Reviews

Make Way for Tomorrow

When asked about this film Orson Welles said, "My god! I watched it four times and cried my eyes out every time!" He then went on to say, "It could make a stone cry."


Make Way for Tomorrow

Director: Leo McCarey
Cast: Victor Moore, Beulah Bondi, Fay Bainter, Thomas Mitchell, Porter Hall
Distributor: Criterion
Release Date: 2010-02-23

In many ways, too much time has passed for films from the '30s to be of much interest to most people living today. The black and white images, the grainy sound, the entirely different method of acting and the relatively straightforward plots all require time and an open mind to get used to -- two scarce commodities in our era.

However, the rewards of watching films from Hollywood's Golden Age are many, perhaps the most important being that they connect us to a heritage of American cinematic art that was at one time the envy of the world. Only tiny echoes of this distant past can be seen and heard in a relatively small number of films today. For better or worse, modern cinema has become something else entirely.

Make Way for Tomorrow is a film that may very well bore the hell out of 99 percent of the American viewing audience. However, as The Criterion Collection has shown over the past 25 years, there is a hard core audience for art house and forgotten but critically acclaimed mainstream films. As the book The Long Tail, by Chris Anderson points out, the populations of the US and other first world countries are now large enough to support very small niche markets.

Whereas The Criterion Collection originally began by putting out definitive versions of popular films for cinephiles (Blade Runner, Citizen Kane, Raging Bull, et al.) in the last decade it has been able to shift focus to releasing obscure or forgotten titles, most of them originally non-US productions. The branding helps as well; it's a safe bet that virtually all film history classes are taught off of Criterion Collection DVDs and if you're in the mood for something non-mainstream their logo is typically all the queue you need to pick up one of their distinctive DVD cases.

What can be expected of a film that, when asked about it by Peter Bogdanovich Orson Welles said, "My god! I watched it four times and cried my eyes out every time!" It was also supposedly one of his favorite films, "It could make a stone cry." If Orson Welles said he likes a film, perhaps you might want to watch it, too. However, in case you need any more motivation there is a distinct possibility that the dying words of Charles Foster Kane (from Citizen Kane) were directly influenced by Make Way for Tomorrow.

Kane's final utterance of "Rosebud" has been referred to as "the greatest mystery in cinema", and to this day there is plenty of conjecture but no definitive answer as to where that name that was on Kane's childhood sled came from. Now, however, we may have an answer.

In Make Way for Tomorrow, Lucy, the mother character played by Beulah Bondi, recites a poem from memory that she used to read to her husband, Barkley. He mentions very distinctively that, "[she] used to mark that page with a rosebud." Owing to the fact that this film was a particular favorite of Welles, and that the screenplay for Citizen Kanewasn't written until after 1940, and then given the heavy nostalgic symbolism of the rosebud marking a couple's favorite poem, it is very probable that the term "Rosebud" came from Make Way for Tomorrow.

The film itself forms an excellent bridge between today and the 70 years past. Despite both eras having the trappings of technological advance, both have in common a theme of severe economic upheaval. In 1937 the Great Depression was still going strong and despite today's Great Recession not resulting (thankfully) in the full-out devastation of the Depression, during both eras millions of people were losing their homes that they could no longer afford. Appropriately, this is the inciting incident which catalyzes the film's main plot.

In the initial scenes, Ma and Pa Cooper, both presumably in their 70s, have gathered their adult children around them to break the bad news that the bank will be foreclosing on the family home. Part of the greatness of this film is that there are no attempts to idealize its characters, or cut them any slack; until the dream-like final sequences, it treats each character and their motivations honestly.

The children immediately attempt to solve the situation by suggesting they all pitch in to pay the mortgage, but it's no use. Hoping for a miracle, Pa has let the problem sit over the last year and is only now bringing it up, with no time left for a solution. The children are understandably upset, but they agree to have Pa live with one of the siblings and Ma live with another, the others will take turns housing their parents as needed. The rest of the film's plot unfolds from there with an undeniable pathos and sympathy that defined the film's director, Leo McCarey.

