Culture Clash in the 19th Century

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When I was a child, I had no idea there was a movie called "Anna and the King of Siam," which made its American premiere on this day in 1946.

I knew about "The King and I," the musical version of the story starring Yul Brynner and Deborah Kerr that was made about a decade later. My grandmother was a fan of musicals, and I remember watching that one with her on television when I was about 5 or 6 years old.

Set in the 1860s, "Anna and the King of Siam" told the story of an Englishwoman (Irene Dunne) who accepted a position teaching English to the children of the king of Siam (Rex Harrison). It was essentially the same story — minus the music.

Dunne's character got off on the wrong foot when she was greeted by the prime minister (Lee J. Cobb), who proceeded to ask her several personal questions. Dunne's character did not realize that was customary in Siam and took offense — only to be advised afterward to make amends with him on the grounds that she didn't understand. She took that advice, but things still weren't smooth. Dunne and her son had been promised a house of their own in which to live, but upon their arrival she learned that she was to live in the palace where she would be accessible for the king and any of his children at any time. The king did not remember making the promise of a house and, apparently, felt under no obligation to honor a promise he didn't recall making.

It was, I quickly determined, the same story — except that, apart from the music, "The King and I" was a much more light–hearted telling of what was a culture clash. I guess the music made it seem breezy. No problem like that in "Anna and the King of Siam" although as I understand it the king was portrayed as being much tougher and more traditional in that movie than he was in real life.

Both movies were based on the true story of Anna Leonowens, a British writer, educator and social activist who became the governess/teacher of the Siamese king's 39 wives and 82 children. I don't remember if the movie ever mentioned the number of children she taught, but I am quite sure I did not see 82 children in the movie — and very few of the king's wives were seen, either. There was one, sort of the top wife (Gale Sondergaard, in an Oscar–nominated performance), who knew English and interpreted for Anna, but, as I say, few others were seen.

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While much of "Anna and the King of Siam" was fictionalized, one of my favorite scenes in the movie apparently was based in fact. In the movie, the king dictated a letter to American President Abraham Lincoln in which he offered Lincoln gifts of elephants to breed for transportation purposes — although the offer was actually addressed to Lincoln's predecessor, James Buchanan, or, since the king was mindful of the presidential election taking place when he sent the gifts, Buchanan's successor.

(Buchanan was not a candidate for re–election. Lincoln was elected to succeed him.)

In real life, Lincoln graciously declined the offer, explaining that the United States' latitude made it unfeasible to raise elephants here.

As a history buff, I always liked that part of the story. I can't tell you how pleased I was to learn it was true — mostly.

Anna was a bit of a feminist, at least as far as her times were concerned — and certainly as far as the place where she was living and working was concerned. Women simply had no rights in Siam, and no one, male or female, challenged the king on anything and in any way. But Anna spoke her mind to the king, and she frequently made sense. It just took him a little while to mull things over in his head.

Then, when he came around — like as not in the wee hours of the morning — he would wake her up to go over the details with her. She became perhaps his most valued adviser by the end of the movie.

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But there were still times when Anna's European sensibilities came into conflict with Siamese tradition.

It was a story about a culture clash that still has valuable points to make.

In addition to Sondergaard, "Anna and the King of Siam" received four other Academy Award nominations and won Oscars for Best Dramatic or Comedy Score and Best Black–and–White Art Direction.

Finding the Right Track

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Nearly 15 years ago, Roger Ebert observed that "The Big Sleep," which premiered on this date in 1946, was "about the process of a criminal investigation, not its results."

Considering the movie's rather tortuous tale, that is an important distinction to keep in mind.

In the interest of entertainment, movies and TV shows usually spare audiences the more mundane details of a criminal investigation — and ordinary viewers probably would be amazed at just how many insignificant details there can be.

I never participated directly in such an investigation, but, when I was a newspaper reporter covering the police beat, I knew several of the city and county investigators and I know how many undramatic dead ends and red herrings they often had to pursue before they finally found themselves on the right track — if they ever did.

