On cold and wintery Sunday afternoons, I used to love to listen to my grandmother tell me about the World War II years. She had four sons, all of them in the service at the same time. One of them, whose name I now bear, didn't come back. As a matter of fact, he got killed in France just two weeks before V-E Day in 1945. So close and yet...
These chats fueled my undying interest in WWII. Since then, I have gobbled up every book on Roosevelt's presidency, every radio broadcast on the overseas battle, and every single movie that depicted what it was like living in the United States from 1941 to 1945.
But, "The Best Years of Our Lives" is the only movie that took it all one step further. It examines the lives of three soldiers after the war is over. They return to their small town, fresh from battle, but unaware that their biggest challenges are yet to come. Fredric March won an Oscar for his portrayal of a banker trying to assimilate back into his career. There is a scene where he is reunited with his wife, played by Myrna Loy. They walk slowly to each other down a long hallway. It is wordless and beautiful, perhaps the most romantic moment in film history. Dana Andrews plays a fighter pilot, still holding scars from dropping bomb after bomb. Now, with the war over, he can't hold onto a job or a wife.
And then there's Homer, played by non-actor Harold Russell. He won an honorary Oscar for this role as a Navy guy who comes homes without his hands. And this ain't CGI magic, folks. Those hooks are real. Watch the scene where he encounters his family for the first time. And they realize, with their own eyes, what has happened to him.
"The Best Years of Our Lives," expertly directed by William Wyler, won 8 Oscars, including one for Best Picture. I never got the irony of the title until recently. That, indeed, the best years for these folks may have been the years when they were actually away as soldiers. And it still rings true today for the most obvious reasons. Because this country loves to send folks into battle, but has no clue what to do with them when they come home. The dilemma has been consistent regardless of the conflict. Korea. Vietnam. Iraq. The homecoming for most is always bittersweet.
And I think about those who don't come home. My never-seen uncle, for instance. The emotions that were tied to that loss were something that my grandmother never really touched on in those long Sunday dialogues.
Probably because they never really healed.
Dinner last night: Ham steak at Musso and Frank's.
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