Monthly Archives: March 2017

Two Ways Of Documenting Uncertainty: ‘All This Panic’ And ‘God Knows Where I Am’

Friends Ginger and Lena in All This Panic.

Tom Betterton/Courtesy of Dogwoof

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Tom Betterton/Courtesy of Dogwoof

Friends Ginger and Lena in All This Panic.

Tom Betterton/Courtesy of Dogwoof

A little seminar in documentary technique is being offered by two docs about women this week. The filmmakers for All This Panic take a fly-on-the-wall approach with their teenage subjects — no narration, no explainers. The directors of God Knows Where I Am tease out their story as if it were a mystery novel.

Both approaches prove effective, albeit for reasons that have everything to do with their respective subject matter. The makers of All This Panic must’ve been hard-pressed just to keep up with teenage sisters Dusty and Ginger and their pals as they careen around their Brooklyn neighborhood. When we meet them, they’re tooling around on their bikes, ricocheting from game arcade to beachfront to party, pondering the great questions of our age:

“If you could, like, go back and start high school over,” wonders one, “knowing everything you know now about, like, high school, would you?”

Make that the great questions of their age. Still, these kids are figuring out boyfriends, weekends, lives — things in general. Ginger has artistic inclinations but seems to lack the drive to put them to much use. Her sister, Dusty, initially appears mostly concerned with cliques and lunchroom etiquette.

And their best pal Lena has a complicated home life from which she escapes by planning to be a philosopher, a baker and a variety of other careers. She’ll end up at Sarah Lawrence College, so the planning and being responsible pay off.

Also responsible is Sage, the one African-American girl in their circle — one of the few in their school, in fact. Sage has thought deeply about who she is, and about how she is viewed.

“The teenage body is so oversexualized,” she tells the camera, “the teenage female body, especially. People want to see you, but they don’t want to hear what you have to say.”

Married filmmakers Jenny Gage and Tom Betterton did want to hear what these girls had to say. They got close to them as Brooklyn neighbors and spent three years following them as they matured and began to separate from parents and forge their own identities.

The camera captures intimate moments with musing, chattering young women who, as All This Panic goes on, seem not so much consumed by panic as by motion — dancing in a club, running on a beach, hopping a subway or a cab, exploring … trajectories.

Linda Bishop from God Knows Where I Am.

Courtesy of Wider Film Projects

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Linda Bishop from God Knows Where I Am.

Courtesy of Wider Film Projects

The first words spoken in God Knows Where I Am set a very different tone:

“Dear God, please save me,” says a woman’s off-screen voice. “I’m trying, but I don’t know what to do.”

Those words, voiced by actress Lori Singer, come from a journal that Linda Bishop kept of her final days — a journal that was found next to her body in a New Hampshire farmhouse and that said her death was the result of domestic abuse.

How did she end up in that vacant house? The filmmakers start where the police did, with no information, just what they think may be a crime scene, and a note that could be a suicide note.

God Knows Where I Am feels at times like a still life painting.

Courtesy of Wider Film Projects

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God Knows Where I Am feels at times like a still life painting.

Courtesy of Wider Film Projects

It isn’t … quite. By talking with Linda’s sister, the man who owns the house in which she died, forensics experts, and psychiatrists, the filmmakers piece together what happened to Linda during the roughest winter New Hampshire had seen in years. And why.

Excerpts from the journal set the stage again and again — how Linda found an apple tree nearby, and gathered the more than 300 apples that sustained her for months. Or looked out a window to see “a cardinal and a chickadee, on top of a lilac outside the window.”

The images that accompany these words are cinematic still lifes — still, but hardly lifeless as the camera roves the grounds and apple-strewn rooms of the house, painting a portrait of solitary quiet.

And then, the police tell us something startling: that from the window where she saw that cardinal and chickadee, she could also have watched the flat-screen TV in her neighbor’s window. The journal makes it sound as if she was, as a police officer says at one point, “isolated in some hidden valley with nobody around to help her.”

In fact, she was less than 500 feet from potential help. So why, wonder the authorities, didn’t she seek it?

Filmmaking brothers Todd and Jedd Wider — who produced Alex Gibney’s Oscar-winning documentary about torture in the Middle East, Taxi to the Dark Side — are making their joint debut as directors here. An unexplained death is again their subject, but they’re not just solving the mystery behind it. They’re using the pacing and the lachrymose visuals to get us inside Linda’s head, giving us a sense of how she saw the world as it closed in on her: the loneliness, the ever-slowing pace of a life ebbing.

God Knows Where I Am turns out to be every bit as much a story of panic as All This Panic. But where teenagers flail, Linda is resigned … her tragic story a study in stillness and, ultimately, in silence.

During World War II, Even Filmmakers Reported For Duty


This is FRESH AIR. I’m TV critic David Bianculli, editor of the website TV Worth Watching, sitting in for Terry Gross. Today in New York and Los Angeles, the documentary titled “Five Came Back” premieres, based on the book by Mark Harris. It’s about five famous movie directors who left their comfortable Hollywood soundstages during World War II to serve overseas, making war documentaries, recruitment films and other valuable contributions to the Allied war effort. “Five Came Back” also premieres today on Netflix as a three-part documentary. Our guest today is Mark Harris. We’ll listen back to his 2014 interview with Terry Gross in which he discusses those dedicated World War II directors – John Ford, John Huston, Frank Capra, William Wyler and George Stevens.

But first, I’ll review the new documentary itself, which begins streaming today. The three-part documentary series “Five Came Back” is co-produced by Steven Spielberg’s Amblin Television, which explains both its quality and its own high marquee value. Meryl Streep narrates. Each of the directors who was profiled and whose wartime works are shown in “Five Came Back” is paired with a modern director who explains that subject’s approach, artistry and impact – and what a list it is. Francis Ford Coppola talks about John Huston. Lawrence Kasdan takes on George Stevens. Spielberg himself rhapsodizes about William Wyler. Paul Greengrass deconstructs the great John Ford. And Guillermo del Toro talks about Frank Capra. We hear from the wartime filmmakers, too. Capra, in a period interview, is very open about his own marching orders for getting into wartime films.


FRANK CAPRA: The genesis of this originated in the mind of General Marshall. He was the chief of staff. And we were in a war. We had no troops. We had nothing yet, but we were at war. He called me in. And he said, we have an enormous problem. We’ll soon have 12 million kids in uniform, many of them never seen a gun. These kids, with their long suits and their long chains and their – and all their precocious things they were doing at the time, what are they going to do? What are they going to do when they get this terrible disease of homesickness? He wondered how we could put into the minds of these young kids the necessity of why they were in uniform. And he says, I think it could be done with film, should be done with film. He had tried it with lectures. He had tried it with books. It wouldn’t work. They weren’t interested. The boys weren’t learning anything. They wanted something that boys knew about. Now, boys liked films.

BIANCULLI: Part one of “Five Came Back” is a scene-setting biography of all five men patiently but crucially explaining their respective heritages, upbringings, influences and pre-war movie credits. This portion is as instructive as it is indispensable, for its sets up not only their artistry but their individual motivations for risking their lives for the war effort. And once they get there, the excerpts shown during “Five Came Back,” like the comments about them, are captivating. Mark Harris as historian here deserves special credit for not avoiding or downplaying the many contradictions found in these films and filmmakers. Some scenes are staged, rather than captured as true documentary footage, for example. And some recruitment and entertainment tools, especially the cartoons, are guilty of overt racist caricatures. “Five Came Back” presents it all and leaves you hungry to seek out more, from the briefest documentary short to the subsequent Oscar-winning post-war features. My only complaint about this documentary is that I wish Martin Scorsese, perhaps the best filmmaker and film historian in one, had taken part in it, too. But even without him, “Five Came Back” is a fascinating and valuable contribution to film history.