Investigators, after all, are human. They make mistakes, and they can find themselves on the wrong track very easily, especially when there is pressure on them to solve a high–profile case quickly.

I guess the process for investigating criminal activity — like the processes for making laws and sausages — isn't very glamorous. It is messy. It can get pretty ugly at times.

Anyway, I suppose the gauzy, almost dreamlike opening of "The Big Sleep," with the shadowy figures of Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall and the blurry–then focused–then blurry again title and names of the cast members, should have been an early indication of what audiences could expect.

Well, perhaps not. Little was clear in "The Big Sleep" even after one watched it all the way through. Besides, the same technique was used in "The Maltese Falcon" just five years earlier — and it was a hit. (Bogart himself said "The Maltese Falcon" was a masterpiece.)

"The Big Sleep" and "The Maltese Falcon" had a lot in common. They were both film noirs, and both were adaptations of novels by noted writers. A significant difference between the two, however, was that "The Maltese Falcon" was pretty straight forward in its resolution, and "The Big Sleep" was not.

I guess a certain amount of ambiguity was unavoidable. When the movie's screenwriters were making their adaptation for the screen, they ran into a number of problems — not the least of which was the fact that the writers could not tell if a character had been killed by someone else — or himself.

All that was really clear was that he was dead.

In an attempt to resolve the issue, the writers wired the author, Raymond Chandler, with their question, but he couldn't shed any light on it.

The screenwriters encountered other problems adapting the book in a way that would conform to the requirements of the Motion Picture Production Code — also known as the Hays Code — which was the set of guidelines that determined whether a film was acceptable.

Movie studios and all the people who worked for them were, understandably, eager to remain in the Hays Office's good graces — but sometimes that was easier said than done.

And there definitely were elements of Chandler's story that were problems for screenwriters.

Originally, the character of Carmen (played by Martha Vickers in the movie) was the killer, but then the character of her sister Vivian (Bacall) would have been an accessory to murder, which would have been contrary to the Code. Consequently, the story was rewritten for the screen to cast suspicion on another character, a small–time criminal played by John Ridgely.

In the process, the writers created considerable uncertainty about who the killer really was — uncertainty that persists to this day.

The book also presented some sexual issues with which the writers had to deal.

• One character in the book sold pornography (which was affiliated in those days with organized crime) and was homosexual to boot.
  
  For the screen, the pornography part could only be mentioned indirectly. Sexual orientation wasn't mentioned at all.
• In the original book, Carmen was nude in one character's home and in another character's bed. That wouldn't do, either. She had to remain completely clothed, and her promiscuity could only be mentioned indirectly as well.
  
  (A memorable line from early in the movie had Bogart telling Carmen's father that she "tried to sit in my lap while I was standing up.")

The timing of the movie's release posed other problems. Filming was completed around the end of World War II, but the studios of the day, fearing that interest in war movies would start to wane, decided to strike while the iron was hot and dumped their films with war themes into the marketplace all at once, delaying the release of less time–sensitive movies like "The Big Sleep." Thus, "The Big Sleep" was not released until this day in 1946 — even though it was ready in 1945. Well, "ready" really isn't the right word, is it? I mean, with the additional time, the screenwriters might have thought of more plausible rewrites and scenes could have been re–shot, perhaps ridding the movie of much of its ambiguity. At the very least, there were issues of timeliness that made the movie seem dated even in 1946 — some of the wartime dialogue could have been changed (i.e., references to rationing), and some scenes could have been re–shot so the sets could be more contemporary (with photos of Harry Truman, who had been president for more than a year, instead of FDR on office desks and walls). But the extra time was not used that way, and the movie that was released in 1946 was the same one that was completed in 1945. Timeliness was not the priority for "The Big Sleep" in 1946 that it had been for all the war pictures that were in the theaters in 1945. The Bogart–Bacall relationship was promoted rather heavily after being more or less introduced to the public two years earlier in "To Have and Have Not." The two were married by the time "The Big Sleep" was released, and the studio eagerly embraced the public's apparent acceptance of the union. As you can see in the poster at the left, the Bogie–Bacall angle was emphasized in the movie's promotion 65 years ago. Little was said about the author of the original story. It was Chandler's first novel — and a pretty good one at that (in 2005, TIME named it one of the 100 best novels of all time). Bogart was a quarter–century older than Bacall (who is still alive), and, in some circles, Bogart was seen as more of a mentor and Bacall was seen as an eager young student than as traditional spouses. I don't know what the truth was about their relationship, but it lasted until Bogart's death in 1957, and they made two more movies together, "Dark Passage" and "Key Largo."
Clearly, it was a partnership that worked.

