at both an improvement in her character and the power of selfless love for another. Likewise, Ted’s standing aside to allow Joanna some uninterrupted time with Billy—in the room that she painted for him—also demonstrates his personal growth as both a man and a parent.

Yet regardless of the positive changes in the two main characters, it is a tragic certainty that Billy will grow up with scars from the strain of his parents’ rocky marriage and his mother’s abandonment. What the film doesn’t offer its viewers in the end is a more permanent and fulfilling solution to the pain of divorce and desertion—the aforementioned love, in which can be found the power to heal broken marriages and to change parental obligation to delight.

In 1978, seven-year-old Justin Henry lived in the right house. His neighbor was a casting director and helped Justin land the role of Billy Kramer in this week’s Best Picture winner, Kramer vs. Kramer (1979, Stanley Jaffe Productions; Columbia). Justin had no prior acting experience, but became the youngest person to ever be nominated for an Academy Award in any category when he received a Best Supporting Actor nod for his role as the child of a workaholic father and a mother who leaves him to pursue something more “interesting” for herself. In addition to Justin’s nomination, Kramer vs. Kramer was tapped for eight other Oscars and won five, narrowly missing becoming a “Big Five” winner. The film won for Writing (Screenplay Based on Material from Another Medium), Directing for Robert Benton, Actress in a Supporting Role for Meryl Streep as Joanna Kramer, Actor for Dustin Hoffman as Ted Kramer, and Best Picture. It failed to win for Cinematography, Film Editing, Actress in a Supporting Role for Jane Alexander as Margaret Phelps, and (again) Actor in a Supporting Role for Justin Henry as Billy Kramer.

The pre-divorce Kramers: Ted, Billy, and Joanna.

Kramer vs. Kramer is a short film (based on Avery Corman’s best-selling 1977 novel of the same name), but it tells a good story that is all too familiar to a lot of people—a story about a failed marriage and the tug-of-war the couple engages in over their devastated child. For Dustin Hoffman, the story hit close to home when he joined the project in the late 1970s. Hoffman was himself going through a divorce and at first didn’t like the film’s script. He told director Robert Benton and producer Stanley Jaffe that he was reluctant to join the team because the “script has no feeling of what I’m going through.” When Benton asked what would change his mind about doing the movie, Hoffman told him that they would need to shut themselves in a room for three months and rewrite the script—which is exactly what they did. Although Hoffman played a big role in the script’s revision, he turned down a writing credit for Kramer vs. Kramer, a decision he later thought unwise. But, the experience of working through his own emotional turmoil was “liberating,” says Hoffman, because it allowed him to “push all the stuff I was going through out there.” Young Justin Henry could also relate to the film’s subject matter. In a 2012 interview, Hoffman explained, “I later discovered [Justin] was coming from a home that was breaking up. There was a moment during a break in the testing when I thought, this is the right kid, he’s my son.” Meryl Streep likewise was going through a painful time in her life, following the recent death of her lover, John Cazale (you know, Fredo from The Godfather…). The result of Kramer vs. Kramer’s three main actors’ personal trials is a film that doesn’t feel contrived in any way. It is simple, to the point, and very realistic (unfortunately).

The post-divorce Kramers.

Divorce and conflicts over custody are just a couple of the tough issues we’ve seen in the films of the 1970s. This decade has presented us with war, espionage, drug trafficking, murder, organized crime, gambling, cons, mental illness, institutional corruption, poverty, rampant sexuality, and PTSD—and that’s just naming a few topics in these films. So as we leave the 1970s this week, I find it interesting to think back and observe the differences between the previous decade of the 1960s with its “golden age” of musicals and that of the 1970s with its unapologetic glimpses into raw humanity. Personally, I’ll take the musicals over most of this darker material any time, but I think it is also good for me (and us) to be exposed to the content of times that have preceded our own in order to better understand how we have gotten to where we are today—culturally, socially, psychologically, spiritually, etc. In a decade that began with a larger-than-life man in a world-consuming war, we close these times with a look at the intimate struggles of one particular family—the decade itself moving us from a “macro” world to a “micro” one, always insisting on the importance of the individual, yet more than ever revealing how the problems of a tense world evolve out of the tensions of personal relationships and the stability (or lack thereof) of the family unit. The real tragedy of the films of the 1970s is that the decade itself was very much like those films—restless, violent, and sometimes hopeless. Maybe, though, the ending of Kramer vs. Kramer can provide a bit of hope for the upcoming 1980s—but that’s a post for a bit later.

For more thoughts on Kramer vs. Kramer and its significance, please check out the full post this weekend!

