Based on Jan
Struther’s novel of wartime resilience, William Wyler’s Mrs. Miniver (1942) remains potently poetic: arguably, the
definitive example of pro-ally propaganda as melodrama. Its peerless
craftsmanship on both sides of the camera evokes an enduring kinship between
two indomitable nations (Britain and America). Indeed, at the time of its release
Winston Churchill declared Mrs. Miniver
more effective in bolstering U.S. involvement in the war than a flotilla of destroyers.
In retrospect, America’s initial isolationism toward the second European conflict
was not only understandable, but forgivable. With their own
not so distance memories of the First World War, its crippling casualties, and
the even more recent calamities at home (the Great Depression and the dust
bowl) America was a nation interested in moving forward rather than
looking back; the resurrection of their involvement in another global conflict
a continent away at first incomprehensible. The nation’s people’s didn’t want
any part of WWII – a reluctance mirrored in President Franklin Roosevelt’s early nation-building
policies that chose to all but ignore the Nazi threat brewing abroad.
In those years Hollywood championed lavish escapism. A decade’s worth of super-frothy musicals
and giddy screwball comedies evoked countless glossy images of either extreme
romantic naiveté or the deliciously devious rich behaving idiotically. Hollywood’s
sprawling westerns too had succeeded in rewriting a more rugged history,
exploiting uber-glamor to ensnare the general public’s view of its own nation-building
as a virtuous act to civilize rather than eradicate the first peoples from
their land. By 1939 these collective impressions of American society had become
a badly needed and most desirable elixir for the ailing nation; two thirds of whom
lived in poverty.
But Hollywood
was also quite unapologetically fond of extolling idealized intercontinental
portraits of the European landscape; perhaps partly to satisfy the public’s
insatiable fascination for cultures that most had never seen with their own
eyes. These were reconstituted as magical fairy-lands steeped in centuries of
undiluted ultra-sophistication. Given Hollywood’s penchant for such extreme fantasy,
Mrs. Miniver occupies a rather
curious crossroads – its MGM back lot recreations of merry ol’ England straddling
the chasm between old dream-like fantasies and harsher realities facing a world
under siege.
MGM’s production
designer Cedric Gibbons and his art department have herein crafted a lyrical
snapshot of Britain as it might have been; the courtly sparkle and polish of those
cozy streets and byways, the erudite and mostly gentile quality of its people
precariously situated at the cusp of a looming chaos threatening to dismantle
all that is pure and good. These settings are familiar to anyone who has seen
more than, say five MGM movies from the 40s, the backdrops obvious and not
fooling anyone. And yet, they work – magnificently so to faintly eulogize a way
of life that tragically would never return, if arguably, it ever existed at
all.
So too is the
film immeasurably aided in its casting of Greer Garson as Kay Miniver; in every
way the quintessence of that blithe cinematic impression of Mother England.
Garson’s matriarch is attuned to the more superficial luxuries that her architect
husband, Clem (Walter Pigeon) can afford, until a nation’s fate becomes
intertwined with her own destiny and this elegant bauble becomes an intrepid
and decidedly more proactive figure of perseverance on the home front. Cinematic
depictions of WWII – particularly from this vintage – were usually parables
about the testing of masculine heroism. But Mrs. Miniver is uniquely a story of feminine valor; perhaps never
more perfectly realized than in Garson’s infectiously understated Irish lilt.
Greer Garson
and co-star Walter Pigeon had already appeared together in MGM’s Blossoms in the Dust (1941) a rather
plodding weepy. Their pairing in Mrs.
Miniver forever solidified them in the eyes of the public as the idyllic marrieds
– or soon to be – who found bittersweet domestic resplendency beyond their
wedding vows. Indeed, the onscreen chemistry between Garson and Pigeon in Mrs. Miniver is so palpable, so genuinely
tender and affecting that it seems impossible to fathom the two never having
been husband and wife, or at the very least, lovers.
However, in
real life Pigeon was devoted to his second wife, Ruth Walker (his first, Edna
Pickles dying in childbirth); a vow that would endure until his death in 1984,
while Garson was then pursuing a passionate relationship with Richard Ney – the
man who played her adult son, Vin in the film. In their heyday Garson and Pigeon were
regarded with equal affection by audiences as Katherine Hepburn and Spencer
Tracy or Myrna Loy and William Powell. But unlike these contemporaries, Garson
and Pigeon gave the public a portrait of selfless devotion, void of any comedic
underpinnings or sassy repartee and grounded in a mutual appreciation that went
far beyond mere understanding. Theirs was a duet of equals, her incomparable patience
married to his unerring gentleness.
