by Joel Bocko
If there’s a more American film than It’s a Wonderful Life, and a more American hero than George Bailey, I don’t know it. No other film more comprehensively or powerfully captures the common American experience between the wars – that is to say, between Armistice Day and V-J Day – and no other film creates a richer dialogue between the dreams and ambitions that motivate us (then and now), the comforts and camaraderie that soothe us (perhaps then more than now), and the responsibilities and burdens we feel toward our families and communities (now more essentially than ever). It is timeless but it is also very, very much focused on its own time (or rather, a time just passed), a quality that gives It’s a Wonderful Life tremendous strength rather than dating it. By featuring popular songs and political references, by tying the daily life of Bedford Falls into the greater drama of the nation, it provides us with a moving portrait of our parents’ or grandparents’ experience; by not being afraid to situate itself in a particular moment in history, the movie shows us the universal in the particular. Besides, It’s a Wonderful Life has never been timelier, maybe not even when it was released, amidst a postwar era waving goodbye (and good riddance – no wonder the film struggled at the box office) to the years depicted onscreen.
Indeed, while it represents a generally darker, grittier strain than was apparent in most thirties films, It’s a Wonderful Life functions more as a culmination of one Hollywood epoch than the introduction to a new one. Its ensemble cast, its determinedly studio-created world, its dreamy, diffused black-and-white glow, all hearken back to the golden age of Hollywood which was starting to come to an end. Within a few years, techniques like location shooting, stylistic developments associated with noir and naturalism, looser acting styles imported from New York, and outside circumstances like the HUAC hearings and the breakup of the studio monopoly would all contribute to a noticeable shift in American movie style and content. These trends would escalate with the increasing use of color and the introduction of widescreen, facilitating an increase in lavish epics to compete with television (ironically, the medium that would eventually make It’s a Wonderful Life the classic it remains today). Before long, the kind of film It’s a Wonderful Life represented – focused in scope, indulgent of character, romantic in its emotional content yet realistic in its sensitive observations of social dynamics – would be more or less extinct.
Of course the film is also tied into the period it concludes directly, through its very story. This story opens (well, putting aside the cutesy angelic introduction, which is charming if slightly off-tone) with kids sledding onto an icy lake on long-handled shovels: the scene feels torn directly from a nostalgic wall calendar. For us ninety years later, the nostalgia is all second or thirdhand, but in 1946 anyone over the age of thirty-three could remember such a time themselves. Older viewers would of course recall the darkness of this period – the weariness after the war, the paranoia of the Red Scare, the ravages of the influenza epidemic, the economic slump before the boom; the sense that the old familiar comfortable world had already died. But the film doesn’t ignore these elements, it just hints at them, as is appropriate when our main character is still a boy from a happy family, living in a bucolic small town. The darkness is there, but it’s still slightly offscreen – entering the scenario via a telegram little George stumbles upon in the drugstore, informing old druggist Gower that his son has died from influenza.
This information, and the subsequent drunken mistake in which Gower almost poisons a family with the wrong pills, spurs George’s first good act (well, aside from saving his brother from drowning). That is no coincidence – obviously heroism, however modest, requires circumstances to overcome and here is where cynics critical of It’s a Wonderful Life don’t give it enough credit: it earns its happy ending the hard way, by sending its hero through the ringer, making him pay for every act of good will or selflessness he commits. After all, if being a hero was easy, everyone would be Superman. Until the very ending, the message seems to be that whether or not crime pays, being a decent human being certainly does not. This leads to another, even more important, observation: the obstacles George faces are not plot conceits, small little problems manufactured out of whole cloth in a fictional little town. They are fundamental challenges that all Americans struggled with during the Great Depression and World War II. The influenza in the telegraph is a tip-off that Frank Capra and his co-writers will be drawing deep for the situations in their scenario – angelic interventions aside, for most of its running-length It’s a Wonderful Life is anything but a fantasy.
Most importantly (aside from the influenza and the war, in which the enemies are offscreen), the film does not make these antagonistic circumstances vague or general, “nobody’s fault” – It’s a Wonderful Life has a clear villain, Mr. Potter, and Potter is the epitome of the rich, powerful, and evil banker. Here the film states its terms quite clearly: George Bailey’s greatest foe is not “natural” injustice, but human greed and selfishness. In recent years, I have noticed a tendency, among those who think it’s a good and bad thing alike, to identify It’s a Wonderful Life as a conservative film. On the most obvious level, we have its identification with family values, its warm portrait of an all-American small town, and its use of supernatural intervention in response to prayer. The notion that this makes it conservative, however, is so wrong-headed as to be nearly ludicrous. This misunderstanding springs from an identification of liberalism and conservatism with cultural values that would emerge 20-25 years after the film came out, values which were inordinately privileged in political definitions (especially by the Republican Party, which cannily used them to its advantage) but had little to do with fundamental political values. The past five years have seen a turnaround in this viewpoint, but its legacy lingers.