All the young men in The Deer Hunter hunt deer. But the deer hunter referred to in the film’s title is the character of Michael. For Michael, deer hunting is a near-religious experience. The scenes in which he pursues his swift-footed prey are accompanied by sacred-sounding music, and the beliefs he possesses about the activity are tantamount to the tenets of a personal faith. Michael reminds his best friend Nick about his hunting philosophy: “You have to think about one shot. One shot is what it’s all about. The deer has to be taken with one shot.” For Michael, killing a living creature with a single shot is humane and evinces a reverence for the glorious nature that he enters into while on the hunt. Yet despite its title, The Deer Hunter isn’t just about deer hunting, of course. It’s also about people-hunting. Michael’s one-shot conviction carries over into the sick, twisted games of Russian roulette the American and South Vietnamese POWs are forced to play by their captors. One bullet is loaded into the revolver’s chamber, and the unlucky prisoners die of single gunshot wounds to their heads. Several other critics have noted how this “game” is used by the film to emphasize the unpredictability and senselessness of war. One’s nationality, ethnicity, social status, etc. don’t matter. The bullet kills whom it kills.

But the Russian roulette motif doesn’t end when Michael returns home from Vietnam—as seen when he attempts to teach his sniveling, irresponsible friend Stan a lesson with the little pistol Stan always waves around. Michael’s pulling the gun’s trigger after pointing it at Stan’s head (as well as his own) recreates the imagery of a hunter and his hunted, as well as the film’s insistence that life and death are matters of chance. Furthermore, the fact that Michael cannot separate himself from the horror and fascination of Russian roulette gives clear indications of how his experiences in the war have damaged him.

Michael on the hunt.

Nick too cannot escape the deadly game. Given the opportunity to return home because of the wounds he has sustained, Nick is instead persuaded by a French opportunist to remain in Vietnam and participate in Russian roulette games for money. Always the gambler, Nick’s introduction to the seedy Vietnamese underworld “gaming group” comes when he (as Michael does with Stan) shoots an empty chamber at the head of one of the players before doing the same to himself. Like Michael, Nick cannot separate himself from his previous experiences as a soldier and POW.

Ironically, Michael’s “psychological healing” occurs while he is again hunting a massive buck in the mountains. When he finally has the majestic creature in his sights, he fires one shot high above the deer’s head (opposed to the one shot he fires to kill a buck earlier in the film). The buck stares at Michael, and Michael asks it (and himself), “Okay?” The moment is a turning point for Michael, who has struggled to fit back in to his previous life and relate to his friends who did not go to war. It seems at this point in the film that Michael makes a choice to continue to live his life—in essence, he denies chance any power over his future, rejecting a “Russian roulette” philosophy of existence. Rather, he himself decides to move on in his relationship with Linda, and he himself determines to go back to Vietnam to save Nick from whatever is preventing his return.

In the film’s climatic scene (spoiler alert!) in which Michael attempts to persuade a drugged-out, barely coherent Nick to return home with him, Michael makes another choice of his own when he challenges Nick to a game of Russian roulette in an attempt to make Nick remember their shared past. The only thing that registers in Nick’s mind as the two trade the loaded revolver back and forth is Michael’s hunting mantra: one shot. Heartbreakingly, Nick repeats “one shot” before shooting himself in the head and dying—recognizing his former life, but denying the possibility of returning to it. In the end, then, Nick also makes his own choice—the choice to let chance determine his fate.

Nick’s final choice.

For Me Then…

The critical moment comes when Nick is in the army hospital in Vietnam and attempts to call home to speak to his girlfriend Linda. He waits for his turn at the phone; carefully spells out the name of his hometown; and then even after all his deliberateness, he tells the operator to “never mind.” It’s Nick’s decision to end the call, but just moments earlier he was unable to answer a doctor’s basic questions about his family. Although his body has mended, there is clearly something wrong with Nick’s mind, something that leads him to live a life of terrifying chance. The Russian roulette games he participates in trap him once more in his previous captivity experience. It is as if Nick cannot process what he has gone through, and each time he points a gun at his head and pulls the trigger is an attempt to come to grips with the trauma that has stolen precious years and unrecoverable security from him.

With this focus on the horrendous effects of war on its participants, it is quite shocking and unnerving when the film ends with Michael, Linda, and Nick’s other surviving friends singing “God Bless America” and toasting Nick’s memory as if he had been killed in battle. Personally, I didn’t see the singing as sarcastic, anti-American propaganda, bashing the Vietnam War and those who participated in it. However, the song is haunting and really ironic because both the war and the end of Nick’s life (which he loses on the same day that Saigon falls to the communists) seem meaningless and unnecessary. Of course the war killed Nick even though he was a “civilian” at the time that he shot himself. The Nick who lived in Pennsylvania at the beginning of the film would never have done such a thing to himself. And certainly none of the other characters escape the war’s devastation either. In that sense, the Vietnam War perhaps is the hunter and that entire generation the hunted.

