[In honors of Veterans Day, a
series AmericanStudying veteran figures, histores, and stories. Leading up to a
crowd-sourced post on all things veterans and Veterans Day—share your own
stories and connections, please!]
On the film and performance that capture the spectrum and significance of
veterans’ experiences.
There are no shortage of memorable
World War II stories in our national narratives—of course there are the
overarching narratives like The Greatest Generation and Rosie the Riveter; then there are
the explicitly and centrally celebratory texts, such as in films like Midway or Saving Private
Ryan; the more complex mixtures of celebration and realism, such as in films
like From Here to Eternity or Flags of Our Fathers; and the very
explicitly critical and satirical accounts, as in the novels Catch-22 and Slaughterhouse Five. One could even
argue, with some accuracy, that if there is any single event or era that
doesn’t need reinforcing in our national consciousness, it is this one;
similarly, one could argue that if there’s any group of American films that
can’t be considered generally under-exposed or –remembered, even if some have
waned in popularity or awareness over time, it’d be those that won the Academy
Award for Best Picture.
Well, I guess I like a challenge,
because I’m here to argue that a World War II-centered film that in 1947 won
not only Best Picture but also Director, Actor, Supporting Actor, Screenplay,
Editing, and Music has become a much too forgotten and underappreciated
American text. That film was The Best Years of Our Lives, William Wyler’s adaptation of MacKinlay Kantor’s novel
about three returning World War II veterans and their experiences attempting
to re-adapt to civilian life on the home front. It’s a far from perfect
film, and features some schmaltzy sections that, perhaps, feel especially dated
at nearly seventy years’ remove and have likely contributed to its waning
appeal. But it also includes some complex and powerful moments, and a
significant number of them can be attributed directly to Wyler’s most famous
and important casting choice: his decision to cast former paratrooper Harold
Russell, an amateur actor who had lost both of his hands in a training
accident, in the role of Homer Parrish, a similarly disabled vet with hooks
replacing his hands. Homer’s
relationship with the extremely supportive Wilma (played by Cathy
O’Donnell) offers its share of the schmaltz, but in other ways his character
and performance are much more dark and complicated, affecting the emotions
through their realism and sensitivity rather than just overt
heartstring-tugging.
That’s especially true of the
scene that stood out to me most when I watched the film (as a college student
in the late 1990s) and that has stuck with me ever since. Homer, once a star
high school quarterback who was used to being watched and admired by younger
boys in that earlier role, is attempting to work on a project in his garage but
struggling greatly with his prostheses; he knows that a group of neighborhood
boys are spying on him in fascination and horror but tries to ignore their
presence. He can’t do so, however, and in a burst of anger releases much of
what he has been dealing with since his injuries and return, breaking the
garage windows with his hooks and daring the kids to fully engage with who and
what he has become. The moment, big and emotional as it is, feels as unaffected
as it gets, and manages to do what few of those more well-known World War II
stories can: celebrating and critiquing in equal measure, recognizing the
sacrifice and heroism of a Homer while mourning what war does and takes and
destroys. Ultimately the scene, like the film, provides no definite answers, no
straightforward adulation of its veterans nor darkly comic takedown of war
myths, but instead simply asks us to think about what life (in and out of war)
has meant and continues to mean for someone like Harold Russell, and all his
veteran peers.
Indeed, Best Years is ultimately about precisely
that—the experiences and identities of the soldiers themselves, at their best,
at their worst, and everywhere in between. On Veteran’s Day, and on every other
day as well, I think it’d be ideal to focus not on wars at all, horrific and
cold and impersonal and, yes, hellish as they always are, but on remembering
those Americans whose lives were and continue to be so impacted by these
experiences—not least, I have to add, because I think we’d be a lot less
cavalier about starting wars if we did so. Crowd-sourced post this weekend,
Ben
PS. So one more
time: what do you think? Stories or histories you’d share for the weekend post?
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