However, it should be easy enough for anyone focused on the substance of the film, and the context of the times, to put a cultural definition of conservatism aside. There remains the fact that Capra and Stewart were both dyed-in-the-wool Republicans (Stewart once got in a fistfight with Henry Fonda over politics, though they patched things up and became close friends). Certainly they couldn’t have intended to make a liberal film – and conservatives have been quick to point out that Bailey is a private entrepreneur, not a government bureaucrat, that the fundamentals of his business rely on knowing his customers, on judging for himself what is best and worst for his operation. Some have even tried to read Potter as a stand-in for the meddling, monopolizing government – and I suppose you could see his wheelchair-bound physical condition as a nasty reference to Roosevelt (although given the difference in the demeanor and philosophy, this seems an absurd stretch). Ultimately, if one is focused on policy one can’t really define It’s a Wonderful Life as liberal or conservative; it has nothing to say, except by elaborate inference (which can go in both directions), about government intervention in the economy.
However, liberal and conservative philosophy is not limited to policy matters. There is a rhetoric as well, which is just as important if not more so in defining the national discourse, and ultimately determining policy – and private values. While conservative rhetoric has, defensively, made references to charities or private initiatives filling in the “giving” gap if government social spending was cut, their public language contradicts this beneficent rationale at virtually all opportunities. Since at least the sixties, there has been a vituperative, angry quality in defining the poor, from anecdotes about “welfare queens” to the recent wrongheaded claims that 49% of the population are freeloaders, paying too few taxes to the federal government (so much for the notion of conservative lightening the tax burden or decrying “class warfare”). It is not my intention to indulge in a lengthy political digression, nor to malign all self-identified conservatives who, believing that government intervention hurts more than it helps (as it may at times), do their personal part to help the needy and struggling. Yet one cannot deny that, especially with the rise of the Tea Party, any lingering strain of “compassionate conservatism” has disappeared from conservative rhetoric. In its place is a fierce, Ayn Rand-like belief that society has its mighty producers and its puny takers, that material gain is a function of good character (or vice-versa, really), and that the profit motive alone will take care of society’s ills – if such ills even need to be addressed at all.
Let’s take a closer look at this film – which, incidentally, was deemed potentially “subversive” by the FBI (I wonder if they knew that several leftists, including Dalton Trumbo, had worked on the screenplay without credit?). George and dad Peter may indeed be private entrepreneurs, but both father and son are terrible businessmen. Taken purely as a business, the Bailey Building & Loan is a disaster, barely managing to stay afloat, misplacing funds due to to employee incompetence (since employment is based on nepotism rather than qualifications), and refusing to keep expenses low. Does George provide a service that takes market share away from Potter? Yes he does, but at a heavy cost. Most importantly, it is making risky loans to aspiring homeowners – the very practice conservatives (and many non-conservatives) believe caused the 2008 economic meltdown: misguided “bleeding heart” sentiments triggering a self-defeating collapse. Were the Building & Loan a nonprofit, its results might be admirable (though its practices, from last-minute infusions of cash to Uncle Billy’s sloppy depositing, would remain objectionable). But George is a terrible capitalist, concerned not with growth or development but providing a service as if he were (gasp) a social worker. Potter calls him out on this repeatedly, most notably in his attempt to dissolve the Building & Loan at a board meeting following Peter Bailey’s death. George’s response to this is unequivocal and should brush aside, finally and completely, any notion that this film endorses the market-will-take-care-of-it, let-the-working-man-fend-for-himself philosophy:
“Just a minute… just a minute. Now, hold on, Mr. Potter. You’re right when you say my father was no businessman. I know that. Why he ever started this cheap, penny-ante Building and Loan, I’ll never know. But neither you nor anyone else can say anything against his character, because his whole life was… why, in the 25 years since he and his brother, Uncle Billy, started this thing, he never once thought of himself. Isn’t that right, Uncle Billy? He didn’t save enough money to send Harry away to college, let alone me. But he did help a few people get out of your slums, Mr. Potter, and what’s wrong with that? Why… here, you’re all businessmen here. Doesn’t it make them better citizens? Doesn’t it make them better customers? You… you said… what’d you say a minute ago? They had to wait and save their money before they even ought to think of a decent home. Wait? Wait for what? Until their children grow up and leave them? Until they’re so old and broken down that they… Do you know how long it takes a working man to save $5,000? Just remember this, Mr. Potter, that this rabble you’re talking about… they do most of the working and paying and living and dying in this community. Well, is it too much to have them work and pay and live and die in a couple of decent rooms and a bath? Anyway, my father didn’t think so. People were human beings to him. But to you, a warped, frustrated old man, they’re cattle. Well in my book, my father died a much richer man than you’ll ever be!”