Fighting a War After the War Ends

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Like most boys, when I was growing up, I played war games with the kids in my neighborhood.

The other kids all seemed to know more about war than I did. I guess they saw more war movies.

Actually, I've never been a fan of war movies although I do make some exceptions.

I make exceptions, for example, for some movies that are historical re–creations, like "Gettysburg" or "Tora! Tora! Tora!" I make exceptions for some movies that tell a real person's story with war as the backdrop, like "Sergeant York." And I make exceptions for some movies that tell stories about real events but the characters are fictional, like "Gone With the Wind" or "The Best Years of Our Lives."

In fact, I'd have to say that 1946's "The Best Years of Our Lives" is one of my favorite war movies — and it never shows a single battle scene in nearly three hours. It did explore the difficulties World War II veterans faced in readjusting to civilian life.

It was ahead of its time, really. Its language wasn't as salty as more modern films. When compared to films by modern filmmakers, director William Wyler could be said to have pulled some punches. But it addressed the issue of disabled veterans before "Coming Home" or "Born on the Fourth of July," and it dealt with war–inflicted psychological trauma before "The Deer Hunter."

It was truly a break from the norm.

There are moments in the movie that illustrate ugly truths about war that can't be portrayed on the battlefield and can't be glossed over by charismatic actors or patriotic music.

Like how war can interfere in personal lives.

"What do you think of the children?" the wife of the banker, Al, asks her husband upon his return.

"Children?" Al asks. "I don't recognize 'em. They've grown so old."

"I tried to stop them, to keep them just as they were when you left," she says, "but they got away from me."

Earlier, we get some insight into Al's anxiety about coming home when the cab that took him and two fellow veterans to their homes pulls up in front of his building.

"How long since you been home?" one of his companions asks.

"Oh, a couple–a centuries," he replies.

From time to time, the audience sees indications that Al has a problem with alcohol that may have developed while he was overseas. It is never really addressed in the movie, although one suspects it presents a problem that Al will have to deal with.

As difficult as things are for Al, the adjustment is tougher for Homer, the former high school football star who lost his hands in combat.

After an awkward evening with his family, he slips out to his Uncle Butch's saloon, where Butch advises him, while the two play piano together, "Give 'em time, kid; they'll catch on. You know your folks'll get used to you, and you'll get used to them. Then everything'll settle down nicely. Unless we have another war. Then none of us have to worry because we'll all be blown to bits the first day. So cheer up, huh?"

But Butch can't completely ease Homer's emotional conflict. It leads him to erroneously conclude that his girlfriend won't want to go through with the marriage they had planned before the war intruded.

Finally, he gives her an unflinching glimpse at the kind of life she faces if they get married. He goes through the process of removing his hooks in his preparation for bed.

"This is when I know I'm helpless," he says. "My hands are down there on the bed. I can't put them on again without calling to somebody for help. I can't smoke a cigarette or read a book. If that door should blow shut, I can't open it and get out of this room. I'm as dependent as a baby that doesn't know how to get anything except to cry for it. Well, now you know, Wilma. Now you have an idea of what it is. I guess you don't know what to say. It's all right. Go on home. Go away like your family said."

But Wilma surprises him. "I know what to say, Homer," she says, kneeling in front of him. "I love you and I'm never going to leave you ... never." She tucks him into bed and kisses him, then leaves the room.

The camera lingers on Homer's face, partially illuminated by the moonlight. And the audience sees a single tear roll down his face. No words are necessary to express the relief he is feeling.

