World War II and the Documentary: A Battle for Audience Autonomy

Paper by Hannah Gary. Viewed on DVD.

The appeal of a plea, the pain of tears, the exhilaration of success and the anger of wrongdoing all encompass the emotionality of the cinematic medium. Even in documentary film, designed to reflect reality, the audience is permitted or encouraged to identify with the victim, the hero, or, at times, the villain. This affiliation is useful, not only in bringing a message to the audience, but often allows filmmakers to make their argument or claim appear truthful and absolute. This is just the case with two government-sponsored films created during the turmoil of World War II, Prelude to War (Capra 1942) and The Negro Soldier (Heisler 1944), but dramatically different in Let There Be Light (Huston 1946), a film produced post-war that upheld (rather than suppressed) the viewer’s ability to choose. The strategic manipulation of audience identification in government-sponsored films surrounding World War II in the United States was a powerfully effective rhetorical technique that was used to enforce pro-American perspectives. However, while films like Prelude to War and The Negro Soldier created an almost indisputable case for U.S. involvement in the war, othering the enemy and making the audience feel included in the patriotic display, the post-war film, Let There Be Light, left the treatment of returning psychologically-wounded veterans up to the viewer. This idea, that the audience could choose their perspective, not only demonstrates the effectiveness of a more respectful approach to the audience’s autonomy, but also may have contributed to the film’s extensively delayed release.

Establishing audience identification is something that was not only utilized by filmmakers as they created their documentaries, but also functioned as a powerful tool to enforce the United States’ agenda during the years during World War II. The United States government’s ties to the movie industry blossomed during World War II and, in many respects, drastically increased the patriotism and pro-U.S. sentiments expressed in the films produced. The attack on Pearl Harbor destroyed any remaining semblance of isolationism within the mindset of the American people, just as it spurred President Franklin Roosevelt’s creation of the Bureau of Motion Picture Affairs which was “a production unit that, beginning in 1942, was supervised by the Office of War Information” (Lewis 164). This Office worked hand-in-hand with directors and filmmakers to create films that were supportive of the war effort and American ideals. In fact, the Bureau created six suggestions to guide filmmakers in their portrayal of the war: to describe “(1) The Issues of the War… (2) The Nature of the Enemy… (3)The United Nations: our allies… (4) The Production Front: supplying the materials for victory; (5) The Home Front: civilian responsibility; (6) The Fighting Forces” (Jacobs 10). With the prerogatives outlined, filmmakers began to create films that expressed these pro-American ideals and pro-war intentions.

When Frank Capra took up this governmental proposition in his ambitious Why We Fight series, he not only accepted the duties associated with the film’s creation, as mandated by the government, but also used powerful techniques to provide unequivocal support for the war. The fact that a governmental agency assisted in the production of these films, however, immediately poses ethical concerns, highlighting the possibility of a primarily biased, propagandist perspective. The style of these films increases this potential, as the films consist of archived enemy footage, voice-of-god and explanatory narration, and an aggressive editing style. These techniques combined to create a degree of explicitness, of actuality, that went far in convincing the audience of the films’ truth. Lewis Jacobs notes that “they were imbued with a clarity of meaning seldom approached by Hollywood…there were no heroics, no romantic conceptions of war, and these pictures, in their vividness and technical proficiency and in their doctrine of total war…were a powerful embodiment of the War Department’s” message (14). While creating a message that was easily understood, acceptable, and applicable to the American audience, the filmmaker also made it increasingly difficult to side with the opposition. Though such films could be considered to be “more open and honest about [their] ideological workings than films which disclaim any social or political purpose,” they also may be argumentative, forceful, and one-sided (Leach 163). Ironically, while these films attempted to elevate the American ideals of freedom and democracy, they also subverted the audience’s autonomy in order to create a clear and seemingly obvious case for the war.

