SCREENnThe Glory and thenMyth of John Fordnby Arthur M. EcksteinnJohn Ford: A Biography by AndrewnSinclair, New York: Ungar; $10.95.nJohn Ford: The Man and His Filmsnby Tag Gallagher, Berkeley: Universitynof California Press; $35.00.nA year ago, the University of Marylandnheld a special screening of John Ford’snThe Searchers (1956), followed by antwo-hour discussion of the film led bynrepresentatives of the departments ofnhistory, English, philosophy, andncommunications. John Ford wouldnhave been publicly contemptuous ofnthis attention from the egghead professors.nIn private, he probably wouldnhave been delighted.nFord (John Martin Feeney, 1895-n1973) was a complicated, deeply dividednman. He was the greatest of allnAmerican film directors: close to 100nfilms, starting in 1917, from tworeelersnto three-hour epics, from silentsnto sound, from black and white tonTechnicolor and then Cinemascope.nHe was disdainful of his six Oscars—nbut prominently displayed them. Hencalled himself just a hardworkingnmercenary — yet suffered recurrentnbouts of nausea at premieres. He carefullynconstructed for himself a machonimage based on hard drinking, pokernplaying, and often cruel roughhousing;nyet, he was an intellectual and anvoracious reader, and during the Depressionnhe secretly disbursed moneynto the needy.nFord led the fight against the HollywoodnBlacklist (publicly taking onnC.B. De Mille in one famousnVITAL SIGNSnincident)—though his best friend, thenactor Ward Bond, was the leadingnRed-hunter and though his own filmsnreflect a deep social conservatism. Hensupported the terrorist IRA throughoutnhis life (even funneling large sums ofnmoney to them). Yet from about 1921nhe was also involved secretly in U.S.nNaval Intelligence, and he was anfounding member of the OSS (forerunnernof the CIA). He voted fornGoldwater in 1964—and for Nixonnthereafter. Refused admission to Annapolisnas a young man, he was annauthentic war hero in the SecondnWorld War and retired an admiral (anlifetime goal).nThis last accomplishment gives butnone indication of Ford’s fierce ambition.nHis savage sibling rivalry with hisnelder brother Francis (a famous earlyndirector who first invited him out tonHollywood in 1914) makes painfulnreading even now. Francis, at firstndomineering, ended up a bit player innJohn’s movies. Again, though thenyoungest (and most fragile) child in anfamily of Irish immigrants, John marriednhigh on the social ladder: a Southernnlady whose ancestral plantationnhad been burnt by Sherman andnwhose uncle was Chief of Naval Operations.nThe Herculean force of Ford’snambitions was, however, mitigated bynhis tenderness and need for humannwarmth.nFord lived and worked surroundednand protected by trusted buddies: WardnBond, George O’Brien, Will Rogers,nand (though he considered him somethingnof a lummox) John Wayne. Thendeaths of friends (Will Rogers, HarrynCarey, Tom Mix) absolutely devastatednhim. Nevertheless, given his ownnpersonality, it is not surprising thatnFord saw human nature as deeplynflawed. He sometimes gave his middlenname as Augustine. Like so much ofnwhat he said about himself, this wasnuntrue; but Ford certainly shared Au­nnngustine’s view of the City of Man, asnwell as his belief that only religiousnfaith held out any hope of humannredemption.nFord the man is a fit subject fornstudy, though his movies, of course,nare what is truly important about him,nfor they have done much to createnAmericans’ image of their own past.nThe two books under review offer differingnperspectives on the man and hisnwork. The biography of Ford by AndrewnSinclair is decently written andnfor the first time brings out the fullnrange of Ford’s intelligence activities (anfascinating story). But oddly enough, itnis Tag Gallagher’s book—more concernednwith the movies than with Fordnhimself—that turns out to contain thenmost precise scholarship on Ford’s life.nIt is Gallagher who finds witnesses tonthe crucial psychological impact ofnFord’s struggle against—and victorynover—his elder brother Francis (provingnthat this isn’t mere pop psychoanalysis);nit is Gallagher who brings tonlight the full extent of Ford’s torrid lovenaffair with Katharine Hepburn, as wellnas several lesser imbroglios (Sinclairncharacterizes Ford as basically an idealnfather and husband); it is Gallagher,neven, who finally discovers Ford’s truenname.nMuch more could be cited alongnthese lines, and one only wishes that,nlike Sinclair, Gallagher had organizednhis research on Ford the man into onencoherent narrative. Unfortunately,nGallagher’s often pioneering discussionsnof Ford as a person appear insteadnlike so many scattered, refreshingnwaterholes in the vast desert of his filmncriticism. And the book is basicallynfilm criticism, not biography—filmncriticism of the most “modern” sort.nTherein lies the rub.nFirst, Gallagher’s ideas are expressednin the sort of language now denrigeur in criticism of all types: a hideousnmix of deconstructionism andnFEBRUARY 1987 / 37n