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History turns men into marble, before that there's the cracker-barrel comedian playing the Jew's harp, absorbed in thought. "Plain Abraham Lincoln," drawling and towering, Henry Fonda in transcendent sync with John Ford. His treasure is a barrelful of books, his lost muse is Ann Rutledge (Pauline Moore) standing by a fence with a creek winding behind her. (Their lyrical stroll followed by ice floes adduces Partie de Campagne, the decisive stick by her grave is worthy of Ugetsu.) Theory of law, "that's all there is to it, right and wrong," practice means settling a dispute between two hotheads in a way that leaves enough money for the attorney's fee. The line separating Independence Day celebration and lynching mob is a thin one indeed, Honest Abe finds himself facing a battering ram: "I'm just a fresh lawyer tryin' to get ahead. But some of you boys act like you wanna do me out of my first clients." Loose-limbed and emotionally keen, a description for the angular protagonist and Ford's camera alike. Stove-pipe hatted astride a tiny mule or taking his time between mouthfuls at the pie-eating contest, Fonda gives the future Great Emancipator gangling grace, mysterious private self-amusement, the beautiful feeling of an icon taking form before our eyes. The trial at hand has two brothers unjustly accused of murder, the courtroom has a snoozing judge (Spencer Charters) and a fulminating prosecutor (Donald Meek) and a coonskin sot in the jury box (Francis Ford). The mother of the accused (Alice Brady) might be the hero's own resurrected, at the society ball Mary Todd (Marjorie Weaver) can't possibly compete with the mighty river for his attention. "A certain political talent" is assuredly detected, thunderous skies await, Lincoln strides under them in the unmistakable Nosferatu posture. Eisenstein famously wished he had made it himself, Rossellini went ahead and remade it as Francesco, giullare di Dio. With Ward Bond, Arleen Whelan, Eddie Collins, Richard Cromwell, Dorris Bowdon, Eddie Quinlan, Milburn Stone and Fred Kohler Jr.. In black and white.
--- Fernando F. Croce |