Excerpts from The Name Above The Title by Frank Capra
The day the White house showing of Prelude to War was scheduled General Marshall invited me to lunch alone with him in his office. He was most friendly and most pleased that his idea of troop information films had started so auspiciously with Prelude to War. He asked me if all the film was authentic. I said it was. Our only re-creations were newspaper headlines and, of course, the animated expository war maps. He asked where the enemy film came from. I told him I had possession of all German, Japanese, and Italian newsreels made in the last twenty years. And also most of their propaganda documentaries made before and during the war.
Then he wanted to know how I obtained the film. "General Marshall, it's a long, boring story. Point is, I've got all the captured enemy film, I'm negotiating for Russian war film, T. Y. Lo of the China News Agency has promised me all their Chinese film, and Donovan's O.S.S. is stealing current enemy newsreels for me in border countries . . ."
I was hoping he wouldn't bring up the next subject, but he did. "Osborn has hinted that you've had problems with the Signal Corps. Have you?" "No real problems, sir." "Frank, these Why We Fight films are of enormous value, for us and for our allies. Any delays from any source — and you come direct to me." "General Marshall," I said jokingly, "I'll make you a deal. I'll let you stick to winning the war, if you let me stick to minding the film store."
He grinned. He liked people who knew they could get things done. He then said Secretary Stimson wanted to make certain that all policy statements made in Prelude to War had been checked for accuracy. "Have they?" he asked. I answered that all policy questions had been checked with State, OWI (Office of War Information), and Presidential advisers such as Lowell Mellett. To most questions we got clear-cut answers; to some, elliptical answers or none at all. On these matters my staff and I stood back and did what the General himself had advised: made the best objective guesses as to what our policies had been.
Again he beamed at my answer, and said he would have Osborn run the films for State, OWI, and for congressional leaders. Only then did it dawn on me just how far General Marshall was sticking his neck out in having the Army make information films (propaganda his detractors would call them) for captive Army audiences. Only his great faith in the belief that free men are better fighting men when they are well informed could make this great soldier step into a psychological arena where civilian angels feared to tread.
In the next couple of years I was to enjoy many such talks with General Marshall, especially during dinners with him alone at the Chief of Staff's house, "Quarters Number One," the large, comfortable, two-story red-brick building at Fort Myer, Virginia, across the Memorial Bridge. Only a Filipino enlisted cook would be with the General. Between seven and seven thirty we would have two stiff, bourbon old-fashioneds which the Chief liked to mix himself.
There would be talk of course, but absolutely no war talk. That day he probably had had to make decisions that affected the fate of nations; tomorrow he would face problems equally crucial. But that evening he would be calm and unworried as he listened to my chatting. Once, I asked him how he stood up under the strain; he answered: "I've had to train myself never to worry about a decision once it's made. You worry before you make it, but not after. You make the best judgment you can about a problem—then forget it. If you don't, your mind is not fit to make the next decision."
At exactly seven thirty the Filipino would serve dinner at a small table, and for the next hour and a half I would answer questions about all the techniques of motion pictures: acting, photography, sound recording, animated cartoons, musical comedies. Or, I would tell him about my early years, or Papa's green thumb; how he could make mature orange tree limbs grow roots, then saw them off and present them to friends as full-bearing orange trees; how he sprinkled ground-up minerals around the roots of rose bushes and changed the colors of the roses.
And when he found out I owned a large fruit ranch he wanted to know all the details, and being a compost buff himself, he flipped his top when I described to him our large concrete compost pits and the machinery for making and turning the compost. This in turn would inspire the General to talk in glowing terms about his Dodona Manor in Leesburg, Virginia, where he hoped to retire and plant all kinds of fruits, vegetables, and flowers. And I would plead with him not to use any poisonous sprays.
His eyes shone as he spoke of working with soil. But they shone brightest when he talked of his experiences in commanding CCC boys' camps in Florida and the Pacific Northwest. For in those camps he first met the frail, anemic, poverty-stricken youths of the Great Depression. In those camps he first decided to bring young men back to health, courage, and manhood through education—feeding the mind as well as the stomach—teaching them to acquire abilities that would make the most of their born-with capacities.
