"Well, well. You're the first woman I've ever met who said yes when she meant yes."
Johnny (Cary Grant)
I am a fan of Alfred Hitchcock's movies — something, as I have written before, that I picked up from my parents — but nearly all of his movies were before my time, and I have often wondered why his movies didn't win more Oscars. After all, many of his movies are considered classics today. You will always find them on "best of" lists. The American Film Institute included four Hitchcock movies in its list of the top 100 movies of all time. AFI included nine of Hitchcock's films in its list of the top 100 thrilling movies of all time.
Hitchcock himself was nominated for Best Director five times, but he never won. In spite of directing many of Hollywood's brightest stars in the 1940s and 1950s — some, like Cary Grant, Jimmy Stewart and Grace Kelly, in multiple films — only one received an Oscar.
That was Joan Fontaine for her performance in "Suspicion," which was in American movie theaters on this day in 1941.
Hitchcock wasn't nominated for his directorial work in "Suspicion," but the movie was nominated for Best Picture and Best Score of a Dramatic Picture in addition to Fontaine's Oscar for her acting.
Fontaine played an introverted, rather frumpy heiress who married a rogue/charmer (Grant) she met on a train. After their honeymoon, Fontaine's character began to discover her new husband's shadowy past. He was a rather reckless gambler who sold two of her antique chairs to pay off a gambling debt, and she became suspicious of his motives when one of his friends turned up dead under mysterious circumstances.
Fontaine's character wondered if he planned to kill her for her money, especially after he questioned a friend of hers, who happened to be a mystery writer, about poisons that could not be traced, and you had all the pieces in place for a classic Hitchcock psychological thriller.
In the end, though, Grant's character was vindicated, and, in truly Hitchcockian fashion, the movie shifted in the final minutes from a tale that cautioned wariness when facing the unknown to a cautionary tale about making assumptions based on incomplete and inaccurate information.
It was Fontaine's movie, and she was rewarded with the Oscar, but Grant was the one who really stole the show with his magnetism.
The story I have always heard is that Grant was frustrated by what he perceived as Hitchcock's preferential treatment of his leading lady. That shouldn't surprise any student of movies. Hitchcock always had an eye for lovely ladies, and he featured them prominently in his movies. Fontaine was merely one in a rather long line that included the likes of Grace Kelly, Ingrid Bergman, Kim Novak, Eva Marie Saint, Janet Leigh and Tippi Hedren.
I guess Grant found this particularly egregious, though, perhaps because it was pretty well known that he thought Fontaine was unprofessional and temperamental, and he pledged never to work with Hitchcock again.
They must have patched things up because they made three more movies together, including perhaps my favorite Hitchcock movie of all, "North by Northwest."
"I ain't a–goin' to war. War's killin', and the book's agin' killin'! So war is agin' the book!"
Sgt. York (Gary Cooper)
I've never been a big fan of war movies.
There are some war movies that I like, but they almost always involve more than shooting and explosions. I've never been much for splashy special effects. For me, a war movie has to tell a good story, preferably with some kind of redeeming quality to counterbalance the violence. It helps if the story being told happens to be true.
Howard Hawks' "Sergeant York," which was at the theaters 75 years ago today, was such a movie. In fact, I would hesitate to call it a war movie. It was about a man who had sincere religious beliefs that came into conflict with the laws and requirements of the country in which he lived. War was merely the subtext of the larger issues that Alvin York's story raised.
Really, though, it would have been hard to go wrong. It was a biography of a hero whose story really seemed too good to be true. The American Film Institute ranked the film character the 35th–most heroic character in movie history; AFI also ranked the actor who portrayed him, Gary Cooper, as the 11th–greatest actor of all time.
Given the fact that York was one of the most decorated American soldiers of World War I, a conflict that had been fought in the lifetimes of most American adults in 1941, it should be no surprise that his story would draw huge audiences, and it did. It easily cleared more than $16 million at the box office, more than four times the earnings of the runnerup, "Honky Tonk," starring Clark Gable and Lana Turner.
My mother was quite taken with the movie and frequently quoted her favorite dialogue from it. York's sister, played by 16–year–old June Lockhart, and mother (in an Oscar–nominated performance by Margaret Wycherly) waved to Alvin as he left to report for duty. "What are they a–fighting for, Ma?" York's sister asked. "I don't rightly know, child," her mother replied.