If this is a conservative movie, then I’m a six-foot tall rabbit.
What makes the film more than just a powerful soapbox, self-righteously preaching to the converted, is its rich sense of conflict and doubt within George himself. He believes those sentiments above, but he also doesn’t believe them, or rather he doesn’t want to. He wants to live the American Dream, or rather one aspect of the American Dream – the aspect associated with ambition, adventure, and expansion. Instead, over and over, he is forced to sacrifice his dreams (and anyone who’s ever yearned for excitement, dreamed of a wide world out there will identify immediately with George’s aspirations, and feel acutely the sting of his disappointments and frustrations). He does this so he can give others their little share of the other American Dream, the dream not of restless exploration, but comfortable security, a place to settle down – something he has found but wants to kick off. The film’s attention to this dual strain of Americanism – after all, the families who moved out west were called both “pioneers” and “settlers” – is one of its strongest virtues. George’s crisis gives the movie a timeless appeal because it address the material pinch and anxiety of hard economic times, but also the spiritual ennui and frustration of more secure periods – it makes an excellent gateway from the hard-pressed years of the New Deal into the restless energy of the Eisenhower era.
For two-thirds of its running length, It’s a Wonderful Life creates an intensely moving, perpetually resonant, bittersweet portrait of American life and American crisis. Every scene is loaded with connotations that echo to this very day – however less clean-cut high-schoolers have become, however raunchier courtship has evolved, however dysfunctional families have come to appear, there are still fundamental truths here we can relate to. Who hasn’t felt that confused sense of sticky nostalgia and subtle discontent observing high school graduates three or four years after one’s own graduation, and wondering where one stands now? Who hasn’t felt that mixture of sly bravado and quivering romanticism in flirtation (or felt that awkward sense of pride and embarrassment when the older generation looks on knowingly)? Who hasn’t felt that sense of putting the past behind after an unexpected delay, looking forward to an open future (“What are the three most exciting sounds in the world? Anchor chains, plane motors, and train whistles!”), only to discover to one’s surprise that it isn’t so easy? The telephone sequence, celebrated by no less misanthropic or cynical a team than the Coen Brothers (who have raved about discovering this scene on television before the movie became a Christmas staple), is as sensual a scene as Hollywood ever created under the Production Code – because it displays a tension not just sexual, but psychological. George anxiously desires to escape, but also to be trapped, enfolded in the familiar world of “home” which must have vanished with his father’s death.
After establishing (the wrong word, so intensive and long is the build-up) George’s entire personal history, the film enters its darkest, and richest, sequence. This is everything the movie has been building towards, in its accumulation of character detail, its establishment of time and place, so that we feel like we’ve been living in this town for nearly thirty years too. It is Christmas, the war is over, and a sense of exuberant relief and festive celebration is in the air, especially as George’s kid brother returns from Washington, having been decorated as a war hero. By now, George is settled into his role in Bedford Falls: he is a father of four, he’s been active in the war effort (having been kept out of the war by his bad ear, earned in rescuing Harry as a boy), and he no longer talks of travel or business plans. Observant citizens might even suspect he has a mistress in the sexy and needy Violet Bick (once Beauregard – obviously a marriage didn’t work out) – another sign he’s become one of the town’s all-around, established citizen. He has his place in this society and seems content, the youthful dreamer transformed into the regular guy, with his small pleasures and daily duties, on the cusp of middle age.
Appearances can, of course, be deceiving, even to those who convey them, and this one is exploded by the appearance of a bank examiner and the disappearance of $8,000. What follows is one of the most memorable breakdowns and outbursts in movie history – a panicky George simply falls to pieces and it’s clear that, as drastic as this development is (meaning prison and scandal) it is the cumulative effect which has made him collapse. His complaints to Mary (“Why do we have to live in this old house? Why do we have to have this many kids?”) may be presented as the tirades of someone upset about something else, but they have the ring of truth, as if the risk of absolute failure has now unleashed all his demons. Only his comforting of Zuzu, the last flickering flame of hope in his bleak existence, offers a sense of warmth and intimacy. When he returns to the living room and destroys the train set and tower (last indication of his long-held dreams), shouts at his family, and then stares back at them like a stranger, the inconsolable rage at thirty years of broken dreams, compromises, struggles, doubts, and sacrifices, collective as well as individual, has found its blackest depiction yet. George plummets further, getting beaten up in a bar (his savage abuse of his daughter’s teacher, whose husband attacks him, is boldly unsympathetic), drunkenly crashing into a tree, and finally contemplating suicide over the rough waters, snow falling overhead, capping off what has to be one of the most shocking anti-Christmases in any supposed “holiday” movie.