One of the innovators of cinema, and a bridge between the silent and sound era, McCarey directed some of the greatest films of all time. He could easily be considered the George Lucas or Steven Spielbergh of his day, in the sense that he worked with the biggest stars on the biggest films, particularly in comedy.

McCarey was responsible for casting Laurel and Hardy as a duo, he directed the Marx Brothers in what's generally considered their best film, Duck Soup, and he also won two academy awards for best Director. And yet he's been largely forgotten, at least when compared with his contemporaries: John Ford, Howard Hawks, Frank Capra, Billy Wilder and Victor Fleming. For whatever reason, some critics think because of his conservative politics, McCarey's career has largely become a footnote in Hollywood history, despite films like Going My Way and The Bells of St. Mary's being the highest grossing films at that time.

It could also be that after so many years, McCarey's best films can easily be regarded as quaint in comparison to the work of modern directors. Going My Way and Raging Bull don't seem to come from the same planet, but there is a different criteria to judge McCarey's films by. While Raging Bull or Apocalypse Now are great films, with very few exceptions, neither Scorsese or Coppola are able to elicit an authentic emotion beyond tension or awe. With many of McCarey's movies, if you give them the chance, you cannot help but weep at their most tender moments, an interesting dichotomy in a modern world so obsessed with "naturalism". What is naturalism that cannot elicit emotion?

Along those lines a common question is, "Why aren't films made like they were in the good old days?" The answer is not that "times were different then" or that "people have forgotten how to tell stories". It's best explained by Peter Bogdanovich in the excellent extras and booklet that accompany the DVD.

The generation of filmmakers that Leo McCarey belonged to was not one of spoiled film students attending USC, NYU or UCLA to learn the "art" of film making. McCarey, John Ford, Victor Fleming -- these guys led normal lives before being swept up by the then silent film industry. There were no film schools when they were growing up, there was no such thing as "Hollywood" as it exists today. They helped build it.

Leo McCarey was originally a lawyer, John Ford a sailor, Howard Hawks built airplanes, Victor Fleming was an auto mechanic. "They had other interests than the movies, other interests than show business", says Peter Bogdanovich, "it's a key reason why there is more depth, maturity and knowledge about people [in their films]".

Make Way for Tomorrow is a superb movie made by a forgotten master of film. If you have any interest in cinema, watch it.

8
Culture

Spawning Ground

David Antrobus

In this ancient place of giant ferns and cedars, it seems the dead outnumber the living; the living fall away too quietly, too easily, taken away by stealth. There is tremendous natural beauty here, but its hold is tenuous, like moss clinging to rotting bark that will ultimately break and sink into the forest floor.

If I were to choose a visual symbol of my adopted home of Mission, an average-size town in the impossibly green western Canadian province of British Columbia, I would probably come up with a rotting carcass in a verdant pasture, a vision of death amid life. If this sounds harsh, hear me out and I'll tell my own truth about this place.

Clinging to the swift-scoured, salmon-haunted northern bank of the mighty Fraser River like an ailing lamprey to the deadly smooth flank of a Great White, this town, situated about 70 kilometers east of Vancouver, owes its entire existence to the water of its rivers and lakes, and to the wood harvested from the dense, surrounding forest. Settled in the mid-19th century, Mission has managed to survive despite two serious floods, a bridge collapse, the ominous early signs of malaise in the natural resource sector (did we really think the salmon and the great conifers were infinitely, magically renewable?), and a general reputation for unfocussed, redneck belligerence.

It all comes down to the Fraser River. The river has brought both food and trade; it provides a thoroughfare upon which the people of Mission (among others) float the great log booms that are the defeated renderings we humans fashion from the vast tracts of coastal rainforest (cedar, spruce, fir, hemlock) in our seemingly inexhaustible compulsion to exploit her resources and bring Mother Nature to her matronly knees — in part because (we believe) we can.