It was his experience with the CCC boys that led him to conceive and add a new and revolutionary concept to the American Army—a Morale Division which catered to the welfare of the mind and soul of a soldier. For the first time a heart was implanted into a military system that had referred to service men as "bodies" and "numbers." One result of that new concept: The Why We Fight series of Army information films. Another result: lasting friendship with one of the great men of our century, George Catlett Marshall.
To those who knew and loved G.C.M., it was no accident that Chief of Staff Marshall, the architect of military victory in Europe, should, as Secretary of State Marshall, be the architect of the Marshall Plan to help Europe recover from "hunger, poverty, desperation and chaos". Nor did it surprise us when he was honored with the Nobel Peace Prize.
...
"CAPRA!" SAID GENERAL SOMMERVELL as we rode from the Pentagon to the White House in a staff car flying three-star flags, "Have you ever met the President?" "No, sir." "Have you ever seen the Grand Canyon?" I nodded. "Well, meeting F.D.R. is like seeing the Big Hole the first time — you feel puny."
Franklin Delano Roosevelt was not the largest man in the world, nor even the largest President. Taft was. But F.D.R. made you feel he was. At least he loomed large to me as I shook his hand with all the aplomb of a man standing on his first pair of ice skates. His head was the biggest, his face the widest, and his smile the most expansive I had ever seen. By every measure he was a big man—including time; he had occupied the White House longer than any other President, and gave not the slightest indication that he was about to call a moving van.
As Secret Service men wheeled him into the middle of the front row of chairs, the President introduced us to a woman guest who sat down next to him—Duchess "somebody," from Luxembourg or "some place"--"and," he said to me, indicating two other guests, "you must know these two jackanapes." I nodded to Harpo Marx and Alexander Woollcott.
"Sommervell!" called out the President, sky-writing with a lighted cigarette on the end of a very long holder, "an Army picture, tonight, Well, how about briefing us with some of the gory details—and don't forget the meaning of the word 'brief'" His laugh was big, too, and truly infectious--in spite of the noblesse oblige to laugh at Presidential "jokes" General Sommervell laughed the loudest. Apparently, he and F.D.R. were old friends, used to guying each other. The President turned to Woollcott. "Alex there was a play about brief---brief something—" "Brief Moment, Mr. President, by Sam Behrman--"
''That's it. Come forward, Sommervell! And enjoy your brief moment." (It always shocked me to witness the monkeyshines of national leaders in wartime, not realizing how desperately they needed occasional release from nerves rubbed raw by worry.)
The General stepped in front of F.D.R. He seemed to relish the horseplay. "Instant brief, Mr. President. All you need to know about this film, in five little words: It's a Frank Capra film." Harpo Marx guffawed and led the applause.
"Touché, touché!" applauded the President. Then he turned back to me, "Take a bow, young man, take a bow—" I rose, bowed in all directions. Evidently, you either got off on the right foot with F.D.R., or you didn't get off at all. Harpo gave me a big Mack Sennett wink of approval.
I waved to the projectionist to roll the film. The lights went out. General Sommervell sat down on my right, and suddenly a wraith-like man slipped into a chair on my left. "Frank Capra," he whispered, "I'm Harry Hopkins. Welcome." I shook the soft hand and looked into the soft doe eyes of F.D.R.'s lean, lanky, hatchet man whose name and ulcers had become international items.
The day was on the verge of becoming too much for my trick stomach when the opening chords of Alfred Newman's magnificent music made us all sit up. (Newman had composed, arranged, conducted, and recorded the score of Prelude to War at Twentieth Century-Fox without charge.) On the screen our Liberty Bell tolled its paean to freedom. Over the ringing bell these titles appeared,
The U.S. Army
presents
Prelude to War
Produced by
The War Department
followed by a written statement over General Marshall's signature, declaring that this film and subsequent films in the series were made by the War Department to "acquaint members of the Army with factual information as to the causes, the events leading up to our entry in the war, and the principles for which we are fighting . . ." (No names of any individuals were ever mentioned or credited in any of our Army information films.)