And now for Terry’s 2014 interview with Mark Harris, a former Entertainment Weekly journalist and critic who now writes for the website Vulture. He’s the author of “Five Came Back,” a story of Hollywood in the Second World War, the basis of the new documentary film. Let’s start with a snippet from an old documentary film.


UNIDENTIFIED MAN: Suddenly, from behind the clouds, the jets attack.

BIANCULLI: That’s a clip from “The Battle Of Midway,” a film of the actual battle, directed by John Ford, who already was famous for such films as “Stagecoach” and “The Grapes Of Wrath.” During the 1930s, Hollywood and the federal government were suspicious of each other. But after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor in 1941, the War Department wanted Hollywood directors to make short documentaries that could be presented in movie theaters before the featured films in order to show Americans what was at stake, give them a glimpse of what our soldiers were going through and to stir up feelings of patriotism. In “Five Came Back,” the book and the documentary, Mark Harris focuses on five directors who made who made movies for the War Department – John Ford, George Stevens, John Huston, William Wyler and Frank Capra. Terry spoke to Mark Harris in 2014.



Mark Harris, welcome to FRESH AIR. This series of World War II movies with a lot of documentary footage gets started with the series “Why We Fight,” which is overseen by the director Frank Capra. What are some of Frank Capra’s most famous films?

MARK HARRIS: Well, Capra was probably the most successful and famous director in Hollywood at the time the war started. He had made “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington,” “Mr. Deeds Goes To Town,” “It Happened One Night,” “You Can’t Take It With You,” “Meet John Doe.” I mean, he was, I believe, the highest paid director in Hollywood at the time.

He had been on the cover of Time magazine and was just seen as the guy who had his finger on the pulse of American populism more than any other director.

GROSS: And after the war, he makes…

HARRIS: After the war he makes “It’s A Wonderful Life,” which is in many ways his most personal film, certainly the one that he had the biggest hand in writing.

GROSS: He oversees the “Why We Fight” series, it was a series designed to tell people why we’re entering the war, what’s it really about, and – or as it was officially put, making clear the enemy’s ruthless objectives, promoting confidence in the ability of our armed forces to win and showing clearly how we would lose our freedom if we lost the war.

HARRIS: Yes, and I should just interrupt you to say that the “Why We Fight” series was not aimed at the American public. It was originally designed exclusively to be shown to soldiers.

GROSS: Was it ever shown to the American public?

HARRIS: Pieces of it were shown to the American public because Capra actually became enraged that some of the directors he was competitive with, like John Ford with “The Battle Of Midway” or John Huston, were getting their movies into theaters, where he felt he was stuck doing just training films.

So he said, hey, you know, my “Why We Fight” movies are terrific. Why can’t they be shown in American theaters and got into a huge bureaucratic power struggle about whether they could get out to theaters. But three of them -three of the seven – ultimately were shown in theaters.

GROSS: Well, he had a really great idea, which might seem obvious in retrospect, but it wasn’t then. He wanted to work in Nazi and fascist propaganda films, use that footage and turn it against the Nazis and the fascists and show how scary they were.

HARRIS: Yes, and part of Capra’s idea to use Nazi propaganda films in the “Why We Fight” series was born of necessity. There was almost no budget for these movies. He had something like $450,000 with which to make 50 movies. So he was really on a shoestring. He couldn’t go out and shoot a lot of stuff. But the Treasury Department had seized a lot of foreign propaganda movies, and Capra himself had also gone to New York and seen a print of Leni Riefenstahl’s famous “Triumph Of The Will” at the Museum of Modern Art.

And he was so stirred by it and so stunned by it that he came out of the theater saying we’re going to lose. And out of that despair almost came the idea…

GROSS: And “Triumph Of The Will” is Leni Riefenstahl’s documentary of a huge Hitler rally basically staged for the camera – very scary, yeah.

HARRIS: Yes, yes, “Triumph Of The Will” is propaganda – pro-Nazi propaganda, pro-Hitler propaganda – on a level of intensity that nobody in America had ever tried because propaganda, even right after the war started, was still kind of a tainted word, whereas it was not in Germany.

So Capra’s brilliant idea was to take some of these movies, which shockingly were shown theatrically in German communities in New York, in local movie theaters, to pro-German audiences, and sort of turn them against their makers by showing just how dangerous and domineering these people could be.

GROSS: What really surprised me, you mention in the book there was a period when Frank Capra had been infatuated with Mussolini.

HARRIS: Yes, everybody thinks that Capra was this blazing populist liberal. That was sort of more true of his screenwriters than of him. Capra was actually a conservative Republican who boasted that he never voted for Franklin Roosevelt in any of the four elections. And his own politics were bewildering, I think, even to himself sometimes.

Yes, he did get infatuated with Mussolini. He was very, very attracted to power and to displays of power. And certainly, you know, Mussolini had that going for him. I think the funnier thing is that Mussolini was also very attracted to Capra and even approached Columbia Pictures at one point before the war about having Capra direct his life story, which he would finance.

GROSS: Wow (laughter).

HARRIS: You know, Harry Cohn, the man who ran Columbia at the time and was really nobody’s fool, thought better of it and, you know, probably wasn’t the first time or the last time that he saved Capra from what would have been a disastrous misstep.

GROSS: So do you think Capra was no longer infatuated with Mussolini when he starts making these American “Why We Fight” films?

HARRIS: I do. I think that the “Why We Fight” films and the whole war mission that Capra assigned himself focused his patriotism, and his politics even, in a way that the years before the war could not. The interesting thing is that while Capra was a very take-charge guy, he also really liked being given an assignment.

He went into the Army, and his attitude was essentially tell me what you want to get across, give me a mission, and I will fulfill it. And the “Why We Fight” movies, which he framed as a seven-part depiction of what he called the struggle for freedom versus the struggle for slavery, was really a kind of combination of him being tasked to make these movies and of him coming up with his own ideology about the war and what the war was about before the people who were in charge of the war had ever really fully articulated it to him.

So in a strange way, these movies, which were shown to every incoming soldier, made policy. They didn’t just depict policy that had been dictated by higher-ups in the War Department; they were the first things to kind of articulate what the goals of the war were in a really clear way.

BIANCULLI: Mark Harris speaking to Terry Gross in 2014. His book, “Five Came Back,” about Hollywood directors who filmed for the War Department during World War II, has been made into a documentary, which opens today in New York and Los Angeles, and streams beginning today on Netflix. More after a break. This is FRESH AIR.


BIANCULLI: This is FRESH AIR. Let’s get back to Terry’s interview from 2014 with author Mark Harris. His book about Hollywood filmmakers who made documentary films of combat during World War II, “Five Came Back,” is now a documentary series released today in New York, Los Angeles and on Netflix.


GROSS: Let’s talk about a movie that John Ford made during World War II called “The Battle Of Midway.” But first just give us some of John Ford’s most famous movies.

HARRIS: Ford had been on an incredible winning streak before he went into the war. He had, between 1939 and 1941, made “Stagecoach,” “Drums Along The Mohawk,” “The Grapes Of Wrath,” “How Green Was My Valley.” If Capra was the most successful American director before the war, Ford was probably the most acclaimed.

GROSS: OK, so he makes “The Battle Of Midway,” which is the first film to bring combat footage to moviegoers on the home front. What did viewers see in this movie that had never been seen before?

HARRIS: Well, what was interesting about “The Battle Of Midway” was that they didn’t actually see the battle itself, which was rather spread out and diffuse. You know, Midway was an important strategic stop – as its name suggests, you know, midway in the Pacific – an important strategic place for the Americans to try to hold.

And Ford, who had been in Hawaii working on another documentary about post-Pearl Harbor rebuilding and then was suddenly taken off the island, put on a ship and taken to Midway without being told that there was going to be a major battle there, Ford was stationed on the top of a power station on the island early in the morning with his cameras and a couple of crewmen who also had cameras.

They had a perfect vantage point to see incoming Japanese flyers in formation. The Americans knew that the Japanese were planning an attack. This time they were ready, both with planes of their own that were launching off of aircraft carriers, you know, torpedo squadrons, and with men stationed on the ground at Midway.