(I've known that dialogue most of my life, I guess. Mom repeated it so many times. She was like that about her favorite lines from movies. Sometimes she used funny pronunciations of words as part of her regular conversation. One of her favorites was using words spoken by Inspector Clouseau in the Pink Panther movies — but that's a topic for another time.)
When the story began, Alvin York was a hillbilly from rural Tennessee who liked to drink and carouse. He needed motivation to walk the straight and narrow — and he found it in the form of a beautiful young girl (Joan Leslie). York set out to raise the money for payment on a prize piece of farm land, which he figured would seal the deal with this girl. But the land was sold to someone else so he went back to his old ways.
But he found religion, and it changed his life. His pastor was played by Walter Brennan, who was nominated for Best Supporting Actor (but lost to Donald Crisp in "How Green Was My Valley.")
Because of his conversion, York was an unlikely war hero. He even tried to get out of serving by claiming conscientious objector status, but he was drafted anyway. During his training it was discovered that he was a superior marksman — a skill he had picked up hunting in the hills — and he was promoted to corporal.
York put his marksmanship skills to good use during the Meuse-Argonne Offensive in 1918 when enemy machine gun fire pinned down his unit. With only a handful of men — and doing most of the work himself, picking off enemy soldiers from a sniper position — York captured more than 130 Germans.
He was a national hero and received the Medal of Honor — even though he always said his motivation was to save the lives of his men.
As I say, the movie was a big hit at the box office. The story was heroic, but it was also helped by the tragedy of Pearl Harbor, which happened while "Sergeant York" was in theaters. I have heard that some young men went directly from watching the movie to local recruitment offices to sign up, so inspired were they by Cooper's performance.
Cooper won the Oscar for Best Actor for his portrayal of York.
"Question — What is your Christian name? Answer — N. or M. Question — When did you receive this name? Answer — At my baptism when I was dedicated to God and received into the visible Church of Christ.
As long as I can remember, my parents were fans of Agatha Christie.
Between them, I'm sure they must have read every one of the 80 detective novels she wrote in her lifetime. If they didn't read them all, it wasn't because they didn't try. When I was a child, I thought nothing of finding an Agatha Christie paperback just about anywhere in the house.
To an extent, I think I inherited their fondness for the genre. I have dozens of copies of her books that I inherited from my parents — my father gave them to me after my mother died. He said he had already read them and probably wouldn't read them again. I must confess that I haven't read all of them, but I have read most of them.
I am a writer myself, and I am intrigued by the many sources from which Christie drew her inspiration. Seventy years ago this month, for example, the Book of Common Prayer was the inspiration for what many critics of the time called her best work to date.
That was saying something, given the fact that Christie had already published at least 30 books by that time.
Most of her previous books dealt with one of two main characters — Miss Marple, an elderly spinster and amateur sleuth, and Hercule Poirot, a professional (and semi–retired) detective from Belgium. And, if you ask someone today to name one of Agatha Christie's detectives, those are the names you are most likely to hear — especially Poirot's.
As I understand it, Poirot was featured in nearly half of Christie's books, and he was the central character in all the movie adaptations of Christie's books that I have ever seen. Many well–known actors — including Albert Finney, Peter Ustinov and Tony Randall — have portrayed him on the silver screen.
But not all of Christie's books focused on Miss Marple or Hercule Poirot, and N or M? was one of those exceptions.
The story was centered around an English couple, Tommy and Tuppence, who first appeared in a Christie novel nearly 20 years earlier and a collection of short stories that was published a few years after that. They showed up again in a couple of novels near the end of Christie's life, but, in 1941, they must have been all but forgotten.
If they were mostly forgotten by 1941, they couldn't have been too recognizable to Christie's readers — and not only because of their rare appearances in her books. Most of Christie's characters — like many recurring characters in other writers' books — never really seemed to age. You could read a book featuring Hercule Poirot that was written in the 1930s and then read one that was written 30 years later and there would be virtually no difference between the characters, but Tommy and Tuppence clearly went through life phases.
When they first appeared in the early 1920s, they were seen as "bright young things," former intelligence workers living by their wits in post–World War I England. By 1941, they were in middle age, not quite as impulsive, more deliberate and dealing with the realities of World War II England.
(It should be noted at this point that a story with a specific wartime setting was unusual for Christie.)
They were feeling left out of things when Tommy was approached about doing some undercover work, and Tuppence decided to join him. She didn't wait for him to invite her.
And so they embarked on a mission to find a German agent who may have been male or female.