The Negro Soldier follows a similar trend, but faced more difficulties as it attempted to help African American audiences identify with the social actors in the film and, by extension, come to support the United States’ war effort abroad. When Frank Capra did not agree to complete the project, it was assigned to director Stuart Heisler with the intention of increasing African Americans’ participation in the American armed forces. This was a difficult task as, at this point, the army was still segregated and African Americans still faced vicious discrimination and prejudice on the home front. They were “kept apart from their white peers and antagonized by both the military hierarchy and the Jim Crow environment…it often seemed that the enemy of the African-American soldiers was not based on the far side of the Atlantic or the Pacific – rather, it was at home in the guise of white America” (Hall). This meant that the film would need to not only convince African Americans that they should join the American war effort, the reason behind the Why We Fight series’ creation, but also that they should feel a kinship and appreciation for a system that had continually failed them. This challenge even led to Capra “ask[ing] his Research Branch [in the Army’s Information and Education Division] to draw up a code for the depiction of blacks in their films, urging the avoidance of stereotypes and potentially divisive depictions for blacks and whites” (“The Negro Soldier (1944): Notes”). It was a heavy project with numerous complexities, particularly as it attempted to navigate the racial divide in World War II American society.

After the war, however, the government continued to maintain authority over the production of some films, but with a new reason in mind: to increase awareness for the psychological victims of war. John Huston’s film, Let There Be Light, sought to accomplish this by making a case for returning veterans with mental wounds, primarily using viewer identification to ensure that solders were greeted with acceptance and inclusion rather than suspicion and doubt. This film highlights the effects of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), though this label was not adopted until 1980. Instead, illnesses brought on by combat were thought to be more individualized for their symptoms, as “many WWII veterans with PTSD received such diagnoses as Anxiety Neurosis, Depressive Neurosis, Melancholia, Anti-social Personality, or even Schizophrenia” (Langer). These labels were all under the broad header of “combat fatigue” which was used to designate various soldiers’ resulting mental disabilities from war. Part of the reason for the attribution “fatigue,” was that wartime breakdowns during battle were perceived as quick and remedied with sleep and rest. However, if this disability continued beyond the relatively small scope of the war, an underlying issue was at play. Although this Freudian perspective did begin to “erode” after World War II, it held that, as Simon Wessely frankly points out, “if [soldiers] did break down in war, but never recovered, then the real cause was not the war, but either [their] genetic inheritance or [their] upbringing – the problem was [them]. The war was merely the trigger” (282). This indicates that, when evaluating post-war disability, its cause was thought to be less a result of the situational stressors of the conflict and more the fault of the individual.

This perspective was certainly potent in public thought, particularly the idea that the war was a “trigger,” bringing deeper issues to the surface. One article, aptly titled “Mental Combat Casualties,” written in 1944 emphasizes this viewpoint, arguing that “exhaustion” was the cause of mental disability on the battle field, but that other illnesses were “not so much brought on, as brought to light, by combat” (Water 395-396). Importantly, however, these “illnesses” demonstrated “mental defects,” two of which were “mental deficiency – subnormal intelligence – and the kind of personality defect known to medical men as psychopathic personality…this sort of person cannot stand combat; his bluff is called there” (Water 396). Paradoxically, in an article attempting to, like Huston’s film, bring “light” and acceptance to the issues surrounding mental disability, the soldier became the reason for the disorder, rather than the battle itself. In a way, this blames the victim, rather than the crisis, for the mental disability incurred. This subtly indicates that the “casualties” of mental disability were not held to the same standard as their physically wounded comrades. This article points to the prevailing medical view of mental disorders, but societally the “stigma of mental illness, and seeing a mental health professional…and the use of alcohol to deal with emotional pain was widely accepted” (Langer 54). Overall, this ideology surrounding post-war mental disability indicated that soldiers psychologically disabled following the war were not admitted back into American society as socially acceptable members of society, but instead were isolated, as they were seen as different than physical victims, “defective,” and the cause of their own disease.