But the details about life in this town — the jeweler murdered in a robbery, the pretty high school graduate killed by a drunk driver, the 14-year-old suicide — in fact, all the jostling narratives crowding like paparazzi, each insisting on exclusive front page drama, bubble and coalesce and ultimately conspire to reveal the hidden Mission. There is a dark vortex lurking beneath the seemingly placid surface; the ominous shadow of something ancient beneath sun-dappled waters. Even the countless apparent banalities playing out on the town's rural borders disguise something deeper, more clandestine: the hobby farmer up in MacConnell Creek bemoaning his exhausted well; the entrepreneur hungry for an investment opportunity, eager to transform the hillsides of quiet, bucolic Silverdale into sudden, lockstep suburbia; the hiker mauled by a black bear in the mountains north of Steelhead. And always, the numerous lives derailed by marijuana grow-op busts. For all the gradual liberalisation of laws at the consumer end of this local economic rival to wood and water, those who supply the celebrated crop usually feel the full force of Canadian justice, anyway. There are times when nothing in Mission seems devoid of some kind of meaning.

A monastery sits above this town, a Benedictine haven of alternating silence and the evocative clatter of Sunday Matins bells. Its tower is phallic and disproportionately defiant, rising above the landscape like a giant darning needle, casting its intrusive shadow over the patchwork quilt of human settlement as if to stitch a final tableaux, symbolically and definitively, of the history of the original inhabitants and their mistreatment at the hands of the white settlers. Said inhabitants were (and are) the Stó:lo people (their language, Halq'eméylem, was an exclusively oral tradition, so the words are spelled phonetically nowadays). Stó:lo territory stretched along the river valley from present-day Vancouver to Yale in the Fraser Canyon, a 170 kilometer swath of virgin, fecund land, teeming with such totemic creatures as salmon, ancient sturgeon, deer, black bear, cougar, coyote, beaver, and wolf.

The Stó:lo, a Native American (or First Nations) people belonging to the larger group of Central Coast Salish, settled this area around 10,000 years ago. Europeans, attracted by rumours of gold, arrived in the 1850s. The resulting clash of cultures did not work out well for the indigenous people, and today they are still recovering from the trickle-down effects of at least one generation having been torn from its extended family. Residential schools, for which the monastery in Mission is a present-day symbol, were sites of a particularly virulent form of cultural genocide. First Nations children across Canada were taken from their homes, often exposed to physical and sexual abuse and occasionally murder, their mouths scoured with soap if they even dared to utter their own languages. St. Mary's in Mission, founded in 1861 and relinquished in 1984, was the last residential school in Canada to close.

There are 82 Indian Reserves in the Fraser Valley. There are eight correctional institutions, two in Mission alone (Aboriginal people represent around four percent of the Canadian population, yet account for 18 percent of the federally incarcerated population). Somebody — something? — really likes to control and segregate people, around here.

This fragmentation is reflected in the odd demographics of the town in general. Leaving their multicultural mark have been, at various times, Italians in Silverdale, Swedes in Silverhill, the French in Durieu, the Japanese in the early years of the fruit industry (as in the US, the Japanese were rewarded for their labours by being sent to internment camps in 1942), and immigrants from India in the early days of the shake and shingle mills. (The Western Red Cedar, with its straight grain, durability, and imperviousness to the incessant rain, while inspiring Native culture with the quixotic grandeur of totem poles, grabbed more prosaic European imaginations in the form of the shake and shingle industry, which provides reliable roofing and siding components for homes.)

In some ways, Mission is a vibrantly conflicted example of Canada's multicultural mosaic. With just over 30,000 residents (of which 3,000 are First Nations) mostly crammed into a relatively small area, bordered by the river to the south and the mountains to the north, mill workers and biker gangs, artists and Mennonites, muscle car boys and summer folkies, soccer moms and Sikh Temple-goers, merchants and pagans, Freemasons and caffeine addicts, street people and Renaissance Faire anachronisms all rub shoulders with varying degrees of friction, occasionally achieving harmony in spite of themselves. Perhaps the relative accord is due to the overall youth of the population (73 percent are under 35-years-old).

Earlier, I mentioned the presence of death. Why? Because it is everywhere here, its proximity eerily palpable. It inhabits the sly rustle of the towering conifers. It taints the air with the swampy pungency of skunk cabbage in springtime. It hums incessantly in the sub-woofer buzz of the hydroelectric dams. It shuffles along in the downcast, scuff-shoed limp of a lone child returning to a chilly home. From a distance, even the monks in their dark cassocks, knit-browed and bound by their vows of silence, seem eerily close to the Reaper caricature. For actual evidence of its pervasiveness, though, one need not go far back in time.