N or M? got its name from a 16th–century catechism that asks for one's Christian (given) name. The response that is requested is "N or M," with N being a male and M being a female.
To understand the title, it helps if you know that fact. It also helps if you read the book — and it's a pretty quick read. My old paperback copy is less than 200 pages, and much of the story was told via dialogue, as so many of Christie's books were.
One of the things I liked about the book was the way it referred to events from World War I that may have been widely known in their day but seem to be largely forgotten today — at least in this country.
I've always been something of a history buff.
For example, N or M? mentioned the case of British nurse Edith Cavell, who came to the aid of anyone who needed her help during the hostilities.
She was a pioneer of modern nursing techniques in Belgium before the war. After Belgium came under German occupation, she helped hundreds escape.
The Germans arrested her in 1915, tried her, convicted her of treason and executed her. Cavell's death became an effective propaganda tool for the Allies. Stories portrayed her as a heroic and patriotic individual who said, "I can’t stop while there are lives to be saved."
If N or M? was an accurate depiction of the times, people were still discussing Cavell's role in the conflict a quarter of a century after her execution.
Mrs. Sprot had just said in her thin fluting voice:
"Where I do think the Germans made such a mistake in the last war was to shoot Nurse Cavell. It turned everybody against them."
It was then that Sheila, flinging back her head, demanded in her fierce young voice: "Why shouldn't they shoot her? She was a spy, wasn't she?"
"Oh, no, not a spy."
"She helped English people to escape — in an enemy country. That's the same thing. Why shouldn't she be shot?"
"Oh, but shooting a woman — and a nurse."
Sheila got up.
"I think the Germans were quite right," she said.
Agatha Christie "N or M?" (1941)
In fact, nearly a century after Cavell's execution, the evidence that supported/refuted the claim that she was a spy remains ambiguous.
But that is really another story. N or M? wasn't about Cavell and World War I. It was about uncovering German agents in the early days of World War II.
I gather that the essentially spy story was somewhat welcome escapism for Britons who had already been through the Battle of Britain.
And, while the references to people like Nurse Cavell may be obscure to modern readers, they were no doubt familiar — and relevant — to readers in 1941.
Fresh death was all around them then. It may well have been refreshing to read about a death that was practically ancient history by that time.
And it may have been a refreshing change of pace for my parents, who were born long after Nurse Cavell was executed.
When you think of Humphrey Bogart, which of his film roles comes to mind?
In 1999, the American Film Institute picked Bogart as the top male film star of all time. Along with such a designation, I assume, comes a wide variety of answers to the question I posed in the preceding paragraph. After all, he appeared in roughly 75 movies.
My father, for example, probably would tell you that he thinks of "The African Queen," and that would probably be true of many people. It was Bogart's only Oscar–winning performance. He was nominated three times, but that was his only victory.
Other folks think of his roles in "Casablanca," the iconic Best Picture winner from 1942, or "The Caine Mutiny," both of which earned him Oscar nominations but no statuettes.
My personal favorite has always been "The Treasure of the Sierra Madre."
Bogart made quite a few movies in the 1930s, but he didn't really become the star who would be recognized by AFI until 1941, when "High Sierra" and "The Maltese Falcon" were released.
Both can be seen on Turner Classic Movies tomorrow, when TCM will devote its daylong salute (as part of its annual "Summer Under the Stars") to Bogart. You can see "High Sierra" at 1:45 p.m. (Central), and you can see "The Maltese Falcon" at 7 p.m. (Central).
"The Maltese Falcon," which was released on Oct. 3, 1941, is a film noir classic. I'm not a movie historian, but I have heard genuine film historians say it was the first film noir.
The American Film Institute ranks it 31st on its list of Top 100 movies of the last century. Movie critic Roger Ebert and Entertainment Weekly, among others, have ranked it high on their all–time lists as well.
Looking back over 70 years, it's hard to imagine how it could have missed.
It was based on Dashiell Hammett's third published novel. It starred Humphrey Bogart — and many other talented, although lesser known, people. John Huston was the director. In fact, it was Huston's directorial debut.
As I say, it was not Bogart's debut, but many moviegoers of the time certainly would have asked the question that was asked by the trailer for "The Maltese Falcon" — "Who is this man?" If they racked their brains, they might remember his face from the many B movies in which he appeared — but most probably couldn't attach a name to that face.