Franklin Roosevelt was not one to yield the floor lightly to any person or any thing. But after the first five minutes of being "on"—chatting to those around him and to the screen—he settled into a statue-like stillness. Harry Hopkins nudged me, and whispered: "Congratulations, Frank. You've got him. And he's the world's biggest ham."
The film ended on the faces of marching citizen-soldiers of all free nations. Superimposed over these young men was this Draconian statement of their task:
"No compromise is possible and the victory of the democracies can only be complete with the utter defeat of the war machines of Germany and Japan." G. C. Marshall. Chief of Staff
When the lights went on, F.D.R. triggered an applause that sounded very sincere. "Every man, woman, and child in the world must see this film," he asserted over the din.
Both Harpo Marx, a favorite of the Eastern "in" clique, and Alex Woollcott, one of the clique's bellwethers, shook my hand profusely. That was holy oil from the intellectual curia.
"Frank Capra," said the President, "will this—what's the title—yes, Prelude to War. Will it be shown in theaters?"
"No, Mr. President. Only in Army camps."
"Why? Civilians need to see it as much as soldiers."
"Mr. President," I answered, in defense of our industry, "movie houses are privately owned. If they play one government information film they fear a flood of others. And they say the public will resent dull official films. Besides that, Mr. President, I acquired some free film and free services on condition the film plays only in Army camps."
"Well, isn't that all just too bad," said Mr. President with biting sympathy. Then he ordered Harry Hopkins to see Elmer Davis, head of the Office of War Information, and Lowell Mellett, Federal Coordinator of Films, about persuading theater owners to show the film.
Later on as we all sat in a small library-like room having highballs, and enjoying the President's trading quip for quip with us, I began to understand why that rich Harvard-bred extrovert had become the patron saint of the downtrodden. Charm he had, and charisma to spare. But his greatest asset was the way he made you—no matter who or what you were—feel important. He did it mostly by being a great listener.
He knew that the overpowering presence of the President of the United States could turn strong men weak, and weak men imbecilic. So with a big friendly smile, and the glint of intense interest in his sparkling eyes, he would encourage you to talk about yourself, your family, your work, anything. "Well, I declare!" he'd exclaim after you'd made some inane statement. By little laughs, and goads, and urgings such as "Really? Tell me more!" . . . "Well, what do you know!" . . . "Same thing's happened to me dozens of times!" . . . "Oh, that's fascinating" . . . his warmth would change you from a stuttering milquetoast to an articulate raconteur. And you would remain forever in his debt. And who knows? You might also walk down the sawdust trail and join the forever-Roosevelt faithfuls. He almost converted me into becoming a Democrat.
...
I think it was Sidney Bernstein, head of the film division of the Ministry Information, who brought me the heart-stopping news: "The P.M. want's to see you in his office---
I wangled a car and driver from Major Hugh Stuart, and rushed to 10 Downing Street.
It had to be the crowning moment of my life when Winston Churchill took my hand in both of his and complimented me so highly for the Why We Fight films. He told me how grateful he was to General Marshall and to me and my boys for the whole project, and that if I would bring a camera and sound equipment to his office I could photograph him speaking a foreword that he had written "to introduce your great films to a grateful British public—"
Before dawn next morning (September 29) a British crew and I were pushing cameras, cables, and mike booms over a wall, across a small garden, and into a rear window of Churchill's office at 10 Downing Street. Tony Veiller was hanging around hoping he could get a glimpse of England's greatest Prime Minister. I told him to go around to the front door and wait. I would try and sneak him in for the filming.
When I walked into the Cabinet Office through a back door, there was Veiller in the Prime Minister's chair reading a paper. "How'd you get in here?" I asked. "Nothing to it,' he said, barely looking up. "I knocked on the front door and said I was Captain Veiller, here to oversee the filming of the P.M. Are you ready, boy?"
We were all ready for the P.M. when he came through a side door with the Spanish Ambassador. My imagination, of course, but I was sure I could smell the P.M.'s brandy breath clear across the room. I introduced him to Tony Veiller. Veiller swayed but remained upright. Then the great man, in good mood, sat in his chair, set down his cigar, and took from his pocket a sheaf of hand written notes — his speech. The thickness of the sheaf worried me. The foreword must not be too long. I asked him for a voice test. He read the first line of his notes. I thought his delivery was too slow. The director in me got the best of me. I leaned over his desk and asked him to please speed up his delivery a little.