This explains the reason for Huston’s documentary which was designed to increase public awareness for these mentally wounded soldiers’ pain but also allow the viewer to form a connection with the men depicted. The War Department authorized Huston’s film, like the other war films by Capra and Heisler, stating that it must: “‘(1) point out what small proportion fall into this category; (2) eliminate the stigma…(3) explain that in many cases the reason that makes a psychoneurotic unsatisfactory for the Army is the very reason for which the same person should be a real success in civilian life’” (qtd. in Ledes). In a way, Huston was charged by the government to not only work on behalf of the mentally wounded soldiers, allowing them to find a sense of acceptance once they returned home, but also for psychology itself. This was certainly different than the wartime films, like Prelude to War, which were intended to convince Americans that the war was necessary, something already uncontroversial and acknowledged by societal thought. However, the original purpose, as Huston described it, was more pointed, “‘that the film be shown to those who would be able to give employment in industry, to reassure them that the men discharged under this section were not insane, but were employable, as trustworthy as anyone’” (qtd. in Simmon). Either way, the film was designed to make the soldiers feel included in society, to give them a sense of belonging despite their mental disability. Unfortunately, it was never given the chance to truly alter American ideology as it was not released until much later.

The differences between these films are not only evident in the reasons for their creation, but also in the portrayal of their subjects and the methods by which they allow the audience to form an attachment to the individuals onscreen. In what Bill Nichols calls a “common sense” approach, Prelude to War presents “black-and-white alternatives of a ‘free world’ versus a ‘slave world’…common sense [makes] the answer simple – to the predominantly white audience thoroughly imbued with a ‘melting pot’ belief in American values” (170). This is used by Capra to portray the Axis Powers, as wholly evil and different than the values that Americans support. At first, however, Capra deals with the task of reaffirming American virtues and ideals, those perspectives of the “free world” which have contributed to and developed Americans’ identities. This soon transitions to the “slave world,” as mentioned by Nichols, which Capra uses to emphasize the destruction wrought by the Axis Powers. He consistently underscores the differences between Americans and these other nations, particularly through political, familial, and ideological juxtapositions to emphasize the Axis’ status as evil. One segment, for instance, highlights the difference between the governments of the nations and the lack of freedom of speech in their Axis societies. With an animation of radio towers, extending above the Axis countries of Italy, Germany, and Japan, the film contrasts the bright waves of freedom radiating from American society and the “Lies” distributed by Axis nations. In addition, the film displays the destruction of a Christian church window, symbolically embodying the religious ideals of the American audience. Behind this window, as if he is the destroyer of these values, stands Hitler with the words “Heil Hitler” underneath; this emphasizes both the opposing ideologies of the Nazi regime as well as their potential danger to Americans’ religious values. All of these elements, however, through argumentation, encourage the audience to easily identify with the American world, the “free world” within this film, rather than the “slave world.”

Though this may go far in undermining the audience’s ability to choose their “side,” Capra also uses an intense system of othering to enforce its rhetoric, ultimately eliminating the audience’s ability affiliate themselves with the Axis nations. Othering is a “process” by which “people turn some category of humans into “The Other,” dehumaniz [ing] those individuals. Psychologically, this perception of outsiders makes it easier to treat them badly, even to enslave or kill them” (Heider 147). In addition to the more devious propositions of ideological or religious differences, Prelude to War employs a psychologically effective usage of pronouns to solidify audiences’ distance from Axis ideals. The film uses the terms “us” and “we” to create a uniform sense of Americanism and patriotism, while denoting the other nations as “them.” The final lines of the film are, perhaps, the best demonstration of this, proclaiming that if “we lose it, and we lose everything… they wouldn’t be ours anymore. That’s what’s at stake! It’s us or them! Two worlds stand against each other. One must die and one must live. 170 years of freedom decrees our answer!” This statement not only increases the force of the argument by creating a sense of urgency, that only one “world” will survive, but it also directly addresses the viewer as part of the collective American identity. It uses such subjective pronouns as “us” and “we” to eliminate the possibility for the viewer to identify with any other ideology. The resulting assertion, that Americans’ history “decrees our answer” is emphatic in its finality, doubly working to include the audience in this American group while referencing the simple and obvious “answer” to the war. “Our” only option as Americans, this film seems to attest, is to join this national identity. In doing so, the film gradually destroys any attempt of the viewer to identify with the other nations, thus gradually subverting their freedom to choose and the audience’s status as independent individuals.