Capra doesn’t seem to have anywhere to go here – so the film leaps into left-field. Of course, it’s misleading to introduce the film’s most famous part this way – after all, the very basis for the screenplay was a story of an angel showing a man what his life would be like if he’d never been born. This is the heart of the movie’s popularity, the crux of its appeal, and it’s clearly this factor above all the others that has made the movie a legend, a beloved classic that can stand beside The Wizard of Oz, E.T., or Pinocchio for audience enchantment. Without the fantasy element, the Christmas Carol twist, and the happy ending to end all happy endings, It’s a Wonderful Life may still have been rediscovered, but its appeal would mostly be limited to classic film buffs and historians; the wider public would go on its merry way none the wiser to what was missing. Yet it’s worth pointing out just how different, in feel and mood, this last third (maybe only a last quarter) of the movie is from what came before. That’s probably the reason that most viewers, going back to watch the movie after some time, are shocked to discover how dark it is, how human and melancholy – they remember (and the hype has helped them to remember) the inventiveness of the alternate-reality scenario, the comedy of the angel’s antics, the spooky horror-story vibe of Stewart’s haunted visage as he looks at familiar faces, and the heartwarming good cheer of his triumphant return to reality. They remember the “magic.”
Perhaps because I’ve seen the movie so many times (often by myself), perhaps because my own sensibilities tend a different way, I tend to forget how entertaining and comforting the end of the movie is, how well it goes with eggnog and Christmas trees and snow falling outside and the fire blazing, with Bing Crosby carols playing softly in the background and visiting relatives competing for your attention. In this ambiance, even the earlier passages in the movie can take on the rose-colored tinge of the conclusion. But watching it again, away from the Christmas atmosphere, alone or with one or two other viewers, no distractions, one comes to a very different conclusion, discovering, to one’s surprise, a very different emotional response. Indeed, I’ve come away from this film – this film, of all films! – depressed at times, invigorated by watching its artistic achievement but exhausted by the feelings it dredges up, feelings of being oppressed and stressed out and disappointed and frustrated. In this light, the ending doesn’t quite seem to fit with what came before (the film moves so confidently, wraps one up so tightly in its created environment, that on a first screening I don’t think most viewers will experience this issue). It’s like switching the channel from an intense piece of psychological drama to an episode of “The Twilight Zone.”
This isn’t a criticism – I don’t know where else the story could have gone, I find the juxtaposition of these two tones and approaches fascinating, and like everyone else I marvel at the imagination of the alternate-reality scenario. But it is an admission that the more I watch It’s a Wonderful Life, the less I am left with a soothing feeling of comfort and good cheer, and the more I feel the lingering presence of those earlier scenes, of desperation and hard work (does any other popular film focus so determinedly on the intricacies of business?), of troubled love and missed opportunities and muted resentments, and yes, also family warmth, wisecracking companionship, the quiet satisfaction of doing the right thing even if you know you won’t earn a nickel by it. It’s a “wonderful” life? Maybe, maybe not – at times what you’re watching is wonderful, at times you feel like George Bailey stumbling blindly in the snow. But it’s life, that’s for sure. And it’s art. And it’s a hell of a great movie.
Merry Christmas, Wonders in the Dark!
In recent years, I have noticed a tendency, among those who think it’s a good and bad thing alike, to identify It’s a Wonderful Life as a conservative film. On the most obvious level, we have its identification with family values, its warm portrait of an all-American small town, and its use of supernatural intervention in response to prayer. The notion that this makes it conservative, however, is so wrong-headed as to be nearly ludicrous. This misunderstanding springs from an identification of liberalism and conservatism with cultural values that would emerge 20-25 years after the film came out, values which were inordinately privileged in political definitions (especially by the Republican Party, which cannily used them to its advantage) but had little to do with fundamental political values. The past five years have seen a turnaround in this viewpoint, but its legacy lingers.
You do a fantastic job shooting down the admittedly bizarre notion that the film comes from conservative moorings, though the reasons you speculate this to be a fact are rather persuasive. Yes, it embraces old-style American values and the big family, but the scope of it’s emotions suggest liberal sensibilities and acute idealism that flies in the face of political thinkers who can only understand tangible gain. The fact that the film was seen as subversive by the CIA and that Trumbo was part of the writing equation of course does speak for itself, but your entire (brilliant) argument shoots the theory down, even with the conservative ideologies of Stewart and Capra. Magnificent opening paragraph (yep, can’t really think of an American hero to match George Baily, with Atticus Finch as a close second) and yes, it does indeed go perfectly with egg nog, Christmas tress and Bing Crosby balads. It’s reputation in fact seems to increase by the year, and revival houses all over teh country regularly book holiday screenings. Like you I can’t count the times I have seen it. I have not read a more superlative, thoughful piece in the film that what you have written here Joel. You come at it from a fresh new angle.
