[In honor of Veterans’
Day, a series on cultural and historical engagements with this important
American community. Please share your suggestions for veterans’ texts and
contexts for the crowd-sourced weekend post!]
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; 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, 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 additional reinforcing in our national
consciousness, it is World War II. And 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 more than sixty 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. Next post tomorrow,
Ben
PS. What do you think? Other films
or images you’d share for the weekend post?
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