Although The Negro Soldier does use othering to heighten its emotional and ideological impact, the majority of the film focuses on creating an atmosphere of inclusion, emphasizing African Americans’ importance, contributions, and value in American society. This is not surprising given the fact that African Americans would need to first be convinced of their affiliation to the United States, despite their excluded segregated status, before they would be willing to fight. In order to accomplish this, the film is set in a church setting, viewing not only the congregation, but the minister from his heightened pulpit as he looks down on the members of his church. Given this perspective, the film immediately evokes feelings of inclusion, association, and affiliation with the audience, both within and outside of the film. Significantly, the minister is the one providing the audience with information, making his discussion seem trustworthy and respectable. Initially, he reads a description of Hitler’s perspective of African Americans, as a “born half ape,” taking on an “othering” tactic like Prelude to War, but soon proceeds to describe, in detail, the contributions of African Americans to America’s growth as a nation. He talks of their service in the Revolutionary War, the building of the country (with African Americans working directly alongside whites, on equal terms), emphasizes Abraham Lincoln, moving west, joining the Spanish-American War and other such events. Absent, however, are any in-depth discussions about the Civil War or the Reconstruction that followed. The film “blithely fails to mention slavery…gives no reason for the Civil War’s happening and it never mentions the Emancipation Proclamation or the 13th Amendment to the Constitution. It also never mentions Jim Crow or Plessy v. Ferguson” (Hall). These subjects are, rather, downplayed in order to create a deceptive illusion of African Americans’ equitable treatment throughout historical America.

In addition to this, The Negro Soldier is able to create a powerful argument for African American participation in the war because the audience feels like they are a part of the church. The end of the film, perhaps, best demonstrates the results of these cinematically inclusive measures, as the minister, conducting a group prayer, asks that God “grant that we may, with your help, be worthy of this heritage and in our turn, enrich it for our children.” Not only is he using language like “we” and “our” to obviously allow the viewer to identify with his statements, but he also strategically likens African Americans’ joining the war effort as a necessary extension of their historical importance to American society. Furthermore, rather than emphasizing the audience’s choice on the matter, he makes it appear to be the audience’s duty to demonstrate their “worth” as citizens. He silences any arguments to the contrary with a devout and earnest prayer for help in this cause. Because he makes it seem like it is something God would assist with, the ultimate pure and faultless being, this statement makes the audience’s decision to become involved in the war appear undoubtedly right and morally sound. Even though the film may have oversimplified their past treatment as a group, it does allow the film to powerfully and potently create a seemingly unequivocal reason to join the war effort: to demonstrate their historically and ethically significant allegiance to their nation. At their core, however, Prelude to War and The Negro Soldier are very alike in their ability to utilize the identity of the viewer to make a seemingly irrefutable case.