Nevertheless, Huston's inexperience appears to have played a decisive role in the casting of Bogart as Sam Spade. As I have heard it, producer Hal Wallis wanted George Raft, who was a more bankable star at the time, to play the lead, but Raft refused, choosing to work with a more experienced director (Raoul Walsh) — as well as more familiar co–stars (Edward G. Robinson and Marlene Dietrich) on a now mostly forgotten film called "Manpower" — it was mentioned in the movie "Bugsy."
Some of the supporting cast in "The Maltese Falcon" were unknown and making their film debuts — 61–year–old Sydney Greenstreet comes to mind. Others — i.e., Peter Lorre and Mary Astor — were veterans of the film industry but not very well known.
Anyway, Bogart was Huston's choice, and his performances in "The Maltese Falcon" and "High Sierra" are often said to have elevated his career to the superstar status he enjoyed in the last years of his life — and Raft's career decisions appear to have played decisive roles in both.
Raft reportedly turned down the part in "High Sierra," which was one of Walsh's projects, then supposedly took the part in "Manpower" to compensate for not taking the other one. Bogart wound up playing both roles — and went on to the legendary career that was recognized by AFI and others.
Almost prophetically, Bogart utters the line that AFI recognized as #14 on its list of the 100 all–time greatest lines in movie history — holding the statuette, a policeman remarks that it is heavy and asks Bogart, "What it is made of?"
"It's the stuff dreams are made of," Bogart says.
"The Maltese Falcon" was the stuff Bogart's dreams were made of, to be sure.
The two Bogart movies that were released 70 years ago changed everything, and, while "High Sierra" certainly did its part to make Bogie's name a household word, it was really "The Maltese Falcon" that transformed him from actor to star.
I have long said that "Citizen Kane" is my favorite movie.
Others have said it is the greatest movie of all time (but not necessarily their favorite film) — among them the American Film Institute.
Sometimes it is said both admiringly and indirectly — in the way that, for example, the Montreal Gazette observes that Jack Layton "has gone from 'having something less than a hope' to 'something more than a chance' " in tomorrow's Canadian election.
(Those are versions of lines from the movie, by the way — from Citizen Kane's very own campaign speech.)
That has led to something of a conflict for me, I think. Is it my favorite film? Or is it the greatest film of all time? Or is it more than that? Is it both?
Is it — to borrow a line from the original Saturday Night Live show — a floor wax and a dessert topping?
It's all become something of a cliche, I suppose. Roger Ebert suggested as much in the Chicago Sun–Times when he wrote in 2008 that "it's settled: 'Citizen Kane' is the official greatest film of all time."
That doesn't alter, in any way, how I feel about the movie. I never needed AFI or Roger Ebert or the Montreal Gazette — or anyone else — to validate my assessment for me.
I consider myself a student of film. I'm hardly an authority on the subject, but I do believe there are some things about filmmaking that I know that most average movie viewers do not.
One of the things I know is that "Citizen Kane" — which made its New York debut on this day in 1941 (it showed up in theaters across the U.S. a few months later) — was a groundbreaking movie in many ways.
If you already knew that, I'm glad. But if you didn't, let me tell you a few things:
It experimented extensively with what is known as "deep focus," in which everything in a scene — from the most extreme foreground to the most extreme background — is in sharp focus.
That might not impress people today, but 70 years ago ...
It also utilized low–angle shots more than any film that had come before.
A low–angle shot is when a camera is positioned below the eyeline and photographs something as if looking up. From that perspective, interior shots show ceilings — or, rather, where a ceiling should be.
That's the kind of technique that seems to be used these days mostly to imply the dominance of someone or something over another. In the "Star Wars" movies, for example — especially the early ones — Darth Vader was often seen from low angles.
At the time "Citizen Kane" was filmed, most movies were made on sound stages, not on location. Thus, most indoor scenes could not show ceilings. The low–angle shots in "Citizen Kane" were designed to give viewers a feeling of intimacy by showing ceilings.
"Citizen Kane" didn't always use actual ceilings. It often used material that looked like ceilings and created the illusion of an ordinary room while managing to conceal boom microphones.
Aside from the cinematography, the movie used storytelling techniques that were, if not entirely new, certainly unconventional.
Most of the story was told in flashback, not chronologically. Montages were used to show the passage of time. And background information was provided early in the form of a newsreel that was inspired by the newsreels of the period.
The movie also pioneered techniques in makeup, special effects and sound effects, some of it the result of Orson Welles' experiences in radio.
And "Citizen Kane" introduced the moviegoing public to many people — performers and others — who would be significant in years to come, including Bernard Herrmann, who wrote an Oscar–nominated score for the film.
