William Wyler (39 page)

Prior to this scene in the scrap heap, Fred returns home from looking for a job and finds Marie entertaining another man. Before Fred arrives, Wyler places Marie in front of a mirror as she tells her lover, Cliff, that her husband cannot find work because he is not very bright. This dismissive attitude echoes her words to Peggy in the nightclub scene, where she is also framed in a mirror, putting on makeup. When Fred arrives and confronts Cliff, the two men are standing near a photograph of Fred in uniform with Marie—again, as in the scene in Homer's bedroom, Wyler uses photos from the past as markers of where his characters once were versus where they are now. As Cliff leaves, Wyler catches his back in the mirror—suggesting, perhaps, that Cliff's rehabilitation will consist of a series of affairs with women like Marie. Fred, however, will move on. Following his reverie in the hollowed airplane, he is offered a job as a laborer; the pay is low, but the job might lead to a future in the construction business. Fred's story is resolved not by his finding a good job but “by a change in his attitude to a realistic appraisal of himself in relation to the time in which he lives.”
³³

The film concludes at the Parrish home, where Homer and Wilma are to be married. The setting promises a traditional happy ending, yet Wyler structures it to imply that the future for all his protagonists will be difficult, that their “rehabilitation” is not yet complete. The Parrish home is crowded and cramped, with barely enough space for the guests. Wyler's frame thus recalls the crowded nightclubs, the Midway drugstore, and the Parrish living room on Homer's first night home. When the three friends meet on the porch, we are reminded that Al continues to have a drinking problem, that the relationship between Fred and Al is strained, and that Fred has moved back in with his parents.

The wedding ceremony is famous for its deep-focus compositions. As the minister is reading the vows, the camera encompasses not only Homer and Wilma but also Fred, Milly, and Peggy. Milly's presence in this framing reminds us that the Stephensons' marriage may be entering a rough phase due to Al's drinking and his unhappiness at work. Peggy, of course, is still in love with Fred, who is standing up for Homer. At one point, Wyler departs radically from the expected two-character scenario: just as Wilma is repeating her vows, he cuts away from the couple to focus on Fred and Peggy; then, during the conclusion of the ceremony, he juxtaposes Homer, Wilma, and Fred with Peggy, who stands in the distance—thus dividing the audience's attention between the two couples. This inclusive framing persists through the moment when the bride and groom kiss: as family and friends gather around Homer and Wilma, Wyler keeps Fred and Peggy in the frame and then focuses exclusively on them as Fred indirectly declares his love and they kiss, as if they, too, are united in this marriage tableau.

The Best Years of Our Lives
was Wyler's last film with Gregg Toland, and it remains one of the noted cinematographer's singular achievements. As always, the two worked closely together, and Wyler decided “to try for as much simple realism as possible.” He went on to explain, “We had a clear-cut understanding that we would avoid glamour close-ups, and soft diffused backgrounds.”
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There were no abnormal camera angles, such as those Toland devised for Orson Welles, and, as Douglas Slocombe notes, “no forced perspectives.”
³⁵
Deep focus was utilized as a primary visual strategy, though it remained unobtrusive. According to Slocombe, “When a figure is placed near the camera and action simultaneously takes place in the background, it seems so natural to see both planes in focus, that one doesn't worry about it.”
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It has become commonplace to cite one shot in the bar scene—also described by André Bazin in his famous essay on Wyler
³⁷
—in which Toland captures action on three planes: in the foreground, Homer and Butch (Hoagy Carmichael) are playing “Chopsticks” on the piano; far in the background on screen left, Fred is in a phone booth, ending his relationship with Peggy; in the middle distance, but closer to screen right, Al watches Homer play piano and glances behind him to look at Fred. As Bazin points out, two separate actions are being presented simultaneously: the lesser action of Homer showing Al how he can play the piano, which occupies the foreground of the frame and dominates the soundtrack, and the more important action of Fred breaking up with Peggy in the background, which happens silently. The viewer, Bazin notes, takes the place of Al—thus experiencing the dramatic tension of having his attention divided between two fields of engagement. Michael Anderegg elaborates on this point by observing that Wyler, as he has for much of the film, is framing his three protagonists in the same frame, but now, instead of grouping them together, he places them on different planes, with “Fred in particular, isolated in the background.”
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This technique of spatial division within a single composition emphasizes the tensions that have developed between the characters.

