Henrietta Crossman, a big Broadway star since the 1890s who didn't have much luck with movies, is a tremendous presence in this uncharacteristic John Ford piece that zeroes in on the waste of war and spends little time glorifying foreign military adventures. As the frankly spiteful mother of a dead soldier she forced into combat, Crossman is as unsympathetic as they come and doesn't care who knows it; an Ethel Barrymore, say, would have somehow conveyed "yes, I'm playing a bitch, but you're still supposed to love ME." Crossman never indulges in such audience-baiting, and it makes her character real and frightening. There's an odd third act that ventures into totally unexpected territory to set up her vindication, and the comedy relief -- was Ford ever good at comedy? -- doesn't really work, relying on ethnic types and seeming at odds with the tragedy at the center. But the overall arc is powerful, abetted by good actors like Marian Nixon and little Jay Ward. And Ford's direction is suitably leisurely, with long tracking and sometimes absolutely still shots, and slow fade-outs that let the audience savor the sadness. It's emotional stuff, and if you shed a tear or two before it's over, you're not being had.
Review of Pilgrimage
