The People Who Saw George Bailey (Even When He Was Kind of a Jerk)

Don't just look for the helpers. Be one.

When Mary Hatch raises the sash of an upstairs window in her mother’s cute little house and calls out to George Bailey on the sidewalk, “What are you doing? PICKETING?”, I brace myself. The scene that follows in Frank Capra’s 1946 classic is one of the most iconic of the film: Mary and George banter, one buoyantly and one a little bitterly, about careers and old school friends with an undercurrent of romantic tension. The moment climaxes with a phone call from Sam Wainwright, unwitting third party of the love triangle, which brings George and Mary physically close together and highlights the emotional struggle George is going through.

The scene is, on some level, funny. A few of Mary’s lines have entered my ridiculous roster of unprovoked quotations (like “He’s making violent love to me, Mother!” and “Mother’s on the extension.” “I am not!!”) But for the most part, it makes me cringe; not with embarrassment but with discomfort at George’s abrasive manner, the brusque way he talks to Mary, the anger with which he vents his frustration at her in the end before they passionately kiss, the music swells, and the camera cuts to their wedding.

I know, I know. It was a different time.

But it wasn’t that different, really. The continued relevance of the story– and its timeless message of hope– is why the film has remained a classic. It’s sharp, pensive, fresh and alive despite being nearly eighty years old; it warms the heart like a flaming rum punch. Don’t get me wrong; I love this movie almost wholeheartedly. (There are a few bits, like Harry Bailey’s harassment of Annie the maid, that I could definitely do without.) My critique of George’s behavior does not detract from my fond feelings for the film, and here’s why.

George’s anger issues surface again later in the story. When he arrives home after learning that his arrest is imminent (since Uncle Billy “lost” $8,000 from the Building and Loan), he once again takes out his rage on the people closest to him. This scene is even harder to watch– as George, who has spent his whole life doing what needs to be done and sacrificing his own desires for the sake of those who need his help, faces the reality of prison time for a mistake that wasn’t his, he shouts at his wife and children, destroys his own drawings and designs, and storms out of the house into a blizzard. The fear his children feel is palpable; the tension in the home is masterfully played out (even with the dubious dialogue and talents on display from the youngest Baileys. Sorry). It is the very opposite of domestic felicity, and I really cannot blame anyone who finishes the movie feeling resentment toward George and disgust that such a man is the hero of the story.

And yet, I cannot turn away from George Bailey, because I see myself in him– and I see, in even the tiniest of ways, a little of everyone I have ever truly loved, too. More importantly, the viewers– you and I, and Clarence the bumbling guardian angel– are not the only ones who see George.

George’s story neither begins nor ends with his sarcasm and anger. We first see him as a twelve-year-old bursting with bravado and rescuing his little brother from an icy death by drowning; we bid him farewell surrounded by the people who love him most as he looks heavenward to thank his guardian angel. Through that guardian angel, we have the privilege of seeing a highlight (and lowlight) reel of George’s life, as Clarence in the framing story learns about George’s past in order to help him in the despair of his present.

Clarence is not chucked into the mortal world to save George armed only with a quick status report on George’s current depression and the hope that George’s lowest moment will elicit Clarence’s pity. Instead, Clarence’s mentor Joseph curates a selection of scenes from George’s life that tell Clarence not only how he came to be hanging on for not-so-dear life at the edge of a bridge, but how he came to be himself.

Clarence needed the Cliffsnotes version of George’s life to see him for who he is and to rescue him from losing the most precious thing he had: his life. But Clarence is not the only rescuer in George’s life. “Strange, isn’t it?” he says to George after showing him some grim glimpses of Bedford Falls with no George in it. “Each man’s life touches so many other lives.” The implication, of course, is that George’s life has touched so many of his fellow citizens of Bedford Falls that the town is virtually unrecognizable without him. But all those other lives have touched George, too. And none of those lives needed a recap on how George came to be George, because they were there with him every step of the way.

The Bailey Brothers Building and Loan is saved not by a single generous gift– Sam Wainwright’s overseas cable notwithstanding– but by hundreds of widows’ mites that pour in from dozens and dozens of people who watched George Bailey grow up. Mary Bailey (who as Clare Coffey points out in her insightful essay is the true shaping force in George’s life) brought the story of the missing $8,000 to the town, and the town did not say “well, are you sure he didn’t embezzle that money?”

Bedford Falls knows George. They have watched him make ice cream sodas at Gower’s drugstore and cheered for him as he made a splash at the Charleston contest. They have mourned with him as his father passed away and brought their savings to him at the Building and Loan. They ran beside him through the rain to throw rice on his wedding day and sang “I Love You Truly” outside the old Granville house for his honeymoon-that-wasn’t. They bought War Bonds from him and helped him load a goat into a convertible roadster and bought him drinks at Martini’s bar, and someone in that crowd throwing money into a laundry basket sold him the Christmas wreath he brought home to his family.

They were there for his impassioned arguments against taking over the Building and Loan. They witnessed his rage at Uncle Billy for losing the money. They heard him yell at Mrs. Welch and storm out of his family home in horror and despair. But they did not turn away from him as the casual moviegoer might.