At long last, after a brief educationally necessary little hiatus, we get to discuss The Deer Hunter (1978, EMI Films/Michael Cimino Film Production; Universal). This film is a bit controversial—though after writing that, I’m now pondering the likelihood that for each film that we’ve already discussed (and will discuss in the future), someone somewhere finds something of controversy in it. Such is the way of the world, I guess.

Anyhow, the release of The Deer Hunter came a mere three and a half years after the unsatisfactory close of the Vietnam War. Almost 60,000 Americans lost their lives, and approximately 150,000 were wounded in action before 20 years of American political and military involvement in Vietnam ended with the fall of Saigon to communist forces in April 1975. These are facts. The Deer Hunter deals more with emotions. The film follows the lives of three young American GIs—both home and abroad—and examines how the war and its atrocities affect each of them. It’s an interesting storyline, but very disturbing, to say the least. The Deer Hunter’s most famous (and unsurprisingly, its most controversial) scenes portray the American soldiers’ (and their South Vietnamese allies’) forced involvement in “games” of Russian roulette in which their North Vietnamese/Viet Cong captors amuse themselves by loading a bullet into one chamber of a small revolver, spinning the cylinder, and forcing each prisoner at gunpoint to point the gun at his head and pull the trigger. Some prisoners don’t make it to the end of the film.

The Russian roulette scenes outraged many people, who said (and still say) that the film’s depiction of American and South Vietnamese POWs is unrealistic. In real life, there were no Russian roulette games with captives, and the North Vietnamese would never have treated their prisoners in such a way. Some very angry people even insist that the film discriminates against the North Vietnamese, for that people group is always portrayed as the “bad guys” in films about the Vietnam War—to which I say: ???? Then I wonder why no one seems to ever question how every time Nazis show up in films they’re the bad guys and—gasp—they’re also always white Europeans. How racially/ethnically stereotypical!

Moving on…

Despite the controversy surrounding it, The Deer Hunter garnered nine Academy Award nominations and took home five statuettes: Sound, Film Editing, Directing for Michael Cimino, Actor in a Supporting Role for Christopher Walken as Nick, and Best Picture. It failed to win: Cinematography, Writing (Screenplay Written Directly for the Screen), Actor in a Leading Role for Robert De Niro as Michael, and Actress in a Supporting Role for Meryl Streep as Linda (Streep’s first of 21 Oscar nominations).

On a tragic note, while The Deer Hunter helped to launch Meryl Streep’s illustrious career, the film also marked the final motion picture appearance of John Cazale (you know, Fredo from The Godfather). Ironically, in the mid-1960s, Cazale worked for Standard Oil with another aspiring actor named Al Pacino, both of whom soon went on to act on stage in Israel Horovitz’s The Indian Wants the Bronx before vaulting into the world of film (though Cazale continued his stage work as well). The Godfather was Cazale’s movie debut, and it made him famous. In a rare feat, each of the six full-length films that featured Cazale were nominated for Best Picture: The Godfather (1972), The Conversation (1974), The Godfather Part II (1974), Dog Day Afternoon (1975), The Deer Hunter (1978), and The Godfather Part III (1990; archival footage of the deceased actor was used). Diagnosed with lung cancer in 1977, Cazale was ill and weak during the filming of The Deer Hunter, his health status only known to director Michael Cimino and Cazale’s then-girlfriend Meryl Streep. When enraged studio execs discovered the truth about the actor’s illness, they planned to fire Cazale—that is, until Streep and De Niro threatened to walk away from the film if Cazale was let go. The ailing actor was retained, and his scenes in the film were all shot first. Sadly, he died shortly after filming of The Deer Hunter wrapped and was never able to see the finished product. He was 42 years old. His friend Israel Horovitz said in his eulogy: “John Cazale happens once in a lifetime. He was an invention, a small perfection. It is no wonder his friends feel such anger upon waking from their sleep to discover that Cazale sleeps on with kings and counselors, with Booth and Kean, with Jimmy Dean, with Bernhardt, Guitry, and Duse, with Stanislavsky, with Groucho, Benny, and Allen. He will make fast friends in his new place. He is easy to love.”

For more thoughts on The Deer Hunter and its significance, please check out the full post tomorrow (I hope)!