Merry Christmas to everyone in Bedford Falls and throughout the rest of the country!
Thanks Sam. I don’t know enough about Capra’s personal politics to know how, for example, anti-Roosevelt he was but I guess it’s worth remembering that even as late as the mid-forties there was a dim “progressive” tradition within the GOP (the heirs to that first Roosevelt, and also Robert LaFollette), so perhaps Capra saw himself as a representative of that? Who knows. But the film is genuinely on the side of the little guy, but the medium guy who could be big but wants to help the little guy instead. Whatever else it is, it is the opposite of Randism. That speech I sampled above still moves me immensely.
A bravura piece Jon on a great film, the type of film that should be in the running for the ‘Sight and Sound’ poll every ten years. Few films have been able to say so much about the social, political, economic, psychological and existential nature of human existence. A marvellous Progressive film of the very first rank. Thank you and a merry Christmas to all.
Agreed Robby ( 😉 ).
Seriously though – you’re dead-on. This film would make a great addition to the Sight & Sound poll because it represents a school of cinema still not sufficiently appreciated by many critics (although this film gets praised its usually not at that level): the populist drama with a lot to say but on a human level that many can appreciate.
There’s a wonderful seminar that’s online somewhere and I wish I could find it, when I do I’ll link it here, the seminar is linked to his book which talks about the last great congress – which actually got things done for the common good and it’s quite remarkable how moderate the Republican Party was. For example, most of Nixon’s domestic politics are to the far left of Obama, Clinton and all the Presidents since as he fixed prices to combat inflation and introduced environmental protections for air and water (of course, he had to be prodded into it by massive demonstrations). It all died in 1980 when the heir to Goldwater came in. Had it not been for the moderate wing of the Republican Party, not of the Social and Civil Rights would have got past the redneck Dixecrat wing of the Democratic Party. Anyway, watching it for the first time with my niece and nephew today. Will make a nice change from Harry Potter, I think.
From Harry Potter to Henry Potter…I like it. 😉
GREAT ESSAY and one that really had me rethinking the film.
However, unlike Joel, I never understood the read-in parallels to conservatism vs. liberalism that so many make such a big deal about within the fabric of the narrative.
The story, for what it’s worth, is about a hero in the guise of a good guy that we all wave to as we walk down the street. I think that what Capra and Stewart (and this film would not have worked if ANY OTHER actor at the time had taken the part) were on too is that we never take the time to evaluate the worth of ourselves and the people that helped make us who we are. There is greatness in the “everyday” and the “familiar” and the story of George Bailey (inarguably one of the greatest heros in American cinema; up there with the likes of Atticus Finch, Indiana Jones, the “Man of Steel” and, to a lesser extent, a hapless idiot names Forrest Gump) is one that sets us all on the klnowledge that sometimes we just have to step back and look in the mirror or allow the bigger forces in the universe take us by the hand.
Whatever the case, I don’t think this film had a set political agenda or was, even remotely, trying to comment on the goods and the bads of a beaurocracy that was in consistent change at the time and for the next forty, some-odd, years. Yes, there are some skewerings made towards the big-wigs that oversaw the financial aspects of the greatest economic crash in the history of the modern world, but I don’t think this is the No. 1 reason Stewart and Capra dove into this project so bravely. More than anything, I think that what Capra and Stweart are desperate to do with IT’S A WONDERFUL LIFE, is prove that for all the bouquet throwing we do for the soldier returning home from war, or the guy that sees a giant business in the city turn over so good for everyone that has invested, is that the riches of life and the heroism we often associate with people flying over the roof-tops in capes and cowls don’t always come in the same form. George is a dreamer, yes, we all know he has aspirations, more than anything, to create places that will be remembered for decades to come (he wants to be an architect). But, even in staying in Bedford Falls, those dreams do come true regardless even if they’re not EXACTLY the way he envisioned them (he does build something that will be remembered for decades-Bailey Park).
No, no, no no, NO. George is neither the staunch conservative or the raunchy liberal, there are no real sides here. It’s just all about being good, knowing what is, as personally heart-aching as it might be, right. It’s about having a mirror that you should have taken the time to look into for a few seconds a day to see who you really are, but never having the time because of the dedication that drives us, being overturned so you HAVE to look into it.