The third veteran, Fred, faces many obstacles when he returns, not the least of which is his attempt to pick up the threads of his marriage. He continues to suffer from nightmares about battle and also finds it hard to find work when much of his experience was in the nose of combat aircraft.

But the marriage falls apart, and Fred decides to leave town. He has no destination in mind. When trying to get on a plane, he is told that there are two planes leaving town that day, "one eastbound, one westbound."

"Which way you going?" Fred is asked.

"Which one leaves first?" he responds.

Perhaps fittingly, the movie ends with Homer and Wilma's wedding. It is a new beginning for them — and, perhaps, for Al as well. We get the impression that Al and his wife have discussed his drinking, and Al has agreed to cut back.

It is also a new beginning for Fred and Al's daughter, Peggy, who appear to be headed for their own wedding as the movie ends.

It's a remarkable film.

And you can see it tonight on Turner Classic Movies at 9 p.m. (Central). It's part of TCM's "31 Days of Oscar."

The cast was first rate — Fredric March, Myrna Loy, Teresa Wright, Dana Andrews, Virginia Mayo, Hoagy Carmichael. And it had a very special young man, Harold Russell, who was cast in the role of Homer. He was not a professional actor, but he was perfect for the role.

In reality, Russell lost his hands in a grenade explosion. He won Best Supporting Actor — and he also received a special Oscar for being an inspiration to veterans.

It remains the only time anyone has received two Oscars for the same performance.

Other films glorified war. "The Best Years of Our Lives" told the gritty tale of adjusting to a postwar reality — and won seven Oscars in the process.

If you have never seen it, it is worth the investment of your time.

It's a Wonderful Life

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Earlier this month, I observed — in passing — that the Christmas season isn't complete for some people until they have seen "It's a Wonderful Life."

I've been writing a lot about Christmas lately — and, as a warning to my regular readers, I plan to post a Christmas message at my Freedom Writing blog on Friday.

But today, I feel moved to write about "It's a Wonderful Life" — because tomorrow is the 63rd anniversary of its theatrical release.

I don't know if it is Frank Capra's best–known, best–loved or just plain best movie. In Capra's life — which even a casual observer would have to concede was pretty wonderful — he directed many movies that are considered classics today. Several were recognized at the time, and three, including "It's a Wonderful Life," are on the American Film Institute's list of the Top 100 movies of all time.

I think it is safe to say, though, that it would be hard for anyone to watch "It's a Wonderful Life" and not feel moved or inspired.

The story is about something that many people have contemplated at some point. George Bailey (memorably played by James Stewart), who has repeatedly sacrificed his dreams and goals for the benefit of others, is at his lowest point on Christmas Eve and is thinking about ending his life. He believes everyone would have been better off if he had never been born.

Unknown to him, though, all those people whose lives have been affected by his presence are begging God to intervene on his behalf, and an angel named Clarence is sent to earth to convince George that he has made a real difference in the lives of his friends and family and his hometown.

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In the end, George is persuaded that it is true, which has always kind of reminded me of a line from another classic motion picture, "The Wizard of Oz." Near the end of that movie, the wizard is talking to the Tin Woodman, who has been looking for a heart. The wizard tells his lovelorn friend that one's heart "is not judged by how much you love — but by how much you are loved by others."

And George realizes that, with the exception of his nemesis, Henry Potter, he is, indeed, loved by many — and that he is, in the words of his brother, "the richest man in town."

Christmas never comes at a time when life is great for everyone on the planet. Even in the best, most prosperous times, there are always people who have no job, no home, only the clothes they are wearing to protect them from the elements, only the food scraps they find in garbage bins to satisfy their gnawing hunger.

And these aren't the best of times.

In what remains of this Christmas season, if you've been blessed enough to have things that others can only dream of, I urge you to share some of your bounty with the less fortunate.

And, if you haven't seen "It's a Wonderful Life" this holiday season, you can see it this Thursday at 7 p.m. (Central) on your NBC station.