In contrast to this, in John Huston’s film, Let There Be Light, viewers are finding their own identities both subverted and upheld at various moments to allow them to belong to the public, the observer to which Huston brings “light,” and the soldiers, the men undergoing treatment. Interestingly, one method that helps to achieve this unique transition is the use nameless social actors in the film. As Nat Almirall points out, “their anonymity also serves the purpose of making each patient a representative…give them a name, and [they] isolate that illness with that man alone; leave him anonymous and it could be anyone – and, indeed, more than just one.” Although the purpose for this secrecy may have been to protect the social actors, it winds up working dually within the film. The audience is not only able to see the actors, but their very namelessness allows them to more easily take on these victims’ struggles and attach themselves to these soldiers. Furthermore, this is accomplished through subtle, yet evocative, cinematography and editing. Huston’s film has been criticized for its constructive nature, its apparent lack of “reality,” and its staged feeling. Perhaps this was due to the cinematography delivered by “studio stalwarts,” one of which, Stanley Cortez, “was noted for his dramatic camera angles and lighting” with “hard-light studio units” (Bailiwick). Even though the use of these techniques may jeopardize, in some respects, the modern viewer’s interpretation of the film as a documentary, it aids in Huston’s expressive strategy that ultimately contributes to the effectiveness of the film.

For the majority of the film, the audience’s status as a mere observer, an objective, omniscient viewer, is of primary importance, but it is, at points, alternated with more subjective moments which actually allow the audience to identify with the soldiers. This is different than the very blatant position of the viewer in the wartime films as an American with American ideals in Prelude to War, or a member of the onscreen church congregation in The Negro Soldier. In contrast to those films, Huston’s film switches the viewer’s identity between the soldiers within the film and the outside “public.” Perhaps the best example of the more objective camera is in the early scenes of the film, when the soldiers solemnly enter the institution. Huston employs a couple of techniques, a steady shot or a slow tracking shot, to foster this detachment and distance between the audience and the soldiers. When he uses unmoving shots of the various soldiers, he forces them to be within the frame, unrelentingly revealing their emotional or catatonic states onscreen. Early shots of various men demonstrate this, particularly one African American soldier who sits tightly framed against other men in the room, singled out by the camera. He sits, eyes downcast, with a hopeless expression marking his face, one that encompasses disillusionment, sadness, despair, and listlessness. By using several shots like this in a row, Huston not only brutally displays the various soldiers’ emotions onscreen, but does so in a way that provokes sympathy. Normally, this would create an attachment to the victims, and though it may accomplish this to a degree, it does not allow the viewer to empathize with their situation. A critical difference, the very starkness of their portrayal onscreen and the repeated onslaught of their pained faces prevents direct identification with the soldiers. They are viewed, instead, like the subjects of a scientific inquiry, held within the frame like bugs pinned in a museum exhibit. This perspective enforces the viewer’s status as a distant, privileged observer of very personal emotions, but allows them to remain impartial. At this point, importantly, the audience is still the “public,” and this status continues with the tracking shots which display the soldiers meeting in small rooms with their therapists. As the camera moves, the repetitive whiteness of the well-lit rooms contrasts with the darkness of the walls in between; this not only allows the soldiers to appear unending, as if implying the ubiquity of their struggle, but also enforces, again, the viewer’s objectivity. It is the soldiers in the tiny rooms who are receiving treatment, not the public.

In order to facilitate a changing perspective between the objectivity of the “public” and the subjectivity of the soldiers, Huston plays with the audience’s identity through cinematography techniques, fostering brief moments attaching the audience to these soldiers and their struggles. In doing so, Huston emphasizes the dual-sidedness of the issue and the audience’s ability to side with the apathetic (and possibly vindictive) public or the pained soldiers. Early in the film, this is developed during the individual therapy sessions when single soldiers meet with a therapist to discuss their situation. Instead of capturing the soldier’s tale from the perspective of the unmoving scientific camera, Huston uses two cameras to display the scene from both the therapist and the soldier’s views. The uniqueness of this camera arrangement should not be discounted, as Stanley Cortez’s setup has even led several critics to suggest “that this multi-camera coverage was proof that the scenes were manipulated” (Bailiwick). The very nature of the arrangement allows the audience to move beyond the objectiveness of their observational status and, for the first time, become a patient at the facility. Although these moments are brief, they display the therapist from a low-angle, against the shadowy outline of the soldier sitting in the chair. Like the soldier, it is as if the viewer has been placed under the care of the hospital, interrogated and questioned about his contribution in the war and the situation that led to his disorganized psychological state.

