Full Metal Jacket (1987, Matthew Modine, Dir: Stanley Kubrick)
Have you ever felt that creeping sense of unease, that stomach-churning dread that comes not from jump scares, but from something far more…
Have you ever felt that nagging disconnect between your comfortable life and the suffering you see in the world? That itch to do something, to understand something beyond your own experience? That’s precisely the predicament that kicks off Preston Sturges’s brilliant, hilarious, and surprisingly poignant 1941 film, Sullivan’s Travels. It’s a movie that starts as a screwball comedy, takes a sharp left turn into social commentary, and somehow manages to land, gracefully, on a note of profound humanism.
John L. Sullivan (Joel McCrea), a Hollywood director known for frothy comedies like “Ants in Your Plants of 1939,” yearns to make a serious film. He wants to tackle the weighty issues of poverty and injustice, to create a cinematic masterpiece called “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” (a title, of course, that the Coen brothers would later borrow, a nod to this film’s lasting influence). The problem? Sullivan’s a pampered, privileged guy who knows absolutely nothing about real hardship.
So, he hatches a plan. He’ll dress as a hobo and hit the road, experiencing the “real America” firsthand. His studio bosses, naturally, are horrified. They envision lawsuits and disaster, and they’re not entirely wrong. Sullivan’s first few attempts at “roughing it” are comical failures. He’s followed by a luxurious bus filled with his staff, ready to swoop in with gourmet meals and creature comforts at a moment’s notice. It’s like a pampered prince trying to play peasant, and the inherent absurdity fuels some of the film’s best gags.
One particular scene, early on, perfectly captures this tension. Sullivan, decked out in his carefully chosen “hobo” attire, tries to hitch a ride. Cars whiz by, ignoring him. He’s utterly invisible, a ghost in the landscape of privilege. Finally, a truck stops, driven by a man who’s actually seen hardship. The contrast is stark, and McCrea plays Sullivan’s naivete with a perfect blend of earnestness and self-awareness. He wants to understand, but he’s utterly clueless.
Then, he meets The Girl (Veronica Lake). She’s a struggling actress, cynical and world-weary, but with a spark of resilience that wins over Sullivan (and the audience). Lake, with her peek-a-boo hairstyle and sardonic delivery, is magnetic. She becomes his reluctant guide, and their relationship adds romantic tension to the social exploration. Their banter is sharp, witty, and often laugh-out-loud funny, a hallmark of Sturges’s writing.
But Sullivan’s Travels isn’t content to stay in the realm of light comedy. About halfway through, the film throws a curveball. A series of unfortunate events leads to Sullivan being wrongly convicted of a crime and sentenced to hard labor on a chain gang. The shift in tone is jarring, but deliberate. Suddenly, the slapstick is gone, replaced by a stark depiction of brutal conditions and dehumanization.
The chain gang sequence is visually arresting. Sturges uses stark lighting and close-ups to show the exhaustion and despair etched on the faces of the prisoners. The rhythmic clang of hammers, the shuffling feet, the oppressive heat – it’s a world away from the glitz and glamour of Hollywood. It’s here that Sullivan truly begins to understand the suffering he so glibly sought to portray.
And then comes the film’s most powerful, and most debated, scene. The prisoners are taken to a local church, where they watch a Mickey Mouse cartoon with a group of African American churchgoers. The laughter that erupts is infectious, transcending race and circumstance. It’s a shared moment of joy, a brief respite from the harsh realities of their lives. For Sullivan, it’s a revelation. He realizes that even in the darkest of times, laughter – and by extension, art – can offer solace and connection.
Some critics have found this scene problematic, arguing that it simplifies the complexities of suffering and offers a simplistic solution. But I think that misses the point. Sturges isn’t saying that laughter is a cure for poverty or injustice. He’s saying that it’s a vital human need, a source of strength and resilience. It’s a message that feels especially relevant today, in a world often overwhelmed by bad news and division.
The film’s ending, where Sullivan returns to Hollywood with a renewed appreciation for comedy, might seem like a retreat from his initial ambition. But it’s not. He hasn’t abandoned his desire to make meaningful films. He’s simply realized that “meaningful” doesn’t have to mean “depressing.” He can use his talent for comedy to bring joy and connection to a world that desperately needs it.
Sullivan’s Travels is a film that stays with you. It’s funny, moving, and thought-provoking, often all at the same time. It’s a film about the search for meaning, the power of empathy, and the surprising ways that art can connect us. It’s also a love letter to the movies themselves, a celebration of their ability to transport us, to make us laugh, to make us think, and to make us feel a little less alone. And isn’t that, after all, what the best movies do?
