One of my favorite movies that appears every year in December is even more interesting after reading what the Frank Capra had to say about it.
It’s a Wonderful Life wasn’t made for the oh-so-bored critics, or the oh-so-jaded literati. It was my kind of film for my kind of people…
A film to tell the weary, the disheartened, and the disillusioned; the wino, the junkie, the prostitute; those behind prison walls and those behind the Iron Curtains, that no man is a failure.
To show those born slow of foot or slow of mind, those oldest sisters condemned to spinsterhood, and those oldest sons condemned to unschooled toil, that each man’s life touches so many other lives. And that if he isn’t around it would leave an awful hole.
A film that said to the downtrodden, the pushed-around, the pauper, “Heads up, fella. No man is poor who has one friend. Three friends and you are filthy rich.”
A film that expressed its love for the homeless and the loveless; for her whose cross is heavy and him who touch is ashes; for the Magdalenes stoned by hypocrites and the afflicted Lazaruses with only dogs to lick their sores.
I wanted to shout the abandoned grandfathers staring vacantly in nursing homes, to the always-interviewed but seldom-adopted half-breed orphans, to the paupers who refuse to die while medical vultures wait to snatch their hearts and livers, and to those who take cobalt treatments and whistle – I wanted to shout, “You are the salt of the earth. And It’s a Wonderful Life is my memorial to you!”