I’ll just get right down to it: has there ever been anything so beautiful on film as Montgomery Clift in From Here to Eternity (1953)? (I can only think of Redford as Hubbell Gardner, and even then Monty still might win out.) Lord knows a beautiful face at the center of a sprawling Hollywood drama never hurt anything, but there are certainly a few cases where even a hunk was unable to help much less save a film. Unlike its tragic Karen Holmes, From Here to Eternity was never in need of saving. From start to finish, it’s a stock pond of characters we genuinely care about, floundering to find solidarity with something, someone, anyone, ANYTHING!
Sounds melodramatic, right? It is . . . but it’s melodrama done in that magical, arresting, classical Hollywood way where it’s completely successful. It dares to take tired, worn out elements (like the damsel in distress) and do them so well that only in afterthought are these characters and circumstances anything other than a fresh fantasy with all the tragedy and romance of which human life is capable.
The enchantment, the spell this movie weaves rests largely in the characters. And even deeper than that, there are these moments, seemingly minuscule but ultimately, quietly larger-than-life, that just wring my guts and my imagination. A slew of these moments come from the ill-fated romance of Karen and Sergeant Warden. The beach scene is wonderful--grandiose in the traditional brass band sort of way. And visually, it is one of those pop culture points of reference that you know before you really know. You see the scene in context and go, “So that’s where that’s from.” Karen’s soaked locks hanging down actually make her look deflated, just like she feels, and her brave confessional and Warden’s complete acceptance of the circumstances are emotionally electric. But even before that, the two share a moment that gives the audience a visceral jolt of tension and longing. Warden shows up at the Holmes residence, and his boss’s wife treads the porch in her childish shorts, caught completely unaware: there’s a foreshadowing and anticipation of something simultaneously beautiful, powerful, and threatening. Karen Holmes is bewildered, and yet she isn’t at all. And Warden knows what he’s getting himself into, is in full control of his intentions, and yet not at all. When they’re locked in a staring contest on that porch, rain pouring, and Warden breaks it off by presenting the “important papers” for the Captain to sign . . . it’s the roller coaster’s slow ascent to the peak before the plummet.
While I’m not by any measure Sinatra’s biggest fan, he’s convincing as Maggio, one of the only true friends to Clift’s Private Prewitt. Maggio is a conduit for some of the funniest and most tragic moments of the film. His stumbling escape-turned-death from the stockade is, as expected, an emotional power play. His drunken galavants through The New Congress Club and many other fine establishments are memorable glances at a deceptively happy clown with what will undoubtedly be a short lifeline. But there’s a moment in the barracks, so slight and natural, that completely encompasses the camaraderie that lies at the center of the film and the core of all it’s characters’ desires. Private Prewitt (“Prew”) is flat on his bed, staring at the ceiling; he’s just realized the line he’ll have to toe by refusing to box. He isn’t bitter (he loves the army), but he’s hardening his shell, preparing to survive despite sticking to his principles. The convivial Maggio comes by and invites him into town with him and the rest of the guys. Prew is unresponsive, too deep in his brooding. Maggio starts in about The New Congress Club. And then, he tosses a shirt (a “loose, flowing sports shirt,” no less) to Prew. “My sister bought it for me. She always buys stuff too big.” That’s the moment . . . a simple act of true friendship and love, unasked for. Pure altruism--a reason for hope in the midst of all that’s hateful and angry and self-serving. And with that, Prew, complete with stone-cracking grin, is off to be a civilian for a night and forget his unjust trials.
And let’s come full circle back to Montgomery Clift and his Private Robert E. Lee Prewitt. He’s visually stunning. He’s likable (lovable, even), determined, fair, principled, and grateful for an institution that continually spits in his face. But above all, he’s really, truly beautiful. Do I feel shallow in this assessment? Nope. Because he has a grace (not feminine or masculine but just human grace) that pulls the viewer in. If he were on the other side of a crowded street with a parade going down it, you’d be watching him. Because of the lines and the intensity in his face. Because of the way the wind whipped his shirt around him. Because of how he’s carefree and at once, ready to pounce. Because of how engrossed he is in life and living and everything before, in between, and beyond. I think it’s fitting to end with one of Prew’s tiny but life-eclipsing moments: he’s just showed up to his new assignment with G Company where Sergeant Warden has reprimanded him for taking a shot at pool. Warden turns and leaves, expecting the young private to follow. Prewitt stands a moment, pool stick in hand, and the takes his second shot before walking out. And with the clink of the cue ball setting all those little bodies in motion, I knew at once that he was too pretty, too stubborn, and too tragic to live. And I watched anyway.
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