The bodies of three women were dumped between here and neighbouring Agassiz back in '95. Suicides and the furtive aftermath of murder, barely registering in the town at all, have spattered Burma Road, a potholed strip of rocks and dirt skirting the shore of Stave Lake. In 1997, Doug Holtam of Silverdale (a small community west of Mission) bludgeoned his pregnant wife and six-year-old daughter to death with a hammer. Against all odds, his young son Cody survived the attack. In 1995, a drunk driver, leaving in his wake not only the proverbial outpouring of community grief but also a devastated twin sister, killed 18-year-old Cindy Verhulst during the week she and her peers were busy celebrating their high school graduation. There was the little boy who slipped away from his day care centre and drowned in the swollen Fraser River. The 12-year-old boy found hanging from a school washroom towel dispenser. The elderly pilot whose body was discovered in dense forest a full two years after he had gone missing. And there was Dawn-Marie Wesley, a 14-year-old Native girl who took her own life in the basement of her home after enduring relentless bullying at school; barely noticed in life, Oprah material in death.

As disturbing and tragic as these stories are, however, there was little precedent for the breaking news in the summer of 2003. This one will need a little background.

Since the mid-'80s, women have been disappearing from Vancouver's Downtown Eastside, Canada's poorest postal code. Partly due to the initial incompetence of the Vancouver Police Department and jurisdictional issues with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP), partly due to the amorphous (read: investigative nightmare) nature of the disappearances, and partly because so few people cared about missing hookers and addicts, more and more women went missing, with nary a ripple in the public consciousness (or conscience). In fact, as of this writing, a horrifying total of 65 individuals are currently on the Missing Women list. For years, law enforcement didn't even refer to their disappearance as crimes, and it wasn't until 1998 that an official task force was even assigned to investigate.

Finally, in February 2002, Robert William Pickton, a pig farmer from the Vancouver suburb of Port Coquitlam (approximately half way between Vancouver and Mission), was charged with two counts of first-degree murder of two of the missing women. More charges followed in the months ahead. Pickton currently faces 15 counts of first-degree murder with seven more expected. DNA samples of 31 women have been linked to his 10-acre farm. In short, potentially the largest serial murder case in Canadian history is now underway just 35 kilometers from Mission.

Given the frequent intrusion of death into the area, I suppose it should have surprised no one when, on 20 July 2003, the missing women's joint task force announced they would be searching an area of wetlands near Mission. Just south of Highway 7 (aka the Lougheed Highway) and the man-made body of water known as Silvermere (itself the subject of a delightfully creepy urban legend or two), the area is basically marshland bisected by a meandering slough. Immediately following the announcement of the search, the site was fenced off with temporary chain link, and the highway's wide shoulders — traditionally home to roadside fruit and flower vendors hawking their locally grown products — were suddenly and unequivocally off-limits.

Driving this formerly innocuous stretch of blacktop, especially under the after-dusk arc lights, with their swirling bug armadas and liquid island oases in the dark, now touched off an indescribably eerie feeling. It was a relief when, on 8 August, the entire ensemble of law enforcement personnel (numerous forensic investigators plus 52 anthropologists) took up their tools again and vanished. They gave no word of what they had uncovered or even whether anything had been found at all, leaving our community to its familiar, fitful dreams once more. Mission's part in this unfolding story, as it relates to the wider world, remains amorphous and indistinct, with its usual chilly glints of barely suppressed horror flickering amid the overall grey.

Here, it seems, empirical proof takes a back seat to rumour and anecdote every time.