Bazin makes two other important points in his essay. He notes that Wyler tries to eliminate any stylistic flourishes, thus prioritizing the dramatic structure and the acting. This restraint also allows Wyler to do one of the things he does best: allowing facial and body gestures full play in the scene. The realism of the acting in this film—most notably, that of Fredric March—is unmatched in any of Wyler's work. Wyler himself noted, “I can have action and reaction in the same shot without having to cut back and forth from individual cuts of characters. This makes for smooth continuity, an almost effortless flow of the scene, for much more interesting composition in each shot, and lets the spectator look from one to the other character at his own will, do his own cutting.”
³⁹
Bazin also differentiates between Toland's deep-focus work with Welles and with Wyler. Whereas Welles's deep-focus scenes are designed to “provoke and torture the audience,” Wyler merely wants viewers to see everything there is and to choose what they want to focus on. “It's an act of dramatic loyalty toward the spectator, an attempt at dramatic honesty.”
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The filming ended on August 9, after four months. Wyler had almost 400,000 feet of film, at a cost of $2.1 million. Shortly after shooting ended, editor Danny Mandell had a rough cut of around 16,000 feet (almost three hours) to show. The picture was previewed before an audience in Long Beach on October 17. They loved it, and Goldwyn was delighted with the film. He decided against further cuts, even though a picture of that length would be difficult to distribute.

Goldwyn initially wanted to release the film in 1947, but Wyler convinced him to move up the opening to qualify for that year's Academy Awards. It opened on November 21 at the Astor Theater in Times Square and on Christmas Day at the Beverly Theater in Beverly Hills. The New York Film Critics named it Best Movie of the Year on December 30, and in January it was nominated for eight Academy Awards, including Best Picture and Best Director. The Oscar ceremonies were broadcast nationally for the first time that year, and
The Best Years of Our Lives
won Samuel Goldwyn his first and only Academy Award. Wyler won for Best Director and received the statue from his friend Billy Wilder, who called
Best Years
“the best-directed film I've ever seen in my life.” It also won awards for Fredric March, Harold Russell (who received a second special Oscar “for bringing hope and courage to his fellow veterans”), Robert Sherwood, Danny Mandell, and Hugo Friedhofer for his musical score.

Sadly, despite the film's enormous success, Wyler's professional association with Goldwyn—always fitful—was irreparably harmed when the producer reneged on his promise to finally grant him the screen credit “A William Wyler Production.”
Best Years
was Wyler's first film for Goldwyn in which the director's name came last in the credits—a significant upgrade—but Wyler was angry and decided to end his association with Goldwyn. The situation got worse when Wyler discovered that Goldwyn had withheld royalties from him. He was reluctant to sue Goldwyn because he still retained a certain fondness for the man, but Wyler finally had no choice and took the producer to court in 1958, alleging that the net profits from the film from 1947 to 1951 had been understated by $2 million.

Goldwyn was also being attacked by the project's first writer, MacKinlay Kantor. After publicly praising the film and claiming pride in his association with it, Kantor did an about-face and complained to the press that Goldwyn had changed his title and many of the plot developments in his original story. Goldwyn lashed out against Kantor, noting that he had paid the writer $12,500 for a fifty-page treatment and declaring, “There's nothing wrong with Kantor that wouldn't drive a psychiatrist crazy.” Goldwyn added that he had generously allowed Kantor to keep the publishing profits and concluded, “Kantor is a plain liar. I couldn't use his screenplay because it wasn't any good. As a matter of fact, the book was bad, too. You can quote me on that.”
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As Wyler's suit against Goldwyn dragged on, he remained reluctant to be nasty to his former boss. In a letter to his lawyer, he cautioned, “Please avoid saying anything that sounds insulting to Goldwyn…. P.S. But since we
are
suing, let's
win!”
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By the time the suit was filed,
Best Years
had earned an additional $5 million. The two men finally settled out of court in 1962, when Wyler agreed to a payment of $80,000.