So Ford was not in the thick of the battle so much as he was positioned in the doorway to the battle. He could see the planes coming in, and he could pivot around to the island behind him and see the bombs being dropped and the surface-to-air and air-to-ground gunfire.

GROSS: Did he figure out ways to shoot these oncoming planes and to shoot explosions and, you know, planes falling out of the sky?

HARRIS: Well, what’s so extraordinary is there was no time really to figure this out. Everything had to be figured out on the spot and on the fly. And also filming wasn’t, as far as the Navy was concerned, his only mission. The Navy said we’re putting you on the roof of the power station because there’s a phone there. We need you not only to film, but we’re really interested in you picking up the phone and telling us what you see as you see it.

So Ford had to do that and film at the same time, and “The Battle Of Midway” is not a movie of elegant camera angles or impeccable compositions. It’s a movie of what Ford was able to capture and what Ford’s men were able to capture because a lot of it was not shot by Ford, and when they were able to capture it.

And that kind of on-the-fly quality was one of the things that made it so real and so exciting to American audiences. What Ford famously did in the movie was he kept in a mistake. At one point, a bomb hit so hard and so close to him that the film in his camera was jarred loose from its sprockets. It looks like what happens when, you know, film flies out of a projector.

And ordinarily, up until that point, that was the kind of visual mistake that a director would remove from his movie because it didn’t make the movie look smooth. Ford kept it in. And the choice to keep it in was really the first moment at which battle realism was created for American audiences by a specific camera technique.

GROSS: The Americans won The Battle of Midway. So what was the importance of this movie in the war effort?

HARRIS: Well, the War Department was, at the time of The Battle of Midway, desperate to give American movie-going audiences some good news. We were in the middle of 1942. The war for America was still of course in the Pacific, not yet in Europe. And the news hadn’t been good. We were losing. We were rocked back on our heels by Pearl Harbor and had just begun to recover.

And the valor of Americans until that point had been in stalling for time, holding off the Japanese for as long as possible in various engagements so that the Navy could rebuild its fleet. But at the end of those engagements, we would lose. Midway was one that we won, and Ford understood absolutely once he had sat through the battle that even though we also sustained terrible losses at Midway, and that – the emotional impact of that is something Ford carried with him forever, that the message of the Battle of Midway was that we were going to take it to the enemy and that we were going to win and that that message had to get out to as many people as possible.

Ford was so concerned about doing it right that he essentially took his footage and refused to turn it over to the War Department. He basically had it edited in secret, and that wasn’t just because he was controlling or egotistical. It was because he knew how important the message was, and he really believed that he knew how to convey it better than any Army functionary or Navy functionary would.

BIANCULLI: Mark Harris speaking to Terry Gross in 2014. His book, “Five Came Back,” about Hollywood filmmakers who teamed with the War Department to make documentaries about and during World War II, has just been made into a documentary of the same name, streaming today on Netflix. We’ll continue their conversation after a short break. I’m David Bianculli, and this is FRESH AIR.


BIANCULLI: This is FRESH AIR. I’m David Bianculli, in for Terry Gross, back with more of Terry’s 2014 interview with Mark Harris, the author of “Five Came Back.” It’s about five celebrated Hollywood directors who enlisted during World War II in order to film the war. His book is the basis of a new Netflix documentary series of the same name, which begins streaming today. It also is released theatrically today in New York and Los Angeles. The five directors worked through the Office of War Information. It was an unprecedented collaborative relationship between the federal government and Hollywood. These shorts were shown in movie theaters before the featured films to keep Americans informed, show what was at stake and stir up feelings of patriotism. When we left off, Terry and Mark Harris were talking about director John Ford, who shot footage of the Battle of Midway.


GROSS: I think this is very moving – he made a separate short film about the loss of a torpedo squadron, a squadron that was lost in that battle, and he made it on eight millimeter film. And he, if I understand it correctly, it was made for the families of the men who were lost, and he gave them copies. Do I have that right?

HARRIS: Yes. Before the Battle of Midway started, just in the days before the Battle of Midway started, Ford for a while, did not know what he was there to shoot. He shot some fun nature footage about Midway. He thought that maybe what he was being asked to do was depict, you know, Navy life on a remote Pacific island. And he shot some of the men of this torpedo squadron, who were just laughing and joshing and proud of their planes.

And he shot them, like, standing next to their planes and pointing to what they had painted on their planes and hanging out on the deck. It turned out that one of the squadrons he shot sustained the worst losses in the battle, and all but one of the 30 young men in the squadron were killed.

That for Ford was his immediate experience of the battle. The news that it was a major American military victory drifted back to Midway Island slowly in the days after the war, but the first thing they understood was this terrible loss. And so after making “The Battle Of Midway,” Ford compiled the footage of these young men that he had shot into a kind of memorial reel for the families.

And he put it on film that would be accommodated by the kind of inexpensive home movie projectors that were available at the time. He really wanted the families to be able to see it. And he had it hand-delivered to each family.

GROSS: That’s such a beautiful gesture.

HARRIS: And by the way, it was not made public for decades. That little film, “Torpedo Squadron 8,” was not seen until long after Ford was dead.

GROSS: We were talking about John Ford’s movie “Battle Of Midway,” which was about the Battle of Midway. He was also on Omaha Beach for D-Day and was given the assignment of shooting the D-Day invasion. And I mean, there was such mass carnage in this battle in World War II. Where was he positioned, and what did he and his crew actually get?

HARRIS: Well, unlike Midway, the Battle of D-Day was an engagement that the filming portion of the American military had a long time to prepare for. And George Stevens for the Army and John Ford for the Navy were really the ones who came up with a concerted plan that in this case was not done on the fly. It involved hundreds of cameras, hundreds of cameramen, dozens of cameras fixed to the front of landing vessels.

What is ironic is that most of the footage that was shot at D-Day was destroyed. It was so – you know, many of the cameras, the stationary cameras, didn’t function. You know, the cameramen miraculous almost all survived, but a lot of their footage didn’t. So there was no way to create a kind of clear narrative chronological structure of what happened at D-Day out of the footage.

What there was was an extraordinary amount of raw footage that was then collected from every camera and every cameraman, you know, every camera that hadn’t malfunctioned. It was all sort of packed up, sent to England and edited apparently into several hours of continuous footage that was shown to the War Department back in the United States.

Most of the most shocking footage, the most realistic footage, the best footage, if you will, from D-Day was much too raw and frightening and upsetting to be shown to homefront audiences. So while movie theaters across the country advertised for 10 days with signs outside the theater saying 10 days until first footage of D-Day, eight days until first footage of D-Day, six days, the actual footage that made its way to the theaters was a very carefully manicured selection of stuff that was acceptable to show, that was sort of perceivable by untrained eyes, you know, that wasn’t, in other words, too shaky or blurry or discontinuous or quick to really work in a movie.

Most of the D-Day footage was not shown until much, much later, and really you’d have to go forward to the movie “Saving Private Ryan,” the first part of which is a re-creation of D-Day that is in part inspired by that never-seen footage before there was great public curiosity about what D-Day footage was available.

GROSS: Another director that you write about is George Stevens, who had just an incredibly horrifying experience. He was there when the concentration camp Dachau was liberated. And before we go any further in his story, tell us about his most famous movies. What were they?

HARRIS: Well, after the war, George Stevens was really well-known for his ’50s movies like “Giant” with James Dean and “A Place In The Sun” and “Shane.” Before the war, he was known primarily as a really expert director of light escapist films, like “Swing Time” and “Woman Of The Year,” with Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy.

GROSS: “Swing Time” is like maybe the best Fred Astaire-Ginger Rogers movie.

HARRIS: Right. I mean, if you wanted to escape and not think about anything having to do with what was going on in the world, George Stevens’ movies before the war were some of the best most entertaining ways to do that.

