How Green Was My Valley

The first time I saw this movie was on a TV screen, which even now seems quaint. It was sentimental, stuffed with clichés (the Welsh always have a song in their heart), and ultimately anti-climactic (a sudden mineshaft collapse and then it's over).

Today I watched it on the big screen at the Museum of Modern Art and sobbed uncontrollably for the entire two hours. I would now rank it among John Ford movies only behind The Grapes of Wrath, My Darling Clementine, and the Searchers--and in the same rank as masterpieces like The Quiet Man, She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, and The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance.

How Green Was My Valley is a story of the decline of a Welsh mining community, the encroachment of a sterile and heartless capitalism into the childhood memories of the narrator. The accent and heartstring-tugging music has to be taken with a certain dramatic irony, in voice-overs like this:

In those days, the black slag, the waste of the coal pits, had only begun to cover the sides of our hill. Not yet enough to mar the countryside, nor blacken the beauty of our village, for the colliery had only begun to poke its skinny black fingers through the green.

*Already* the countryside has *begun* to be marred, the green has retreated under the implacable filth of industrial mining. And by the end, nothing will be left. The beloved family has broken apart, love has been wasted and come to nought, a promising youth has run aground, brothers have died and been scattered across the world, a community has turned sour and cannibalized its virtues. It is Ford's genius to represent this bleakest series of defeats through the eyes of a child's nostalgia and memories of "happier days." 

Of Ford's films, How Green Was My Valley is closest to The Grapes of Wrath and The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, in relating a historical vision of an unstoppable, dialectical capitalism that remakes the cultural and physical landscape, chewing up men and tearing the old classes asunder. The narrow provincial prejudices and the (idyllically-drawn) old Welsh character will both fall with the growing borders of this world, just as in The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance literacy, democracy, and statehood push out the indecent violence of the big ranchers. And, along with the Grapes of Wrath, this is one of the great works of American leftist populism: the simplicity and humanism of Ford's sympathy with the workers as they are helplessly ground down by the mine owners, giving their bodies up to a thankless and indifferent apparatus that looms in the background of nearly every shot. We are told early on, by the father, that the mine owners are "not savages," but "men like us." No, the five Morgan sons reply---not like us. This misplaced trust costs the family grievously. Nothing too radical takes place in the film, and I think that is the point: by the end, after holding out hope and dying by inches, nothing is left but death, hate, and black slag in this village.

Like any Ford movie here, there is plenty of singing, drinking, fighting, and a slew of lovable eccentrics at the margins. But unfamiliar here is the sensitive portrayal of childhood, through the youngest, most delicate son (Roddy McDowall). When he loses the use of his legs, and is confined to bed all winter, there is a small miracle at work: the preacher brings him copies of Ivanhoe, Treasure Island, and the Pickwick Papers to read. I don't know who would not burst into tears when the teacher, consoling him, says that he would switch places with the frightened, ailing child, just to be able to read Treasure Island again for the first time.

The last images of the film are heartbreaking in their simplicity--scenes from earlier in the picture, when the entire family was still together. We had lost track of how many tragedies pulled them all apart, of how much has been lost. (The last scene of the Godfather, Part II has a similar effect.)

I should also mention the cinematography of Arthur Miller, also well-known for his work on The Ox Bow Incident. Of especial note is a brief scene of Walter Pidgeon working in a downpour, one of the most senior workers being intentionally humiliated by the mine operators for speaking against a wage cut.