The Arthur
Wimperis, George Froeschel, James Hilton, Claudine West screenplay for Mrs. Miniver opens on a street scene in
London England, its populace oblivious to the impending European conflict. We find
Kay Miniver (Garson) sprinting through the congested foot traffic on route to a
local millinery to make an impromptu purchase. The hat is a rather wicked
indulgence and one Kay is determined to ease her husband, Clem (Pigeon) to
accept over polite conversation after dinner. Unbeknownst to Kay, Clem has been
indulging in an extravagance of his own – the purchase of a new and very sleek convertible
automobile, with plans to spring his new toy on Kay after dinner as well.
Taking the
train back to Beldon depot, Kay is encouraged by its kindly station master, Mr.
Ballard (Henry Travers) to pause a moment inside his private office where he
shows her the most beautiful rose she has ever seen. The result of some clever
cross pollination, Mr. Ballard informs Kay that he has decided – with her
permission, of course – to name it ‘the Mrs. Miniver’ and also to enter the
rose in the local flower competition for its top prize, traditionally won by
the rather haughty Lady Beldon (Dame May Whitty).
In these
opening scenes director William Wyler takes delicate pains to establish two
fundamentals of the story: first and foremost, the devoted closeness of the
Miniver clan; Kay, Clem, their two children still living at home; Toby
(Christopher Severn) and Judy (Clare Sandars) and the housemaid, Gladys (Brenda
Forbes) who is engaged to a local handyman, Horace (Rhys Williams). Wyler’s
other ambition in these early scenes is to construct and then gradually
dismantle the hierarchy of England’s time-honored
classicism; a foreshadowing of the real life trajectory of that nation’s future
– best illustrated in the liquidity of affections between the Miniver’s eldest
son, Vin (Richard Ney) and Lady Beldon’s niece, Carol (Teresa Wright), and by
Lady Beldon’s eventual, but very reluctant acquiescence to the marriage after
being worn down by Kay’s congenial acceptance of it.
After putting
her children to bed and revealing their extravagances to one another Kay and
Clem retire for the night; serenely contented and supremely happy. The next
afternoon they collect Vin from the depot. Newly graduated from the university,
Vin’s head has been filled with a vast assortment of liberal-ease ideals
bordering on some quaintly comedic socialism. The family politely indulges Vin’s
newfound progressiveness. Carol, however, challenges Vin to back up his talk
with action, after being pressed by him about her grandmother’s smug
superiority. Despite this rather inauspicious introduction, Vin and Carol quietly
become friends and later, romantically involved; their relationship a minor
consternation for Lady Beldon who still clings to the classist view of English
aristocracy to which Vin Miniver decidedly does not belong. Kay, however,
encourages the romance and sets about easing Lady Beldon’s mind from these
social biases. There is, however, little time to rejoice in the pleasures of
domestic life. The nation has been plunged into war and Clem and Vin join the
local effort; the latter becoming an RAF pilot.
Clem and an
armada made up of the local yachtsmen sail their vessels to Dunkirk, leaving
Kay to endure the bombing raids alone. She is periodically comforted by Carol
and also by Mr. Ballard, who informs her one pleasant morning, that there are
rumors of a downed Nazi pilot having survived a nearby crash. Kay quickly discovers
the German flyer (Helmut Dantine) wounded and lurking about her azaleas.
Attempting to retreat into her home, she is forced at gunpoint to allow the
pilot into her kitchen where he demands, and is given, bread and milk. But Kay’s
attempts to reason with him are met by a blood-curdling declaration of how the
German high command and their blitzkrieg intend to annihilate the free peoples
of Europe and take over the world. In response, Kay strikes the Nazi. He
recoils and then collapses from his wounds sustained in the crash, allowing Kay
just enough time to get help.
After Dunkirk,
Clem and Kay are reunited. Vin marries Carol and the family looks forward to
attending the annual flower competition where Mr. Ballard’s Miniver rose is
pitted against Lady Beldon’s traditional entry. A judge’s tie ensues and Lady
Beldon struggles with the decision to break it, awarding Ballard the top prize
for his entry instead, and to thunderous applause. As bombing sirens herald yet
another attack on their village, the locals retreat to the basement of the
Beldon estate. Vin dashes off to his airfield to meet the foe and Carol
accompanies Kay in Clem’s automobile en route back to the Miniver homestead.