GROSS: And then another movie he made after the war was “The Diary Of Anne Frank.” So let’s get to what happened to him during World War II. He’s with his camera crew. And I’m sure he didn’t know about Dachau. I mean, who did in America? But how did he end up being there when it was liberated?

HARRIS: Stevens’ journey through the war is in a way a journey into the darker and darker recesses of the war. He started out by getting sent to the North African campaign and got there too late to film anything and spent much of the war incredibly frustrated that he was far from the action. But starting really with the march toward the liberation of Paris, he was really in the thick of the action and filmed a lot, and was around for the Battle of the Bulge and then was among the first Allied camera crews to get into Germany as it was clear that Hitler was going to fall and the war was going to end.

He had been to a camp already called Torgau and had seen enough destruction to realize that the atrocities that were being committed in these camps were far beyond what he or most of the people in the Army or most of the people at home had ever heard about. But when he and his crew went into Dachau, it was I think absolutely a shattering and life-altering experience for him.

GROSS: Do you want to describe some of the things he found there?

HARRIS: Yeah. What Stevens filmed at Dachau was so painful that he didn’t talk about it for decades afterwards. But what we think of now as some of the images of Holocaust atrocities that are burned into our collective consciousness, that’s what Stevens saw – bodies in boxcars, starving, dying, skeletal people, bodies covered in snow, body parts, crematoria. The worst things – you know, the worst things that we know of what the Nazis did in the death camps and the concentration camps were news to Stevens and his men and, of course, to America when he discovered them. They – imagine, you know, imagine walking into Dachau not knowing what a death camp was and seeing what he saw. So he did the only thing that he could do, which was to record it. At that point, he was no longer interested in making a documentary. What he was doing and what he knew he was doing from the first hour he was there was gathering evidence.

GROSS: And that’s how it was used. I mean, you couldn’t very well show this footage to theatergoers. It was much too graphic and horrifying, especially for that time. I mean, the standards in what you could show in a theater was very different than it is today. But it was just too horrifying. But tell us how that footage was used.

HARRIS: Well, what’s remarkable is that Stevens didn’t flinch from filming anything he saw. I mean – and the roughest stuff he filmed himself and the footage that he shot proved to be extraordinarily important in the Nuremberg Trials where it was compiled into two evidentiary movies. One of which was specifically designed to show Nazi atrocities and the other of which was designed to prove that this had been a long-term plan on the part of the Nazis. It’s essentially to prove intent. Those movies were shown at the Nuremberg Trials, and the defendants were forced to sit there and watch them. And many people feel that they were essentially turning points in the trial, in that not in that these guys were ever going to be found innocent but in bringing home just how horrible what they had done was.

Famously, a couple of lawyers – German lawyers for the defendants – said that after seeing the footage that Stevens had compiled, they couldn’t even stand to be in the same room with their own clients.

GROSS: How did this exposure to the death camp in Dachau change George Stevens’ life?

HARRIS: I think initially, it plunged him into a terrible depression. He – Stevens suffered his own form of what we would now call PTSD – post traumatic stress disorder. He came home. He was depressed. He couldn’t think of very much he wanted to do. He went to parties, and he spent time with his family, but he started drinking heavily. Two of his fellow directors – William Wyler and Frank Capra – had convinced him to go in with them on a new independent filmmaking company called Liberty, but he couldn’t find a project to do. It was not until three years after the war that Stevens was able to even sit himself down and get behind a camera and make another movie.

BIANCULLI: Mark Harris, author of “Five Came Back,” speaking to Terry Gross in 2014. More after a break. This is FRESH AIR.


BIANCULLI: This is FRESH AIR. Let’s return to Terry’s 2014 interview with author Mark Harris. His book, “Five Came Back,” a history of Hollywood filmmakers who enlisted during World War II to make documentaries and short films for the War Department, is now a documentary itself. It premiers today in New York and Los Angeles and begins streaming today on Netflix.


GROSS: Let’s take a brief look at William Wyler. Let’s start with the movies he’s most famous for.

HARRIS: Wyler made a great set of movies with Bette Davis before the war. They had one of the great actress-director collaborations in Hollywood. They made “The Letter” together and “Jezebel” and “The Little Foxes.” Going into the war, he was known as an unbelievably exacting and precise director who made these elegant, smart movies but would often take 40 or 50 takes of the same scene before he got what he wanted.

GROSS: And what are the movies he made after World War II?

HARRIS: Oh, after World War II, Wyler made “The Best Years Of Our Lives” and then went on to make “Detective Story,” “Ben-Hur,” “Friendly Persuasion.” He was one of the most successful directors in Hollywood until he retired.

GROSS: So he made during World War II, a documentary called “Memphis Belle.” Tell us a little bit about that one.

HARRIS: Wyler was really eager to get into the war. He was a Jewish immigrant from Alsace, whose family was still there, you know, on the border between France and Germany. He would say that sometimes he didn’t know what nationality he was because his town was in different hands at different times. So he was eager to get there and fought hard to get himself posted to London and then to an Air Force base where he conceived the idea of making a movie about what it was like to go on a bombing run. And one of these bombers that was crewed by 10 young men – he settled on the Memphis Belle because there was a thing in the Army Air Force where if you flew 25 missions successfully, you got a break and the guy’s got to go home. And so the “Memphis Belle” – which was actually compiled from footage taken by Wyler and two of his crewmen on several different bombing runs – was the first time that Americans really got a look at what it was like to be up in the air trying to drop bombs on targets while German planes were firing at you.

GROSS: And Wyler more or less went deaf as a result.

HARRIS: Well, he didn’t go deaf as a result of the “Memphis Belle,” but he did go deaf in the air. The “Memphis Belle” was a huge success. The movie had great impact when it was shown in America because the idea of Air Force combat in World War II was still pretty new and, you know, Wyler didn’t use any reenactments. What – there were audio reenactments, but what you saw in the movie was really what was shot in the air. So he was very eager to do another film about another set of bombers and while he was shooting footage for that in Italy, he stepped out of a plane one day. It had been terribly, terribly noisy and, you know, he hadn’t been wearing headphones or air plugs or anything. He stepped out of the plane and could not hear. His knees buckled, you know, his sense of balance was lost and within a few days, it was very clear that he had done such severe damage to his ears that he was not going to get his hearing back. And his military service was over. He thought his career was over. He was shipped back to the United States immediately and sent to a military hospital and was just devastated. I mean, overnight he had gone from being a filmmaker to he felt being nothing.

GROSS: Did he ever get his hearing back?

HARRIS: He got a little bit of hearing back in one ear and he got enough hearing back so that his main concern was allayed, which was that he would be able to hear the actors enough if speakers were rigged right next to his director’s chair to be able to function as a director. But he received a disability check from the military for the rest of his life.

GROSS: And, you know, one of the great films that he makes after World War II is “The Best Years Of Our Lives,” which is about soldiers coming back from World War II and trying with great difficulty to reintegrate themselves back into their family life or their working life. And it’s a very moving film. It’s a very difficult film. I mean they’re really having a hard time. It’s not like our boys are back home and aren’t they glad to be back. It’s about suffering.

HARRIS: Right. And it was also about – “The Best Years Of Our Lives” was about something that America was experiencing at that moment. It wasn’t a sort of delayed Hollywood take on something that had happened a few years later. You know, America was in a paroxysm of readjustment. All of these men were coming back. Were they the same men they were when they left? How would they reconnect with their families, with their wives and children? Were they going to have serious drinking problems – which a lot of them did. Were they going to have serious emotional problems – which a lot of them did. Were they going to be able to re-enter the workforce? These were questions that America was wrestling with right when this movie came out and, you know, it was extraordinary for people to get to see the drama of their lives being played out on screen, especially in such a great motion picture.

GROSS: One of the men returning home from the war in “Best Years Of Our Lives” is somebody who lost an arm during the war, and it’s played by somebody who actually lost their arm in the military in an explosion.