The moment, for me, that told me the film was working on all the best cylinders and wasn’t just some cheap trick employed to make a mediocre premise more amusing, is the still camera catching Stewart walking directly toward it and stopping, as he walks away from his Mother who no longer recognizes him, and slowly turns his head in horror to view this town that he has so often complained about and yearn for it’s familiarity to save him. It’s the shot that chilled me to the bone and made me realize this was no ordinary fantasy made just for the sake of giving us a quick chill or a dramatic moment in an otherwise light-hearted look at everyday life. It’s this moment in the film that made us all pinch ourselves and realize that personal stock of OURSELVES needs to happen much more often. It’s a harrowing moment that works like the best moments in the supreme horror films of its times. However, that it occurs in a film that has so painstakingly recreated everyday life in America, makes it all the more jolting and even more horrifying when we realize this kind of wake-up call could fall on any of us at any time without warning.
The film is about, for me anyway, people too busy to stop and really smell the roses. Even today, I am amazed by all the running around so many do to “obtain” and “achieve”. Sometimes I think, and I could be wrong, that we all need to take a moment, nap on a hammock on the porch, sit alone in a bar observing the people there, or just a slow walk through the main streets of our home towns, to realize that the worth in us all is right in front of us and always has been.
IT’S A WONDERFUL LIFE is Capra’s BEST film and STEWARTS greatest performance because of that.
This was a wonderful post that was really needed, JOEL.
Hey Dennis, a lot to chew on here. Unfortunately I have to put my nose back to the grindstone at the moment but I will return later for further discussion!
When I observe the film “politically” I mean to do so not in terms of specific legislation or social issues but on the macro level, in terms of overarching life philosophies, and on the micro level, with the material of the everyday, the personal. So while I agree that the film has little to say about bureaucracy and/or business and that it can’t simply be squeezed into a “liberal/conservative” (especially in the reductive American terms of the present) framework, I do think it stands in stark, emphatic contrast to the Randian ethos dominating conservative rhetoric today in which it’s no longer private charity vs. public welfare but doers vs. takers, the “47%” vs. the taxpayers (never mind that the 47% often pay a higher proportion in overall taxes), and so forth. Even at a time when I considered myself more conservative than I do today, I found Objectivism almost viscerally repugnant – part of the good side of growing up Catholic, I suppose. Even if the film’s context hadn’t been political at the time (an assertion with which I disagree, but for the sake of argument) it would be political by default today in light of the Tea Party and recent Romney campaign. You could take some of Potter’s quotes without alteration and put them in Romney’s mouth without noticing the difference.
That said, I completely agree with the rest of your comment as well – thing is, I don’t see the political interpretation as being opposed to the more personal, everyday reading, just as with Modern Times last week I think Greene, Ferguson, and Barthes were all onto something with their different takes (albeit often not on the same subject). The film IS political in a sense, yet it also goes way beyond politics; as I say in the piece, “What makes the film more than just a powerful soapbox, self-righteously preaching to the converted, is its rich sense of conflict and doubt within George himself.”
This is perhaps where the real greatness of the film lies – as you note, it’s so difficult for us to stop and take stock of our lives while they are unfolding. George is a hero, of course, but he’s also nearly an antihero, yelling at his uncle, savaging his family and their home, cussing out hapless teachers on the phone like a bully, driving drunk into other people’s property, and finally contemplating a suicide which might leave his family financially secure but emotinally devastated for the rest of their lives. The film is so intensely moving (I’m getting worked up just writing this) because, like all of us, George is not some holy saint nor a horrible devil but a man caught in between, trying to do the right thing and often hating himself not when he doesn’t, but when he does. (One reason I’m troubled by the end of Schindler’s List is that the ambiguous protagonist suddenly becomes a Moseslike liberator and we lose the ambivalence which had powered him and made him relatable throughout the movie.) And you’re 100% correct that the film is almost unimaginable without Stewart. The only other actor I can even vaguely see nailing that all-American folksy gravity is Henry Fonda, but he had a sturdy stoicism (even in something where he’s helpless like The Wrong Man) which would have been all wrong for Bailey. Stewart is just goddamn beautiful in the part.
“It’s like switching the channel from an intense piece of psychological drama to an episode of ‘The Twilight Zone.’ ”
This is a very interesting statement that cuts straight to theart of what makes IAWL a great film (and also shows how observant your take on it is). Because after all, pretty much all episodes of “The Twilight Zone” could be described as “intense pieces of psychological drama”, and many of them function so even if you were to cut out some of the high-concept plot dynamics they thrived by (my personal favorite episode, “A Stop at Willoughby”, especially stands at a similar kind of intersection of pre-war nostalgia and post-war malaise). And besides, before Rod Serling gravitated to the conceptual freedom of sci-fi and fantasy, he cut his teeth on live-television dramas that mined exactly the kind of territory you’re speaking of, and it’s not for nothing that your comparison works so well there. IAWL feels very much the sort of thing that Rod Serling could’ve been a part of, back in the day, both in his “Playhouse 90” period and his “Twilight Zone” years.