He looked up at me roguishly, over his glasses, and said: "Young man, I've been making speeches to audiences since before you were born."
It dawned on me that I was trying to tell the greatest orator of modern times how he should make a speech. I salaamed deeply and retreated. But as I reached the safety of behind the camera, I said: "Yes, Mr. P.M., but this audience is going to pay to hear you talk." With rare good humor he salaamed back at me, and we bowed to each other. His speech brought a lump to my throat, particularly the line: "I have never seen or read any more powerful statement of our cause . . "
There is little doubt that Churchill's public praise of my Army films zoomed my personal stock with our own Army brass in Europe. Indoctrinating the high command to the value of film (not an easy job), and forcing drastic, upgrading changes in the whole Signal Corps system of field photography, became much easier when my personal reputation gained me ready access to Lieutenant General Devers, his staff, and the staffs of Air Force Generals Spatz and Doolittle. Of course, my standing needed no upping to Jimmy Doolittle. He and I had battled and respected each other since we were teenagers.
...
He was Army. In a driving rainstorm I photographed Supreme Allied Commander Eisenhower delivering the commencement address to the 1943 graduating class at Sandhurst (British equivalent of our West Point). The gist of his speech
"Gentlemen, in the middle of a war, you have just graduated as professional officers in the profession of war. A profession, my fellow officers, that is the most archaic, brutal, senseless, destructive, bestial, de-humanising profession ever invented by man. It should have been abolished long, long ago. But we have a job to do, a dirty, brutal job. There is an evil loose in the world that glorifies war; that would destroy by war all we old dear. It must not prevail!"
...
He was navy. He stood slim, straight, white-thatched. He was Commander in Chief of the Pacific (CINCPAC). He stood alone in the doorway of his office at Pearl Harbor. He was four star Admiral Chester Nimitz.
I was coming downstairs from Admiral "Bull" Halsey's office. I would have to pass right by Admiral Nimitz. Was he waiting for me? Would he renege on the all-important Special Film Coverage directive I had written for him, and he had signed? Had MacArthur nixed the order to integrate all combat photography? Had the Air Force? Marines?
I hesitated, then saluted, and walked by him.
"Oh Capra! Can you spare a moment?"
I went limp. "Of course, Admiral"
Behind his desk, his back to me, he faced a window that looked out over our sunken warships. "Sit down, please" he said, huskily. "I apologise for calling you in here. It's just this - this - goddam sonofabitch of a WAR!"
His hands clasped and unclasped behind him as he slowly rocked back and forth on his heels. Then out of the depths of an overwhelming hurt he cried out: "They cheered me . . . Three thousand of them . . . Eighteen year olds . . . Legs gone, faces gone . . . They cheered me . . . I sent them there . . . They cheered me . . ."
Then he turned, sat heavily in his chair and with tears streaming down his face, he beat the table with both fists: "GODDAM SONOFABITCH OF A WAR! GODDAM SONOFABITCH OF A WAR! What am I going to write to their parents? What can ANYBODY write to their parents? . . ." He grabbed his wet face in both his hands. He was sobbing now. A father weeping for all the sons in the world. "Eighteen year olds . . . kids . . . boys . . . three thousand of them . . . back from Kwajalein . . . I went to the hospital . . . Legs gone . . . faces gone . . . They cheered me . . . I sent them there . . . They cheered me . . GODDAM SONOFABITCH OF A WAR! . . . goddam sonofa-----" His handkerchief was out now. Not once had he looked at me directly.
I sat as if transfixed. Tears had started down my cheeks. The white-thatched admiral blew his nose, composed himself, then looking at me with a shy little smile, he said pleasantly: "Thank you Capra. Thank you."
He had wanted to share his great pain with another human being - someone that was not navy. I rose to my feet, tried to mumble something, I couldn't. So I smiled back and walked out. I had witnessed something rare. Something awesome - the inside of a tormented human soul.