HARRIS: He actually lost both hands.

GROSS: Both hands. That’s right.


GROSS: That’s right. It’s both hands. And I never realized how much William Wyler was probably identifying with him because he lost, you know, almost all of his hearing in the war.

HARRIS: Yes. It’s funny because when most people see “Best Years Of Our Lives,” they think that Wyler was probably identifying with the Frederic March character who was the older officer and family man who has been away for a while. He left his very comfortable job at a bank to go to the war, and now he’s coming back and his children have turned into teenagers who are kind of living their own lives. And he’s trying to reconnect with his wife, Myrna Loy. And a lot of what March’s character goes through in trying to readjust was drawn from Wyler’s own experience seeing his wife for the first time after a long time. But, yes, Wyler also identified very closely with Harold Russell. He really understood as no other returning director did what it was like to be disabled – how you saw yourself differently because you were disabled and how the world saw you differently.

BIANCULLI: Mark Harris, author of “Five Came Back,” speaking to Terry Gross in 2014. More after a break. This is FRESH AIR.


BIANCULLI: This is FRESH AIR. And now, let’s get conclude Terry’s 2014 interview with Mark Harris, author of “Five Came Back.” His book is the basis of a new documentary, premiering today in New York, Los Angeles and on Netflix.


GROSS: Hollywood and Washington managed to work together during World War II, in spite of the fact that they really distrusted each other. When the war was over, did the distrust return? And I’m thinking, you know, fast-forward a few years, and you have the House Un-American Activity Committee hearings.

HARRIS: Right.

GROSS: And, you know, a lot of filmmakers are getting called to these committee hearings. A lot of filmmakers are getting blacklisted. So, you know, the suspicion starts back up again. I’m actually even wondering – I’m sorry, I’m asking you like a hundred questions here (laughter) but I’m also wondering if any of the filmmakers who risked their lives making these World War II documentaries were later blacklisted.

HARRIS: You know, it’s a really – that’s a very interesting set of questions. The sort of truce, the idea of a shared enterprise between Hollywood and Washington, did not last long after the war. And, as you said, you know, by the late 1940s even, the climate had changed so much that William Wyler went on the radio and said, I don’t think I would be allowed to make “The Best Years Of Our Lives” now, even just a couple of years after I made it. That’s how punitive and paranoid Washington is making Hollywood become.

They weren’t blacklisted, these directors, and, in fact, many of them were really adamantly opposed to the blacklist, although Ford and Capra’s politics tended to veer to the right and Stevens, Huston and Wyler more to the left. They were a pretty united front, to the point where when Cecil B. DeMille tried to institute an anti-communist loyalty oath for the members of the Directors Guild of America, these five directors, who really hadn’t come together for any purpose since World War II, presented a pretty united front and shot him down.

GROSS: Your father was a World War II veteran, right?

HARRIS: Yes, he was.

GROSS: What role does World War II play in your formative years? I don’t know how old you are, or, you know…

HARRIS: (Laughter) I’m 50, and my father went into the war when he was 17. He served in Burma. And the truth is that he told a lot of war stories – as all those guys did – when I was growing up, and I was alienated by them and frightened by them. I found it terrifying that someone who was still a boy would go put himself in a position where he would get shot at and be away from home.

And, for me, working on this book was a way of, you know, decades later, investigating my own aversion to this subject. I had to go stare into the face of what had frightened me as a child and try to understand who these gruff men were and why they did what they did and why it was so important to them for the rest of their lives.

GROSS: Thank you so much for talking with us.

HARRIS: It’s been a pleasure.

BIANCULLI: Mark Harris speaking to Terry Gross in 2014. His book, “Five Came Back,” a story of Hollywood and the Second World War, is the basis of a new documentary also called “Five Came Back.” It opens today in New York and Los Angeles and begins streaming today as a three-part documentary series on Netflix.


BIANCULLI: Monday on FRESH AIR, it’s tax time. While many people are still trying to finish their taxes, the Trump administration is trying to move forward on the president’s promise to overhaul the tax system. We’ll talk taxes with journalist T.R. Reid, author of “A Fine Mess: A Global Quest For A Simpler, Fairer, And More Efficient Tax System.” Join us. FRESH AIR’s executive producer is Danny Miller. Our technical director and engineer is Audrey Bentham. Our associate producer for online media is Molly Seavy-Nesper. Therese Madden directed today’s show. For Terry Gross, I’m David Bianculli.


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Occupational Hazards

Get ready for a final round about everyone’s favorite subject: Work! Every answer contains a job or occupation. What Clark Gable character said, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn?” That would be “Rhett BUTLER.”

Strip Ts

Ask Me Another raunches up this word game where every answer is a famous phrase, but with its “Ts” stripped away. If we said, “Paul Bunyan, John Henry and Pecos Bill are the subject of unlikely stories about drinking every beer,” the answer would be “all ales.” That’s “tall tales” without the letter T.

Rolling In The Deep

Guest musician Julian Velard puts on his scuba diving equipment to sing a classic break-up song from deep down in the ocean. In this parody of Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep,” clues are rewritten to be about things you could find in the sea.

Incendiary ‘Report’ Exposes Business-Suited Torturers

Ernie Colón does a lot for a business suit. Two types of people populate The Torture Report, a new graphical adaptation of the 2014 Senate Select Committee on Intelligence report on the use of enhanced interrogation techniques under George W. Bush. There are the detainees — usually nearly nude in frigid temperatures, their bodies wracked with agony — and there are the bureaucrats at whose mercy they suffer. These men are inevitably clad in that uniform of conservatism and civilization, the business suit. There’s even a besuited silhouette on the cover, hands shoved in his pockets, radiating placid certainty.

That certainty led the highest-ranking members of the CIA not only to authorize the use of brutal, often untested, dubiously effective interrogation techniques throughout the 2000s, but to mislead multiple branches of government and the media about their efficacy. They also led George W. Bush to authorize the techniques’ further use.

Colón and writer Sid Jacobson must have begun work on this project long before the election, and yet events have made it more timely than could have been imagined even a few months ago. President Trump takes an even stronger line on enhanced interrogation than Bush did, repeatedly saying “waterboarding works” and equating the practices explicitly with torture. Last week, Sen. Dianne Feinstein grilled Trump’s Supreme Court nominee, Neil Gorsuch, on apparently condoning waterboarding and other techniques.

This book is clearly meant to serve the same function as the duo’s best-selling collaboration, The 9/11 Report: A Graphic Adaptation, making hundreds of pages of documents and testimony live and breathe using comic-book-style illustrations. It might seem that the topic would prove well-suited for this treatment, given the obvious — if excruciating — visual interest it provides. But the results are mixed. This book is certainly an accessible and digestible depiction of what Scott Horton, author of 2015’s Lords of Secrecy, sums up in an afterword as “one of the most dysfunctional and embarrassing episodes in the history of American spycraft.” But numerous flaws dampen the book’s effectiveness.

Colón, an artist with wide-ranging experience working at top comics publishers, seems strangely daunted by the material. His drawings alternate between operatic and muddled. He’s at his best when he’s pointing up the divide between the tortured detainees and the bureaucrats who hold them at their mercy. The former are usually near-naked, while the bureaucrats, naturally, all wear the aforementioned suits. These guys could have come out of Get Your War On, David Rees’ early-2000s comic that used cheesy clip art of office workers to emphasize the absurdities of the War on Terror. They’re drawn the same way, and the irony is the same.

Colón’s depictions of the enhanced interrogation techniques themselves — among them facial slaps, abdominal slaps, “walling” (slamming the detainee’s head against a wall), stress positions, cramped confinement, sleep deprivation and waterboarding — aren’t as chilling as you might expect. The uneven quality and varying styles of the drawings keep the brutality at a remove. The most affecting representations are simple silhouettes of the men who were hung by their wrists for hours. Colón’s experiments with panel organization and point-of-view are more successful. Each page bursts with different shapes and arrangements of artwork, providing a sense of catastrophic momentum.

