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LILIES OF THE FIELD
(directed by Ralph Nelson, 1963)
***** (out of 5)
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> As a younger man, I used to wonder how people could watch the same movie three, four, five times, when there was a world of great films out there to watch that you haven’t seen.
. THE WIZARD OF OZ notwithstanding, I saw no reason to relive past glories when there was so much fresh cinema to experience. My lust for the new, superseded any desire for a return to warm familiarity. That still holds true- the difference being, is that back then, I was young. Now, I am old. Memory fades. With so many more tools to evaluate films in my dotage, would old chestnuts of my cinematic past withstand the scrutiny of expanded standards? I have operated on the reliable maxim, that “you can’t go home again”, which, it turns out, is not always true. Sixty years after first being utterly enchanted by this small, sturdy dramady, I find that I am just as giddily delighted by it.
. It’s a simple, largely unadorned story about travelling handyman Homer Smith, who finds himself in sunbaked rural Arizona with a thirsty radiator. He swings by a dusty farm run by an order of Roman Catholic nuns to get some water. It turns out they hail from Germany, Austria and Hungary, and barely speak English. Their devout older leader offers Homer some work fixing their leaky roof, so he decides to tarry for a day, unaware that between them, they don’t have two pennies to rub together. Crusty Mother Maria is convinced Homer is God’s answer to their ceaseless prayers- even if he is a Baptist negro. Before he knows what hit him, against his conscious desires, Homer is roped by wounded pride into building an adobe chapel for the sisters’ itinerant congregation of Mexican farmworkers. At first, he is determined to do it all by his lonesome. But a church is a community institution, and like it or not, he is gradually and humorously, forced to accept help from many eager helping hands.
. Happy to say, this is the film that shaped my racial attitudes more than any other seminal film from my early development. There weren’t a lot of Black folks in my suburban environment. Scratch that- there weren’t any Black folks in my suburban El Lay neighborhoods. Harry Belafonte’s Homer is a Black man, but much more than this- he is a man: Smart, capable, educated, moral. Homer is respectful without being a doormat. And he had real sex appeal that must have been innerving to racists of the era. The film features one perfect moment after another. The minor characters all share vividly illuminating scenes with Belafonte. A skeptical café owner (played by wonderful Latino character actor Stanley Adams), clues Homer in to the sisters’ backstory and their utter penury. Turns out, they are a whole lot tougher than they appear. Refugees from fascism, they escaped across the Berlin Wall, travelling some 5000 miles to make their stand on this barren farm, in the middle of nowhere. He has a winsome conversation with the traveling priest who stands to gain a permanent home for his congregation if the unlikely chapel is ever completed, who warns him the sisters see him as an instrument of God, and underlines the café owner’s admonition that it’s probably best if he doesn’t linger with the ladies too long. Director Ralph Nelson himself plays a racist local contractor who first sees homer as somehow lesser, as a Black man. Calling him “boy”, he is shocked to be called “boy” in return. But gradually, he comes to see the man beneath the dark skin, recognizing him as a talented, capable leader of men and a good candidate for foreman. All these scenes are beautifully written and rich in subtext.
. But primarily, LILIES OF THE FIELD is a battle of wills between stern Mother Maria and beleaguered Homer- and as strong-willed as Homer is, he is no match for the drill sergeant/sister. The sparks between them power the film.
. Then there is- the song: that infectious earworm traditional spiritual “Amen” by Jester Hairston. I left the theater with that tune raging across my brain. It set up shop there, and has never left in over half a century. (Curiously, considering that Belafonte was such a wonderful singer, he was dubbed by the voice of the composer himself- a strange, if respectful choice.)
. When against all odds, the raw materials are assembled and the chapel is built, there is nothing more tethering wandering soul Homer to the desolate place, and in a sharply emotional conclusion, he leads them in a final reprise of that infectious song, and surreptitiously stowing his gear, he drives away down the bleak southwestern highway, the word “AMEN” splashed across the screen substituting for the more traditional “THE END”. It is as perfect an ending as ever divised for a film, leaving me in tears as a 7-year-old boy, but also as a 67-year-old man. LILIES OF THE FIELD is a family classic of the highest order, and it will always stand the test of time as an earnest, soulful, resonant piece of work.
– Can I get an “Amen!”, somebody?
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