The Greatest Gift by Philip Van Doren Stern, 1943
The magic trick:
Focus on the story’s idea rather than the character
We’ve got a rare Christmas story featured on SSMT in the springtime. I couldn’t resist. “The Greatest Gift” is way more interesting to consider as a film adaptation than a Christmas story. Many stories find much of their plot, several of their characters, and even some of their key themes left on the cutting-room floor.
Not this one.
“The Greatest Gift” received some serious additions when it became the beloved holiday perennial It’s A Wonderful Life.
Essentially, the short story covers the movie’s final half-hour – when George Bailey’ suicidal errand turns into a supernatural “road not taken” showcase with the help of a guardian angel. I’ve always thought the movie’s script was oddly lopsided, focusing so much time on the character portrait but then nearly dismissing all of it as backstory in favor of the dramatic final act. Reading the story, I see now that the original never had the character portrait at all. Makes sense. The film’s telling, in my opinion for what it’s worth, is much better.
In the story, we don’t really know George, so the epiphany doesn’t land as heavily. The story is more about the plot’s idea – the way our life’s butterfly effect should not be underestimated – is far more important than the characters themselves or any ideas about society, community, war, responsibility, or America.
And I think that’s OK.
Yes, the movie is better. But the story is a tidy little thought-provoker.
And that’s quite a trick on Stern’s part.
The selection:
The water looked paralyzingly cold. George wondered how long a man could stay alive in it. The glassy blackness had a strange, hypnotic effect on him. He leaned still farther over the railing…
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a quiet voice beside him said.
George turned resentfully to a man he had never seen before. He was stout, well past middle age, and his round cheeks were ink n the winter air, as though they had just been shaved.
“Wouldn’t do what?” George asked sullenly.
“What you were thinking of doing.”
“How do you know what I was thinking?”
“Oh, we make it our business to know a lot of things,” the stranger said easily.
George wondered what the man’s business was. He was a most unremarkable person, the sort you would pass in a cored and never notice. Unless you saw hi bright blue eyes, that is. You couldn’t forget him, for they were the kindest, sharpest eyes you ever saw. Nothing else about him was noteworthy. He wore a moth-eaten fur cap and a shabby overcoat. He was carrying a small black satchel. A salesman’s sample kit, George decided.
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