The “group therapy” sessions, however, demonstrate a more intricate balance between the viewer as a member of the public and as one of the soldiers, particularly in one of the later discussions about the soldiers’ reentry into civilian life. The scene opens with the voice-over’s description of their current setting: “classes in group psychotherapy continue. The men are thinking of themselves in relation to society. How will they fit into the post-war pattern? How will the world receive them?” Central to this narration, however, is its objectivity; it addresses “them” as a distanced set of soldiers, again, open to the scrutiny of the audience and public. This use of “them” is evocative of the othering techniques employed by earlier, wartime films, but its usage has different meanings for the post-war audience. It does distance the soldiers from the audience, like the othering of the Axis Powers in Prelude to War, but it does so to maintain the audience’s status as objective viewers, the public. When the voiceover stops, immediately the viewer is assaulted with the diegetic words of the therapist addressing “you fellas,” as in the soldiers. However, this works dually, signaling a change from our objective status as observers, and foreshadowing the audience’s acquirement of the soldiers’ status. Quickly, the camera switches from the high-angle perspective, distanced from the audience of men, to the eyelevel medium shot of the therapist, asking if the soldiers “have noticed any change in the various members of [their] family toward” them. This scene is followed by a view of various soldiers answering the question from medium shots. Although it appears to replicate the earlier shots of the soldiers from a scientific, observational status, the fact that the discussion is diegetic, that the soldiers are addressing the specific question of the onscreen therapist, makes the scene more dynamic. They are no longer silent objects scrutinized by an invading camera, but are able to change, move, and vocally make their case. This not only causes them to appear to be more conversational, but allows the audience to feel like they are included rather than distanced from the action. Furthermore, hearing their situations and their individual opinions allows the audience to move beyond sympathy for their frozen frames, to empathize with their struggles. Significantly, the audience is a part of this session as a member of this group.

Throughout the scene, the sense of objectivity and subjectivity becomes clouded, allowing the audience to move beyond the scope of their outside identity and feel as if they also belong to the group onscreen. One soldier’s statement, however, completely changes the situation with his anecdote about his discussion with an ignorant man whose impression of soldiers with mental trauma was that they were like those “in Bellevue,” that “the fellas from the last war were maniacs.” The soldier follows up this story with a concerned question, that he is “wondering if the great percentage of people are going to be like [the man] when [they] get out” of the hospital. This description of his fears is followed by a shot from behind the soldiers and facing the therapist. Blatantly, this allows the audience to fully identify with the soldiers within the film. They sit in front of the viewer, their shadowy figures lining the sides of the frame, as they look to the therapist who is shining and brightly-lit in the middle of the frame. After his initial response to the soldier’s worry, he claims that it is a “common concern…as to what the public is going to think about them. Undoubtedly there will be people on the outside who won’t have any understanding of the condition, who may think of it as being a rather shameful condition. That’s why [they] are having an educational program.” Importantly, however, when he moves to the discussion of the “public,” Huston abruptly switches the camera to its more scientifically observational perspective. The camera begins its tracking shot, backing away from the soldiers, slowly moving to view them from behind the therapist. Metaphorically, this transition symbolizes the dramatic change from the viewer’s identity as a soldier, to his position as the “public,” the omniscient viewer. Although the audience has learned to empathize with the soldiers’ struggles, it is also up to them, as the public, to determine the soldiers’ status in post-war society. Subtly, Huston moves this from a discussion to an implicit request of the viewer; the public has now learned to empathize with the soldiers and must also grapple with the decision of how to treat these psychological victims. Will they provide them with acceptance or suspicion? As functioning members of society or raving lunatics? Huston reminds the viewer that this is their choice, and that their status as the “public” is vitally important. This is a crucial switch that not only reminds the audience of their responsibility, but also upholds their autonomy as viewers.