When the film opens, the people of the town are lifting George up in prayer. “He never thinks about himself, God. That’s why he’s in trouble,” Bert says. “George is a good guy. Give him a break, God,” chimes in Ernie. Mary, Janie and Zuzu join the chorus, asking not for an imprecatory judgment to be called down on George for his (inexcusable) treatment of his family, but that God would watch over him and bring him back.

Bedford Falls does not define George by his worst moments. They know that there is more to him than the times when they see the least of him, and their judgment of him is not dependent on a single encounter. Watching them gather around him, ready to rejoice and forgive and contribute to save him from ruin, I feel myself convicted. How often have I been sitting in the audience, peeping through a keyhole at a single frame of someone’s life, writing them off completely because what I happened to see was their low point? How often have I glimpsed only a fraction and instead of taking the time to understand what brought them to that point, I turned away in disgust?

As humans in a world broken by the Fall, we are all flawed by sin. We are all like George Bailey in more ways than one: capable of causing our loved ones deep pain, and capable of doing the small selfless things that add up to make a difference in another person’s life. Like George, we give in to anger and despair to varying degrees; like George, perhaps, each one of us has had some moment of wishing to never have been born. Like George we each have been given the greatest gift: life, breathed into existence by God. And like George we have each touched and been touched by hundreds, maybe thousands of other lives bearing the stamp of the Divine.

In a world changed by Internet culture and the oxymoron of virtual reality, the close-knit community of Bedford Falls seems quaint and historic. We may not live in a cozy little town where everyone knows everyone else’s business, and has for all their lives. But we each have our own pieces of Bedford Falls in the homes that adjoin ours, the fellow patrons of our libraries and grocery stores, the people with whom we stand in line at the post office just before closing, the drivers we yell at on the road when they don’t use their turn signal. Our own familiar communities are at arms’ reach in the immediate, physical world and at the ends of our fingertips in the Internet world. Are we seeing those people for who they are, or as non-player characters in the all-encompassing story of our own self-centered lives?

Any summary of It’s a Wonderful Life will tell you George Bailey is the protagonist. But I would argue that It’s a Wonderful Life is no more about George than it is about Mary, stalwart and faithful; Ma Bailey, encouraging and gentle; Uncle Billy, who was egregiously unqualified for the job he held and yet was held up and supported by his loving family just the same; Peter Bailey, who laid the foundation of the Building and Loan and helped countless neighbors start a good life; Mr. Gower, whose own life was nearly ruined by his lowest moment and who had the humility to realize it; Violet Bick, who couldn’t leave behind the people who loved her after all; Sam Wainwright, who like so many of us is a total pain in the butt yet with a good heart; and of course Mr. Potter, who is only accompanied through life by the people he pays to put up with him. There are some hearts, I suppose, whom even the warmth of community care cannot touch. (To Mr. Potter, everyone! The biggest failure in town.)

Just as we are all capable of deep bitterness and despair, cursed with the potential to deeply wound those we love, we are also more than the moments where people glimpse the least of us. And in order to truly know anyone, we must be able to see– as Joseph showed Clarence– what it is that has brought them to the place where they are today. And if we cannot fully know (without a sneak peek from a guardian angel) what our community would be like without us, then each small act of kindness we give without knowing how it will be received has the potential to be the five dollars that brought the total to eight thousand.

“No man is a failure who has friends,” Clarence writes on the flyleaf of the book he left for George in the closing scene. Just as it takes two to argue, no man can be a friend all alone. George was a friend to Bedford Falls, and when he needed a friend in his own turn, Bedford Falls came through for him. They received kindness and returned it a hundredfold, because whether they were side characters or not is not the point. We are all main and side and supporting characters, depending on who is telling the story. And we all have the capacity to help in some small way.

Fred Rogers famously told us to “look for the helpers.” It’s important to note, as many others have pointed out, that he was speaking to children who could not do much to change a scary situation. For adults, the implied injunction is to be the helper. The people of Bedford Falls didn’t just look at George helping and applaud him and thank him and then go on their way while his life crumbled. They went out and helped, too.

As I finish this essay, which has been a year in the making (I outlined it last Christmas but never got anywhere pitching it), I am wrapped in flannel sheets and quilts, trying to rest off a nasty cold that may or may not be the flu. The kindness of people who love me has wrapped me even warmer; my mother-in-law took our two rambunctiously healthy boys to her house so my husband and I could rest, and a dear friend dropped off a fully cooked and delicious dinner. These people have seen me at my low points and high ones, and they have not shied away from my worst moments and my times of being unable to come through for them. My real-life community consistently comes through for me just as heartily and generously as the fictional world of Bedford Falls, and for this I am deeply grateful. I hope, as I strive to honor Christmas in my heart and keep it all the year, that I’ll be moved by the lessons of It’s a Wonderful Life to be the helper and to see my neighbors for who they are in the moments when no one seems to be watching.

I will not be doing so by listening in on any phone extensions, however. There are lines that a decent woman simply should not cross.