Jacobson has distilled and arranged the material in the report to create a powerful narrative. The effect of reading, again and again, that CIA assertions about the program “included inaccurate information” or “are not supported by CIA records” is potent. Still, Jacobson’s own (albeit highly understandable) bias occasionally undercuts his storytelling. He keeps throwing in exclamation points and editorializing asides. When he recounts how Assistant Attorney General Steven Bradbury authorized the use of 13 enhanced techniques in 2005, he adds a speech bubble reading, “Good to be back in action again!” It’s unclear who’s supposed to be speaking (or thinking) this, and it doesn’t mesh with the parts of the text hewing narrowly to the report.

Despite these weaknesses, The Torture Report remains a deeply necessary book — particularly now, when the full report may never be made public. It shouldn’t require all the skill and passion of two experienced comics creators to bring information like this to the average reader, but such is the case in our saturated media climate. Flawed or no, this book will doubtless be a crucial resource for years to come.

Etelka Lehoczky has written about books for The New York Times, The Los Angeles Times and She tweets at @EtelkaL.

‘Nabokov’s Favorite Word Is Mauve’ Crunches The (Literary) Numbers

Purple, Prose: The new book Nabokov’s Favorite Word is Mauve subjects thousands of books to statistical analysis.

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Purple, Prose: The new book Nabokov’s Favorite Word is Mauve subjects thousands of books to statistical analysis.

NPR Multimedia/AP Photo

Nabokov’s Favorite Word Is Mauve

What the Numbers Reveal About the Classics, Bestsellers, and Our Own Writing

by Ben Blatt

Hardcover, 271 pages |


Let’s acknowledge this at the top: It’s a thin slice.

To gaze across the great swath of written English over the past few centuries — that teeming, jostling, elbow-throwing riot of characters and places and stories and ideas — only to isolate, with dispassionate precision, some stray, infinitesimal data point such as which author uses cliches like “missing the forest for the trees” the most, would be like …

Well. You get it. More like missing the forest for the raspberry seed stuck to the underside of the 395th leaf on the 139th branch of the 223,825th tree.

But that’s what statistician Ben Blatt’s new book, Nabokov’s Favorite Word is Mauve, sets out to do, thin slice by thin slice.

He loaded thousands of books — classics and contemporary best-sellers — into various databases and let his hard drive churn through them, seeking to determine, for example, if our favorite authors follow conventional writing advice about using cliches, adverbs and exclamation points (they mostly do); if men and women write differently (yep); if an algorithm can identify a writer from his or her prose style (it can); and which authors use the shortest first sentences (Toni Morrison, Margaret Atwood, Mark Twain) versus those who use the longest (Salman Rushdie, Michael Chabon, Edith Wharton).

I can hear thousands of monocles dropping into thousands of cups of Earl Grey from here. “But what of literature?” you sputter. “What does any of that technical folderol have to do,” — here you start wiping your monocle on your nosegay — “with ART?”

Not much, is the answer. Blatt’s book isn’t terribly interested in the art of writing. What it’s fascinated by — and is fascinating about — is the craft of writing.

Technique. Word choice. Sentence structure. Reading level. There’s something cheeky in the way Blatt throws genre best-sellers into his statistical blender alongside literary lions and hits puree, looking for patterns of style shared by, say, James Joyce and James Patterson.

A Balm For Bookish Know-it-Alls

Author Ben Blatt is a journalist and statistician.

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Sierra Katow/Simon & Schuster

Author Ben Blatt is a journalist and statistician.

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To say that you likely won’t find much that’s truly surprising in Nabokov’s Favorite Word is Mauve isn’t a critique. In fact, it’s kind of the point. Reading it, you experience the feeling, again and again, of having some vague, squishy notion you’ve always sort of held about a given author getting ruthlessly distilled into a stark, cold, numerical fact.

Which is, if you’re the kind of person who likes to get proven right (hi!), a hell of a lot of fun.

Now: It’s a book of statistics, and statistics rest on distinct sets of assumptions that must get made before any number can start getting well and truly crunched. So if you’re curious about Blatt’s methodology, boy are you in luck. Every chapter begins with Blatt chattily sharing with the reader — as chattily as a book this eager to walk us through the formula used to calculate Flesch-Kincaide Grade Levels can be — every aspect of his thinking. How he defines “Great Books.” What constitutes a long sentence. Which chapter-endings qualify as cliffhangers, and which merely … abrupt.

He drags you into the weeds with him, but he’s a personable writer, and he’s brought along a picnic lunch, so you don’t mind the bugs.

Herewith, some of my favorite of Blatt’s findings in Nabokov’s Favorite Word is Mauve:


Maidens, Interrupted: A chart of word use in classic literature, from Nabokov’s Favorite Word is Mauve.

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Maidens, Interrupted: A chart of word use in classic literature, from Nabokov’s Favorite Word is Mauve.

Simon & Schuster

It tuns out that — sit down for this next bit — authors who are women write equally about men and women, but men write overwhelmingly about men.

I know. I’m shaken, over here.

For every appearance of the word “she” in classics by male authors, Blatt found three uses of the word “he.” In classics by women, the ratio was pretty much one-to-one.

Also: Male authors of classic literature are three times as likely to write that a female character “interrupted” than male characters. In contemporary popular and literary fiction, the ratio is smaller, but it’s still there.


Blatt looked for the specific words that authors use much more frequently than the rate at which those words generally occur in the rest of written English (i.e., compared to a huge sample of literary works — some 385 million words in total — written in English between 1810 and 2009, assembled by linguists at Brigham Young Univeristy).

His criteria: A favorite word -

  1. Must occur in at least half of the author’s books
  2. Must be used at a rate of at least once per 100,000 words
  3. Must not be so obscure that it’s used less than once per million in the BYU sample of written English
  4. Is not a proper noun

Here’s some that jumped out at me.

Jane Austen: civility, fancying, imprudence (Story checks out, right?)

Dan Brown: grail, masonic, pyramid (I am sagely nodding, over here.)

Truman Capote: clutter, zoo, geranium

John Cheever: infirmary, venereal, erotic (Boy howdy, that’s a whole Cheever short story, right there.)

Agatha Christie: inquest, alibi, frightful

F. Scott Fitzgerald: facetious, muddled, sanitarium

Ian Fleming: lavatory, trouser, spangled (“Pardon me, Blofeld; must dash to the lavatory, got something spangled on me trouser.”)

Ernest Hemingway: concierge, astern, cognac (Yuuup.)

Toni Morrison: messed, navel, slop

Vladimir Nabokov: mauve, banal, pun (As Blatt points out, Nabokov had synesthesia, a condition that caused him to associate various colors with the sound and shape of letters and words. “Mauve” was his favorite: He used the word at a rate that’s 44 times higher than the rate at which it occurs in the BYU sample of written English.)

Jodi Picoult: courtroom, diaper, diner

Ayn Rand: transcontinental, comrade, proletarian

J.K. Rowlilng: wand, wizard, potion (Well, duh.)

Amy Tan: gourd, peanut, noodles

Mark Twain: hearted, shucks, satan

Edith Wharton: nearness, daresay, compunction (Man I love me some Edith Friggin’ Wharton.)

Virginia Woolf: flushing, blotting, mantelpiece (Chandler Bing: “Could they BE more Virginia Woolf?”)


You know: nearly, suddenly, sloppily, etc. Writing teachers tell you to avoid them, that they sap the energy from a sentence. Strong, clear writing is fueled by verbs and nouns, they say, not by adjectives and adverbs.

Turns out, the adverb thing holds up: When Blatt combined several lists of the “Great Books” of the 20th century, he came up with 37 which were generally considered great.

Of these, 2 out of 3 — 67 percent — contained a significantly lower number of adverbs (less than 50 per 10,000 words) than occurs, on average, in written English.