Herrmann, a longtime Welles collaborator, had a distinguished career, writing scores for films by Alfred Hitchcock, Joseph Mankiewicz, François Truffaut, Martin Scorsese and Brian De Palma and composing music for the original Twilight Zone TV series.
Beyond all that stuff, though, "Citizen Kane" had many memorable moments, made possible by the talented cast.
Like the musing of Kane's friend and associate, Mr. Bernstein (Everett Sloane), about a persistent memory of a girl he saw briefly some 40 years earlier ...
... and the agony of Kane's second wife, Susan (Dorothy Comingore), as she tried to come to terms with his death.
The magic of a movie begins with the writers who put thoughts and ideas on paper, but it is the great actors and actresses who breathe life into those words and the composers who write music that complements the story. "Citizen Kane" may have had one of the finest such ensembles I have ever seen.
Everyone remembers Kane's cryptic "Rosebud," uttered on his deathbed.
But I also remember the adult Kane's revealing conversation with his guardian after signing over his holdings during the Depression.
"If I hadn't been very rich," Kane said, "I might have been a really great man."
"Don't you think you are?" his guardian asked.
"I think I did pretty well under the circumstances," Kane said with that bemused Orson Welles smile.
"What would you like to have been?" his guardian persisted.
Kane glared at him. "Everything you hate."
There are many such moments in "Citizen Kane." The character is loosely based on William Randolph Hearst so, in a way, I guess, it is a journalist's story — but not really. Kane was cynical about his profession, even seemed weary when the subject came up.
It might have been possible to tell that story with Kane as a leader of another industry, but I doubt that it would have been as effective.
As the newsreel that opened the movie told the audience about Kane and the first half of the 20th century, "All of these years he covered, many of these he was."
Even so, "Citizen Kane" was not so much the story of a newspaperman as it was the story of a man — born into poverty, raised in wealth and privilege — and isolated by it as an adult.
So you've gotten all warm and fuzzy over "It's a Wonderful Life."
And maybe, just for good measure, you've pulled out your video tape or your DVD of "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington" or "It Happened One Night," maybe even "Arsenic and Old Lace."
And you think you know Frank Capra.
I'll grant you, those are probably the highlights. There were so many classics in Capra's career, and many of them were almost fantastic in their nature, screwball in their humor.
And I can see how, after a certain point, it can be tempting to say that, if you've seen one Capra movie, you've seen them all.
"Meet John Doe," which will be shown on Turner Classic Movies Saturday night at 7 (Central), was like that, too, but it had more of a political edge than most of Capra's works, even "Mr. Smith," which was really more of a morality tale than a political one.
In fact, even though the movie was made 70 years ago, the timing might be right for an updated remake. And, as you will see, there are certain elements that undoubtedly would require revision because they are simply too implausible for 2010.
Barbara Stanwyck plays a spitfire of a reporter who loses her job when the management of her newspaper makes a mass downsizing decision. In her last column, she writes about a phony letter from a John Doe moaning about the plight of the "little people" and threatening to jump off city hall on Christmas Eve.
"If you ask me," writes Stanwyck's character, on the brink of joblessness and fretting over how to support her family, "the wrong people are jumping off buildings."
Now, Stanwyck wasn't like some actresses who were featured in Capra's movies — Jean Arthur, for example. Stanwyck excelled in a variety of movies, not just the screwball comedies.
That isn't meant as a slap against actresses who find their niche in screwball comedies. I'm just saying that Stanwyck was extremely versatile. I thought she was great in films like "Meet Jone Doe." She was great in classic film noir productions like "Double Indemnity," too.
(For that matter, Arthur didn't confine herself to screwball comedies, either. But that's another story ...)
My point is that Stanwyck, who was recognized by the American Film Institute as the 11th greatest actress of all time, enjoyed success in many roles — as did her counterpart among the actors, Gary Cooper, who just happens to be recruited to play John Doe.
Anyway, John Doe unexpectedly becomes the most popular guy in town. Everyone, it seems, wants to offer him a job or a place to stay. A few marriage proposals have even trickled in to the newspaper office.
It appears that being down on his luck was the best thing that ever happened to him — that is, if he ever actually existed.
Stanwyck's character knows a good thing when she sees one, though, and she persuades the editor to ride the popularity of John Doe and his "letter" as long as he can — but, in order to throw their newspaper competitors off the scent, they need somebody to present in public — enter Gary Cooper, a hobo who once played pro baseball, a pitcher until his arm went bad.
