When Mob Rule Prevails: The Ox-Bow Incident

 My parents, who had no love for westerns, made an exception for The Ox-Bow Incident. And no wonder! This 1943 drama, directed by William Wellman from a novel by Walter Van Tilburg Clark, is hardly a glorification of machismo on the range. Instead, it’s a sobering study of mob mentality, graphically revealing what happens when a community is overcome by bloodlust.

 Anyone watching The Ox-Bow Incident today will be struck by the fact that its settings  (supposedly high in the mountains of Nevada) don’t seem entirely convincing. Much of the action looks like it was filmed on a studio lot, and indeed it was.  Because Ox-Bow was made in wartime, location shooting was an expensive luxury that mostly couldn’t be justified. But I’m struck now by how this film, by implication, has something to say about why men go to war in the first place. The movie begins as news arrives in a small western town that a well-respected rancher has been shot in the head and his cattle stolen. Immediately a mob forms in front of the local saloon, and there are loud cries for vengeance. Among those clamoring to form a posse to catch and lynch the culprits are many with their own agendas. One dour man in black is convinced that the arm of the law moves too slowly for true justice to be done. Another, the town drunk, is excited by all the talk of bloody vengeance. In the absence of the local sheriff, his newly-appointed deputy is determined to show off his own authority. A Civil War veteran who has a fancy uniform but a questionable war record takes on a leadership role, partly as a way of trying to force his gentle son to man up. Among all these blood-thirsty men is one woman (Jane Darwell), who enjoys being even more tough-minded that her male counterparts.

 It’s a surprise to see Darwell talk tough here, when we remember her so vividly as the gentle, noble Ma Joad in 1940’s The Grapes of Wrath. In that great film, Henry Fonda played her loyal son. Here, by contrast, he’s dead-set against her as she clamors for vengeance against three men who are fast asleep when found by the mob. Circumstantial evidence makes them seem guilty of the crimes, though the well-spoken Donald Martin (a fine performance by Dana Andrews) tries hard to explain why he and the other two (including a shady Mexican played by the young Anthony Quinn) are by no means culpable. There’s a haunting scene in which, facing death at sunrise, Martin pens a farewell letter to his wife back home while the posse celebrates with liquor and raucous song.

 Andrews’ performance is powerful, but the focal point of the picture remains Fonda, as a drifter with local ties. He may have a chip on his shoulder (for one thing, he’s just been dumped by the woman he loves), but he’s still got that fundamentally noble streak that’s embedded in so many Fonda characters: he rides out with the posse partly in the name of self-preservation, but he can’t bring himself to accept mob rule as a form of justice. By the time he made this film, Fonda was a Hollywood star, one whose best roles were low-key but fundamentally heroic. His personal politics—involving respect for the common man—always shone through on the screen. When he was a boy in Omaha, his father took him to the  site of the lynching of a Black man. The object lesson was clear: this was what happened when people forgot about their essential humanity.

 

Dana Andrews -- The Best Years of His Life

With Dana Andrews, Carl Rollyson hit the jackpot. Carl, like all who devote their lives to exploring the lives of others, knows how hard it can be is to contend with the family of a biographical subject. Some relatives are resistant, wanting the family secrets to remain secret. Some want to take control, insisting that their version of events is the only possible interpretation. There’s a grim joke among biographers forced to deal with a deceased subject’s next of kin: “First kill the widow.”  

But occasionally you get lucky. Carl was approached by Susan Andrews, Dana’s daughter, because she and her siblings were seeking a fuller understanding of their famous father. They had letters, memorabilia, and the diary of a man who had always held firmly onto his past. They were happy to be interviewed, but would not interfere with Carl’s conclusions. It was the perfect opportunity to take a closer look at an actor whom Carl had long admired. The book was published in 2012. Carl calls it Hollywood Enigma: Dana Andrews.

As the title suggests, Dana Andrews was something of  a mystery man. Not for him the flamboyant public life of most stars. He and his family lived well, in suburban Toluca Lake, but he vigorously shielded his wife and kids (as well as himself) from the Hollywood social circuit, with its retinue of eager reporters trolling for gossip. His resistance to glitz and glamour partly stemmed from his upbringing, as one of 13 children born to a strait-laced Texas preacher and his wife. His early years as a cog in the Hollywood studio system also helped shape his attitude. While a contract player (1938-1941) under the imperious Samuel Goldwyn, he was expected to squire starlets around town, in order to generate publicity. Though he badly wanted to wed his sweetheart, Mary Todd, he was forced to seek Goldwyn’s permission before heading for the altar.

As an actor, Dana Andrews was known for portraying common men who reveal an uncommon nobility. His best performances are subtle ones, marked by heroic restraint. Carl Rollyson, once an aspiring actor himself, is at his best when dissecting Andrews’ pivotal role as a lynching victim in 1943’s The Ox-Bow Incident. It was Laura (1944) that shot him to stardom, as the police detective who’s not quite as matter-of-fact as he first seems. But the performance I cherish can be found in 1947’s big Oscar winner, The Best Years of Our Lives. This film about military draftees readjusting to civilian life meant a great deal to my parents – and, I suspect, to many whose lives were touched by the upheavals of World War II. At the Oscar ceremony, Frederic March was named Best Actor for portraying a middle-aged banker whose values shift after his homecoming. And Harold Russell, a first-time actor who’d lost both hands in a military training exercise, won a Best Supporting Actor statuette, while also copping an honorary award for inspiring his fellow veterans. Their performances are undeniably poignant, but Andrews (as a war hero brought down to earth by his lowly civilian status) is the glue that holds the story together. He received no Oscar love then, nor for any other role.

It’s startling to read about Dana Andrews’ problems with alcohol, which ultimately shortened a splendid career. Carl views drink as Andrews’ way of coping with a world in which he felt uncomfortable. In 1972, though, he licked  his demons, then bravely filmed a public service announcement owning up to his alcoholism and urging drunk drivers to stay off the road. As always, he was a class act.

As a biographer myself, I applaud Carl Rollyson’s many achievements. And I can’t resist mentioning a coup of my own: getting an unexpected rave from a New York Times reviewer who favorably compared my Roger Corman bio to a new Corman coffee-table book costing twice as much.