Sometimes, while hiking alone in the tree-bejeweled mountains west of Steelhead, east of the dams, I have suddenly felt the fetid breath of graves, a harsh raven-shadow lurking behind the abundant emerald and olive greens of this sodden paradise. Inexplicable noises in the deep tangled brush; distant rending, gnashing. Something skulking and hungry. With all the assured rationality of the white male immigrant, I've been known to smirk at the idea of ghosts, and yet stumbling along a jade-tunnel trail bristling with old man's beard and devil's club, I've occasionally recoiled from something, the skin of my arms prickling with gooseflesh. There are spirits here, all right, something not too far removed from the capricious tricksters who inhabit indigenous myth. Spectres of a kind, nursing some nameless, hollow ache of unrequited need rendered manifest, paradoxically, by a landscape dripping with life.

The closest we Europeans get to perceiving this (however inadvertently) can be heard in the low extended rumble of the nighttime freight trains as they call out in the dark, hunching parallel to Railway Avenue long after most residents are asleep, lonely as a buffalo herd that's somehow seen and almost comprehended its own approaching ruin.

Of course, my telling is by no means the complete, illustrated history of Mission, a town that can barely hold onto its own name (since 1884, take your pick: St. Mary's Mission, Mission Junction, Mission City, Village of Mission, Town of Mission, and currently the District of Mission). Not by a long shot; this lurid splash portrays but a small corner of the canvas. How can any one person paint the full picture of a community, after all? No, despite my perverse zeal to stir the viscous mud below the bright surface, great deeds and happy memories adorn the history of this place, too, adding the sparkle and lustre of life above and hopefully beyond the stillness and silence. And yet, no matter how much joie de vivre this community may exhibit on its special days, like a red-carpet celebrity when the cameras start rolling — whether it be the laughing children with their maple leaf flags and pancake stacks celebrating Canada Day up at Heritage Park, or the benevolently stoned crowd at the annual Folk Festival, or even the choked air and sharp adrenaline at the Raceway — surely one thing cannot go unremarked: nearly half of those missing-presumed-dead women were of Aboriginal descent. This adds one more layer of indifference to a jaded populace apparently caught somewhere between the small town rural cruelties of its past and the uneasy suburban shrugs of its gathering future.

I know this. I worked with the street kid population here for years, witnessed their hardscrabble resilience. Few people ever gave a genuine damn about the plight of these children, even though some of the throwaways had not yet reached puberty. Two-thirds of street-involved youth in Mission are Aboriginal. Many are sexually exploited by family members, neighbors, pimps and selected citizens, but few speak of it. Some of these kids head west to Vancouver for a date with misery, stretching already tenuous community ties to the breaking point. My job as a street worker was to speak for these lost children, to ensure some semblance of the child welfare system would kick in through advocacy with social workers or teachers or families or counselors or probation officers. In a world in which the so-called "bottom line" — money and the politics of money — has become drawn too garishly, these already marginalized youth were, and continue to be, largely abandoned by a system designed to protect them. Sometimes I stand beside the town's failing heart, its run down main drag (1st Avenue), taking in the pawnshops and thrift outlets and dollar stores, and I'm convinced I truly hate this place... but only because I've loved it so deeply. In life: death. In death: life. The great inscrutable cycle.

In this way, the perennially troubled summer Pow Wow, always skirting the edge of ruin (corrupt, inept politics and sporadic funding, take a bow), yet often prevailing regardless, seems to me a far more accurate symbol of the clutching, ragged breaths that secretly haunt the sleep of this community. The fleeting vibrant colours of traditional dancers whirling in bright regalia — poignant as the plumage of endangered birds, flying amongst the high wailing melismas of the Northern-style singing and the vital, aorta-punching drums of the circles — somehow speaks more of an unavenged wound in time and place, set amid the cruelty that underlies so much beauty, than anything else this conflicted human settlement seems capable of offering.

An absurd contrast, really — this vibrant gathering and the judgmental silence of all those surrounding stories of the dead — the whole place holding its breath waiting for these mortal sorrows to purge themselves before the pristine lawns and asphalt and vinyl sidings are allowed to spread and eventually suffocate every fucking thing that ever felt like something here.

For here, tenacious as the town itself alongside relentless churning waters, the living will no doubt cling to hope and the perpetual dream of life until the muscled river — unnoticed, stealthy, taken for granted — wrestles away everything (horror, joy, splintered wood and the final word) at long last, sending it all tumbling toward the planet's dark and pitiless seas for good.

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