The Heiress
(1949)

One of Wyler's postwar ventures was an ambitious partnership with Frank Capra and Samuel Briskin (a former vice president in charge of production at RKO and Columbia) to run Liberty Films, an independent film company that would allow him to be his own boss. Capra announced the formation of the company in January 1945 and incorporated Liberty Films on April 10, with himself as president and major stockholder. Wyler joined the company in July.

Early on, Capra had asked Leo McCarey to participate in this venture, but McCarey, whose film
Going My Way
had won an Oscar in 1944, declined. At the same time, United Artists decided to pass on a deal to distribute Liberty's films—“a stark indication of how much Capra's status in Hollywood had eroded during his wartime absence from commercial production.”
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Needing another important director to strengthen his bargaining power with distributors, Capra offered a partnership to Wyler, who was also unsure of his future. This deal offered Wyler the opportunity he wanted—to be free of Goldwyn. Wyler told Axel Madsen, “I guess he believed I'd never leave him; he had sort of a father complex…. He offered his projects to me first, but I was engaged elsewhere and I didn't want to go back to the old Goldwyn days.”
²

Capra insisted on keeping a controlling interest but was “willing to offer his potential partner an equal voice in major company decisions such as story purchases and casting; creative autonomy during production, as long as the film remained within its budget; control of postproduction; and possessive credit” (that is, the director's name above the title—a distinction Goldwyn had never given Wyler).
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Once Wyler became part of the group, Capra was able to reach an agreement with RKO to release nine films. He was also busily recruiting other directors. He was turned down by John Huston, and George Stevens put him off until he returned home from the war. When Stevens finally decided to join, on New Year's Day 1946, the partnership was complete. With Stevens on board, RKO modified its agreement to require three films from each director and stipulated that each of the Liberty Films partners would fulfill this obligation by 1951.

In an interview for
Film Daily
in 1946, Wyler capitalized on his new freedom, urging a freer hand for directors. He asserted that it was contrary to a director's interests to capitulate to studio demands by accepting weak scripts. This kind of arrangement does “the industry no good, and it only dries up whatever creative talent the director possesses.”
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Because Wyler was still completing
Best Years
for Goldwyn, the early trade ads for Liberty Films did not announce any projects for him, but they did trumpet forthcoming films from Capra (
It's a Wonderful Life
) and Stevens (
One Big Happy Family
). They also announced that Capra would direct
No Other Man
, from the novel by Alfred Noyes, and
Friendly Persuasion
, from the novel by Jessamyn West—a project that would eventually be directed by Wyler instead, and for another studio. Also advertised was an original romantic comedy directed by Stevens, tentatively titled “It Must Be Love.”

In their promotional booklet, the partners stated the company's philosophy: “Described simply, the company comprises an experienced group of top-ranking picture makers banded together to give fullest advantage of unified production facilities and executive management, at the same time permitting each individual complete freedom to pursue his own creative bent and retain his artistic integrity, to the end of more worthwhile entertainment.”
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While Wyler's
Best Years
was enjoying enormous success (for Goldwyn), Capra's
It's a Wonderful Life
went $1 million over budget and ended up costing close to $4 million. It also struggled at the box office, eventually losing more than $400,000. RKO rushed it into release to qualify for the Academy Awards, and although it received five nominations, including Best Picture and Best Director, it lost to Wyler's runaway favorite.
Best Years
was the top-grossing film of 1946, with rentals of $11.3 million—a figure surpassed at the time only by
Gone with the Wind
.

Only a month into the release of
It's a Wonderful Life
, Capra started talking about unloading Liberty Films. The main problem was cash flow. With his film looking like a box-office flop, and Wyler and Stevens not yet engaged in their initial projects, Capra felt he had to act quickly to minimize their losses. He thought it would be wise to sell the company and salvage whatever assets they could. Capra was also tired of being independent. In 1971 he told Richard Schickel, “It was the most gentlemanly way of going broke, and the fastest way, anybody ever thought of. We didn't have enough capital, so we decided to sell Liberty Films, which was a very, very, hopeless thing to do.”
⁶
Wyler was willing to stick with Liberty, but he knew this was Capra's decision. Stevens objected to such a precipitous decision until he learned that another independent company he had been considering was also for sale.

