NR | 1h 45min | Drama | 1946
Edward Dmytryck’s film, released the same year as William Wyler’s “The Best Years of Our Lives,” has a similar theme: ex-soldiers clawing their way back into peacetime. Dmytryck draws on Niven Busch’s novel “They Dream of Home” about young men, compelled too soon by war, to grow out of their youth.
World War II Marine corps buddies Cliff Harper (Guy Madison), Bill Tabeshaw (Robert Mitchum), and Perry Kincheloe (Bill Williams) return to civilian life. But after years of soldiering to protect their future, they’re uncertain about what to do when that future becomes their present.
Harper falls for war-widow Patricia Ruscomb (Dorothy McGuire), politely ignoring Helen Ingersoll (Jean Porter), the vivacious 18-year-old neighbor vying for his attention. Tough guy Tabeshaw wants to settle down on a ranch, if only the metal implant (to protect his injured skull) would stop hurting. Double amputee Kincheloe, prefers to self-pityingly mope around in his wheelchair, instead of sporting prosthetic legs to make a career out of his talent for boxing.
Accustomed to following orders, the men struggle with this now unfamiliar, unregimented life. They love the freedom that civilian life brings, but find its surfeit of choices overwhelming—whether it’s going back to school, dating, finding a wife, starting a business, or holding a job. Then Tabeshaw’s implant acts up, triggering possibly fatal headaches. That jolts Harper and Kincheloe out of themselves, forcing gratitude for what they can have instead of discontent over what they can’t.
Madison, Mitchum, and Williams, who’d all served in the military, bring the dilemma of returning vets to their roles, conveying a sense of release mingled with angst at being robbed of years they’d rather have spent differently.
Melancholic Madison
Dmytryck’s characters continue fighting, long after the sound of guns and grenades have died down. They’re fighting for relevance, for relationships, for reasons to live. They’re fighting against fear of rejection, of shame, of failure. His message? Happy are those with supportive friends and family; they’ll make it through the toughest peacetimes.The film’s silences reflect quiet pathos. Wordlessly, Harper watches Ingersoll crying, Harper’s parents watch him sleep when he’s secretly weeping.
Harper’s intended surprise for his parents, turning up unannounced at home, falls flat. They’re away. Still, Dmytryck turns that six-minute scene into a tribute to home and hearth. Barring a talky interruption by the precocious Ingersoll, it’s bereft of dialogue.
Harper walks from room to room taking in what’s changed, what hasn’t, what’s old, what’s new. As he fondles photo-frames and memorabilia, his finger accidentally turns on a riotous song on their music system. In the deathly silence, it’s like a bomb exploding. He scrambles to turn it off. Now, strolling past their piano, he runs his finger, deliberately, along the keys, high notes to low. On his way out, he playfully reverses that, this time, low notes to high.
Dmytryck is reflecting on life. Loud, sudden, unwelcome, and indescribably disruptive war is like that boisterous song tearing the quiet. All soldiers react to what’s accidental: They cope; they contain. Peacetime, however, demands purposeful living.
What matters to Harper and his mates is disposition. Will their lives be a series of conscious choices or mere compulsions? Harper’s little piano play is his defiance of fate. His notes, no matter how soft, are intentional and therefore more beautiful.
