The golden period of Frank Capra

Capra’s “golden period” began with It Happened One Night (1934), the first motion picture to win an Academy Award in five major categories: best picture, best actor, best actress, best director, and best adapted screenplay. The making of this enduring romantic comedy about a runaway heiress (Claudette Colbert) and the brash newspaper reporter (Clark Gable) who tracks her down and falls for her became familiar Hollywood lore. Gable, who was one of MGM’s biggest contract stars, was sent by the studio to work on Columbia’s bargain-basement production as punishment. Colbert was on loan from Paramount. The chemistry of the their performances was electric and resulted in one of the best-loved movies of the 1930s.

Capra’s second 1934 effort, the heart-tugging Broadway Bill, was less remarkable than It Happened One Night but not inconsequential. Warner Baxter starred as a businessman who, with encouragement from his sister-in-law-turned-love-interest (Myrna Loy), quits his job to try to turn a broken-down racehorse into a winner.

After suffering from an undiagnosed burst appendix that had threatened his life, Capra returned to the screen in 1936 with Mr. Deeds Goes to Town, a smash hit that became one of the three or four films with which he is most closely identified. Adapted by Riskin from a story by Clarence Budington Kelland, Mr. Deeds is a David-versus-Goliath populist fable. Gary Cooper starred as Longfellow Deeds, a principled tuba-playing writer of greeting-card sentiments from a small town in Vermont who inherits his uncle’s $20 million estate and moves to New York City to administer it. When Deeds decides to give the money to the less fortunate, his sanity is questioned. Jean Arthur plays a hard-boiled reporter who is suspicious at first of Deeds’s motives but who falls for him once she realizes his sincerity. Capra received his second Academy Award for best director for Mr. Deeds, which was nominated for best picture.

Capra then took a full year, reportedly shot enough footage to make a dozen features, and spent more than $2 million (Columbia’s biggest budget to date) filming Lost Horizon (1937). The movie, based on Riskin’s adaptation of James Hilton’s immensely popular 1933 novel of the same name, starred Ronald Colman as a British diplomat who finds his way to the hidden utopia of Shangri-La after his plane crashes. He and his fellow travelers (including Thomas Mitchell, John Howard, and Edward Everett Horton) are entertained by the mysterious Chang (H.B. Warner), the lovely Sondra (Jane Wyatt), and the dying high lama (Sam Jaffe), who wants the diplomat to take his place. Despite Lost Horizon’s spectacular sets and allegorical power, many viewers were put off by its studied seriousness, lack of action, and deliberate pace (even after Cohn had cut Capra’s three-and-a-half-hour preview version of the film to a roughly two-hour running time). It would take a number of years and many reissues for the film to finally make a profit.

Made in under two months, the frenetic comedy You Can’t Take It with You (1938) was a dramatic about-face for Capra after the weighty Lost Horizon. George S. Kaufman and Moss Hart’s Pulitzer Prize-winning play, a hit on Broadway, was adapted for the screen by Riskin. Arthur, James Stewart, Lionel Barrymore, and Edward Arnold starred in this madcap portrait of an extremely unconventional family. While some critics found the film merely workmanlike in its professional polish, others were convinced that Capra had deftly captured the play’s inspired lunacy. The film won the Academy Award for best picture, and Capra—who received his third award as best director and who by this point was being paid $100,000 per film—landed on the cover of the August 8, 1938, issue of Time magazine, which hailed him as “the top director of his industry.” Capra was already serving as the president of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences when he was elected to head the newly established Screen Directors’ Guild, and in 1939 he played a pivotal role in negotiating a settlement between the studios and the Guild.

Columbia had given Capra an uncommon amount of freedom (which he might not have had at a larger studio) as a producer-director who oversaw his own production unit within the studio. Convinced that a director should be responsible for every aspect of his projects, Capra advocated a “one man, one film” theory, and, as the head of the Guild and as a major player in the motion-picture industry, he fought for creative freedom for other directors.

Capra’s deep belief in the importance of individual expression became as much a hallmark of the characters in his films as it was of his own filmmaking creed. From the mid- to late 1930s his films were usually similar in their humorous presentation of a naive, idealistic, and courageous hero. These films projected an essential optimism as their underdog heroes triumphed over shrewd but selfish individuals in a world often beset by darkness and despair.

Some critics have denigrated Capra’s films from this period as reflecting a utopianism that was unimaginably far from reality. Others have countered that Capra neither denied that cynics were ubiquitous nor that political power was generally in the hands of the few but that he instead sought to depict a more-just world that could result from the strong-willed exertion of moral force. Many film historians have noted that Capra’s populist championing of individual freedom was accompanied by a profound distrust of mass society and mass politics, yet the triumph of the “little people” (often working collectively) in his films defies easy or uniform identification with any political ideology. Much clearer is Capra’s celebration of the strength of the American character, though it can be seen as both intensely patriotic and chauvinistic in its embrace of American exceptionalism. Coming as they did in the throes of the Great Depression, which the administration of U.S. Pres. Franklin D. Roosevelt sought to reverse with the New Deal, Capra’s idealistic works were claimed by the political right, left, and centre. The mixture of patriotism, idealism, and sentimentality found in the best known of Capra’s films was frequently called “Capra-corn” (even by the filmmaker himself), but with the passage of time it was more positively characterized adjectivally as “Capraesque.”

Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (1939), one of the most Capraesque of the director’s films, was the story of a freshman senator from Montana who uproots pork-barrel corruption in the U.S. Senate at the risk of his own career. Even more than Longfellow Deeds, the aptly named Jefferson Smith (James Stewart) is the epitome of the Capra everyman who refuses to compromise his ethics in the face of enormous pressure from greedy, amoral power brokers—here embodied by Claude Rains’s venal Senator Paine, who has sold out to the political machine. Stewart gives one of his most memorable performances, cementing his on-screen persona as the embodiment of integrity and decency, much as Gary Cooper—who was, in fact, Capra’s first choice for the role of Jefferson Smith—had done in Mr. Deeds.

An enormous popular and critical success, Mr. Smith earned 11 Academy Award nominations, including those for best picture, actor, director, and screenplay. It had been claimed as a project by Rouben Mamoulian, but Capra reportedly traded Mamoulian his claim on Clifford Odets’s play Golden Boy for the right to make Mr. Smith. It was the first Capra production since 1933 not written by Riskin, who had departed from Columbia; Riskin’s place was taken by Sidney Buchman, who had done some rewrites on Lost Horizon.