Paramount and MGM made offers for Liberty, which still owned the rights to
The Friendly Persuasion
and
No Other Man
and, even more important, the services of the three directors. Paramount, which wanted to make “prestige” films, offered the four partners (including Briskin) a block of stock worth slightly more than $3 million. The deal was negotiated for Liberty by Jules Stein, the head of MCA, and a tentative agreement was reached with Paramount on April 14, 1947. The actual deal was closed on May 16. Wyler's share amounted to $750,000; he also agreed to make five films for Paramount at a flat fee of $150,000 per picture. Wyler told Madsen, “They assured us we would have the same independence as before, which didn't turn out to be true. We all had to have their approval of subject and budget.”
⁷

Paramount's story department owned a variety of properties that Wyler considered interesting, including two of Theodore Dreiser's classic novels:
An American Tragedy
and
Sister Carrie
. Dreiser had wanted Sergei Eisenstein to direct
An American Tragedy
, but Eisenstein abandoned the idea. A year later, in 1931, Adolph Zukor gave the project to Josef von Sternberg, whose film so angered Dreiser that he took Paramount to court—and lost. Stevens would eventually turn the novel into the Academy Award–winning
A Place in the Sun
(1951). In 1940, when Dreiser's reputation was at its nadir, his agent managed to sell
Sister Carrie
to Paramount for $40,000, but no one could write a satisfactory screenplay. Wyler would eventually tackle it, but first he was considering
Twelve O'Clock High
, a story about the psychological pressures endured by American fliers during the war, which was being written by his former air force buddies Sy Bartlett and Beirne Lay. The studio turned down that idea. And later, while he was making
The Heiress
, Wyler worked with Michael Wilson on a script for Thomas Wolfe's
Look Homeward, Angel
, but he was taken off that project as well. Wyler sent an angry memo to the studio: “This is the second time I wanted very much to make a picture and spent a great deal of time and energy on it, only to have the project turned down.”
⁸

While Wyler was nursing his wounds, he got a call from Olivia de Havilland. She had just returned from New York, where she had seen the play
The Heiress
. She felt the role of Catherine Sloper would be perfect for her, and she was certain she could help Wyler convince Paramount to buy the film rights. De Havilland was an independent-minded actress who liked to pick her own roles. After suing Warner Brothers to get out of her contract and winning a landmark suit in 1944, she had resumed her career at Paramount in 1946 and won an Oscar for
To Each His Own
. Now, Anatole Litvak, a friend of Wyler's, had just finished directing her in
The Snake Pit
, which was generating considerable buzz.

Wyler went to New York to see the play in January 1948, four months after it opened. Adapted by Ruth and Augustus Goetz from Henry James's novella
Washington Square, The Heiress
(earlier titles were “The Doctor's Daughter” and “Washington Square”) was a hit on Broadway. The play was produced and directed by Jed Harris and starred Wendy Hiller as Catherine, Basil Rathbone as her father, and Peter Cookson as her suitor. (In London, the play was later staged by John Gielgud, with Peggy Ashcroft alternating in the title role with Wendy Hiller, and Ralph Richardson as the father.) The action is set in nineteenth-century New York City and centers on Catherine Sloper, the plain and socially awkward daughter of a prominent physician. When Catherine falls in love with the charming but questionable Morris Townsend, her domineering father threatens to disinherit her if she marries him. The power struggle that ensues teaches Catherine that her father does not truly love her, and neither does Morris. Wyler, who had already directed a period piece in
Jezebel
, was fascinated primarily by the psychological tensions and the struggle between family members, which links this film thematically with
The Little Foxes
.