Well I mean: I hate ‘em, at least. My husband uses them like they’re powdered sugar and his emails are lemon bars. But I hate ‘em.

You know who doesn’t hate ‘em? Besides my husband, I mean? James Joyce. Dude loved them.

Blatt took a sample of 50 authors of classics and contemporary best-sellers, totaling 580 books. The authors who used the most exclamation points per 100,000 words were:

5. J.R.R. Tolkien (767)
4. E.B. White (782. Gasp; nobody tell Mr. Strunk.)
3. Sinclair Lewis (844. I guess it CAN happen here.)
2. Tom Wolfe (929)
1. James Joyce (1,105)

Elmore Leonard — bless him — used the fewest: Just 49 per 100,000 words.


When it comes to use of cliches, there’s another gender split.

In Blatt’s list of 50 classic and best-selling authors (scroll down to the bottom of this post to see them all), those who use cliches most frequently? All men.

5. Chuck Palahniuk (129 per 100,000 words)

4. Salman Rushdie (131)

3. Kurt Vonnegut (140. All those “And so it goes”es in Slaughterhouse-Five really hurt him here, I bet.)

2. Tom Wolfe (143)

1. James Patterson (160)

(In fairness to Patterson, Blatt includes cliches found in dialogue, and Patterson’s characters aren’t exactly going around coining new phrases with a Joycean fervor.)

The authors who used the fewest cliches? All women.

5. Veronica Roth (69)

4. Willa Cather (67)

3. Virginia Woolf (62)

2. Edith Wharton (62)

1. Jane Austen (A paltry 45 per 100,000 words, about 1/3 of the rate at which James “More Cliches Than You Can Shake A Stick At” Patterson busts them out.)

Now, again: It’s a thin slice, looking at literature in this knowingly reductive way. It doesn’t tell you everything, and of course it doesn’t give you a true sense of the feeling you get when you read these authors for yourself.

But what it often succeeds in capturing, with astonishing clarity, is your feeling about these authors.

Case in point: The author who is most likely to mention the weather in the opening sentence?

Danielle Steele.

She does it in — precisely — 46 percent of her books.

A ranking of authors by cliche-use, from Nabokov’s Favorite Word is Mauve.

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An Exoneree Shares His Story Of Wrongful Conviction In ‘Anatomy Of Innocence’

Jerry Miller says he always held out hope for exoneration. “I made a logical decision to do positive things and to think positive,” he says.

Courtesy of the Innocence Project

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Courtesy of the Innocence Project

Jerry Miller says he always held out hope for exoneration. “I made a logical decision to do positive things and to think positive,” he says.

Courtesy of the Innocence Project

Jerry Miller spent more than 25 years behind bars for kidnapping, rape and robbery — crimes he didn’t commit.

Miller was released from prison in 2006. In 2007, after decades of insisting he was innocent, Miller was finally vindicated: He became the 200th American to be cleared by DNA evidence of a wrongful conviction. Today, that number is closer to 350.

Miller’s story is now part of a new book called Anatomy of Innocence. It fleshes out personal accounts of wrongful convictions, with a twist: In each chapter, a mystery or thriller writer tells the story of a real-life exoneree.

Miller was paired with John Mankiewicz, an executive producer of the Netflix show House of Cards. Their chapter goes beyond the years Miller spent behind bars, and describes life after prison but before exoneration, when Miller had to wear an ankle bracelet, keep a 9 p.m. curfew and register as a sex offender. He couldn’t attend nieces and nephews’ birthday parties because he wasn’t allowed to be around children.

Miller shares his memories of the day he was exonerated, and Mankiewicz discusses the challenges of telling Miller’s story.

Interview Highlights

On how Miller managed to stay hopeful after his conviction

Miller: I had a life to live, so I had to choose how I wanted to live it, you know. What comes from a man who is negative and basically is mad at the world because he was wronged? You can’t, I can’t function — I couldn’t function like that. And I couldn’t draw people to my aid like that. You just have to accept what has happened and grow from it. You know, to just walk around angry, you know, in some cases an angry old man — I mean, that’s a waste of the rest of your life. I’m more practical than that. I made a logical decision to do positive things and to think positive.

On the day Miller was exonerated

Miller: Even now I kind of get a little shook. … I was getting ready to get my life back. I knew it was going to happen. It was strange and, you know, my family, we basically had a caravan. We rode out to the [Cook County, Ill.,] court building down at 26th and California. And everybody was dressed sharp and, you know, was happy for me. And I just was real proud that I didn’t give up. …

John Mankiewicz’s other TV credits include The Mentalist and House.

Courtesy of Laura Caldwell and Liveright Publishing

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Courtesy of Laura Caldwell and Liveright Publishing

John Mankiewicz’s other TV credits include The Mentalist and House.

Courtesy of Laura Caldwell and Liveright Publishing

When they called me up before the judge, I passed through people who was waiting to have their cases heard or whatever, and they saw the news media and they was like, “Who is that? Who is that? What’s going on?” … I’m hearing them, but I’m focused. I have to go up here and maintain my cool in front of this judge. And so when it all happened and they saw what was taking place, everybody — it was a lot of people, you know, waiting — and everybody started clapping.

On how writing Miller’s story was different from writing House of Cards

Mankiewicz: I felt a big responsibility to tell the story right. … I had a very small audience of one [Miller] that I cared about … thinking that I’d gotten it right. … So many other people had been telling lies about him over a period of 26 years, you know, what happened to him. And I wanted to get it right for him.

And, by the way, you’re writing House of Cards; the worst thing that can happen is it’s a bad show. It’s TV. I felt the stakes were a little higher here. …

If you think about every exoneree, every single one who’s actually innocent, no one has believed them and no one has been interested in hearing what the real story was until they’re exonerated. You know, they’re just another man or woman in jail saying, “I’m innocent. I didn’t do it. How am I going to prove it?” … While we were doing this, writing the story, which I over reported by a factor of 10 because I was so nervous … I wanted to get it right.

On what Miller hopes the book will accomplish

Miller: I’ve heard stories even worse than mine, but the interesting stories in there are about reality. You know, it’s not a fantasy, it’s nothing made-up; these are real people who suffered real pain, who [have] to find their way back to being a productive citizen. And they need support.

For people not to hear this story, I mean, they would be missing out on the triumphs of human beings and how they’re able to struggle hard enough to regain their life back and, you know, clear their family’s name. They’re important stories that need to be told. … People don’t know … what it takes to accomplish what exonerees do. They’re like the phoenix: They’re redone, resurrected.

Editor Jessica Deahl, producer Sam Gringlas and digital producer Nicole Cohen contributed to this report.

Young Women Bedeviled By Darkness In Moody ‘The Blackcoat’s Daughter’

Highway to Hell (and Environs): Joan (Emma Roberts) hitches a fateful ride in The Blackcoat’s Daughter.

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Highway to Hell (and Environs): Joan (Emma Roberts) hitches a fateful ride in The Blackcoat’s Daughter.

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Knives are the weapon of choice in the dread-soaked horror film The Blackcoat’s Daughter, and for debut director Osgood Perkins, that’s a prime example of steering into the skid. Perkins’ father is the late Anthony Perkins, who wielded the most famous knife in film history as Norman Bates in Psycho, and he seems determined to carry that same horror classicism into the 21st century. Along with his superb follow-up I Am the Pretty Girl Who Lives in the House — which premiered on Netflix last year — the film feels determinedly old-fashioned, awash in a hypnotic ambience that’s only occasionally punctured by violence. Like his father, Perkins makes his jolts count.

If anything, The Blackcoat’s Daughter (which played festivals under the substantially less evocative title February) plays it too coy for too long, establishing a mood without much in the way of action or follow-through. For a first-time director, Perkins shows remarkable confidence in building his unsettling premise on enigmas and ellipses, essentially deferring the answers to all questions until the final act. When the twists finally arrive, they’re not surprising in and of themselves — the signs are not hidden well enough in plain sight — but the shocks sting hard, like a coiled snake that’s been waiting patiently in the underbrush.