(And there is something that clearly needs to be changed if someone decides to do a remake. In the present economy, there are almost no American cities with more than one newspaper anymore. Heck, some cities don't even have one.
(So, while the angle of struggling newspapers has resonance here in the 21st century, the concept of actual competition in the newspaper industry seems, well, quaint. If someone is really entertaining the notion of doing a remake, it might be wise to change the employer of the Stanwyck character to an online news site or something like that.
(Oh, and those typewriters that Stanwyck uses? Clearly, they would need to be replaced with computers — preferably laptops. Even an electric typewriter — and they seemed oh so cutting edge when I was in school — would be hopelessly old–fashioned in 2010.)
Cooper is believable enough in his part, but his character brings some baggage — namely, his hobo companion played by Walter Brennan. Brennan's character in this film, known only as The Colonel, has always been one of my favorites, particularly in his rant against the "Heelots," which you can see in the attached clip.
(That philosophical rant reminds me of a slapstick routine I saw the Smothers Brothers do during the Vietnam era in which Tommy explained his theory of the relationship between clothing and political power. The people in charge, he said, were the people who wore suits and ties [they had more on] while the people who were subjugated were the people who wore shorts and T–shirts [they had less on]. Thus, Tommy said, the people in power were the "more–ons.")
Well, the Colonel resists the trappings of fame and fortune and encourages John to do likewise. But John falls victim to the allure of success (and, with it, regular meals and a real bed) and all the opportunities it could make possible (like getting his arm fixed and reviving his baseball career), and he ultimately winds up making speeches that seem sincere in their "love thy neighbor" message but are, in reality, the cynical products of Stanwyck's promotional pen.
"Everything in that speech is what a certain man believed in. He was my father. When he talked, people listened. They will listen to you, too."
Ann (Barbara Stanwyck)
At such points in this film, you really can tell if someone is truly a Capra aficionado.
For example, Stanwyck's character finds herself struggling to write the speech that, as she observes, could mean financial security for her and her family — and then her mother volunteers that she doesn't think anyone will listen to it.
"People are tired of hearing nothing but doom and despair," her mother tells her. "[W]hy don't you let him say something simple and real, something with hope in it?"
Sure, it's a Capraesque line, but it also happens to be a demonstrably successful advertising principle — which may make this the most cynical film Capra ever made.
Then she shares with Stanwyck her late father's diary. "There's enough in it for a hundred speeches," she says, "things people ought to hear nowadays."
And there's another Capra theme — the value and wisdom of experience and common sense.
As Cooper embarks on the Stanwyck–engineered "John Doe" campaign, a veteran Capra watcher can see the influences from earlier Capra movies — the images of newspaper front pages with Cooper striking his "I protest!" pose, for example, are straight out of "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington."
There are many such Capra touches, even if the story isn't standard Capra.
But Cooper is a man conflicted. Playing along with the John Doe story seems to hold the promise of restoring his baseball career — until it is pointed out to him that, if it is revealed to the public that he has participated in a deception, it will mean the end of that career.
Cooper's character comes across as every bit as naive as Jimmy Stewart's in "Mr. Smith" — or, for that matter, in "It's a Wonderful Life" — but cynically so, whereas Stewart's characters were selfless.
John starts believing those poisonous press clippings until he is confronted with the truth — the whole John Doe movement has been manufactured by Stanwyck's boss to further his own presidential ambitions via the creation of a new political party.
And then he delivers a speech that really needs to be seen in the context of the rest of the film. It's impressive by itself, but it really makes the movie.
"Meet John Doe" is certainly more pessimistic than what one normally associates with Capra. There is no positive resolution to the story, which is kind of refreshing if you've become accustomed to the often overly sweet stories his films usually told, but it can be kind of a letdown if you're looking for a George Baileyesque tale of redemption.
I'm not sure there is redemption for Long John Willoughby (also known as John Doe). I don't think he even got his arm fixed.
But the film ends with the implication that there is hope of redemption for Long John. And that, I guess, elevates the story above most of Capra's other films.
You can't say that you really know Capra's work until you've seen it.
I got my bachelor's degree in journalism from the University of Arkansas, and I got my master's degree in journalism from the University of North Texas. Most of my adult life has been dedicated to writing and editing in one form or another. Most recently I have taught writing (news and developmental) as an adjunct journalism professor at Richland College, where I advise the student newspaper staff. Go, Thunderducks!
