Republicans... just admit it.
You cry every time you see that damn film.
And why shouldn't you?
The most heroic guy in town -- a true Ayn Rand colossus -- is brought low and defeated by a starry-eyed socialist who pretends to be a businessman but wouldn't know how to scoop up a great deal if fell out of the pockets of the guy in front of him.
A hard-working job-creator -- disabled, no less -- pulls himself up by his bootstraps to own nearly all of his community, and what is his thanks?
A discontented, lazy rabble who call the thrifty accommodations he rents them "broken down old shacks" in a "Potter's field" (a typical anarchist-hippie move, disrespecting the man's good name). Drunks who joke about spitting in his eye. Assaults by angry young rascals.
And one lawless youth grows up into a troublemaker, a real "community organizer" who talks people out of doing business with the hero, and thwarts his projects at every turn. And when the hero offers to share some of his wealth, so the upstart can own a house that doesn't leak in the rain... the ingrate spurns it! Throws the generous offer back in the hero's face... because it's not enough.
Because every worthless yokel and garlic-eater in town is supposed to have a dry house, too.
Despised, friendless, outnumbered 99 to 1 -- this lonely champion of rugged individualism can take comfort only in owning everything in town except one business. (And that's more of a collectivist cooperative than a true business, anyway.)
And when finally... finally after decades of patient waiting, the hero manages to expose this Marxist villain's incompetence -- that he's too stupid to let his doddering uncle go to jail for losing his firm's money -- do the townsfolk let the law take its due course?
They do not. This village full of envious, scofflaw commies all redistribute their wealth to bail their comrade out.
The worst part of the tragedy is, our hero could still make trouble for this improvident weakling, because he knows exactly how the fool uncle lost that money but... well, it'd be imprudent for the hero to reveal exactly how he knows about the money. But the point is, it proves he's been right all along about that loser.
And at the end of the film, humiliated once more by the spiteful local pygmies, our hero must content himself with that knowledge.
And with eight thousand dollars. Which is chicken feed, even in 1945.
Talk about a depressing ending to make you weep!
These inbred ingrates should erect a statue to their benefactor. They should elect him mayor!
Or... thinking big... maybe we should elect him our next president. He's certainly a stronger choice than any of the current collection of sentimental saps, all pathetically trying (and failing) to show how tough they are.
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