When a prestigious Catholic boarding school for girls lets out for winter break, two students are left behind because their parents either forgot to pick them up or were delayed by snowstorms. (Or, perhaps, there’s a third and more nefarious explanation.) Channeling much of the enigmatic power she brought to Sally Draper on Mad Men, Kieran Shipka plays Kat, a quiet freshman who appears disturbed by some unknown specter, but doesn’t articulate what. The other student, Rose (Lucy Boynton), does more of the talking, but as an upperclass mean-girl type, she doesn’t take that keen an interest in Kat.

Meanwhile, in a parallel storyline, Joan (Emma Roberts) is hitchhiking her way toward campus, driven by a couple of grieving parents (James Remar and Lauren Holly) who have may have ulterior motives. A band on Joan’s wrists suggests that she’s earned a recent and likely unauthorized release from the hospital, but it’s unclear what her relationship is to the school and why she’s traveling there when it’s out of session.

In both the Kat/Rose thread and the Joan/grieving parents thread, the tension comes from wondering who’s the threat and who’s the threatened, or if there’s some external force that’s bearing down on them. Then there’s the additional question of how these threads will intertwine once Joan finally reaches her destination. Perkins pulls off one genuine structural surprise, but the strength of The Blackcoat’s Daughter lies in its stately evocation of the occult, which brings it in line with the retro-1980s Satanic horror of Ti West’s The House of the Devil. His cinematographer, Julie Kirkwood, works in wintery hues that render the outdoors a permanent slate-gray and the interiors so dim that the characters (and the audience) have to squint through it. The score, by his brother Elvis, works in the lower registers, with occasional shrieks of violin poking through an ambient bed of heebie-jeebies.

At worst, The Blackcoat’s Daughter plays like a throat-clearing exercise for a horror prodigy, a minor attempt to class up a demon possession subgenre that’s only gotten grosser and more extreme since The Exorcist. But within those narrow parameters, Perkins captures the intense feelings of loneliness and alienation that make these young women vulnerable to menace. On a campus virtually without students, swathed in snow and darkness, there almost doesn’t have to be an evil presence to make life seem oppressive for the girls who are left behind. Here, Satan can seem like a friend.

Caged By Its Noble Intentions: ‘The Zookeeper’s Wife’

Borne, Freed: Jessica Chastain as the lion-hearted Antonina Zabinski in The Zookeeper’s Wife.

Anne Marie Fox/Focus Features

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Anne Marie Fox/Focus Features

Borne, Freed: Jessica Chastain as the lion-hearted Antonina Zabinski in The Zookeeper’s Wife.

Anne Marie Fox/Focus Features

You’d think the absolute worst thing that a WWII movie could do is compare its huddled masses of Jews to animals. But The Zookeeper’s Wife turns out to have a pretty good justification for equating the two.

It tells the story of the Zabinski family, who ran the Warsaw Zoo during the war and who secretly helped relocate hundreds of Jews fleeing German-occupied Poland. The Zabinskis used their abandoned cages in storage — which had held animals, until the Nazis either relocated the beasts to German zoos or shot them — as waystations for the refugees, who’d just escaped a much harsher caged existence in the Warsaw Ghetto. Now they had to huddle amidst the hay and feeding products, and train themselves not to fidget or make a sound until they heard Antonina Zabinski play a certain melody on the piano.

We are seeing this story play out from the perspective of the Zabinskis, who are naturally compassionate people but prior to the war had only needed to exercise that compassion on their zoo collection. So it makes perfect sense not to encounter the Jews they saved all that closely as true characters, even though the omission feels crude from a distance. Director Niki Caro and screenwriter Angela Workman have created, perhaps unintentionally, a sensible balance sheet for all living things. Zookeepers protect animals because they are alive and unique and deserving of our love; why not do the same for people, just because?

When it comes to spotlighting its heroes, though, there’s another balance sheet the film can’t square. As we see, patriarch Jan Zabinski (Flemish actor Johan Heldenbergh, from The Broken Circle Breakdown) is the family member who first decides to house Jews on their grounds. Once Jan convinces the Germans to let him turn the empty zoo into a pig farm, he’s also the one who must venture in and out of the ghetto to smuggle people out in a truck filled with pig feed — Jews saved by treyf. But author Diane Ackerman, who wrote the nonfiction book the film is based on, drew from Jan’s wife Antonina’s diaries for research; this explains why Antonina’s title is front and center, and why the film insists Jessica Chastain’s pure-hearted portrayal of her is the only lead role. (Chastain is also an executive producer.)

To be sure, Antonina worked in tandem with Jan and was as essential to the Jew-smuggling operation as she was to the animal upkeep — the title is meant to be ironic. And Chastain (who, like Heldenbergh, can fake a good Polish accent to distract us from the fact she’s still speaking English) makes her into a magnetic, principled force who can hold her own even when sharing the screen with a live rabbit. But the movie never shows Antonina writing in her diary, so we miss the context of why it’s her story. We also miss a lot of the fascinating details of her character that informed the book: for example, that she gave animal code names to her refugees, further drawing home the unsettling parallel that makes the story so distinctive.

Instead, to fill time and add artificial layers of steely determination, we see Antonina try to outmaneuver some horndoggery from villain Lutz Heck, head of the Berlin Zoo and Hitler’s chief zoologist (played by poor Daniel Brühl, Hollywood’s go-to Nazi and/or Nazi descendant). Heck was, in real life, a man of untenable contradictions. Though a professed lover of animals, he didn’t hesitate to kill the four-legged denizens of the Warsaw Zoo; he also launched a Jurassic Park-style breeding program attempting to resurrect extinct species of cattle and horse, including the mythical auroch. But the film’s characterization of him is lazy, making him a kind face for the first act before flipping him to abject, predatory evil. Jan pouts jealously in the background whenever Heck pays Antonina any attention, as though she chose to entertain the affections of her zoo’s Nazi occupier.

The early scenes in 1939, as the war breaches Poland, are the most compelling. When the zoo becomes the target of a sustained bombing campaign, Caro cuts between several heartbreaking shots of the animals in their cages, panicking at this strange threat but unable to flee it: cheetahs pawing uselessly, monkeys screeching to no one. Having already been put on display for man’s enjoyment, they must now die at the hands of man’s wars. Caro overdoes this symbolic power a few scenes later, when Heck shoots a bald eagle (of all things). But this feels, for a little while, like the rare WWII movie with the power to speak to injustice in many different forms. If only a lumpy second act didn’t come along to mute that power with bait-and-switch heart-tuggers and some truly idiotic behavior on the part of Antonina’s bratty son Ryszard (Val Maloku).

We are invited to compare The Zookeeper’s Wife to its most obvious reference point, Schindler’s List, which also revolved around one citizen’s clandestine operations to save hundreds of Jews. Though Oskar Schindler’s evolution from proud servant of the Nazi Party to secret humanitarian was a far more cinematic journey, the Zabinskis were local figures of merit who took a principled stand for goodness, making them more appropriate to our current era. The Zookeeper’s Wife is more of a utilitarian exercise than Spielberg’s genre-defining monument, as Caro fails to find the same spark of compassionate moviemaking that ignited her masterpiece Whale Rider, or even her perfectly enjoyable take on sports movies, McFarland, USA. But it certainly has more going for it than, say, 2015’s Woman in Gold, which cynically glad-handed its audience in an effort to convince them a battle over art restitution could count as a variant on “Never Forget.”

Perhaps this film’s promotional partnership with the International Rescue Commission, which aims to help today’s refugee populations from all over the world, has given it a grander sense of purpose. Too bad no one could let it out of the cage where we keep the American-made Holocaust melodramas. The Zookeeper’s Wife will be condemned to pace back and forth on display for an easily pigeonholed audience, never truly knowing freedom.