Tragically, their night journey is interrupted by an overhead battle and exchange
of gunfire. One of the planes is shot down and dissolves into a fiery crash
nearby, igniting Kay’s fear that perhaps Vin has died. All too quickly Kay
realizes that some of the wayward gunfire has penetrated the soft top of Clem’s
convertible, mortally wounding Carol.
Hurrying home,
Kay carries Carol inside and lays her onto the carpet, rushing to telephone for
an ambulance. The girl dies however, and Kay is forced to relay this bitter
news first to Clem and then Vin, who returns from the aerial dogfight a mature
man to assume responsibilities for Carol’s burial and to properly mourn his
wife. The family attends services that Sunday in the bombed out shell of their
local church. Unable to maintain her austere façade, Lady Beldon breaks down
and Vin comes to her aid in her private box, as the Vicar (Henry Wilcoxon) delivers
the penultimate prophecy of the war.
“We in this quiet corner of England have suffered the
loss of friends very dear to us, some close to this church…and why? Surely you
must have asked yourselves this question…I shall tell you why - because this is
not only a war of soldiers in uniform. It is the war of the people, of all the
people. And it must be fought not only on the battlefield but in the cities and
in the villages, in the factories and on the farms, in the home and in the
heart of every man, woman and child who loves freedom. Well, we have buried our
dead, but we shall not forget them. Instead they will inspire us with an
unbreakable determination to free ourselves, and those who come after us, from
the tyranny and terror that threaten to strike us down. This is the People's
War. It is our war. We are the fighters. Fight it then. Fight it with all that
is in us. And may God defend the right.”
In practically
every way Mrs. Miniver is sublime cinematic
perfection. Its propagandist goodwill is rarely preachy and its timely
narrative seems, at least in retrospect, more timelessly appealing and apropos,
particularly in a world that, in more recent years, has frequently teetered on
the brink of some new self-destruction. The great satisfaction of this movie then as
now, and like most any that William Wyler made during his illustrious career,
remains its focus - not on the war but on the human element forced to endure
its terrible fallout. This attention to people rather than the thought-numbing
spectacle surrounding them eventually came to be branded ‘the Wyler touch’. Arguably,
it remains primarily responsible for Mrs.
Miniver’s enduring appeal these many years.
Garson and
Pigeon are the personification of England; a country and a people whose
evolution, however forced by extenuating circumstances, is nevertheless richly
rewarding to behold. Honorable mention must also go to Teresa Wright’s
understated performance as the unstuffy daughter to the manor born. Wright’s
Carol is a woman of both conviction and compassion – the soul as well as
decaying bridge between England’s past and future. Her death becomes the
symbolic gesture that irreversibly fractures and forever divides these two
polar opposite interpretations of Britain; the halcyon days of England as empire
receding into the sunset while foreshadowing the postwar generation yet to come
with remarkable clairvoyance. Indeed, Mrs. Miniver was and is one of MGM’s
crown jewels – a superb melodrama that sustains an air of pride amongst the
thoroughly decimated, though never entirely defeated. Why can’t Hollywood make more of these? Why
indeed?
Warner Home
Video debuts Mrs. Miniver on Blu-ray
in a transfer that offers a modest improvement on their previously issued DVD
from some years back. The indictment is slight – because Mrs. Miniver has never looked anything but utterly spectacular on
either format. The film elements have been the subject of considerable restoration
and preservation over the years. As such, this newly minted 1080p blu-ray
improves in all the expected areas. The image tightens up, with fine details
coming into focus. Film grain is more naturally reproduced. We get crispness
without any undue manipulation. No edge enhancement or shimmering of fine
details. The gray scale has been solidly reproduced. But side by side
comparisons between the DVD and Blu-ray reveal that contrast has been ever so
slightly bumped. So, which version best represents how the film originally
looked in theaters. Difficult to say. The increased contrast is modestly
negligible at best. Which version do I prefer? Either or – but the Blu-ray wins
hands down for improved grain reproduction and overall sharpness.
The audio
remains mono as originally recorded; excellent reproduction of a vintage
soundtrack with crisp dialogue. Herbert Stothart’s score, particularly the main
title, sound very impressive. Extras are all imports from the DVD, including
several short subjects and a trailer. I would have appreciated Warner giving us
an audio commentary or featurette on the making of the film. Certainly, Mrs. Miniver deserves one. But the
overall improvements to the presentation of the film itself are enough for me
to recommend this disc to you. Hands down – a no-brainer, yes!
FILM RATING (out of 5 – 5 being the best)
5+
VIDEO/AUDIO
4
EXTRAS
2
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