As Bertrand Russell observed, “One of the symptoms of an approaching nervous
breakdown is the belief that one’s work is terribly important.” George makes
the mistake of thinking there is such
a thing as an indispensable man, a form of pride that inflates one’s
centrality in life’s drama, and deprives others of their own agency; in the
closing of the Building & Loan, each of the citizens of Bedford Falls — not
just George alone — would have had a role and responsibility in shaping the
subsequent trajectory of the town.
George
could have explored these other lines of thought, but instead forfeits his
dreams without a fight. And this decision symbolizes the passive approach he
will take with the other decisions in his life as well.
Take his
Uncle Billy. George keeps him on at the Building & Loan, despite the fact
that Billy, however well-meaning, is incompetent and thoroughly unfit for his
job. Again, this can seem like the “nice” thing to do, but is it actually nice
to leave someone who’s forgetful, bumbling, and prone to hitting the bottle in
charge of the life savings of hundreds of people? Is it nice to give such
responsibility to someone whose psyche is so fragile, that if he failed in
business, as he does in the alternate reality sequence of the film, he’d end up
in an insane asylum? Is it nice to tie one’s personal fate to someone who can
end up burdening you with the prospect of prison time and years of separation
from your family? Here again, George’s decision to retain Billy seems driven
less by a sense of moral obligation, than an inability to have a difficult
conversation with his uncle. It’s not as if George would have had to cut off
Billy (who, for his own part, seemed rather nonplussed about the prospect of
losing his job) with abrupt coldness; he could have told his uncle that he’d
keep him on for another year, while asking him to look for another job, and
helping him in that search. But the awkwardness of initiating even that sort of
plan is something George cannot face.
George is the typical “nice guy” who allows himself to be put upon, who takes
responsibility for everyone’s feelings, who doesn’t maintain boundaries — who submits
to non-obligatory “shoulds” and then tells himself he’s doing the right
thing, when, really, he’s just scared to assert his own needs and desires.
As with
every nice guy, while George puts on a willing smile when it comes to the
sacrifices he makes, inwardly, he’s seething. A slow-building anger smolders
inside him, and, as it always does, this bile eventually bursts forth in
terrible, destructive form. When George comes home to his family on Christmas
Eve, Uncle Billy having brought about the seeming ruin of their lives, he
viscously berates his wife, his kids, and his kid’s teacher. George’s quite
real and yet formerly submerged resentments tumble out of him in a cruel,
wounding torrent. He acts angry with his family, but he’s really angry with
himself, angry that he alone — with his ever-acquiescing approach to life — is
to blame for the predicament he now finds himself in.
His
niceness doesn’t turn out to be so nice.
In the
end, of course, George realizes the good he’s done for his community, and that
community steps in to save him from personal catastrophe. The scene in which
his friends and family show up to his house to donate money and toast “the
richest man in town” are as touching and life-affirming as anything in
cinematic history. And yet, what will happen to George once the credits roll?
Human
experience teaches us that the reverberations of such epiphanial experiences
don’t last. The glow from a singular moment of affirmation fades as you
re-engage in the day-to-day mundanities of life. For George, there will still
be weeks, years, decades of “being cooped up in a shabby little office.” There
will still be times when he feels an acute, aching desire to get out of “this
measly, crummy old town.” There will still be times when building model bridges
as a hobby will feel like a paltry insult to his deepest desires. There will still
exist a durable strain of anger within him — farther below the surface maybe,
but capable of exploding out once more.
One night
of affirmation will not ultimately make up for the lingering grief of a life
marked by significant compromises. Which might be alright if those compromises
had been necessary, had been morally obligated. But George might have taken
another, equally moral path, one in which he used his unique talents to better
the world, took ownership of his life, and, in allowing himself to fully show
up as the man he dreamed of becoming, been in fact an even better — less
melancholic and resentful, more stable and centered — husband, father, and
member of the community.
Make no
mistake, the overarching sentiment of It’s
a Wonderful Life holds true regardless: it really is your
relationships, your friendships, which make you rich. The ending of the film
is full of truth, and still chokes me up every time. But this sentiment needn’t
be paired with the ultimately tragic corollary that maintaining those
relationships requires a willingness to always put others’ needs above
your own and the unconditional surrender of all your dreams.
Blatantly Stolen from the Art of Manliness