I admire all of the social realism in IAWL that you speak glowingly of here, but without the fantasy elements it wouldn’t pack nearly the punch it has, something you get at here, but seem a little ambivalent towards. In terms of its critical reputation, you may be somewhat right– if Capra had expressed the idea of George Bailey’s importance to everyone in the community in non-literal terms (merely having a quaint conversation on the bridge with Clarence or whoever, and being told, instead of shown, what Bedford Falls would’ve been like without him), it’d likely be taken far more seriously by anyone likely to be dismissive and cynical of the kind of third-act twist gimmick it represents, to say nothing of the religious content. But gimmicky as it is, I enjoy the sequence not only for its own inherent qualities, but also for how it represents a firm commitment to the Americana of high-concept fiction, something that’s been present in our national culture as far back to the days of Washington Irving and continued on through our best storytellers.
The film feels like an evocation of so many American fantasists all at once– the wit and witticism of Twain, the dark despair of Poe, the haunted small-town sentiment of Wilder, etc. I particularly like the way that Capra visualizes the fantastic and divine on both intimate and celestial terms (that “cutesy” stuff at the beginning may be a little off-kilter, especially as an introduction, but portraying angels as speaking galactic bodies is a beautiful touch that’s only somewhat cramped by the effects available at the time). And that conceptual leap of actually seeing the alternate reality, the road less travelled by (how far is Bedford Falls from Owl Creek Bridge?) sets up one of the great narrative traditions since, one that’s affected works near and far. You can see bits of it in “The Last Temptation of Christ” and “Neon Genesis Evangelion” as heroes indulge in the dream of a life spent away from their obligations.
At times, I wonder what IAWL would’ve been like if the dilemma he faces at the end wasn’t suicide, but abandonment– if the nightmare of Pottersville didn’t arise from “if I’d never been born” but rather “if I’d gotten to live the life of selfish adventure I’d always wanted”. Hell, even the dark picture that Capra paints of George Bailey’s life really isn’t all that bad– how many people get to inherit even a failing business from their families anymore, or are lucky enough to have Donna Reed throw herself at them from the time they hit the age of reason? In a sense, there’s just as much artificiality and fantasy in the way that life in Bedford Falls is portrayed at its best and worst alike even before the Angel’s Anonymous stages a divine intervention. But an idyllic picture like that works as long as you’re endorsing a kind of social idealism to support it, and there is something oddly utopian about the way the film shows small-town America as being a place where people are loving, tolerant and helpful towards one another. It’s bullshit of course (especially during the next decade after this film) but the kind of bullshit that can inspire great deeds and valuable contributions to society. If one Capra film motivated untold numbers of Mr. Smiths to go to Washington, there’s probably no shortage of George Baileys who saw this film and decided to become “community organizers”.
Fantastic observations here, Bob – I’d almost say “you should write your own piece on the movie” but in a sense, you already have here with this lengthy comment (ditto Dennis above).
The comparisons you draw are dead-on, and I’m kicking myself for not mentioning Washington Irving – the quintessence of fusing American social realism with fantasia; Wonderful Life is a kind of Rip Van Winkle in reverse. The rest of your literary litany is on the spot as well, illustrating that rich lore Capra is drawing on here, while also taking it up to date.
I think it was you I mentioned this to recently (although I’ve had this conversation with many) but something that’s been missing from American culture lately is a kind of “mythology for adults.” Not just in the sense of “not for children” (like The Matrix or Lord of the Rings) but of actually relating to adult reality, as lived everyday. Only Lynch seemed to tap into the mythological strain without wholeheartedly dunking into outright otherworldly fantasy. I love the fact that It’s a Wonderful Life – and a lot of other films from Hollywood’s supposedly “escapist” era – did this so well.
LOTR isn’t for children? Yes, it overly appeals to overgrown manchildren as all genre fare does, but no matter if you’re talking Tolkien’s text, the Rankin/Bass animations or Jackson’s films, at best you’re talking about an epic bedtime story. “The Matrix” isn’t really that much closer to being “mythology for adults” as you point out, but I’d hesitate to use your definition as a barometer. Classical mythology itself never really dealt with everyday, lived-in adult reality– one generation has fantastical demigod heroes and knights in shining armor, another has Jedi, superheroes and teenagers piloting robots. Even IAWL and Lynch’s fare requires the advent of truly supernatural stuff to really elevate them into the realm of the mythical. Rod Serling’s work, at its best, managed to marry adult concerns with fantasy, and other shows like “Twin Peaks”, “The X-Files” and “Lost” did so too, with varying degrees of genre emphasis.
