Richard and Sabina A Biography of the Rev. Richard Wurmbrand and His Wife Sabina Book

“What made Ford a great popular artist is that he reflected so many facets of the people he addressed.

He was able to do so because he had so many warring factions within himself. […] What made him such a flawed human being was also what made him such a great artist. Those who expect artists to be ideal human beings fail to understand the nature of art. Often the greatest art comes out of torment, and some of the most important artists, such as Mozart and Tolstoy and Ford, lived in a riot of complication and frequent public absurdity. In Ford’s case, his films are usually far more complex than his public stands were on the issues of his time.
William Butler Yeats could have been commenting on Ford when he wrote, ‘We make of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.’” (pp.714 – 15)

This is basically the mystery of John Ford’s inimitable power and depth as an artist according to Joseph McBride, and when you follow the author’s account of Ford’s eventful life, you have ample opportunity to discover the inner conflict and inconsistencies that may have contributed to making Ford the incredibly masterful visual poet who made films like The Searchers, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance or How Green Was My Valley. A lot of people probably know the story of how Ford was accosted by an old actor during the Depression and asked for help because this man could not pay for an operation his wife had to undergo. Ford, in front of all the bystanders, went furious, asking the old man how he could dare come to him and ask him for money, and he even struck him down. Yet the same evening Ford had his manager give the old man a cheque for $1,000, and he even saw to it that the wife was operated on by a specialist. After that he bought the couple a small house and gave them a lifelong pension. This story shows that Ford, in his heart of hearts, was a very sensitive man but he would not for the life of him have wanted anybody to realize this. McBride, however, digs even deeper and sheds some light on the miserable family life of the man who was called “Pappy” by many members of his Stock Company, on his complex political attitudes and his opinions on American minorities. You might probably find it difficult to like John Ford after reading this book – I, being a dyed-in-the-wool Ford aficionado, of course, still do – but you will certainly understand this man better and even respect him for what he was and what he did (for most of the things, at least). McBride abstains from sensationalism and from the smugness of the modern contemporary judging the decisions and mindset of someone who grew up in a completely different era, and for all that he is still inexorably honest. That being said, you nevertheless sense the biographer’s respect and admiration for John Ford.

In my opinion, this is the best biography on Ford next to Tag Gallagher’s John Ford. The Man and His Films, and I would say it is best to read McBride before Gallagher. Firstly, this is because McBride succeeds in dealing with Ford’s life and his films – whereas Gallagher predominantly focuses on the movies – and in showing how Ford’s personal experience was often mirrored in his films. Secondly, I think that Gallagher’s style is a bit showily erudite and therefore murky at times, whereas McBride uses refreshingly unpretentious language, which allows you to enjoy his book without stopping to re-read certain sentences. At least not for comprehension.

Maybe it is the Irish streak in McBride, but he also manages to slip in anecdotes and little excursions on people that played a role in Ford’s life, such as John Wayne, Ward Bond, Jimmy Stewart, Woody Strode, Anna Lee and, yes, Katharine Hepburn. He does this without becoming unduly chatty, and the effect is an extremely multi-faceted picture of John Ford’s life.

All in all, this is a most enjoyable book even though it made me sad when McBride described how near the end of Ford’s career he found it increasingly difficult to get job offers in the industry which he helped establish and which he had shaped from its very roots in the silent era. This was partly because he was losing touch with public tastes in the 1960s and he also had difficulty adapting to the changes within the film industry. Paradoxically it was in his own country that Ford was often spurned by myopic critics while European directors and scholars usually saw his greatness and tried to emulate him. Even today, but this comes as an afterthought, you can find an over-estimated American director like Tarantino revile Ford as racist, which is as unfair and ignorant a statement as you can think of. But then Tarantino and his gory trash will probably long be forgotten when people still enjoy the rich poetry of a Ford movie.

So even if you are not going to read the book, I can only advise you to (re-)discover the great movies directed by this bloody Irish genius!