After seeing the play, Wyler immediately contacted the playwrights' agent to arrange a meeting. Ruth Goetz recalled that event for Wyler's biographer, Jan Herman: “We came down from the country and met him at the Pierre Hotel. He wanted to know all about James's original story, and what we changed and what we had supplied. I'm always amused when people say we simply took everything from the original. It's not true. The James story doesn't have the jilt in it. We also found the key to the story: the cruel fact that Catherine is a child her father didn't love. It was brutal stuff, and nobody had put that in the theater before.” Goetz remembered that they discussed the play for three hours, “and by the time we left him that day, we knew he wanted us. I thought he was first-rate.”
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A few days later, Paramount made an offer that the Goetzes thought was too low; they wanted a percentage of the gross, which Paramount refused to consider. The studio eventually raised the offer to $250,000 for the rights and a salary of $10,000 per week to write the screenplay, and the playwrights accepted those terms. The film was to be shot entirely on the studio lot, but production head Barney Balaban, in an effort to ensure a high-quality production, approved a budget of $2.5 million. Now that Wyler was serving as his own producer, he hired his brother Robert and Lester Koenig as associate producers.

Wyler assembled a superb cast. In addition to de Havilland, he managed to lure Ralph Richardson to Hollywood—and was later delighted to discover that Richardson shared his affection for motorcycles. He also signed Miriam Hopkins (costar of
These Three)
for the role of Lavinia Penniman, Catherine's aunt. For Morris Townsend, who is portrayed as a rake in the stage version, Wyler initially wanted Errol Flynn, hoping to capitalize on that actor's reputation as a ladies' man—Flynn had famously costarred with de Havilland in
Robin Hood
and eight other films for Warner Brothers. But when he learned that Flynn had no interest in the role, Wyler was actually relieved because he had decided to soften the character by making his motives more ambiguous. He decided to cast Montgomery Clift, who was then enjoying critical acclaim for his debut film performance in Fred Zinnemann's
The Search
and had just completed
Red River
for Howard Hawks.
¹⁰

When Augustus Goetz first met Clift, the actor was wearing a torn jacket, jeans, and a T-shirt. “He looked like a bum, and I thought, how could he ever play the suave, elegant Townsend?” But when Clift showed up in costume and makeup, Goetz was flabbergasted: “The transformation was startling. He was the most fashionable youth I ever saw.”
¹¹
Clift himself looked forward to meeting Wyler, whose films he admired, but was cowed by the director's reputation. Wyler recalled that on the first day of shooting, “Monty came to me on the set and said quietly, ‘If you ever bawl me out, don't do it in front of the crew.'”
¹²
Wyler assured the actor that he would not, although he would later be livid about Clift's insistence on bringing his acting coach to the set and his need to consult with her regularly.

The actors did not get along well on the set. Clift especially did not like de Havilland and considered her an inferior actress: “She memorizes her lines at night and comes to work waiting for the director to tell her what to do. You can't get by with that in the theater; and you don't have to in the movies. Her performance is being totally shaped by Wyler.” He also felt that Hopkins was stealing scenes and Wyler was doing nothing to stop her. As for Richardson, Clift was intimidated by him. “Can't that man make any mistakes?” he groaned after Richardson repeated a take for the thirtieth time in the same polished manner.
¹³

Clift was right about Wyler's attention to de Havilland. Ruth Goetz remembered: “She got a lot of attention from Willy because he knew she didn't really have the ass to swing it. She was no heavyweight. Tola [Anatole Litvak] had gotten a good performance out of her in
The Snake Pit.
That was really her only serious picture. Willy believed he could get a good performance too, if he kept at her.”
¹⁴

It may seem unusual for a prominent director to follow a film that tackles contemporary problems with a period piece set in the mid-nineteenth century. Such eclecticism certainly contributes to Wyler's reputation as a craftsman in the service of the project rather than an auteur forging his own vision. This impression is strengthened by the fact that, after moving to Paramount, Wyler was also his own producer and had some control over which projects he chose. Wyler admitted that he preferred adaptations of successful plays because they offered excellent stories and scripts and had built-in name recognition: “If you have a successful play, you have a lot to work with already. You know that you have an audience for it. If it is a well constructed play, you have a beginning, middle and an end.”
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