I think that the equivalent to classical mythology, however, might be a kind of “modern mythology” that mixed mythological elements with adult reality. The old sort of mythology isn’t really possible anymore, since part of the power of myth derived from it’s being perceived as true, no? As for Lynch, most of his works are kind of supernatural but at the same time I think even something like Blue Velvet, which is one of the least supernatural Lynchs I can think of, still has a kind of mythological element to it I think.
It has an archetypal element to it, which may be enough to give it a kind of Jungian/Campbellian mythological aspect. At the same time, the reverse balance of what you’re saying (mythological themes with adult sensibilities) can easily be found in any of the high-concept fare that usually gets compared to and/or concieved in mythological terms. There’s just enough adult reality in even the most childish work of fantasy, sci-fi or superpowered wish-fulfillment to make it work at least on the same terms that Homer or other such legendary fare do.
A fascinating essay, Joel, which has me wanting to watch this again as soon as possible. I’m interested that you see the film as so quintessentially American – I’ve never been to America, but I do still recognise a lot of the film’s world, as someone who has spent most of their life in the same small area. I do agree that a lot of the film is much darker than its reputation tends to suggest – but then, watching some of Capra’s earlier films, I’ve been surprised by how much darkness there is in those too, which can’t all be banished by the happiest of endings. I don’t know enough about his politics but would like to learn more, as there seem to be a lot of contradictions within his films, which you bring out in this piece. Must just add it strikes me that ‘Back to the Future’ is heavily influenced by IAWL, with the vision of the town dominated by gambling joints in one version of events!
Thanks Judy – the film is definitely both all-American AND universal. As with many great works, it contains multitudes some of them seemingly contradictory. Great point with BTTF (Part II) – another comparison I should have thought of! Doesn’t Hill Valley change its name to Tanner city or something too? I think there’s even a moment, akin to Wonderful Life’s “I mean Pottersville! Don’t you think I know what town I live in!” where someone looks at Marty like he’s crazy for not knowing the name of the city?
And actually that Life scene may be related (albeit tangentially) to another Future sequence as well – this one in Part I, where Marty goes back in time and knocks out one of the “Two Pines” which later gives the shopping mall its name. Later, when he returns to the present it’s called “One Pine Plaza” or something like that! Just as in Wonderful Life, George knows he’s back in his own reality when he examines the tree he hit with his car, and it’s dented once again.
Capra’s films DO often have a strain of darkness. I’m reminded of Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, a film I considered corny when I first saw it, which sets its idealism in contrast to a very marked awareness of cynicism and corruption (think Jefferson Smith’s anecdote about his father’s philosophy – “view life like you’ve just driven out of a dark tunnel”, and how his father was a crusading journalist assassinated for political reasons).
I’m also reminded of a teacher I once had who was fiftyish, bald, and severe, a Russian with a thick accent, always clad in a black turtleneck, arms folded, speaking in clipped, economical terms about everything and everyone, unsparing in his criticism, and prone to saying “Zis is not movie,” when someone shot something he considered uncinematic. He also did not care for sentimentality or excessive gestures. Cold as he could be, on the last day of class (my last class ever, I believe) he turned to us and offering a toast as we all prepared to depart the room, he imparted his wisdom and advice and then, with a barely-concealed twinkle in his eye, ended with, “And please, make movie realistic, be true to life, but please – give it happy ending.”
Interesting essay, though I hazard that Capra would have been surprised that nightmare of Pottersville is closer to the reality of American life today than the dewy-eyed sentimental picture he would have us believe would triumph. Did the makers ever consider the black irony of the film’s title? The brutal scepticism of the title given to Siodmak’s Christmas Holiday somehow resonates more deeply and is closer to the truth.
Thanks Tony. I remember discussing an article a few years back where the writer came after it as “old-fashioned” from both angles; both the “its social values are retrograde” reading and also the “Pottersville would be better off economically, and a hell of a lot more fun.” I think the author was also celebrating A Christmas Story as his preferred holiday film and saying it had surpassed Wonderful Life in popularity (though I may very well be getting two different articles confused). Much as I enjoy the Bob Clark (no relation) comedy, I obviously find the Capra a million times more compelling, and resonant. At any rate, I’m not familiar with the Siodmak, but looks like it’s on Netflix so I will add it to my queue…
As I told Tony a few months ago, I liked Siodmak’s film quite a bit! Saw it at the director’s festival at the Film Forum.