The difference between these films, Prelude to War, The Negro Soldier, and Let There Be Light, is easily comprehended by the varying nature of their purposes: to promote the war or make its psychological victims appear socially acceptable. However, the reception and of the release of the films is also different, particularly because the first two war-time films were screened for 1940s audiences, while Let There Be Light was withheld from circulation until the 1980s. The official reason for this, given by the government, was that the social actors’ privacy was invaded by Huston’s film. Huston, however, saw it differently, that “‘they wanted to maintain the ‘warrior’ myth, which was that [the] American soldiers went to war and came back all the stronger from experience…they might die, or they might be wounded, but their spirits remained unbroken’” (qtd. in Simmons). This would make sense, particularly as the Cold War was soon-to-arrive and the United States government might have been readying themselves for future conflict, painting the country with a rosy glow to ensure support for any later confrontations. However, there may have been another factor involved: the very style of the documentary. Capra and Heisler’s wartime films used a voice-of-god, matter-of-fact, no-nonsense, authoritative method of convincing their audience to join the war effort. Andre Bazin, remarking on Why We Fight, saw the inherent “danger” of this style and its potential as a “rape of the masses” because “these films, which start with a favorable a priori, that of using logic, reason, and the evidence of facts, in actuality rest on a grave confusion of values, on the manipulation of psychology, credulity, and perception” (Bazin 61). They are able to work in a fashion that, essentially, uses the indexical quality of images and a powerful commentary to maintain and support a viewpoint, which appears indisputable. This dominating perspective is what makes these films so “dangerous,” as Bazin attests, so potent in influencing American society.
Instead of using this style, Huston took on a more humble tone, something not based on archived footage, but a more observational perspective that not only made the experience more real (lending credibility to Huston’s “warrior” myth idea), but also more dependent on the viewer. The audience was not told how to feel, as in Prelude to War or The Negro Soldier, but was given information, and then trusted to come to their own conclusions. Rather than subverting their autonomy or their freedom of choice, Huston emphasized it (as evidenced by his group therapy scene). The resulting effect, however, would not be taken lightly, particularly by the government, because Huston’s strategy for bringing the “truth” to his audience was not painless or innocuous, but stridently real and brutally reflective of the psychological turmoil some veterans faced. Instead of just choosing to alter their mindset about the psychological effects of war, the government must have realized the audience could just as easily, after given the choice by Huston, hate war altogether. This undoubtedly could have had a negative effect on their attempt to keep America supportive of governmental actions, particularly with the looming Cold War. In this sense, the very style of Huston’s documentary, particularly its difference from the more domineering perspective evidenced by earlier wartime films, may have led to its censorship, as it opened the possibility of audiences reacting with anger towards the war rather than a reevaluating their own mistreatment of its psychological victims.

World War II was an influential time in the realm of documentary film, particularly its introduction of a more aggressive collaboration between the government and filmmakers. It not only brought about new techniques to address audiences, through voice-of-god commentary and evidentiary editing, but also utilized othering to demonize the enemy and glorify American society, as in Prelude to War, and inclusion (making the audience feel associated and connected to the onscreen social actors), as in The Negro Soldier, to make a powerful case for American entry into the war. Both of these films contrast deeply with Let There Be Light which, ultimately, upheld, rather than suppressed, the viewer’s independence. If anything, the very different approach these films take as they attempt to impart their message indicates the diversity of the documentary. Although it is often assumed to be a fairly rigid, reality-based reflection of life, the style by which the filmmaker creates his perspective has a profound effect on both the audience’s interpretation of the material and the fate of the film. In turn, this illuminates the inherent creativity of the documentary which combines the aestheticism and ideology of the filmmaker with the indexical quality of the moving image. Documentaries, then, are not only important for the material they display, the information they impart, or the message they convey, but also for their technical innovation and stylistic ingenuity, artistic sensibilities intrinsic to the individual and passionate filmmaker.

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